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azucanela · 5 years ago

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Hi! i’d like to request a Zuko x Reader oneshot please and it takes place a few years after he’s crowned as the Fire Lord: Zuko is entering suitable age for marriage and yet he has no one that he likes enough to take as his queen, what if Uncle Iroh hired the reader whom is a famous matchmaker that usually arranges the courting & marriage between nobles, but instead of all these ladies that she threw at him he ended up falling for her instead but he’s just so awkward and inexperienced Thank u

INAMORATA | ZUKO X READER

SUMMARY: after a few years of being Fire Lord, Zuko still hasn’t found a companion. so naturally, when Iroh comes upon a matchmaker, he does what he does best and helps Zuko out by hiring her to help him find someone. and inadvertently... iroh ends up playing matchmaker himself.

WORD COUNT: 12.6k

WARNINGS: mentions of death, death threats, kissing, pining, very mild innuendos, blood, injuries, crying

A/N: this is literally art omg i feel kinda honored to be seeing this ngl and i ended up researching matchmaking and they’re basically therapists that help you find love?? kinda. the profile thing is something that some matchmakers do and idk i have fun analyzing zuko so

in·am·o·ra·ta/iˌnaməˈrädə/

noun

a woman with whom one is in love or has intimate relations.

ATTEMPT ZERO

After years of being the Fire Lord, Zuko had come to realize the job was pretty basic if you thought about it long enough. There were just a few major things to deal with. First, there’s the internal relations, like the civil wars and uprising he deal with at the start of his reign because people disliked his ways. Then there’s the external relations, Zuko worked alongside Aang to repair those, helping the Southern Water Tribe rebuild itself from the ground up, and hosting meetings between the nations, friendly and work related. Those are the more diplomatic aspects of the job, and sadly, even as a ruler who sought to end a war, there was still violence in the world.

When Aang and the rest of Team Avatar ended the One Hundred Year War, that only exposed a variety of other problems within the world, problems that the team seeked to end. There were people out there who disliked this line of thinking, and similarly wanted it to end, but ending the lives of Team Avatar.

Zuko was used to the death threats, and the assassination attempts. He’d had a security detail in place to ensure he lived to rule his nation, this was especially necessary since he lacked an heir and the only other people eligible for the throne were an old man who ran a tea shop and a psychopathic teenage girl in a mental institution. This is where the social aspect of the job came in, the part that Zuko had never been good at. The Galas and the girls who threw themselves at him, the nobility of all nations that approached him offering their children’s hand in marriage. Zuko was an enigma, a young and powerful bachelor, and now all the nobles with children were lining up for a minute alone with him to try and sell their own kids.

It disgusted him. The way they treated their children like cattle reminded Zuko of his own father, how willing he was to get rid of Zuko since he had a replacement on standby. Though, Zuko sincerely doubted he ever would’ve gotten the throne if Ozai had a choice, even if he hadn’t been banished.

Alas, even Zuko could recognize the urgency of it, the death threats weren’t letting up, and the assassination attempts were only getting more and more elaborate, leaving Zuko wondering when they’d no longer be attempts. He needed and heir, or at least a wife who could rule alongside him and take over entirely in the event of his death.

The problem was, he didn’t want this.

He was in a unique position, where the person he married would have an immense effect on society, on politics. If it was an Earth Kingdom girl, then maybe the years of violence against their people could be mended sooner, and they could begin working together to combat a variety of issues. If he ends up with a Fire Nation girl, it could be viewed as strengthening the traditional ideals of Fire Nation independence and sovereignty because the Fire Nation is “supreme.”

Dating was political now and he hated it. It wasn’t like Zuko wanted to be alone, it’s just that now everything mattered far more than it used to. Of course, even as a prince it had been the same, but now that he was the Fire Lord, things seemed to be ten times worse. Perhaps it was excessive but Zuko couldn’t help but feel paranoid whenever a new person entered his life, he couldn’t help but assume that they were just using him for some other agenda.

Of course, his friends had tried to assure him this wasn’t always the case, and they’d even made attempts to set him up with girls. All of which had failed. Zuko knew he wasn’t an easy person, much less an easy person to date. As Fire Lord, a lot of his time was taken up by meetings, and diplomatic missions, and not-so-diplomatic missions alongside Team Avatar. That and he was rather awkward when it came down to most social interactions, though he’d improved over time, especially as the ruler of a nation, his speeches were elegant and so was the way he negotiated with other kingdoms.

And yet he struggled to talk to strangers.

Iroh seemed to be tired of this as well, he’d sent Zuko several letters in regards to his lack of romance, insisting that he was a “handsome young man” that had “lots of potential” and he was “wasting” his prime with so much work. Zuko didn’t consider managing a country as a waste, though he understood where Iroh was coming from, Zuko probably should’ve been spending time with friends, going to clubs. Not saving the world.

Regardless, there wasn’t much he could do about, he didn’t have time for dating, and Zuko wasn’t willing to compromise his morals and beliefs just for an heir in the event that he got brutally murdered. He refused to raise a child just for that purpose. He learnt the hard way that you should only have kids if you intend to cherish them. And the idea of marrying someone just to strengthen his nation felt wrong, though he could see the benefits.

God, he hated being Fire Lord sometimes.

On the other hand, Y/N L/N liked her job. Amongst the nobility of the Earth Kingdom, she was a rather famous woman, Y/N had brought together some of the most powerful couples in the country. A lot of people owed her favors, and the money that came with the job was more than satisfactory. If Y/N had to guess, she was one of the richest people in the kingdom, considering how much people were willing to pay to fine “the one.” Her business had been rather successful since she’d gotten renowned in the inner ring of the city, and now, Y/N was considering expansion, to the Fire Nation. The borders had long since reopened, when the new Fire Lord came into power.

A whole new set of nobles for her to profit from.

She’d decided to head to a high end tea shop in celebration of her choice to expand her business. Y/N had heard it was only for the best, since the tea shop served the best. One of her clients had insisted that someone of her esteem try the tea there, given that she was the best in her own profession.

So, here she was. It was a nice place, she wouldn’t deny, and Y/N had heard of the shop before. The Jasmine Dragon, run by some old guy who’d appeared in Ba Sing Se just before the war ended with some major talent when it came to brewing tea. The interior was fancy, but not excessive, several people were already seated within. Y/N even recognized one of the couples there, who waved at her enthusiastically, “hello! Lady L/N, how lovely to see you!” One of them called out.

Y/N smiled at them, “how are you two?”

The other beamed at her as she responded, “oh we’re just lovely! Preparing our wedding invitations and one of them has your name on it.” This wasn’t abnormal, most of the couples she’d brought together attributed their love to her. In actuality, Y/N found that if you found two people with compatible personalities, then they’d work things out on their own. All she did was introduce them.

“I’m excited!” Y/N assured, moving past their table, “now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to try this famous tea. But, I’m looking forward to the invite.”

The pair nodded, before returning their attention the friends seated across from them, and Y/N made her way to the front of the shop, bag of coins in hand. An older man stood behind the counter, a smile on his face as he brought his attention to her, “what can I get you today Miss...”

“Y/N. Y/N L/N.” She replied, small smile on her face as she looked at the menu, “what’s your name?” Y/N asked, meeting his eyes to see the flicker of recognition within them before returning her gaze to the menu.

He nods slowly, “I’m Iroh, and you’re a matchmaker, no?” He’d recognized the name, her business had begun gaining traction amongst the nobility of the Earth Kingdom shortly after the war, and she was one of the most sought after matchmakers in the nation. Iroh himself had looked into her business, seeing as his nephew was yet to find love in his chaotic lifetstyle.

Y/N smiled at him as she nodded, “indeed.” She placed the menu down, “any suggestions?”

“Perhaps, Jasmine tea?” He suggested.

Y/N nodded, “sounds good.” She places extends a hand with coins, dropping them into his palm, “so are you looking for love?” Though she was certainly famous for her skills, Y/N tended to work behind the scenes, and she was surprised to find this man recognized her.

A small laughed escaped him at her words as he shook his head, “no. I believe it is a little too late for that.” He was working on her tea beyond the counter, and Y/N began to wonder how he was steaming the tea pot when she noticed there was no stove beside him.

“Don’t say that! You seem like a fine man that anyone woman would want.” Y/N assured, though she now wondered why exactly this man knew who she was in the first place. It was rare for those outside of nobility to know who she was.

Turning around, his hand pressed to the pot that Y/N was positive had to have been burning his hand in some way, “oh, you’re too kind.” He replies, a small smile on his face as he poured a bit into a cup, “I was looking to help my nephew find love actually.”

“Really, now?” Firebending, that was the only explanation for the way this man was handling the tea. “I was looking to expand my business to the Fire Nation, perhaps I could help him out.” He didn’t hold himself the way most Earth Kingdom citizens did, and coupled with the possible Firebending, he was likely from the Fire Nation.

Iroh raises a brow at this, “what gave me away?” He stirs the tea a few times, before placing it on the counter for her to take.

Y/N shrugs, “it’s my job to know people well enough that I can find them a match.” Taking a sip of her tea, she smiles, “so this nephew of yours. He wouldn’t happen to nobility, would he?”

He laughs at this, pouring himself a cup of tea as well as he sighs, “actually, he is nobility. In a way.”

Now Y/N did not expect the nobility Iroh spoke of the be the nobility. As in the Fire Lord, the actual ruler of the entire nation, though this would certainly be great for business. Once the world hears of how Y/N found the Fire Lord, someone who had been notably difficult to woo apparently, a match, her business will be set.

“Isn’t this exciting, guys?” Y/N exclaimed, looking to her assistants, they were both on the younger side, Marcella and Evelyn. She’d brought them along since this would definitely be a valuable learning experience, and Y/N figured she’d need a lot of help if the Fire Lord was as difficult as they made him out to be. That and Y/N didn’t want to leave them alone in the Earth Kingdom, both of them had been orphaned at a young age. Y/N couldn’t help but relate to them, so when she’d come upon her newfound wealth, brought about by her job as a matchmaker, she’d taken the pair under her wing.

With a bag thrown over her shoulder, Evelyn simply nodded while Marcella exclaimed, “yes! I’ve always wanted to see the Fire Nation. Do you think we could find a client in one of the Water Tribes next?”

Y/N couldn’t help but smile at the young girl’s excitement, “if this goes well? We’ll be able to find clients anywhere.” She wasn’t wrong, Y/N had never had the opportunity to work with the actual Earth King, the true ruler of the nation. Now she was working with the ruler of a nation she’d never stepped foot in, entirely new customs and traditions to research, a new social structure, new everything.

What a fun challenge.

With a smile on her face, Y/N followed closely behind Iroh, the palace was stunning, she couldn’t deny it. And compared to the crumbling infrastructure of the lower rings of cities like Ba Sing Se, Fire Nation cities were prospering Fire Lord Zuko’s rule. From what she’d heard, things weren’t always this way.

“Y/N and I are going to wait here,” he gestured to the open space before them, dozens of paintings within it, “these two will take you to your rooms.” He explained to the pair of young girls, nodding to the servants beside them, who began to guide the young girls away.

Y/N’s eyes found their way to the paintings, the newest one being of the current Fire Lord, Zuko himself. She wondered how accurate the painting was, and seeing as she would be meeting him soon, Y/N figured she’d find out as she sighed, turning to Iroh, “so how does the original heir to the throne become the owner of an infamous tea shop?”

Iroh smiles to himself at her words, “age brings wisdom. And tea is a nice substitute for alcohol.” He jokes, though Y/N can see the pain in his eyes, along with admiration as he stares at Zuko’s portrait alongside her.

“Uncle!” A voice exclaimed, joy clear in his voice as he called out. Y/N watched as Iroh spun around, a broad smile on his face as he moved forwards to embrace the person.

He looked better in person, Y/N quickly decided, though the portrait did its job just as well. She wouldn’t deny he was attractive, but she already knew looks weren’t the issue. Iroh had informed her of the situation, Zuko’s constant rejection of any and every single person that approached him, and the stress he experienced because of the politics of it all.

“Nephew, it is good to see you,” Iroh said, releasing him from the hug, “how are you?” Initially he seemed fairly comfortable at the sight of just his Uncle, but as the Fire Lord’s body seemed to stiffen, Y/N realized she’d been spotted.

So, he wasn’t comfortable with strangers, “I’m alright Uncle... who is this?” He asked. There was an edge to his voice as he spoke, sizing Y/N up, not in the way you did for someone you were attracted to, but for an enemy.

Uncomfortable with new people, clear trust issues, and his mind was always alert. She’d have to write these things down and take them into consideration prior to finding him a potential partner. Though it was starting to look like he was completely unaware of her purpose there as she extended her hand out to him, “Y/N L/N. Professional matchmaker.” She explained with a bright smile, though, based off his personality, that would likely ward him off more.

He was polite though, shaking her hand despite his clear suspicions of her, “Zuko.” Y/N couldn’t help but raise a brow at this, he hadn’t mentioned his title in his introduction. Zuko turned to his Uncle, brows furrowing as he said, “you hired a professional matchmaker?”

With a shrug Iroh responded, “we met by chance! So, it must be destiny.”

Zuko gives him a tight lipped smile, nodding slowly before returning his attention to Y/N who stood away from the pair, examining the decor of the palace. It was minimalistic, truly basic if she was honest, despite the clear amount of riches they possessed, it lacked evidence of them. Bringing her eyes back to him, he spoke, “you don’t need to be here. You can receive your pay, but I personally see no purpose for a matchmaker.”

Iroh frowned at his words, “Zuko, you need to give it a chance! Unlike all those ladies who keep throwing themselves at you. Besides, she seems rather good at her job.” His gaze was on his nephew as he sighed, giving Y/N an apologetic look that she simply waved off.

“Oh, it’s fine. It just won’t be for long.” Zuko raised a brow at her words, and Y/N watched his feet shifted, “no need to prepare for a fight, your majesty.” She hummed, rolling her neck, in the corner of her eye she could see shock flash in his own. “You see, as a matchmaker I do several things, including developing a little... profile of my clients. Now we just met but I can already tell you a variety of things about you that’s making your love life rather trivial.” Even before she had to develop the profiles professionally, in the lower rings of Ba Sing Se, being capable of reading others was a necessary skill.

Zuko’s eyes narrowed at her, “and what have you determined, in the very short time we’ve known each other.”

A small laugh escaped her as she extended her arms and cracked her knuckles, “well. You have major trust issues, which is why you are desperately trying to keep me at arms length. That’s one reason why you have yet to find someone.” Turning her attention to the decor of the large room, Y/N closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “Given the lack of interior design, I would say you’re struggling with social aspects of your job, and you need a partner. One that I can help you find.”

“See! I told you she’s good at what she does.” Iroh exclaimed, moving forward to clap a hand onto Y/N’s shoulder, much to Zuko’s dismay.

Y/N gave the older man a small smile before looking back to Zuko, who eyed her wearily, “you keep avoiding the portrait of your father. But you can’t bring yourself to take it down.” She said, and Y/N could practically feel the tension building with each word. “He’s one of the reasons you’ve yet to find a lover-”

“Because he gave me the scar?”

Y/N paused, brows furrowing at his words, her eyes found his, “I’m sorry, was that a joke?” She asked, and Iroh stared between the two, amused. “You’re actually rather attractive, which is why I know this is a personality thing. Probably tired of the whole fancy court thing they have going on here, which I’m going to need to research...” Y/N pursed her lips, failing to notice the clear shock on Zuko’s face at her comment, and red flushing his cheeks. Waving off her thoughts, she looked back to him, “anyways. My assistants should’ve already cleared out about an hour in your schedule each day for our sessions. I’m going to be asking you some very personal questions. So, be ready!”

And with that, Y/N waved to the two, bowing rather questionably shortly after, before heading off in the direction she’d seen Marcella and Evelyn go in. Effectively leaving behind a baffled Zuko, and a rather satisfied Iroh, who began to laugh at Zuko’s reaction. “I really like her, quite the character she has.”

“Yeah, quite the character.” He brought a hand to his temple, “is this really necessary, Uncle?”

Iroh simply sighed, looking to his nephew, “whether you want to admit it or not, she was right. Ruling a nation is difficult, and ruling it alone is even harder.” A small huff of laughter escaped Iroh, “and she figured that out by your lack of interior design!”

Exhaling deeply, Zuko reminded himself that this was all part of the job, the job that consumed his entire life. The life that this girl had analyzed in a matter of moments.

Yeah, he wasn’t looking forward to their meetings.

Though his morals and his disagreement with practically selling your own child were a major factor in his lack of a love life. There was also the simple fact that there was no love in many of the interactions he had with potential suitors, much less genuine interest. They all wanted the power he could give them should they get married.

There was also the fact that Zuko had very little relationship experience, a fact he was trying to ignore. At the end of the day, he couldn’t bring himself to approach anyone, and if he did, he wouldn’t know what to do. Zuko also doubted that people would act... genuine around him, especially if they knew who he was. And all he really wanted was something real, considering his entire day was surrounded by fake smiles that belonged to both him and others.

It seemed that Y/N wasn’t prepared to ignore this piece of information though, since the following morning she’d seated him down and begun to speak of it, “so. You’ve been in two relationships.”

His brows furrowed, “one actually.” He and Mai had broken up about six months into his work as Fire Lord, “Mai.”

Raising a brow at him, she leaned back in the seat. Zuko couldn’t help but wonder how she managed to decorate the place in such a short period of time, as he could’ve sworn there hadn’t been a desk here the previous day. Then again, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d toured his own palace. “Well, I’ve heard rumors of you and a Southern Water Tribe member, but I’m not sure which one so I just-”

“Okay! That’s enough.” His cheeks were flushed red as he looked away.

Y/N grinned at him, leaning forwards, “then let’s discuss Mai. You two were pretty on and off, right?”

Zuko grimaced at the thought, they were. He wouldn’t deny that he’d gone back to her a few times during his time as Fire Lord, “yeah.”

Y/N began to write into her notebook, “tell me about her.”

“I don’t see why that’s important.” Came his response, looking at her quizzically as he frowned.

Tilting her head at him, Y/N gave Zuko a look, “come on. Let me do my job, I need to know about her to gauge what types of personalities you like while also determining why the two of you broke it off entirely.” She placed the book down, and Zuko could very clearly see the words ‘commitment issues’ underlined. “The goal isn’t just to find you a suitable wife that can help you rule, but someone you can be happy with.”

He’s silent for a moment, eyes on Y/N, her words seem honest. And this was her job, “she was blunt. Honest. Kind of mean at times, but she could be sweet as well. Pretty stoic, expressing her emotions was always... difficult for her.”

Y/N nodded slowly, scribbling a few more things down, “okay. And what’s your favorite color?”

“What type of question is that?” Zuko asked, brows furrowing in confusion.

Crossing her arms, Y/N shrugged, “well. Favorite colors can tell you a lot about a person.” Came her response, “mine is green. Maybe that’s because I associate green with the Earth Kingdom, where I lived. Or maybe it’s because I happen to like nature quite a bit.” Looking around, Zuko could see that she’d already gotten a variety of plants native to the Fire Nation, most were succulents due to the almost year round heat.

At the mention of colors, his mind immediately went back to his first experience with the dragons, when their fire encircled him and Aang. “I.. don’t know how to describe the color- colors?” Zuko’s brows drew together in thought, and Y/N looked at him.

“How would I not understand a color?” The confusion is clear in her voice as she looks at him. Y/N can practically see the nostalgia in his eyes as he looks to the balcony.

Sighing, Zuko shifted in his seat, “these dragons I met ended up making a circle of fire around me and there were just... so many colors. But together it was just,” he paused, searching for the right word, “beautiful.”

Y/N’s mouth gaped open for a moment, “you met dragons?” She exclaimed, nearly throwing her notebook aside. Y/N had never seen such creatures, in fact, the general consensus was that they were still extinct

Zuko seemed to forget about this fact as he straightened himself, eyes meeting hers, “you can’t tell anyone about them!” He exclaimed, “they were hunted to extinction, though I intend to outlaw such things it’s just...”

She nodded in understanding, “people break laws.” Y/N leaned back into her seat once more, “you owe me a dragon story.” She said, before crossing her legs in her seat and continuing, “favorite food?”

“Well, Aang took me to Avatar Day, and they had these weird Avatar shaped dough things.” He explained, recalling the time he’d gone with Aang and the others. Apparently they used to burn his statue, but now they worship him for some reason.

Y/N brought a hand under her chin, “I have no idea what that is.” She began to scribble something down on her notepad, “but okay.”

“What about you?”

Y/N hummed in response, “what do you mean?”

Zuko felt his cheeks warm, “this just feels like an interview.”

“Probably because it is an interview.” Y/N said, gesturing for him to elaborate.

Looking away, Zuko frowned, “it’s weird.” Sighing, he spoke once more, “so, what’s your favorite food?”

Y/N was silent for a moment, staring at Zuko, who was trying his hardest to avoid her gaze. This was a rare occurrence, seeing as most nobles were rather self-centered and liked talking about themselves. She’d never had a client who felt uncomfortable with this portion because it was basically a one-sided conversation. “Jennamite is a good rock candy.”

Zuko turns back to her, a small laugh escaping him, “my friends were nearly killed in Jennamite by the King of Omashu once.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

ATTEMPT ONE

Y/N wouldn’t deny how odd it was, to be sharing as much information as she was learning about Zuko. She’d never really considered just how personal some of the questions were until she found herself answering them. But, after about a month, she had assembled a pretty good array of potential suitors for Zuko. Along with a few of her own clients, Y/N had found some girls that from the Fire Nation that seemed pretty acceptable.

That’s what she had thought at least.

“What do you mean, you already rejected her?”

Turns out, Zuko had met half the women, and rejected them. The other half were either from the Earth Kingdom, or yet to attend one of few Galas that Zuko hosted. Seeing as he handed off most of that work to his advisors, it was rare for him to remain at Galas for an extended period of time.

He grimaced at Y/N’s words nonetheless, his Uncle had informed her of his situation, but clearly not the extent of it. “She was more interested in her guard than me. It was a power grab her parents likely forced her into.” He remembered the girl, she’d been kind to him, but she clearly didn’t want him as much as her parents did.

His words brought about a new level of understanding for Y/N, who nodded slowly, of course it was the parents that Zuko had a problem with. It wasn’t uncommon for nobles to practically throw their children at potential suitors as though they’re a bag of coins. It was something that disgusted her as well, her job found people companions that they liked while these people simply wished for an addition to their power.

Zuko was the ultimate power grab. Y/N could only imagine how many times this had happened to him, random people he’d never met approaching him, offering their child’s hand in marriage.

Bringing a hand to her temple, Y/N sighed, “but the rest are fine?”

He nodded slowly, flipping through the pages he had yet to remove, Zuko skimmed what Y/N had written. Taking note of her handwriting, he wondered if she’d written his profile like this. “Yeah...” Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, and Zuko sighed, removing a few more pages from the binder she’d presented him with.

Exhaling deeply, Y/N brought a hand to Zuko’s shoulder, “be honest with me. I’m not gonna yell at you for removing them Zuko, this is for you.”

Sometimes he forgot it was her job to be nice to him.

“Right.” He mumbled, trying to shake off the feeling he got as she removed her hand. “That’s still... a lot of people. Some of which aren’t even in this nation.” Zuko pointed out, a queasy feeling within him as he looked at her.

Y/N plopped down onto the couch in the common room they’d met in, sprawling her body across it, “you’re right, there is a lot. But,” She twisted her body so that she could see him, wiggling her brows suggestively, “it’s been a while since you hosted a Gala.”

Zuko’s face dropped at her words, in his years of being Fire Lord, he’d had about three total, and hated every single one. But given how rare the Galas were, people got pretty excited when he threw them. “I hate planning those, it’s a waste of time and-”

A small smile was on her face as she interrupted him, “and you suck at planning them? I can tell by the decor of your palace.” Glaring at her, Zuko watched as she shifted so that her head hung off the couch upside down, “well. This will be the best Gala yet, you’ll impress all the ladies that you can’t meet in the immediate future in about...” Y/N looked to the watch on her wrist, brows furrowing, “eight months. And I’ll help you plan it, since you desperately need help-”

“Alright, I get it, I’m horrible.” He grumbled, crossing his arms as he leaned back against his seat across from her after placing the binder on the coffee table between them. “Eight months isn’t a lot of time,” traditionally, Gala’s took at least a year’s worth of planning and preparation, especially since Zuko was so busy he barely had the time to assist in the process. Eight months was no where near enough.

Y/N was still frowning at his words, “no self-deprecation.” She ordered, taking Zuko by surprise, before continuing, “regardless. I’ve planned Gala in less time with less resources. It’ll be fine.” Pursing her lips Y/N sighed, “now we need to discuss your inability to talk to people in general due to your immense trust issues and constant battle field mentality.”

Zuko’s mouth gaped open at her words, “excuse me?”

Bringing her hands to rest on her stomach as she laid upside down, Y/N spoke, “when we first met you looked like you contemplated attacking me. And when you met Marcella and Evelyn, I’ve never seen someone so awkward.” Zuko is silent and looks away, only proving her point as Y/N continued, “so we need to practice your people skills, and flirting for future reference, seeing as your first date is in about a week-”

Almost immediately, Zuko straightened his posture, sitting up and looking to her as though she’d thrown a bucket of ice cold water onto him. “A week?” He winced at the way his voice cracked.

“Yeah, I spoke with one of the girls, not her parents, and asked her to meet with you later in the week.” Y/N explained, “her name is Elara, she’s in there.”

Frowning, Zuko reached for the binder and began to flip through the pages, “how’d you know I wasn’t going to get rid of her page?” Only to find the girl’s page, details on her personality, skills, hobbies and more on them.

A smirk spread across Y/N’s face, “she was one of few I was sure you’d keep.” With a sigh, Zuko looked back to Y/N, who still sat upside down, “now. You need to practice your romance skills, so come on.” She twisted her body, her legs falling to the side of the couch, and then moving onto the floor, Y/N stood. As the blood rushed to her head, a wave of dizziness came over her, and Y/N found herself stumbling slightly.

A hand came to her back and forearm, steadying her, “you need to practice walking.” Zuko laughed slightly, a nervous edge in his voice as he eyed her.

Y/N brought a hand to her head as she laughed as well, “oh my...” Y/N blinked several times as the wave of dizziness passed, her hand gripping Zuko’s arm as she grounded herself. Looking up to him, she quickly realized how close they were and cleared her throat, releasing his arm.

He followed suit, removing his hands from her, “sorry-”

“You didn’t do anything wrong, Zuko.”

The look her gives her almost hurts. Because Y/N can see the shock within his eyes as he nods slowly in response. She wonders what he’s thinking of as he she gives him a tight lipped smile, clapping her hands together as she turns back to him, “practice.” She repeated, mostly for herself.

And maybe offering to be the person he practiced on was her first mistake.

ATTEMPT FIVE

Y/N had learnt a lot about Zuko in the past four dates he’d been on. One of these things being the fact that Zuko was a wild card when it came to dates, and they seemed to either go very well with the girls contacting Y/N to let her know they wished for a second date, only for Zuko to reject the possibility. Or, they went very bad. And Zuko returned with some sort of drink splattered onto his clothing.

So, Y/N decided that the best course of action was to discover what exactly Zuko wasn’t mentioning, and to follow him with a disguise. Evelyn had suggested it, Iroh supported the idea full-heartedly, though Marcella had believed it would be a huge invasion of privacy, Y/N didn’t really care, seeing as it was her job to be involved in Zuko’s love life. She was getting paid to ensure he found love.

And she was curious.

That’s how Y/N ended up dressed in some very suspicious Fire Nation clothing alongside her assistants and the apparent Dragon of the West, famous tea shop owner, and member of the royal family.

What a wonderful assortment of people.

Marcella and Evelyn had separated from Iroh and Y/N, sitting in another booth across from them, it was a feeble attempt to keep them from sticking out. The girl had chosen a rather upscale restaurant, so dressing appropriately while also maintaining a look that prevented Zuko from recognizing them.

Y/N pulled her hat further down on her face as she looked to Iroh, who was browsing the menu. She wouldn’t be shocked if he entered the kitchen just to make himself a ‘decent’ cup of tea. He’d been rather helpful during the whole process, anything she didn’t find out from Zuko, Y/N had learnt from Iroh. “See anything you like, Iroh?”

He smiled at her, nodding slowly, “I think I’ll just take some tea.”

Looking to Marcella and Evelyn, Y/N smiles, the two are speaking with one another like they aren’t supposed to be spying on the Fire Lord. But Y/N doesn’t mind, this was more of a recreational activity anyways, and she was glad they were having fun. Since they’d gotten to the Fire Nation two months ago there had been an... adjustment period to put it simply.

Y/N nodded at Iroh’s statement, and her eyes fell back onto Zuko and his newest date, Amaya, she was a simple girl. She’d possessed organizational skills that Zuko lacked, planned dozens of events, had the expressive qualities that Zuko yearned for in a partner. Amaya was one of few that Y/N was sure Zuko would take a liking to. Especially since she also had training in a variety of fighting styles, and was quite the Firebender. She’d been a little skeptical when she first contacted Amaya, the girl seemed hesitant, but she agreed.

And from the looks of it, he had. The pair was laughing along with each other, but Y/N could see the way Zuko stiffened at any physical contact, in general he’d yet to relax. If Y/N was honest, it was basically like any first date, awkward.

Zuko didn’t really know how to feel about Amaya, she was what he should be looking for in a girl, everything he needed if he was honest. She had an interest in the art, something Zuko had never taken to and the main reason his palace looked, ‘dull’ as Y/N had put it. And she was expressive, the main issue he’d had with Mai was her lack of expression. But, for some reason, Zuko just couldn’t see her as anything more than a good friend. There was something... off about her.

“When that Earth Kingdom girl approached me, I was skeptical.” Amaya explained, taking a sip from her glass, “you know how most Earth Kingdom folk are...” She gave him a look as Zuko listened in confusion. “The Fire Nation citizens simply have more class.” Amaya settled for with a shrug.

Oh.

Zuko laughed nervously, “I’m not sure I understand. I find Earth Kingdom citizens pretty pleasant actually, and Y/N, the one you met, she’s actually very resourceful and kind.” His mind went to Toph as well, who had invented an entirely new type of bending. She was an impressive young woman from the Earth Kingdom, and Y/N was as well, she’d started her own business at a young age and turned it into something incredible.

“Really? She didn’t seem too smart when I met her, but who can say no to a meeting with the Fire Lord?”

Zuko was pretty sure her words were meant to be taken as a joke. But Amaya wasn’t the first person Zuko had encountered with this mindset, she was just more subtle about it. The supremacy of the Fire Nation was still an idea that ran rampant in some people’s minds, though Zuko had dealt with most disputes regarding his peaceful relations with other nations. Many still missed the time when the Fire Nation practically owned the world, where Fire Nation citizens could treat the people who had their homes taken from them however they pleased.

It was a dark time in his nation’s history, nonetheless, several people missed it. This was something rather prevalent amongst Nobles though, they were the ones who lost an immense amount of land when the war had ended. Many of them were bitter about what had happened.

If Zuko was honest, she’d probably had these ideas drilled into her since birth, and simply hadn’t grown out of them, which was a shame. But as the ruler of a nation, he couldn’t rule beside someone who looked down on others simply because they weren’t from the Fire Nation.

Zuko shook his head, “Y/N built her business from the ground up. And now she’s helping the Fire Lord get dates.” He knows he sounds defensive, as though he’s prepared to fight her, something his Uncle would likely scold him for, but he doesn’t care at the moment.

“All she does is set you up with people.”

Zuko’s brows furrowed at this comment, and he raised a hand to get the attention of the waiter, “excuse me, could I get the check please?” The young man nodded, heading off to get the check, and Amaya looked at him incredulously.

Y/N had done far more than set him up with people, she’d helped him begin planning a Gala, she’d tried her best to find a good assortment of people that would fit both Zuko’s needs and the Fire Nation’s, and that list was probably very difficult to narrow down. Zuko had seen the work she put in for formulating profiles of the potential suitors, and throughout all of it she had done nothing but support him.

“What are you doing?” Amaya asked, shifting in her seat as she stared at Zuko quizzically.

The waiter came over and handed Zuko the check, and Zuko placed a pouch of money on the table, “thanks. Keep the change.” He explained, nodding to the boy, who’s mouth gaped open in surprise as he took the pouch of money, bowing to Zuko repetitively, though Zuko wasn’t paying much attention to him as he spoke to Amaya. “I don’t think this is going to work out, I’m sorry.”

Amaya is still seated in shock as Zuko rises from his table, and Y/N can’t help it when her mouth gapes open at the sight of him simply abandoning his date. She makes eye contact with Iroh, who raises a brow, and they both sit up. She moves to follow Zuko, only to bump into someone.

“I’m so sorry!” Y/N exclaims, moving down to help them pick up their hat, that had fallen when they collided.

“No, that was my fault entirely!” He responds, shaking his head as they both leaned town to pick it up.

“Aang, come on! He’s leaving.” The woman behind him exclaims.

Y/N’s brows furrow in recognition as she looks up to see a blue arrow tattooed on the man’s head, and her eyes widen in realization. Zuko had described Aang several times during their conversations, he and the rest of his friends came up often. But Y/N did not expect the first time she met the Avatar and his friends to be when they were both following Zuko on his date.

ATTEMPT FOURTEEN

Y/N simply sighs as she opens her door to see Zuko, in the outfit she’d helped him pick out. “What was it this time?” He’d been on thirteen dates thus far, and Y/N was slowly realizing that Zuko was likely one of her most difficult clients. This was purely because he’d yet to get a second date, though there had been offers, Zuko had declined all of them.

“She was just-” His hands gestured rather broadly, he was practically throwing them into the air, “she was so rude to the waiter.” This had always been a dealbreaker for him, since he’d worked as a waiter in two different tea shops, Zuko had come to understand the importance of treating a waiter with kindness and how difficult the work could be.

His eyes dart between Y/N and her door, she’s rubbing her eyes due to the exhaustion and Zuko can’t help the guilt that floods him. Nonetheless, she opens the door wider, heading inside her room and signaling for him to close it as she falls back onto her bed. “You were a waiter once, yeah?” He’d told her a fair share about his life in the Earth Kingdom, she’d inquired quite a bit about that part of his life.

He asked about her life in the Earth Kingdom too, and she’d told him how poor life could be the in the outer rings, something he’d experienced for himself. Zuko listened as she describe living after her parents had died, working for a matchmaker only to discover she was actually good at the job, making a name for herself in the outer rings and then making her way inwards until she was one of the most sought after matchmakers in the kingdom. Y/N spoke of how she’d met Marcella and Evelyn, and how she’d taken them in when she’d discovered they were both orphans, living on the streets as pickpockets.

Zuko wouldn’t help but laugh at this, he could imagine Evelyn as a pickpocket, but Marcella? She was a sweet girl, he couldn’t imagine her in a life of crime. Of course, desperation made people do questionable things. Zuko knew that much from experience.

“Yeah, I was.” Came his response, taking a seat in the chair by her desk.

Y/N sat up in her bed, bracing herself with her elbows as she raised a brow at him, “what are you doing?”

Zuko frowned, shifting in the chair, “sitting...?” He moved to get up but Y/N waved him off.

“Just lay with me, idiot.” She allowed her head to fall back onto the bed, patting the spot beside her. Clearly, her suggestion wasn’t bothering her, but Zuko felt his face flush at the possibility.

If he’s honest, he’s not even trying anymore when it comes to dates and women and love. There were three reasons for this, one of which was the fact that he simply wasn’t connecting with any of the women he had met thus far. Sure they were nice, and they probably would be his type has it not been for reason two. The fact that Zuko had realized he had feelings for Y/N, what feelings? He wasn’t sure, but they sure as hell weren’t platonic, if they were he would not be blushing this much. He wouldn’t get that weird feeling in his stomach whenever he spoke to her.

Then there was was reason three, if Zuko succeeded in finding love, then Y/N would leave. It was selfish, but he already knew he wouldn’t find anyone considering he pretty sure he loved someone else already. So now, Zuko was basically procrastinating letting Y/N know that this just wasn’t going to work out, mostly because he didn’t have a plan.

He was debating just firing her, but that likely wouldn’t go over well, and he wanted to see her business succeed. If you get fired by the Fire Lord, that just looks bad. Now Zuko wondered what the best way to go about this was, since there was no point in working for him, even if she was getting paid. He was a waste of time.

He couldn’t help the smile graced his lips as his own thoughts reminded him of the time she’d scolded him, telling him to quit being self-deprecating.

Zuko sat up from the chair, making his way over to her bed, Zuko found himself simply plopping down onto it face first, earning a laugh from Y/N.

He rolled over onto his back, turning to look at Y/N, only to find her eyes were already on him, bringing a blush to his cheeks as he mumbled, “what?”

“I’m just trying to figure out why you haven’t gotten a second date yet.” Came her response, propping herself up on her forearm. “You have a nice personality, you’re attractive, I’m sure at least one of the girls caught your eye.” Y/N sighed, running a hand through her hair as she began to wonder if she’d incidentally allowed her own feelings to get in the way of her work. Maybe that’s why this was going so badly.

This was a problem.

Zuko simply shook his head, his face on fire as he listened to her words, though he couldn’t help the hand he brought to the scar on his face. Y/N had pointed out before that he was allowing his Father to control his actions even now that he was imprisoned, and Zuko was beginning to see what she meant.

Removing his hand from his face, Zuko sighed. Though he didn’t have much time to dwell on his thoughts as her hand hesitantly came to his face, placing a hand on his cheek and allowing her thumb to brush against the scar. Zuko jumped at the sudden contact, and Y/N moved to withdraw her hand almost instantly, but Zuko’s hand came to hers and held it there. Looking to her, he couldn’t read the look in her eyes as she gazed at him, and suddenly he wished he was as good at reading people as she was.

“No self-deprecating thoughts.” Y/N mumbled, “bad Zuko.” She removed her hand from his to flick his head, causing his brows to furrow.

He pouted, and Y/N let out a laugh as he spoke, “how come you haven’t found someone?” Zuko looked to her, “you’re beautiful, and smart, and just... perfect.” He didn’t notice when her cheeks warmed, “you’re a literal matchmaker, surely you’ve considered who your perfect person is.”

Y/N fell onto her back, running her hands over her face as she shook her head, “how have you not gotten a second date?” A sigh escaped her, “I haven’t had time for love before, and I just haven’t found that,” looking to him, she pursed her lips, “perfect person.” Growing up in the lower rings, she didn’t have time for an actual relationship, and her business as a matchmaker grew incredibly quickly. At the end of the day, long term just didn’t work out, Y/N barely had for herself, much less another person.

“I guess we both suck at love.” Zuko said, his tone was serious and Y/N couldn’t help but burst out into laughter as she swatted at his chest.

Too bad they couldn’t suck at love together.

ATTEMPT SEVENTEEN THROUGH TWENTY EIGHT

Smoothing over her green dress, a sign of her citizenship in the Earth Kingdom, Y/N moved to answer the knock on her bedroom door. Given how long she’d been in the Fire Nation, Y/N wondered if the Earth Kingdom would still feel like home when she returned. The idea of going back felt odd, and though that time likely wasn’t soon unless Zuko met the love of his life tonight, it was inevitable.

And it horrified her.

Holding the edge of the dress slightly to make it easier to walk, Y/N sighed and opened the door, seeing Zuko. A small smile on her face as she eyed his Fire Nation robes, “you look nice.” She complimented, tilting her head at him as she allowed her eyes to travel over his figure.

Zuko nodded, a blush coming over her cheeks, his mouth gaping open as he looked at Y/N. “You look beautiful.” She did, the dress looked amazing on her, her hair styled just right, and bracelets adorning her wrists.

“Thank you, Fire Lord Zuko.” His nose crinkled at the use of his title, coming from her it felt even weirder, wrong almost. But she continued, “mind helping me out?” She asked, moving back to her desk and taking a necklace in hand. Y/N had been struggling to put it on for the past few minutes, and now she had someone to do it for her.

He nodded, closing the door behind him, he took the necklace from her hand, and when Y/N ensured her hair was out of his way, Zuko brought the necklace around her neck. He secured the clasp, hands lingering as he adjusted it to the center of her neck. Zuko couldn’t help but notice a small scar on her shoulder, hand brushing over it.

Y/N looked over her shoulder and to him, brow raised, “how’d you get this?” He asked, brows drawn together. His hand traced the raised skin gently, Y/n could feel her cheeks warming at his touch, inhaling deeply.

She grimaced, “a knife fight I almost lost my life to.” Was her explanation. Y/N didn’t like to think back to the days when she’d resorted to several... questionable actions to stay alive. But she pushed those thoughts away as she turned to face him. “You ready?” Y/N asked, they had to get to the Gala soon, considering the fact that Zuko was the host, Y/N was shocked he’d even stopped by her room in the first place.

Zuko was silent, simply nodding as he extended his arm for her to take. And Y/N did, looping her arm around his as she smiled, “you are gonna woo so many Earth Kingdom women tonight!” Y/N exclaimed, more confidence in her voice than Zuko had.

Shame the only Earth Kingdom girl he wanted to ‘woo’ was her.

When they’d arrived at the Gala, descending the stairs together, they were greeted with the claps of the other guests. Zuko would feel the anxiety flood him, but he paid it no mind. Though Y/N could feel the way he stiffened as he ended his speech to the diplomats of all nations, “let this be a peaceful, and joyous night!”

They all burst out into cheers before the party continued, the music starting once more, and everyone returning to feasting upon the buffet, dancing along the ballroom floor or speaking with one another. All while Y/N led Zuko down the stairs, dragging him by the hand, “come on. Enjoy your own party, meet some girls.” She winked, and Zuko swore his face heated up even more than it already had.

Y/N wasn’t a fool, she knew that if she’d stuck by his side the entire night, she would serve as a repellant of any potential suitors. So naturally, much to Zuko and Y/N’s dismay, she removed herself from him, playfully shoving him towards a group of Earth Kingdom girls she’d mentioned earlier. Though there were several other clusters in the ballroom.

Zuko simply sighed, giving Y/N a small smile before making his way to the group of girls. If he was honest, he would rather be spending the Gala by her side, but he had to put in some effort. He owed Y/N that much. Besides, this was an entirely new group of girls, maybe he would find someone tonight.

“Hi there.” Zuko greeted, waving awkwardly at the girls.

This action earned him a few laughs, and he was unsure if they actually found it funny or felt the need to laugh since he was the Fire Lord. Shortly after they began introducing themselves, speaking like there was no tomorrow.

If Zuko was honest, the number of women here was overwhelming. So, as he excused himself from the conversation, much to their chagrin, he placed his cup down on the platter of one of many waiters. Making his way outside, Zuko couldn’t help but feel relieved at the fresh air that hit him on the balcony. Though he contemplated heading back inside when he noticed another girl was already there, eyes shut as she faced the sky, she turned to see him, eyes widening a fraction. “I’m sorry, I can go-”

“No!” She exclaimed, cheeks flushing in embarrassment due to her outburst, “no... it’s fine.” She turned back to look at the sky, hand clasped together, fidgeting.

Zuko stepped forward, finding himself situated across from her, leaning against the railing, “so why are you out here?”

A small laugh escaped the girl, and she ran a hand through her hair, “it’s rather stress relieving. You have a lovely view in your palace.”

He couldn’t help but feel disappointed when he realized she recognized him, though Zuko nodded along, “what’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking?” It was a stupid question, and Zuko nearly facepalmed as he pursed his lips.

“Aileen.” Came her response, and Zuko realized he recognized her name as well. She was the child of one of the more well known members of Fire Nation nobility, her parents had approached him in the past in hopes of arranging a marriage between the two of them. He had declined almost immediately. And now that Aileen turned to him, he had a feeling he made the right decision, “you’re Zuko, right?”

He exhaled deeply, nodding, “that’s me.” Sometimes, Zuko wondered what his life would’ve been like if he wasn’t Zuko, perhaps things would’ve been simpler. No, things definitely would’ve been simpler. There would be no diplomatic meetings, no wars, no idiots trying to hurt other people, no more assassination attempts, no more fake smiles and no more Galas. Of course, if he wasn’t Zuko, he never would’ve met Y/N.

“I heard you’re looking for a partner in crime.” Aileen prompted, “why aren’t you in there finding that future love of your life?”

Shrugging, Zuko looked up at the sky, “I found her. She just doesn’t want me.”

He can feel Aileen stare at him, she’s silent for a moment, and Zuko wonders what she’s thinking. Though he doesn’t need to wait long to find out as she responds, “I understand.” Aileen focuses her gaze on the glass she’d placed on the thick railing of the balcony, “the person I love probably doesn’t love me back. And even if they did, my parents disapprove.”

“Did you ask?” He felt hypocritical, Zuko himself had never spoken with Y/N in regards to his feelings, and he likely never would, but he wanted to know. “If they love you?”

Aileen laughs slightly, shaking her head, “I couldn’t bring myself to. I’m scared.” She replied, looking back to him curiously, “did you?”

“No.” He responded lamely, tapping his fingers against the railing with a sigh.

Aileen laughed at this, “I guess we are both cowards then.” She pursed her lips, “I didn’t ask because I was scared, why didn’t you?”

And then the words come spilling out, “whoever I end up with will greatly impact the whole world, whether I want to acknowledge it or not. And she doesn’t deserve that burden, nobody does.” He laughs bitterly as he continues, “she’s also the person that was hired to help me find love in the first place.” Zuko pauses, looking away from Aileen, “and I guess I’m scared too.”

“Ironic.” Aileen mumbles, bringing her eyes back to the sky, “let’s make a deal, Your Majesty.”

Zuko cringes at the use of that title, almost asking her to simply refer to him by his name, though he simply responds, “what deal?”

“We both confess. And if it goes horribly wrong, we can get married.”

Y/N can’t see the shock on Zuko’s face, but she can see how comfortable he feels with this girl, Y/N hadn’t seen her before, but she was just happy Zuko was connecting with someone. Except she also wasn’t, a bitter feeling enveloping her as she turned away, looking for something else to focus her attention on, something that didn’t hurt.

She turned to see Marcella and Evelyn in the distance, speaking with each other. Y/N supposed if she wouldn’t be finding love tonight, then at least they would. She was no fool, she saw the way they looked at each other, the glances when the other wasn’t looking. Maybe it was dumb, but Y/N found herself feeling jealous as she moved over to the buffet with a sigh. Food solved everything in her experience, after a client had a particularly bad day, food made things better.

“Perhaps some tea?” Iroh stood beside her, a kettle in his hand, he had insisted he serve tea at the Gala, though Zuko had assured him it would be just as easy to find someone else to do the job.

Y/N smiled at him, nodding as she took a cup from the array of them within the buffet, allowing Iroh to pour her some tea. “Thank you, Iroh.” Her voice is quieter than normal, and it’s clear that Iroh can tell something is wrong.

“You know, you deserve to be happy to Y/N.” His words catch her by surprise, though she doesn’t have much time to consider their meaning before flames lighting the room begin to move erratically, causing her brows to furrow.

Something was wrong.

Iroh nods to her, placing the tea kettle down as his brow furrow and she nods back, Iroh disappearing into the crowd of people. Y/N’s eyes fall back to Marcella and Evelyn, and she quickly moves to their side of the room, ignoring the hush that had fallen over the room, panicked gasps amongst them. Her hands fall onto both girl’s arms as she nods to them, “Y/N, whats going-”

Y/N is already dragging them in the direction of the exit, “get out of here, find the guards. I’m going to find Zuko.” The girls didn’t have much time to argue, as Y/N was already working her way through the panicked crowd, back to the balcony where she’d last seen Zuko. But, people were already pushing against her movements, making it difficult. Raising her head above the crowd in an attempt to see what’s going on, Y/N realizes whats happening.

Firebenders were trying to force them together, and Y/N couldn’t help but panic as she wondered if Marcella and Evelyn managed to escape and find the guards.

This was an ambush.

No, this was an assassination attempt. Zuko already knew as he watched the atmosphere of the party begin to shift, that and the person who stood before him in all black, brandishing several weapons. Alongside four others who stood by her side.

“You know, it wasn’t until I met you that I realized how bad it had gotten.” Aileen stood beside Zuko, eyes meeting his in horror as they exchanged looks. Zuko simply hoped the nod he gave her provided some semblance of comfort as he returned his attention to the person before him. “I mean, defending some lowly Earth Kingdom matchmaker? What type of career even is that?”

Her voice is almost maniacal, and Zuko can’t help but wince as he feels reminded of his sister. But he recognizes it nonetheless, Amaya. It had been months since he’d seen her, but he could still remember her voice. Her face was covered by a mask, and she wielded a sword, and if Zuko remembered correctly, she had been trained in dozens of fighting styles and was a talented bender herself. Alongside the four other men, Zuko couldn’t help but panic internally as he spoke, “Amaya, why don’t you put the swords down, and we talk about this.”

She laughs in response, ripping the mask that covered her face off and throwing it aside, “people have tried to talk to you about this. Your-” She grappled for the word, a hand yanking at her hair as she gestured to him with a sword, “your radical ideas!”

Zuko didn’t find having morals radical, but he wasn’t going to say that, not while Aileen’s life was on the line. Zuko suddenly realized why having an heir was important as he shook his head, “Amaya, look. Why don’t you let Aileen here leave, and then you and I can talk.”

Aileen looks like she’s going to protest, but Amaya glances at her red robes, a sign of her Fire Nation citizenship, and gestures for her to leave. “Get out. My problem isn’t with you.”

When Aileen doesn’t move, Amaya quickly grows frustrated, calling out to one of the guards she’d brought along that lied inside, “take this fool away.”

There’s no response, and Zuko can see panic flood Amaya’s face. And looking behind her, he quickly realizes that most of the guards have been subdued, Y/N holding one of them in her arms as she knocks them to the ground. Moving towards the balcony stealthily as Amaya’s hands begin to shake, fire sparking in her palms as she focused her attention onto Zuko. “You’re going to pay for what you’ve done to our nation.”

But Zuko wasn’t looking at her as he shook his head, hoping Y/N would understand. There was no way she could overpower Amaya, not with her bending. Y/N didn’t even have a weapon.

Now, Y/N knew for a fact that no matter how talented Zuko was, he wouldn’t put the girl beside him in danger. His priority would be keeping her alive, and given the training Amaya had as a noble, in both Firebending and fighting, she might even be as good as Zuko in a fight.

Meaning she had to be taken out of the fight.

Everything happened pretty fast after that. Zuko was shielding body coming forward to shield Aileens as he extended his freehand to Firebend at the people who’d surrounded them, only for Amaya to move out of the way. The girl was practically screaming bloody murder as she lunged at him, now wielding her sword.

Zuko didn’t have to figure out what to do next because Y/N moved faster than Amaya did, tackling the girl over the railing and down below as he began to scream.

THE FINAL ATTEMPT

Zuko’s knee is bouncing rapidly as he sits beside Iroh, who knits a scarf of some sort despite the blistering heat of the Fire Nation. He’s insisted that when Y/N returned to the Earth Kingdom she’d need it, and Zuko didn’t have the heart to disagree. Iroh had started stress-knitting about four hours ago, when Y/N had entered the room they all sat before, anxiously awaiting news of her condition.

Marcella and Evelyn are to Zuko’s left, Marcella’s sobs had quieted down, but Zuko wouldn’t be shocked if he looked over and saw tears silently streaming down her face. The girl hadn’t taken it well. Evelyn remained composed, doing her best to comfort Marcella, but the wait was clearly getting to her as well as she fidgeted with Marcella’s hands.

Seeing as Y/N had fallen from several stories up off the balcony and into the water below, Zuko didn’t really think it was possible to take the news well. But he was trying.

A pang sounded from inside the room, and Zuko practically shot up onto his feet, moving to knock on the door to discover was was wrong, only for Iroh to grab his wrist, shaking his head. Zuko exhaled deeply, beginning to pace across the hall. He found himself wishing that Katara hadn’t been busy with Water Tribe business, she was an excellent healer. Alas, Katara wasn’t there, and Zuko had to settle for one of the skilled Water Tribe diplomats instead, alongside a few others skilled in medicine.

As he paced, Zuko could feel Evelyn’s eyes on him, and it became clear she was itching to speak and he sighed, “what’s wrong?” There were dozens of answers to this question, the main one being the fact that Y/N could die today, so he hoped she understood what he meant.

The girl is glaring at him, and Zuko can’t help but feel uneasy. Because maybe she blames him for this as much as he blames himself, and maybe she’s going to tell him off, blame him for everything. Because if Y/N dies, she and Marcella will have no one again.

Not that Zuko would allow that. He’d grown attached to the girls as well, they were kind, and helpful. They’d help improve the interior decor of the palace, and if he was honest, it looked better than anything he ever could’ve done.

“You better tell her how you feel after this.”

Zuko’s mouth gapes open at the girl’s words, and he swears the breath leaves his longs, and its as though everything hits him then.

He would never get to tell Y/N how he felt if she died. He’d never get to listen to her try and tell a story just to go off on dozens of tangents, he’d never get to watch as she attempted to cook again, and he’d never get to hold her in his arms once more. There would be no more late night talks, and he wouldn’t hear her laugh, she wouldn’t tease him anymore and they wouldn’t walk through the courtyard feeding turtleducks again.

She’d never know he loved her.

Zuko finds himself nodding to Evelyn’s words, frozen in place as he looks to her and asks, “was I that obvious?” His voice is hoarse, and its probably because he didn’t stop screaming, even when Y/N’s body hit the water.

Marcella is laughing at his words, blowing her nose into a tissue that Evelyn hands her before she speaks, “painfully obvious.”

“For someone who’s job revolves around love, Y/N is one of the most oblivious people I’ve ever met.” Evelyn grumbles out, rubbing her eyes as she yawns.

It was late, Zuko knew that much, the guests of the party had gone to the infirmary in the palace, being tended to by doctors and any other available healers if injured. Otherwise, they’d all returned to their rooms to sleep, or more likely stay up in fear of another attack. Zuko surely would.

“Go to bed guys, it’s getting late.”

Evelyn looks at him like he’s one of the dumbest people she’s met, and if Zuko was honest, he probably was. But he simply nodded to Marcella, who had started leaning her head against Evelyn’s shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. “Uncle, why don’t you take them back to their rooms?”

Considering the fact that Zuko’s guards were around the corner, he wasn’t scared for his safety, but their presence just made him want to remain awake.

“Nephew, you should sleep as well.” His Uncle replied, though he rose from his seat, bringing the yarn and the start of the scarf under his arm.

Zuko gave his Uncle a smile, “I will. But if anything happens before then, I’ll be sure to alert you all.” He assured, nodding to Evelyn, who eyed him wearily. But she relented, shaking Marcella gently before standing up alongside her and Iroh.

When they were out of sight, Zuko plopped back down in the seat, his elbows resting on his knees as he brought his hands to his face.

And for the first time in the night he cried, his body racked with sobs as tears streamed down his face and he struggled to breathe. The pain of all that had happened felt almost unbearable. She had to live. Y/N had to live. Because Zuko was going to confess.

His fear of losing her outweighed his fear of rejection.

Wiping his tears away, Zuko suddenly felt grateful that Evelyn had left the box of tissues as he blew his nose. He sighed, his eyes piercing the door, hoping that something would happen.

As though his stare had willed her to exit the room, the healer came out, a grimace on her face as she looked to Zuko, likely because of his bloodshot eyes. The woman simply sighed, the grimace becoming a more sympathetic look. “Miss L/N lost a lot of blood... several of her bones were broken when she hit the water, especially her ribs. Her internal organs were damaged as well and... well it wasn’t very likely for her to survive.”

She’s dead.

Y/N is dead.

Oh.

“Wow, you look like a mess.”

Zuko’s head whips up, his eyes meeting Y/N’s, she’s leaning against a wooden crutch, grinning lazily at him. The healer beside her looks rather apologetic as she frantically explains, “she woke up far quicker than we anticipated and only agreed to rest if we participated in her rather cruel prank.”

So, she wasn’t a ghost.

Zuko launches himself up from the chair, nearly tackling Y/N, but the wooden crutch she uses for support serves as a reminder of her fragile state as he asks, “can I hug you?”

Her smile falters at the sound of his voice, hoarse and jagged, so she simply extends are free arm outward. Zuko takes this as an invitation for a hug, gently wrapping his arms around her waist and burying his head in her neck, Y/N wrapped her free arm around his neck, hand finding its way to the hair at the nape of his neck. “Im s-”

“It’s not your fault Zuko. I swear if you say its your fault I will throw myself over the balcony again.” She threatened, hand tightening in his hair.

Zuko laughs quietly, inhaling deeply before he speaks again, “please never do that again.”

“I make no promises.”

Sighing, Zuko releases her, “I hate you so much.”

Y/N scoffed, “you love me.” She was limping over to the bed in the middle of the room, blood coating the surrounding area. Though the doctors in the room were moving across the room that they’d placed Y/N on, and dealt with her injuries on, Zuko couldn’t help but feel sick at the sight.

She could’ve died.

“Yeah, I do.”

Y/N pauses, turning to look back at him, her mouth gapes open. Zuko’s looking away, eyes on anything but her as he inhales deeply.

The healer simply sighs, “before we do this, I should inform the two of you that Miss Y/N cannot do any... strenuous activities for at least one month.”

Zuko’s cheeks are flushing red as he shakes his head rapidly, “ma’am-”

“We’ll be taking our leave. Have fun, but not too much fun. Please.” The woman closes the door behind her once the other doctors are out of the room, and Y/N can’t stop laughing at the mortified expression on Zuko’s face, despite the sharp pain she feels in her ribs.

Taking a seat on the fresh sheets of the bed, Y/N sighs, “so you love me?” She’s picking at the sheets, “as a friend?”

Zuko suddenly realizes just how right Evelyn was as he slowly shakes his head, “no. More than a friend. I think I inadvertently sabotaged half of the dates you sent me on because of it.”

Y/N laughs quietly, eyes falling on Zuko only to see he’s looking anywhere but her, she calls out to him quietly, “Zuko. Look at me.”

He doesn’t hesitate to bring his gaze to her, eyes meeting hers as he begins to fidget with his hand. Y/N simply reaches her hand out, and he takes it. “I love you too, idiot.” She mumbles, pulling him closer and wrapping her arms around his waist. “I just wish you had told me sooner so I didn’t waste so much time trying to set you up with other women.”

A small laugh escapes him as he brings his hand to her hair, “how do I know you weren’t purposely giving me bad matches because you were in love with me?”

Y/N removes her head from his stomach, looking up at him, her nose crinkles, “unlike you, I am a professional.” Zuko flicks her forehead, and Y/N pouts at him, hand coming up to his face, “can I kiss you?”

She can feel his face warm, but he nods rather enthusiastically nonetheless, and Y/N finds herself smiling at his as she uses her hands to pull his face downward towards her. His lips meet hers, and Zuko finds himself feeling complete, hands coming to Y/N’s face in an attempt to pull her closer while hers move to his ball up his robes that he’d yet to change.

Zuko pulls away first, forehead resting on hers, “you need to sleep.”

Y/N scoffed, eyes narrowing at him, “you need to sleep.” Looking to the bed, she raises a brow at him, “wanna lay with me?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, I could accidentally injure you or-”

Rolling her eyes, Y/N yanks him onto the bed, making her way to the other side and getting comfortable, “I’ll be fine.”

Yeah, everything would be fine. Maybe not for the Fire Nation, seeing as Y/N would potentially help rule a nation but...

Everything would be fine.

in·am·o·ra·ta/iˌnaməˈrädə/

noun

a woman with whom one is in love or has intimate relations.

A/N: i hope this was good enough!!! i tried!!! and idk how it ended up over 12k... that’s crazy man um kjhdsajfhjkah omg i really liked this concept though i hope i did it justice

TAGLISTS [lmk if you want to be added or removed via askbox or replies]

ATLA: @bubblebars @jada-cleo @Art-flirt @the-deli-meat @wemissyou3000 @ajediherowitchrunner

ZUKO: @outerxorbit @shawkneecaps @lil-lex1 @boxofteenageideas @izzieserra @eridanuswave @bigbuckyenergy @celamoon @savemesteeb @shephard17895 @ijustwannabecanadian @duh-dobrik @anime-simp @lammello

#prince zuko x reader #zuko x reader #zuko x you #prince zuko x you #zuko x y/n #prince zuko x y/n #zuko atla x y/n #atla zuko x y/n #atla zuko x reade #zuko atla x reader #atla zuko x reader #prince zuko atla x reader #atla prince zuko x reader #atla x reader #x reader #atla #avatar the last airbender #lok #legend of korra

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starshipsofstarlord · 4 years ago

Text

Okay rockstars, settle down

rockstar!bucky barnes x assistant!reader x rockstar!loki laufeyson / masterlist

summary; having previously worked for loki, it causes a heat to burn within bucky’s already accumulated hate towards the musician / warnings; threesome, smut, mxf and mxm sex, mentions of sex with other characters, oral sex (male and female receiving), creampie, unprotected sex, double penetration, degradation, swearing, orgasm denial, cum eating

“Can’t believe you worked for that wanker.” Snarked Bucky as an image of the well known, musically spread, and acoustically acclaimed, Loki Laufeyson was shown on the screen of the dressing room television, as the other artist stretched his clothing bare arms across the back of the couch. “Come here sweet cheeks.”

At his command, you dismissed the paper work for a moment, trailing over and straddling the inked hunk’s chain belted lap, digging your manicured set of nails into his shoulders, as you seated yourself over his crotch. “I’m happy I work for you now Buck, you treat me so good.”

Punctuating your words, you pressed your teeth into your bottom lip, giving it the appearance of being more plump, as you batted your dark eyelashes up at your employer. “I do, don’t I?” He rhetorically asked, skimming his fingers across the length of your arms, before moving them to sloppily cup your jaw, ensuring that you would not look away from his wild and dilated pupils. “Tell me what I do better than the lead singer of the god of mischief.”

At his words, a small yet peaceful contortion of uncomfortableness split a skin grafted line through the centre of your forehead, stating that you had no wish to do so. And thus, as punishment for your self aversive silence, Barnes braced his knuckles into your skin, causing you to keen out, and tap his shoulders in verification for surrender.

In turn, you lowered your hands, dragging the tips of your nails, absentmindedly running them down the expanse of his waxed chest, conveniently passing the silver hoops that were attached to his nipples on the trail to a less dominant ground. “I prefer the way that your songs have a heavier bass and-“

“Uh uh uh, not the music. Think of something that has you, let’s say, screaming, but definitely not in a crowd. Though, we may have to try that one sometime; show the world how hungry you are to assist me.”

“You, James Bucky Barnes,” he loosened his grip to your relief, which lead to you hugging in spite, “are the best fuck I have ever endured. Loki has nothing on you, he deems himself a god of the arts, but he doesn’t see how you paint me so perfectly with your cum, nor how you bend my body to your whim, as though I am a tool in the midst of your creations, useful, but disposable.”

“I like the sound of that doll. Disposable, now that really does you make you sound like my personal cum dump.”

“That’s was certainly interesting to listen to...”that voice had your body jolting in shock, and it appeared that Bucky too was surprised by the presence, though, he steadied his well versed hands on your hips, claiming you to the intimate spot.

“What the fuck are you doing in my dressing room you greasy haired weasel?” Bucky sneered, his nose turning up at the sight alone of his competition in the lyrical world. Loki, he had graced you with his presence, and you had to look away; he admittedly looked good.

His shirt was open chested, leaving you with the memorable impression of all the times that you had left crescent marks upon that particular surface, a few times you had even drawn blood, but that had only fuelled his mission to fuck you into a propeller of urgency.

“Our new album Laufey has just been released, I can confirm my dear, you shoulda stayed around and knelt in our success. The records are certainly going to have more sales than what was it called again? Ah yes, the red star. I could tell it was about this one, so much passion, a sultry tune, that did little to justify what it means to be with her.”

Loki’s hands waved around as he spoke, and you could only picture the past whence he penetrated your with those long and talented fingers of his. He had drawn orgasm after orgasm out of you, resulting you to be nothing more than a withering mess, as he digressed the option to simply stop. There was nothing simple about him, nor the time that he demanded that he shared you with his brother.

That thought alone had you mindlessly grinding upon Bucky’s covered cock, plucking at your lip with the keys of your teeth, though Bucky’s voice brought you back to reality, causing you to pause your movements embarrassingly, venting a clear out of your head to process the situation that was before you. The two were bickering like two teenage girls, and it was quite exhausting to listen to.

“Answer the question trickster, else I’ll have you fed to the infamous black panther, and let’s just say that he is the best bodyguard I have ever hired. So, are you going to speak, or will I have you dragged out of here like a damned serpent with a noose around its neck?” Bucky threatened, gritting his teeth together, his nose straining in frustration, drawing more attention to the small stud on the right side of his nose.

“Looks like she needs me Barnes, perhaps your reputation does not proceed you. But to answer in full, my band have made quite the rise, and I thought it would be... fitting to pay you a visit. Though I had no idea that this wonderful woman would be here, pining on your lap like some feline in heat. I see she’s fucking you now, after all my suspicions are never wrong. Or we’ll, Heimdall’s train of thought always ends up at the right station.”

“Can the pair of you stop, for one goddamn minute!” Your hands obscured a path into your hair, as you glared back and forth between the pair of rival rockstars. “I am here, dammit! Stop talking about me as though I am not here, a part of me wishes that I wasn’t so I didn’t have to listen to your bitching.”

Without any thought, you clambered from your perch on Bucky’s lap, walking towards the raven haired gentleman, pointing your finger in his face as you accused him. “You’ve got your point across, but I’ll tell you something. If you don’t leave, Heimdall will see me putting my foot up your ass.”

“Does she speak to you like this Barnes? I thought she had loosened up in more ways than one when I allowed Thor to stretch her cunt, but it appears that that mouth of hers has gotten a little out of hand also. You should do something about that, or else you’ll lose her to someone else like a did. Who knows, could be Romanoff, heard she has a thing for brats.”

Natasha Romanoff, a diverse woman in her ways and songs. She was the queen of the rock culture, tormenting her workers with her verbal abuse and it would undoubtedly be no different for her assistant. If you were to be under her employment, it was certain that you would not get out alive, nor work for another talented person for the rest of your life. To cross her, was a vow to sign your own death certificate, it was plain stupidity, yet people still hustled with her and her limits, resulting in their chances of ever getting hired for any job, vastly slim to none.

At the lack of defence that Bucky provided you, you felt small, your shoulders slacked as you were tortured with Loki’s cold and silky gaze, more so when the man stood up, pressing his bare chest against your back. You could feel the rings that hung off the buds that adorned his chest coil and dig into your back, shrouding your demeanour substantially.

A part of you wanted nothing more than for Bucky to abuse Loki’s face with his fist, specifically the right, since it was the bearer to a chunky silver ring. It’d leave quite the print, however, the unexpected unravelled as his enquiring tone was aimed not at you, but Loki instead.

“You let your brother fuck her, hmm. Maybe she should learn her manners by being shared, that way her retrospective spattering of bullshit may be contained, to a limit of course.” It was unbelievably, you could not believe that Bucky was conferring with the enemy! And not only that, they were talking about experiences of having you literally become speechless from their unprofessional administrations upon your body. “I’d get T’Challa in here, but I know she’s already fucked him. Can’t quite fire him for it though, because who could ever say no to those pretty eyes, and that mouth, god, it is definitely one of her most persuasive attributes.”

“Bu-“ you didn’t even get to finish imploring his name off your lips, about to defend yourself and your previous actions, though, you were interrupted, starved from the opportunity of coming up with an explanation.

“No.” Loki told you, the roles now reversed as he was the one with his index finger aimed at you. He tapped your nose with it, as he began to pace in the room, his wild locks remaining in their place as he spun, before facing Bucky, a sly tranquility of a truce veining out from the pools of his evergreen orbs. “You don’t speak a word to me y/n, not whilst I’m having a conversation with James here.”

James. It was too far a polite way for him to address your boss. They were all hot and ready to tear out each other’s throats a moment ago, and now here they were, having a silent conversation without your inclusion. It had you reeling your mind as to why, until Bucky gathered your hair in his hand to the side, sliding you y/h/c locks over your shoulder, and finally deemed it acceptable for you to hear his voice.

Though, he still was not directing his tensive words in your direction. “Since you had dealt with this subordinate behaviour from her, perhaps you’d like to join us; help me train her to become more...” His breath fanned your the top of your ear, making your skin crawl by not only his warm and inviting breath, but also the offer that he had supposed to the other man.

“Obedient?” Loki asked in turn of his wispy ended offer of optimism, his leather, sharp tipped boots taking a prominent, heart clenching step towards you. He reached his finger out, grasping a loose strand that had fallen out of Bucky’s grip and before your face, tugging lightly on it, as his lips came dangerously close to your own. “Rules aren’t your forfeit, are they my dear? The best assistant I ever hired, with all those unique ideas floating around in that independent head of yours, but you’ve always been troublesome. I remember the time that you bit my cock that day you had attitude. I reckon Bucky here could do a better job.”

“Then why doesn’t he?” You hissed as said man tugged on his handful of your hair, instantly making you regret your phrase in the moment. To a halting surprise however, Bucky released you, lightly shoving you to cause you to fumble forwards, and away from him.

“Maybe I will.” He dared, earning a nod from Loki, whom seductively began to unzip his loose trousers, as Bucky descended to the ground, his hands running up his rival’s thighs, as the material dropped around Loki’s ankles. It would seem, that he had gone commando, and as Bucky grasped Loki’s shaft, you felt a pull in your chest inherently demanding that you play some part in this fornication.

“Wait.” Your hand shot out, as though you had some force to stop them from continuing with their war path to exact all of their developed spit onto you. “What about me?” You were ss

“Oh no doll, you are not pulling any strings here, if you wanna do something useful, come here and warm my cock, you can watch me blow your old associate.” A slither of a whimper fell from your lips, it wasn’t exactly what you were prying towards, but you sure as hell were not going to refuse the contact that Bucky was obliged to give you.

Thus you wandered towards him, your pinkies curling around one another, as you sashayed to the ground beside him, watching as he paid Loki no mind for a moment, ruthlessly in a desperation fuelled motion, unbuckled his thick belt, and shoved the material of his leather trousers to be held accountable against his lower thighs, just above his tense knees.

He too, as their exteriors supposed, had forgone the extra layer that kept his cock tucked away, though it was exposed as he tugged those tight trousers down, and the sight of both his and Loki’s cocks bobbing in the same vicinity had you close to quivering.

It was somewhat of a dream portrayed in the viscous space of reality, the two men half undressed in then proximity of yourself, it was something that you had always imagined, even before you had left Loki’s side, and opted to work for Bucky, but the idea was definitely short lived. They hated each other, but apparently they were willing to put all their issues aside to prohibit you from freely running your mouth.

Bucky’s cock twitched as he patted his own thigh, ordering you without the aid of his voice to commence it as a servant’s throne, or in your case, a stool for you to rest on as he tended to intimate needs of the man that you had once worked for. Finally, with the decision of better judgement, you allowed your grey jumper dress to slide down your body, leaving you nude, and the aspect of the two men’s unforgiving and locked gazes.

“No underwear, and you wonder why your men have no difficulty in her allowing them to fuck her.” Bucky took ahold of his cock, squeezing his cock with one hand, whilst his other aided you in sitting on his muscular legs, as he lightly growled up at the opposing rockstar.

From the stiff grip that Bucky affirmed around his sceptre, Loki gasped, his pale lips instantly shutting once the sound wantonly abandoned him. The last thing that he wanted was for Bucky to see him in vulnerable poise, though with that said, it’d be rather difficult considering the smutty circumstances.

Bucky took Loki’s long, alabaster prick into his mouth, starting from the primrose tip and descending down, reciprocating the action that you did yourself as you sheathed yourself onto his cock, but instead with his lips. A grunt rendered along Loki’s length as the man bit back a whimper, the vibrations running through his veins like a transpiring pulse of sorcery.

Bucky opted for bobbing his head, as you endured the liberation of his very slightly gyrating movement inside of you. Though, despite him being almost completely still and leaving you full to the brim with his thick length, his balls resting against the partition where he was delved into you, you remained transfixed.

The motion image, recording first hand through your own eyes, of him blowing Loki was sinful, but you were drawn to it. If that made you a sinner, one endorsed by the graphic scene, licking your lips from the sight of Bucky running his studded tongue up the length of Loki, dipping the ball of silver metal into his slit, then so be it.

Your heart raced as you were met with an opportunity. A globe of saliva, strung by the lapping muscle of Bucky’s tongue dropped down; you practically saw its fall in slow motion. It was done before you could register your actions, you had leant forwards, catching the trickle of spit in your mouth, thinking not for a moment as you gulped the subjective liquid down.

Bucky’s pace increased, he gagged lightly as he jolted him further down his throat. Loki hummed, harshly grabbing Bucky’s dark brunette locks, biting his lip as he reimagined your little catch. It had him feeling close, and just as he was about to finish, precum furiously pooling out of his tip, Bucky pulled back, a smirk marking his features.

“You’re not cumming in my mouth, I don’t mind sucking dick, nor swallowing, but I have to practically listen to you jizz over your own talent, and prowl over my girl.” The name he labelled you with had your heart fluttering, but not nearly as much as when he lightly pulled out of you, infuriating you with the lack of any pleasurable esteem. “Don’t you worry babes, you can finish with me inside of you, like always.”

That used to be him, Loki thought with a brewing rage in his chest. Though he instead shrugged out of his dull patterned striped shirt that was already loose on his shoulders. The fabric hit the floor, leaving all of you barren to the subject of nudity.

“Always doesn’t suppose the past Barnes.” Loki stated, referring to all the various times that he had found refuge in your spongey walls, you willingly clenching around him, and pleading for him to hit a deeper spot within you. “And I do not prowl, I don’t need to. The evidence is there between her legs, coiling in juices surrounding her ever so willing folds, that are prepared to endure the harshest of penetrations.”

“What are you trying to do, write a fucking song about this?” Scoffed Bucky, rolling his crystallised orbs at the guts that this man had. If he so much as wanted to, he could stop this passage into a three way all together, but he did not, at least he had yet to. He was enjoying the way that you were squirming to yourself, thinking that he didn’t notice, squeezing the sides of your thighs together in an aroused matrimony.

“A fucking song would’ve the correct term - literally.” Was the affirmed words of Loki, as he shoved Bucky to be sat beside you, tilting his messy brush of crazed hair, his untrustworthy eyes drifting to you. “Who’d you want to fuck you, you fangirling slut?”

It was truthfully a difficult decision. “Both.” You admitted, your bones jumping as Bucky pinched one of your erect nipples, continuing to hold a sturdy clasp of his pads around the sensitive flesh; you couldn’t jut choose one of them. Not when they were both in such close range, bore in nothing more than their birthdays suits, talking about your quivering and diversely accepting cunt.

They knew that you couldn’t possibly refuse one or the other. You were vastly too hungry to be filled like you had never been before, shagged by two of three most well known artists in the industry, earnestly and mindlessly earning yourself a title within the circle of uptight yet simultaneously chill performers.

Perhaps, if Bucky we to ever potentially fire you, there would be another pursuer for your articulating talents on standby, awaiting for the moment that you walked out of his complex door to swoop you up as though they were a predatory falcon, flying off into a stationed sunset, those around seeing you as nothing more than a shadow of the ambient orb, but the one who had employed you finding you to be a sufficing inspiration.

Large hands swallows your hips, firmly controlling their angle as they grasped you in their strong, almost super human hold, lifting you so that you were tentatively tucked in a reverse cowgirl position on Bucky’s lap. It was the third time that you had been this close to him, it would almost be intimate, if your legs weren’t strewn in an open, all revealing splay, so that Loki could see your boss tease his tip around your entrance before sliding you down his length, extracting a strong wail from your churning throat.

Your own hand resented down, applying swirls of pressure down on your clit; it appeared that they were willing you to continue without interruption. Bucky lightly, despite the power that he was promoted to in this position, began to bounce you on his shaft, spewing small mewls out from your agape mouth.

Fisting his cock, Loki approached, Bucky reachin this seen hands down to spread te lips of your pussy, so that the other man was guaranteed a crude glimpse of you being stufffed. Though, you weren’t quite filled enough, for Bucky raised a brow and prompted Loki to allow himself to be pulled closer by your axed and whining aura.

He brushed his tip languidly against your buzzing clit, dragging through your slick and jab i at your delicate fingers before probing at the base of Bucky’s cock, and pushing inside, right along his rival’s length, the pair moaning out in a pleasured union. On the other and, you had tears falling from the crescents of your eyes, the stretch so much that it was a blistering pain to your cunt.

“Don’t go all meek dear, you and i both know this is far from the first instance where you’ve had more than one cock in this nasty, betraying cunt of yours.” Loki taunted, gripping the vulnerable expanse of your throat from behind, his icy glazed skin sending provocative shivers down your spine, making your pussy pulse from the chill that ran through your body.

And then, i a split instant, both cocks began to piston into your walls, as though you were nothing more than a rag doll, meant o be thrown around and handled in a disorderly fashion. They ere ruthless, groaning out symphonies in the cursive air around you, as your walls engulfed their pricks more than snugly.

You felt so wide down there, they were taking a pirating toll on your body stealing every breath that dared wither from your lips, tweezing their nimble fingered around various parts of your body, all in due retrospect or coerce you into fucking them back, making all actions in the mass of bodies a mutual effort.

Loki lowered his head down meeting Bucky for a sloppy, brash kiss. It was clear they were simply doing that part to fulfil a greedy desire in your stomach, but you were not one that minded. It was, like the rest of their frenzy of collaborations, a competitive mess. They nipped harshly at each other’s lips, ravenously all in the meanwhile ploughing your body with their har girths.

“Fuck, that’s hot.” Your tongue dribbled, earning satisfied, lust induced smirks from both parties that were currently penetrating you, making you writhe harder against their lengths a new flow of moisture weeping out from your hole, lubricating their movements further, it encouraging them to do nothing more than continue what they were doing, despite their better judgements.

The truth was, they were rockstars. They had no better judgement, which is why everyone like them needed someone like you. Their thought were clouded with one mission, and for once in their spent lifetimes, it was not to beat the others, at least not to a certain extent anyways. It was their assignment, delivered by their own hands, to bring you to the edge, and that’s physically what they reformed to do.

One of them were groping your nipples, whilst the other confined the same treatment to your ass cheeks. Loki found your Rocky enables of positive feedback to be icicles and they were beautiful, he stared at them, as though they were divine ploys extracted from the mythical kingdom of Jotunheim, their residence in the realm to be the peacemakers of all bountiful creatures, much like himself and Barnes.

A rich euphoric groan exuberated from Bucky as he allowed himself to spoil, but he tutted whence he watched Loki’s features suppose that he was to follow shortly behind. “Not inside of her.” Bucky growled, sufficing Loki to roll his eyes, and pull out, the man behind you furiously replacing your hand, rolling our clit in his grasp until a sinful scream enveloped the air, commencing them all to the fact that you had just came.

Loki found the show to be unfair, and instead, spilled his priceless seed onto the huffing skin of your stomach, you eyes fluttered shut at the warm feeling pooling onto you. You leant back, drawing your neck into a crooked angle as you swiped your tongue wordlessly over the piercing on Bucky’s right nipple, metal providing a relief to the heat that your body was and had been swarmed with. “ Last chance you’re gonna have t taste her sweet cunt.”

“You do certainly have some faith in this one Barnes, but I do doubt that it will be the last instance in which i am todo so.” His silver tongue pried at your cum soaked flesh, drinking up all the essence that you had to offer, onshore the flavour that Bucky had brought to the table, i the form of a succulent drizzling of Snow White cum.

As Loki finishes swabbing his tongue over your cunt, Bucky adoringly kisses you, much sweeter than he has before. It was sort, and almost chaste, but his blue eyes roamed your face, delicately observing the high points of your face, that were covered with a sheen of great force making you as he would put it, glow.

The pair of you weer exhausted, there was still some swollen was to his lips from where he had sucked off Loki. His hands cradled you around your waist, his feet kicking Loki back as you whimpered from opaque sensitivity. “I guess that was you bidding me a dew.” Sneered the trickster, fishing for his clothes, as he spared you a spark filled glare, to which you ignored.

Once he was situated back into his attire, he left the sex scented room,a hollow smirk chapping his lips as he strutted th a purpose out into the hallway, taking a left instead of a right, and creeping into barnes’ studio to see what the man was working on in the midst of his enduring tour/ He was always the trickster, and nothing different was to ever be expected out of him.

“That was good.” You mumbled, rubbing your ode lovingly across the scruff that coated his jaw. His fingers made small circles upon your tummy, humming contently as he remained sheathed inside of you. He had to admit, he preferred it when it was just him, but his lonesome, sheathed within your walls, feeling the small trembles of your walls around him. It was practically heaven, and he would say so if he believed in such a place.

A deliberate knock ruined the moment, as the man entered,he quarrelled with himself where her to casually look in the direction of the pair of you or to avert his sight around, and blankly at the all. “What is it T’Challa?” Grumbled the man inside of you, quirking a thin brow at the timing of his presence.

“Loki; he managed to get into ur data, and he’s leaked a whole bunch of your music.” Of course, Loki would not come here to simply gloat, there was alas something extra up his green sleeve, and now it was revealed.

“Son of a bitch!” Bucky made a move to stand, but instead prohibited a whimper out of you as hi ships jutted angrily tip on instinct. “Get Odin on the phone, we’re going to have a little chat about his slippery hands son!” Barked Bucky, prepared t do anything to bring his greatest threat down, compiling him into the put of hate industry, until he was forgotten about, unable to ever produce new music again.

“Talk to Sif.” You whispered, becoming the image of his assistant once more, even if his cum lathered cock was prevailing within a rut of required stress relief, growing in the conjunction of your wall with his body guard there. “She loathes him, and rightfully so. He got her kicked out and she has dirt on him that nobody else has ever heard. If you want to take I’m down, she is your in.”

The strict tone grammatically supported by your logical information was definitely turning Bucky on again. He could handle you more than fine without Loki’s aid, he was just a means to an end, as it was clearly shown in his priorities.

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internalsealpanic · 4 years ago

Text

Death Cannot Take You

Summary: You died. You should have died, yet here you are having the audacity to still be walking.

A/n: This is semi abandoned old guard au. I made it for 3 reasons. 1) I love Old Guard. 2) I love writing resurrection scenes cus it makes my brain calm. 3) This is a poly that I am desperate for.

Warning: Violence, kidnapping, terrible explanations, and blatant disregard for patient care.

The world shook violently as it staggered into view— blotchy patches of fluorescent lights and rough textures. Drowning the heavy scrape of metal is a chorus of thumping and ringing in your ears. Your hands fly to the seat in front of you, cold metal pressed against hot skin as the train rattles on. It makes your stomach lurch, dredging out its contents.

Crumpled in your seat, you heave a ragged breath. You retch, the contents of your stomach burning in your esophagus. You screw your eyes shut unable to take another long gulp of air; it stung to breathe in the piss heavy air. You need to breathe. You need the oxygen. You need your mind in working order. Sucking in a greedy lungful, you cough it out, body rejecting it.

There was a heat.

A pulse.

A pistol.

A laugh.

You can remember the wetness of saliva and blood and tears on your face as the warmth bled out of your fingertips.

It was cold.

It was so cold.

Your heartbeat picks up. It’s getting harder to breathe. Your windpipe is closing. The world is getting smaller. The bones in your hands are rattling.

A cry pries itself out of your chest, tearing its way out of your mouth. They’re not stopping. They’re still laughing.

No.

Please god, no.

With another violent rattle, your consciousness slips.

You’re cold again. Shadows grasp at the corners of your vision. The world is blotchy— a patch of tangling threads.

The alley smells of piss and garbage. The smell is thick enough to make you choke. Your heart had stopped a while ago. No, your mind did. No, it was your heart you’re sure. No, no. It was his heart that stopped.

It’s cold. Someone is crying out for you. It’s your father. You’re scared. Your blue eyes are fading in color. You’ve faced death before�� No, not you. He has. He’s faced death always with a smile but now with his heart at a complete stand still he’s sure this is it. He’s sure this is how he dies. It isn’t on the trapeze or because of some cookie plan made by a costumed nut case. Your— his heart stops.

He died.

So did he. There’s another man. He’s lying on the battlefield. The sky is so pretty. You can hear canonfire. There’s another man beside him. He’s dying too. Your fair hair is matted red. Your— his flesh is reknitting itself. It’s— The whole in his— your stomach is closing the whole in it. You’re gasping for breath. The alley doesn’t stink of piss and garbage; it smells like cotton fields and summer heat.

He died.

You died.

There’s a buzzing in the air— the thrum of electricity as it writhes in the wires. Bouncing your leg, you wait for the receptionist to call your name. Anxiety sings in your veins like a chorus of scraping metal.

You don’t remember what happened last night— not clearly.

It’s all a melting pot of images and voices and touches.

You cup your hand over your mouth, the stomach acid burning its way up your esophagus. Your tongue is tacky with dried saliva and the lingering taste of copper. They’re laughing. They’re all still laughing. The ringing in your ears won’t stop.

You fold. Legs curl up into your chest as you dip your head under. Eyes sliding shut, you let the darkness pool in your mind. The vague sounds in the emergency room coalescing into a discordant symphony. You let yourself dream again.

You lift your head up slowly, colors bleeding into view. The words don’t make sense.

“Kid, are you ok?”

You regard the large man with the open—mouthed confusion of a fish. He’s handsome in a rough sort of way— grisled with a full beard, cropped hair, and gunmetal blue eyes— eye. He’s got an eye patch. You swallow. Your lungs inflate as they inhale the sterile scent of the room. The smell of hand sanitizer is too thick. He’s tall. You crane your neck to look up at him. It hurts. He must easily be 6’3”, maybe even taller. His chest is broad and through the shirt, he’s wearing you can see the expanse of taut well—defined muscles. His lips are curved up at one side in a lopsided smirk. Your head is pounding. You shut your eyes, vigorously nodding your head. You know what he’s staring at. You know what his eyes— eye— are trained on.

You… You haven't changed. The crisp white shirt you’d worn to your job is dark and wrinkly with dried blood. You hate it. You hate how uncharacteristically messy you look; it makes you feel off—model, like something that is a cluttered version of you.

You curl up again. This time the ringing in your ears blocks out everything else. Your head dips back into the dark. It’s cold and stuffy and your ears were ringing when they—

Your eyes fly open and there’s a figure in front of you. You squint. The figure is smaller, less broad; a nursing assistant with kind eyes stands over you with a clipboard. You breathe. You turn your head to the man from before. He’s standing next to a man— younger, shorter. He looks dwarfed next to the other man but he’s average height and it would be funny if you had the energy. You’re far enough away that you can’t be sure of his features but it’s not hard to tell that he’s pretty. He’s got rich brown skin, black hair, and a gymnast’s poise. He’s familiar. Both of them are. They’re talking to the police. You freeze.

Are they here for you? Who are they?

“I need you to follow me back into the ER,” she says gently, grip firmly grasping your shoulder. You run your hand through your matted hair. Your hand comes back slick and sticky with sweat and dried blood. The oxygen in your lungs stutters. You feel another squeeze on your shoulder. You’re back. You’re not whole but you’re back.

“I’m sorry,” you croak, legs wobbling beneath you as you stand.

You follow her. It’s faint but you can feel someone follow you as you disappear into the hall with her.

The walk to the hall was peaceful. It was steadying. It’s the talk with the doctor that’s putting you on edge. He’s tapping his pen on the clipboard. Your mind writhes with every tap. Sighing, you rub your eyes and try to push the sensations away. “I— I’m so sorry. I’m just. It’s my mind. I just can’t—” you breathe “—I can talk. I’m sorry.” You wave vaguely.

“Alright tell me what happened.”

You swallow. Your trachea still feels splintered. “I—” breathe “—I was cornered. In an alley. Behind a butcher shop. I was trying to take a short cut—” he taps a pen against the board "— I was attacked." You finish, fingers tracing up the length of your throat. Attacked was too quick a word. Attacked was the kind of word you used for the quick in and out of a knife— the split second bite of a bullet. You weren’t attacked. You were— what happened to you felt like an eternity.

Shuffling, he looks you over. There's a prickle in the back of your neck. There's someone watching you. Your eyes flick. There's the young man. His eyes are a warm tropical blue. He waves at you. He looks uneasy. The man from before is trying not to pay attention. Your legs swing, almost clipping the doctor's clipboard. The doctor frowns at you but you shrug.

"You don't seem to have been injured."

You blink. "That's not possible," you say, hands shaking,"they had me for hours." No that wasn't true. At most they had you for an hour or maybe two but that didn’t matter not at the bite of the bullet, not at the slice of flesh, not at the impact of the bat.

"I need you to breathe," the doctor instructs, placing a hand on your back; it tenses. You go rigid. He pulls back muttering about x—rays and brain scans.

Catching his lab coat in a death grip, you beg: "Please don't leave me."

"Ma'am, you're perfectly safe here."

They will find you.

He thinks you're hysterical. You know that from the way he looks at you, like a caged animal. "We have security personnel if need be," he assures, none—too—gently prying his coat from your grip. "We'll close the curtain if that makes you feel safe and there are hospital gowns in the closet if you'd like to change."

You nod quietly.

You slowly peel off your shirt. The cool air stings. You suck in a breath. You think of the dream you had. That man's heart stopping. The press of lips. The bite of metal against skin. You look down at your skin— no bruises, no cuts, nothing.

You're scared.

You know these memories aren't fully yours.

You hear the door slide open. Your knee jerk reaction is to be embarrassed. You're in your underwear. Pulling on a gown, you're ready to snarl at the intruder. Your heart stops. It's the man from before.

"Did they take a blood sample from you yet?" He asks, closing the curtain behind him.

His gaze is unyielding as he makes slow predatory strides towards you. You flatten yourself against the wall. "No— I— what?"

"Good."

"What—" There's a sharp pain in the side of your head. There's blood trickling down the side of your head. Your vision is fading.

Falling forward, you grasp your blood tacky hands at his shirt. You feel weightless. You're on his shoulder.

"Who are you?"

"You'll find out."

The desert sand billows as a gust of wind blows through the dunes. You’re searching for someone. Your friend. His friend not yours. He’s somewhere. He’s being held prisoner. You’ve kept him waiting long enough.

You turn your head and the scene shifts.

There’s a sky full of lights above you, glittering. You can’t tell if they’re man made or not. You reach out to them. Your hands aren’t yours. You squint. Your hands are dark and calloused— covered in sawdust. There’s a terrible shape in your stomach. You’re scared but that’s not new. There’s always a little fear when you go on the trapeze.

You shift under the cover, limbs wrapped around a pillow. The smell of freshly roasted coffee is heavy in the air. You burrow your face more into the pillow. Mark can wake you up—

"And you thought kidnapping her was the solution?!"

You wince at the tone. Shuffling your limbs quitely out of the covers, you press yourself to the wall, peaking over the corner just a fraction— just enough to see two men arguing. The taller man with white hair facing the hall opening into the sleeping area.

“It was.”

“Slade, you can’t just go kidnapping people!” the younger man shouts, his face red while his arms waved all over the place. Slade, you assumed, stood impassively, but his arms were now crossed over his chest in a defensive manner.

“I just did.”

The younger man runs his hand over his face and through his hair, ruffling it in frustration. “She’s going to be terrified when she wakes up.”

You are. Your eyes flick to the window. You could escape. You're in a motel room you realize. If they’re distracted enough, you could make it out.

“Well, Kid, it looks like you’re right.”

“Of course, I am—”

You look up. The two men are looking in your direction. Should you go back to the bed and pretend to be asleep? Is there any point? Just make a run for it.

You sprint only to hit what feels like a brick wall. You stagger back but what feels like a metal band wraps around your waist. The next thing you know is that you feel weightless.

“Slade, put her down! You’re going to give her a heart attack.”

“Relax, kid, it’s not like it’s gonna kill her.” Your body is dropped unceremoniously on the bed. You bounce a couple of times before your body settles against the soft sheets. Scrambling back against the headboard, you look between the two men trying to decide what to do. You place a pillow in front of you as a shield. The pounding of your heart is loud in your ears that you don’t think you’ll be able to hear anything that comes out of your mouth.

“I’m broke,” you finally manage. You turn to the younger man. “My roommate is broke too.” He gives you a confused furrow in his brow. “We can’t afford ransom. You won’t get anything, so please just… just let me go. I won’t tell the police. I promise.” Folding your legs behind the pillow, you press yourself into the headboard further. The young man sighs and slumps. “We don’t want money.” You stiffen, keenly aware that save for the flimsy protection of the hospital gown, you’re only in your underwear. He seems to realize what you’d concluded.

Slade snorts. “Way to go, kid.”

“Yeah, thanks for the help, asshole.”

“I have done nothing wrong.”

“Ah, yes. Aside from kidnaping her you mean,” he snarls. You swallow loudly, trying to keep the bile down. The younger man turns to you, the impressive glare he was sporting slides way too easily into concern. His body rolls into a different shape; it’s the kind of posture you’ve used when comforting your younger sibling. He lowers himself on the bed slowly. He reaches out a hand. Carefully, he says “We won’t hurt you.”

And you want to believe him. You desperately want to believe him.

“Real convincing, Grayson.” Slade sneers as he watches your recoil from Grayson’s outstretched hand. Grayson levels another glare at Slade who simply huffs and shrugs.

“I haven’t done anything to you. Please let me go.” You croak.

Grayson looks at you helplessly. “(Y/n)... We can’t...”

“You died last night.” Slade says. Nothing in his tone suggests a question. It’s just a statement. No room for doubt.

You blink, nose scrunching. “I— I was mugged.” You cover your face with your hands. You’re pretty positive that you’d remember being murdered and you say as much. You got cornered by three to four gang members and they mugged you. That was it.

Your stomach rebels at the thought.

Grayson gives you that pitying look again. He pries your hands from your face, blue eyes bearing down at you with so much concern. His touch is so gentle that you almost cry. “Sweetheart, think about it.”

You shake your head trying to pull your hand away from him. He doesn’t let you. Your head is throbbing. You’re scared and confused and you’re starting to feel anger prickle under your skin. “I think I would know if I died, asshole,” you snarl and the shift in tone catches them both off guard.

Slade sighs. There’s a flash of metal and a gunshot. The pain radiates from the middle of your stomach; it’s sharp. Some small, shrill sound escapes you. You’re gasping as you look at him again. He’s looking at a watch. It looks expensive. It’s funny how even during death your mind finds a way to procrastinate.

“It’s taking a little while. Of all the inconveniences, why is it so slow the first few times?”Slade mutters in a voice that would sound right at home in a self checkout line. His shoe is tapping against the rug. You wonder if that’s expensive too.

“Why would you shoot her?” Grayson demands, shooting up from his spot on the bed. The loss of weight jostles the bed. You wince.

You look down. Something strange is happening. Your flesh like cloth is reknitting, leaving the seamless expanse of your stomach.

You look back up, eyes blown wide and frantic. You pat your stomach, hand coming away with a thin film of blood but the strange tingling you get when you’re expecting to feel something but you don’t. The bullet hole wasn’t there. It just wasn’t.

A sprawl of frantic horror lives down the line of your sternum. It was the kind of amorphous energy you get when something doesn’t make sense, when something just shouldn’t have happened— a sort of odd dislocation in the universe.

Grayson holds his hands up in a placating manner as he sits back down on the bed. He’s careful not to jostle you but you barely notice. You think his hands look familiar. Your— his calloused hands reach out to you. “You need to trust us.”

“You. Just. Shot. Me.”

“Correction, he shot you.”

Slade rolls his eye. “Ah yes, kid, very helpful.”

“It’s an important distinction.”

“Fine!” You point to Slade. “You shot me.” You point to Grayson. “You. Let. Him.”

“Sweetheart, I appreciate that you think I have any control over that brute,” Grayson says, pointing his thumb over his shoulder, “but I have about as much control over that brute as I do over a storm. ”

Unamused, you throw a pillow at Grayson hard enough that he almost topples over the edge. You grab another pillow and Grayson raises the pillow you threw at him in defense. You can see the smile in his eyes; it makes the acid behind your teeth boil. All embarrassment and horror bleed out to give way to anger as you throw the pillow at him with the same ferocity as before. Slade snatches the pillow midair saving Grayson from having to deflect it. Grayson gives him a smile that looks like an insincere apology. Slade, like you, seems unconvinced and pushes your discarded pillow into Grayson’s fine—boned face. It does nothing to wipe the grin off his face but you feel a little better knowing you’re not the only one who has to endure him.

You fight the urge to laugh but not too hard. The chords of your muscles come loose and for the first time in what feels like an age, you feel tired. “I’m dead. I died. Then you shot me… And then you shot me. WHAT THE HELL?” You say, the accusation directionless. You were supposed to die on a smoking heap of trash, gutted and pathetic. Hands falling limply to your sides, you let your mind go through that a dozen times because, well, how does one process their own death and undeath? You shouldn't still be here.

"What’s happening to me?"

"She's acting far more reasonable than you did." Slade teases.

Grayson scowls at him, slapping him with the pillow. Slade just kind of grunts clearly less hurt than annoyed. Considering the solid wall of muscle the man is sporting, you wouldn’t be surprised if it would take nothing short of a brick to hurt him. "YOU SHOT ME IN THE HEAD THEN SHOT ME THROUGH THE STOMACH."

“I only shot you in the stomach because the bullet through your head didn’t get through your thick skull.”

You’re one missed heartbeat away from laughing. Your brows shoot up, limp limbs coming back to life as you curl in on yourself again. What have you gotten yourself into?

"Oh my god, I mean— Shit!" Slade snorts as Grayson flails. Grayson puts his hand in his face, groaning. “Sorry about that… Slade is terrible at explanations.”

Slade makes a noise in the back of his throat. It sounds like a laugh and twitch of his lip would suggest so but you're still second guessing yourself. "You're one to talk Mr. We Won't Hurt You." The air fills with Slade's amusement as Grayson’s cheeks flush. It's funny how easily pretty shifts to adorable.

You sigh raking your hand through your hair. It's been an exceptionally long day. "What’s happening to me?" You whine mostly to yourself. "I'm not a meta. I think I would know if I was something like that… Right?" You look up at Grayson who just gives you a complicated expression. "You know what's going on don't you?" You say, crawling closer to Grayson. He shifts a bit, keeping his eyes straight. Grayson blinks and runs his hand through his hair, collecting his scattered thoughts. He leans back, putting a bit of space between you as he speaks. "We got off on the wrong foot," he says extending a hand to you, "the name's Dick—”

“Are you sure?” and Slade laughs at your question. Grayson— Dick (is that really his name?) looks tired like he’s heard this question a million times. “Yes, I’m sure about my name.” You feel a little bad but not enough to actually say anything that even comes close to an apology. “Anyway,” Dick (?) continues,”the grumpy old man over there is Slade. We’re sort of in the same boat as you.”

The last line makes you pause. You think back to your dreams, the quick flashes of sensations. Oh. That was— Oh. Your stomach feels like lead. You watched them— Oh.

“I’m sorry.” you say, at a loss of what else to say. Death was an intimate thing. You guessed that only the dead or the previously dead would know that. You fold your hands on your lap as you sit back on your legs, a primm gesture that made you feel solid and a bit more like yourself than you had in hours.

Dick’s warm blue eyes are wide. He goes still for a moment taking in what you’d just said. His head shakes and he smiles at you, an expression that is weightless. It made you think of the trapeze. “It’s ok,” he assures you, warm hand on yours, “it’s not your fault… Anyway!” You use the very sarcastic brows you’ve been given to convey your concern about the neck snapping shift in tone. Dick looks at you sheepish, hand rubbing the back of his neck before deciding to soldier on. “We don’t know why but some individuals are brought back to life and are made immortal. We’ve— I’ve got a few working theories but—”

“Immortal.” You repeat, trying to make the concept make sense.

“We, now including you, don’t die, kid.” Slade deadpans.

“Thanks. I’ve read a dictionary.” You say, eyes flicking to your very much intact stomach. Dick laughs, the sound high and breezy. He tries to stifle it but even the hand cupped over his mouth couldn’t contain the sound. Slade’s long leg stretches to give Dick a not so light kick. This does nothing but increase the volume of his laughter. You look back up at them. “So, what does my latest existential crisis have to do with either of you?”

“Well for one,” Slade says, standing up, “we can’t have you running around with a millenia old secret without even attempting to teach you how to disappear first.” This is what gets your stomach to rebel. Bile is climbing up your throat. Dick, quick as a whip, holds a trash can out for you. You put your hand in front of you. You hold out your hand to stop him, not even sure if you had anything in your stomach aside from acid.

You had just started getting your life back together and then this. Shaking your head, you try to break the thought down into more manageable pieces before swallowing it. “Ok. ok. That makes sense. I guess.”

Dick pulls back still looking concerned. “You are taking this alarmingly well.”

You stare at him. Your stomach rolls again. "Do I have a choice?" You ask from behind your hand.

Slade huffs, "she's right, kid."

"Is he just gonna keep calling us kid or..."

"Considering he's got 700 years on the both of us?" Dick laughs like he didn't just hit you with a ton of bricks.

"Ah, so he's a museum piece. Got it." You deadpan and you're rewarded with another roll of laughter from Dick. Slade grunts but doesn't protest much more than that. You turn your focus to Dick. "So how old are you?"

"A lady never tells," Dick says, crows feet wrinkling at the corners of his eyes. You blow air between your lips. "Lemme guess, you're like 2000 years old."

Dick makes a noise; it sounds offended. You don't much care, finally feeling a smile creeping on to your face. It doesn't hurt when you do not like everything else right now. That fact would be almost uncomfortable if you weren't so weary.

Folding your knees against your chest, you squish your face against your arms. "No seriously, old man. How old are you?"

"You're persistent." Dick hums.

"I want to know if I can cite you for my thesis on ancient greek culture."

Dick shakes his head. "You're better off citing him."

"Sadly, he's right Grayson is just a mere 27 years old."

You blink. He's— He's around your age. You breathe. "Ok so I'm not alone. Great."

"You're not," Slade says, "he was much harder to deal with."

"Do I have to keep mentioning that you shot me twice?" Dick asks crossing his arm sover his chest.

"Are you ever going to stop bringing it up?"

"When it stops working."

"It ever started."

From their banter, they're familiar with each other. The tiredness from before ebbs back in. You feel alone. Out of habit, you bury your head against your knees. There is something comforting about the stillness.

A warm hand settles on your shoulder. You jolt up, knocking the back of your skull against the headboard. It makes a loud thunk against the wall. Dick winces, pulling his hand away from you. "Sorry about that."

"It's fine." You lied still seeing stars.

They look unconvinced. You don't quite care. "You look like you need a good meal."

"Or a hot shower," Slade suggests.

You think it over, hand on your stomach brain still looking for the bullet wound. Eyes flicking between both, you lick your lips before saying: "I'll take you up on that shower." Your eyes drift back down to your arms, concentrating on the small details, the imperfections you've gathered through the years. The thought that you won't be able to add more doesn't really register like it should.

Dick nods getting up to grab something. "I might need a couple of minutes in there," you say absently.

"Take all the time you need." Dick says handing you a towel and a fresh shirt. You accept them with a small nod, carefully peeling yourself away from the bed. Your eyes go into a tunnel vision, only focused on the door to the shower.

You stop, a hand gripping your wrist. The pressure is solid and reassuring. You turn back to see Dick, biting his cheek."It'll get better I promise."

You give Dick a crooked smile. "I'll probably feel a lot better when I'm not covered in blood."

"That always helps," Slade says flatly.

"You'd know."

"You really wanna scare her more right now?"

"It's just way too easy with you around."

"Please save the other world shattering revelations after my shower," You whine pulling the towel to your chest.

"Can't promise that." Slade says with a rumble that just radiates bastard.

You blow out a breath, raising a middle finger over your shoulder. It was a rude gesture you'd never normally even consider but it felt appropriate at this moment.

"Hope you don't mind pizza." Dick says already dialing the number.

You stop leaning against the door, face squished against the frame. "What kind?"

"Hnnnnn... I figure you would like ham and mushrooms."

With amusement, you note how Slade blanches quietly behind Dick. You quietly question both of their maturities. "how'd you figure oh wise ancient one?"

"Please don't ask him that."

"Why not? I'm curious to see how his mind works."

"You're going to regret that."

You cock your brow as Dick draws himself up. He reminds you of a pitcher winding up. "Because I'm a fun—guy, get it?"

Slade groans, hand on his face and for once he looks like an old man not like a terrifying wall of intimidation.

"You're right. I do regret it," you say, stifling a laugh,"anyway, if you'll excuse me, the shower is calling my name. You two love birds have fun."

Slade sits beside Dick, an arm wrapping around his waist. "You heard the lady. She told us to have fun," Slade rumbles into Dick's ear only loud enough for you to hear. You flush. Realization hitting you like a truck. The color of Dick's face mimicking yours as he shoves Slade's face away. That warm shower will now be a cold one, you think as you awkwardly shuffle into the bathroom.

Instead of a shower, you elected for a nice soak. You're too weary and rung out and you hadn't seen a decent bath tub in a few years so you took the chance. It's not like an infection from the tub could kill you, right?

You step out of the bathroom feeling refreshed if not a bit cold from your shirt. Dick's shirt was big but it stopped shy of your thighs. You couldn't really complain. You were just happy to get out of the blood soaked clothes.

You pad your way into the room and eyes are instantly on you. Slade quite blatantly stares at the curve of your ass as it peaks out from under your shirt. You think of scolding him but decide to leave that up to Dick who… is also staring at you… in the same area. He has the decency to look embarrassed when you catch him. Clearing his throat, Dick answers the knock on the door which just adds another set of eyes on you.

A poor pimple faced kid stands frozen at the door, slack jawed. His eyes dart around the room, frantically looking for a camera or something. You sigh. You too could see how this could be a lazy set up to a porn. You’re slightly flattered at the idea that you could be astronomically hot enough to be in a porn with either of these two but you’re more worried about the kid having to deal with a boner while he delivers pizzas. Dick, incredibly oblivious to the problem, seems to take his time looking for his wallet.

Slade, not oblivious to the problem, makes his way to the poor kid, looking as imposing as possible as he hands the kid a fifty. Whatever arousal the kid felt at the moment floods out of him along with any color in his face.

You snort plopping on to the bed and crossing your leg over the other and you watch as the men’s eyes widen as they trace the expanse of skin. This is the closest you will ever be to a bond girl.

Slade slams the door in the kids face, not even bothering with the change. Dick rolls his eyes with a crooked smile playing on his lips. “She hasn’t been with us for a day and you’re already acting possessive,” Dick laughs, patting Slade’s chest as he walks past.

Dick plops on the bed next to you. You press your cheek into his shoulder as he opens the box. The smell of greasy cheese and canned vegetables floods your nostrils in a concert of sweet, unhealthy goodness. Your stomach rumbles and your hand darts down to get a piece. Your hand jerks back as your skin tingles from the heat.

“Sorry, love, you can still feel pain.” Dick says, puckering his face as he blows the rising steam away. As if to be contrary, Slade grabs the largest slice and immediately takes a bite. You turn to Dick, raising a brow to ask. “Him? He’s just a weirdo.” Dick answers, grabbing his own slice. You roll your eyes grabbing your own slice.

Dick’s trying hard not to stare at your legs but ends up staring at your lips instead. “Do you have any spare pants?” You ask around a mouthful of pizza.

“I’ll get it,” Slade says before Dick can even stumble out a response, “clearly wonder boy hadn’t thought this through.”

You hum around another mouthful in agreement and Dick just looks at you betrayed. You uncross and recross your legs to prove your point.

Shifting away from Dick and swallowing the last bit of your pizza, you take the pants Slade offers you and you’re not at all surprised that it doesn’t fit right. “Any chance I can go back to my apartment? Even just for clothes?”

“Sadly no.”

“Should I ask?”

“Do you really feel like talking to cops right now, kid?”

“Yanno, you’re gonna have to distinguish between us at some point,” Dick huffs, opening a can of soda,”and she’s right we do need to get her new clothes.” He hands you a can. Not feeling parched, you just roll it in your palm feeling the need to indulge in the feeling on cool metal. You catch yourself before you tuck your legs against your chest again.

“I don’t see why you’re so hell bent on this, kid 1. You clearly like seeing her in your clothes.” Slade says, flatly the way you’d read out the summary of a particularly boring movie summary, probably based on a Nicholas Sparks novel.

“You think adding a number is enough effort to distinguish us?” Dick sneers, trying to distract from the flush of his cheeks.

“Would you prefer I call you ‘Sport’?”

“Dick, for both of our sake’s please accept being called Sport.”

“No!”

“How about ‘Chum’?”

Dick’s nose wrinkles at the name. You’re not sure if it’s the name itself, the way it rolls off of Slade’s tongue, or something to do with your dream. You don’t know Dick well enough to discern.

“Please don’t.” Dick tries politely and there’s a tinge of sadness in his tone. Slade seems to back off, easing into his chair.

You open your mouth wanting to pry but instead of asking the question on the tip of your tongue, you settle for asking for another slice. The air is full of questions but you’re not really sure which one to pluck out. Then again, you’ve got time. And really? Right now, that’s all you have.

Before you can dwell too much on that thought, Slade turns the TV on to drown out whatever Dick was saying. You’d tuned him out a little bit ago. It wasn’t really a matter of choice; it was more a matter of your brain going on power saving mode.

You blink sleepily, the voice of the anchor falling into a low hum in your mind. You’re pretty sure your name blips in between the static of words. There’s a dull recognition in the words ‘kidnapping’ and ‘suspects’ but it all seems so distant at the moment. No reaction registers upon realizing that they were probably talking about your kidnapping and really could anyone blame you when some cosmic fuckery just occurred and now your life has been turned on its head? ____________________________________________________________ Thanks for reading!

#dick grayson x reader #slade wilson x reader #Slade Wilson #dick grayson #slade wilson imagine #dick grayson imagine #crack au #poly

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yeojaa · 4 years ago

Text

( VELVETEEN RABBIT. )

What do you get when you mix Thumper and Bambi? Answer: Jeon Jungkook.

pairing. french lop bunny!jjk x ragdoll cat f!reader.

genre + rating. hybrid!au set in college. super fluffy, a little angsty, with a dash of smut to balance it all out. explicit towards the end because i just can’t help myself. oops.

tags / warnings. honestly, this jungkook should just come with his own warning. but more realistically, mentions of kook using a scrunchie, kook being cute, kook railing his date after using the world’s worst puns... the usual.

wc. 4.4k

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif as always become, c’mon. i’m me. she’s her.

author note. this was written as part of @thebtswritersclub‘s a hybrid fest and is gloriously late (i’m so sorry @ditttiii). i’ve never written anything hybrid-related before so hopefully you enjoy. feedback goes a long way! xoxo

He orders the same thing every time he’s in. Iced Americano, no room for cream, and a single almond croissant. (Every once in a while, he switches it up for matcha but that’s exceedingly rare.) He always pays with a tap of his wrist - a sleek black AppleWatch with rubber band - and flashes his trademark slightly too-big smile. All the girls swoon. So do the guys. Everyone except for you.

He’s unnervingly handsome, with long dark ears that sometimes hang in front of his eyes. You’ve caught him with them pulled back Lola Bunny-style, knotted with a loose silk scrunchie that looks nearly as soft as his fur. His hair’s usually unkempt, tossed into a little sprout of a bun, overly long fringe falling all over his big round eyes. He wears butterfly clips sometimes, though that’s usually on days where he isn’t freshly sweaty and carrying his gym bag. They appear in his hair when it’s damp from a shower, the smell of papaya and honey clinging to every inch of him. You know, because you have a great nose - one that’s sensitive to every smell under the sun but especially his. (You try not to think about it much.)

It’s a Wednesday morning when you notice the change. It doesn’t register at first, acknowledgement coming in a curious sniff at the air. Weird.

“Thanks,” he says like clockwork, a well-oiled polite machine, deceptively slender hands receiving the exceedingly hot cup without a care in the world. He’s got his usual bag over his shoulder - overly big, black, almost tactical - and a pair of comfortable looking pants on that seem more like they belong on your beloved grandmother. Somehow, he rocks it (but he always does). “Have a nice day.”

Because of course he says that. Of course he steals the words right out of your mouth, turns them back on you as easy as he makes your heart rattle around in your chest like it’s a Friday night bingo ball.

He moves toward the bar - he only ever grabs three napkins, tucks them into the slot on the left side of his bag - but pauses halfway there. Rooted to the same spot as always, sleek ears following the imposing line of his shoulders.

One, two—

The thumping starts, so quiet it’s almost negligible. But you catch it, because you always do and because you’re the reason for it.

He turns then, levels you with a look from the corner of those pretty, pretty eyes and you can’t help but laugh, openly, unashamedly, with the back of your hand plastered to your mouth. A true ojou-sama.

His mouth quirks - does that funny thing where he sucks in his cheek then rolls it back out with his tongue - and you think he might finally say something. Call you out for writing his name wrong for the past five weeks, finding more and more creative ways to do so every time. Even occasionally using nicknames - silly things you’d come up with while on the walk home, or during lunch, or in bed.

“Good one,” he states, laugh lines threading over his face, prominent around his eyes. His nose wiggles with the sound - another of his traits that comes out to play often. Your favourite of them all, if you’re being honest.

“Anytime.”

You don’t realise it’s him until it’s too late, until you’re practically running into him, bouncing off the broad expanse of his back with a startled squeak. Lucky for you, you’re quick on your feet, catching yourself before your skull can become too well-acquainted with the red brick wall to your right.

“You okay?” Though he asks, you have a sneaking suspicion he knows you’re not and an even stronger suspicion that he’d been waiting for you, hovering past the entrance of the cafe with his big university hoodie on.

“Barely,” you manage around a laugh, straightening the backpack slung over your shoulders, packed to the brim with goodies you got to bring home at the end of the night and two of your textbooks.

“Should watch where you’re going.”

This is the most conversation you’ve had - ever. But it’s fun, easy, organic and natural. You wonder why that is.

“You should watch where you’re standing, actually.”

He’s so much bigger than you, imposingly tall (especially being part of the Leporidae family) and wide in the chest. Not bulky by any means, but big. Strong. Threaded with a strength you don’t normally see in hybrids of his kind. It probably has to do with how often you see him covered in sweat and panting, basketball hooked under his arm, soccer cleats tied to his bag.

When he speaks again, it’s full of mirth, squeezing his round eyes near shut. “Got a problem with me standing here?”

You nod, solemn as ever (which is really never, but that’s besides the point). “It’s dangerous to block entryways, didn’t you know?” You’re gesturing to the awning, the dark interior just past the window of the shop. “You’re loitering, Jungkook.”

“So you do know my name.” You can tell he’s not surprised - that he’s hamming it up for dramatics, softly pink lips rounded in a little ‘O’. He’s cute like this, you think. Playful in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I do?”

There’s that cheek thing again. It’s even more attractive up close, the shape of his jaw thrown into prominent relief when he sucks in a breath.

“You just said it.”

You nod, thoughtful, finger tapping upon your chin. “I guess I did.”

“Say it again,” he states, expression inscrutable, eyes bright. They’re so glossy even under the dimmed streetlights, impossibly big and undeniable. So easy to get lost in - if your attention weren’t caught by something else.

“What is that?”

You’d noticed it earlier in the day, caught the scent in passing sometime during the early hours. You’d been unable to place it then, too distracted by freshly ground coffee, a girl’s three too many spritzes of Daisy by Marc Jacobs, and baking banana loaves.

It’s heady, masculine. A strong musk that sinks into your nose and makes it twitch, ears rotating as if that’ll help pin the smell down.

“What’s what?” You hadn’t realised how close you’d become, your face five seconds from planting directly into his chest. (It’d probably be nice - you know how soft your school’s merchandise is.) “Are you okay?” He asks because you’re now, actually, planting your face right against the worn navy cotton. It’s terribly nice, silk upon your cheek.

You answer more to his clothes than to him, nosing into the fabric. “You smell different.”

You feel more than hear his laughter, the sound barreling past his teeth seconds later. The vibrations running along his spine jostle you from your position face first upon him but you don’t mind. It doesn’t send you far, dark eyes peering up into the face of the bunny hybrid. True to his kind, his nose is twitching, puffs of laughter expanding his cheeks when he meets your stare.

“No I don’t.”

“You do.” Tone firm, a finger lands upon the neatly embroidered N on his hoodie. The white stitching stands in stark contrast to your baby blue nails. “You smell… off.”

Whether Jungkook’s offended or not, you can’t tell. He’s got that same strange expression on his face - the one from this morning when he’d received his coffee. It’s made up of too many moving parts: the flutter of his lashes, the coil of his jaw, the minute tick of the corner of his mouth. You can’t read him for shit, somehow more confused now than in your 300-level art history class. (You’d taken it as one of your optional electives assuming it’d be an easy A. You were wrong.)

“Sorry you think so,” he hums, looking down at you. You’ve seemed to fully forget the meaning of personal space, edged up beside him as if you’re best friends and not just two ships passing in the night.

“It’s not bad.” Really, it isn’t. It’s strong and sensual, vegetal in a way, calming in another. But it isn’t unwelcome.

In fact, you think you might like this scent a little more - less sweet than what normally clings to his skin, natural honeycomb rather than processed sugar. It zings across your teeth, pieces broken up and scattered behind your molars. You can practically taste it. Him.

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

You share a look - one that says more than all the words you’ve ever spoken, that threads together all the silly laughter, narrowed stares, (written) flirtations. It settles between the two of you, filling the spaces with something akin to cotton, light and airy and soft.

The desire to speak lingers, hidden just beyond the cotton candy dusting. Should you? Shouldn’t you? You still have no idea what he’s doing here, a street urchin making his rounds on the campus village.

He beats you to it. “Can I walk you back to your dorm?”

You don’t think you could want anything more. “Sure.”

Silence falls again but it’s comfortable, a caress rather than a crutch. The grounds are surprisingly quiet - wayward students on their way to the library or heading home from lectures. There are no picnic blankets spread across the grass, no gaggles of girls dressed in school colours. It feels like the first day of fall, change sitting heavy in the air.

“So—” You start.

He finishes, “do you wanna go on a date with me?”

That’s surprising. (Or is it? You’re not really sure.) You nearly trip over your own two feet in your haste to look at him, entire body swivelling on the spot because apparently you can’t just turn your head like a normal person. Something something all or nothing.

“What?”

“Do. You. Want. To—” He’s being insufferable for the hell of it. You can see it in his eyes, glossy things shining down at you like he’s got the entire fucking nightsky hung in them.

“Not if you keep that up,” you retort, though you both know you’re lying. You’ve been waiting - wishing, wanting - for this moment since the day you laid eyes on him. Since Yuri had elbowed you so hard in the ribs you’d thought you’d be bruised for days, since Jae had rambled on and on for his entire shift about the cute new bunny who’d come in that morning. Since that very first wrongly spelt name on his plastic cup and every visit since.

“Is that a challenge?”

“You won’t get it in.”

He scoffs, loud and drawn out, cheek rounding with disbelief at your disbelief. How can you possibly doubt him - school basketball star and all-around athletic freak of nature?

“What do I get if I do?” The ball rests in his palm, poised to be shot through the hoop, sunk without making contact with the rim. He’s confident - he’s done it a million times.

“A pat on the back?” As much as you tease him - loop mockery around nearly every syllable you speak, you’re endlessly supportive, already carrying the fruits of his labour under your arms. A Pikachu shoved haphazardly into the purse slung across your body, a Snorlax tucked under your arm at an awkward angle that crushes his poor head, a Sylveon tucked into the side pocket of his joggers. (The arcade was really into Pokemon, apparently.) “Me saying thank you?”

“Not good enough.” He leans in close - those big galaxy eyes practically swallowing you whole - and taps a single finger upon your nose. It makes your nostrils flare, an itch blooming under his touch. “Gotta sweeten the deal.”

You must look hilarious because Jungkook’s biting back a smile, smirking down at you. Then, all at once, without breaking eye contact, he’s extending his arm, flicking his wrist, and— swish!

In goes the ball, leaving him with a perfect score.

“I want you to stay the night.”

You think he’s joking. He must be joking. This is your third date.

But he’s staring at you like he’s completely serious, gaze expectant, lips pursed around something that reads like a smile but has your heart doing a strange little one-two step in your chest. It soars for a moment, high above the clouds like the string orchestra of a choral work - Beethoven’s Ninth in D minor.

“Are you propositioning me, Jeon Jungkook?” It’s the same reaction he always has when you say his name: a twitch of his ear, the corner of his bottom lip quirking and then resetting, eyes so sparkly it’s almost absurd.

“No. I’m just telling you what I want.”

“Huh.” You should say no. Guys like him - with charm that oozes out of every pore, whose offhanded smiles break more hearts than you ever have - are almost always bad news. Too sweet, too funny, simply too much for your feeble heart to take.

“Is that a yes?” He’s got you in his clutches - a viper rather than a hare, with a smile so dangerous you’re paralysed by just the sight of it. (Who needs venom?)

Your words catch in your throat, stick to one another like the deformed gummies at the bottom of the movie theatre bag. What comes out isn’t what you expect. “Okay.”

Damn you. Damn him. Damn how good he smells and the big dumb grin that spreads over his lips, sunshine in human form, undeniable and warm and cute enough to start a war over. (That’s probably what’s happening - a vicious battle between your head and your heart.)

Damn his stupid thumping foot that you can make out over the sound of the video games, the boisterous din. It’s so cute you can’t help yourself from smiling, mouth pulling and pursing around the delight that begs to be freed.

“Cool,” he says, and you almost think that’s not very cool. He’s so nonchalant, cavalier about it as if it means nothing. You’d be bothered if you felt like you didn’t know him so well - hadn’t learnt his idiosyncrasies over the last two months.

How he looks when he laughs really hard, his slightly too-big front teeth taking up all the real estate in his mouth. How he sounds when he’s tired (groggy, with a lisp that rarely sees the light of day otherwise) or when he’s told he’s wrong (pouty, with his bottom lip jutted out so cutely you want to scream). How he runs every morning, hits the gym every night, and eats double your protein because fitness, bro! How his cheat meal of choice is soy garlic fried chicken from the place off-campus and he hates tangy, tart desserts (your lemonade lip gloss not included, he insists). How he can’t sleep if he’s too hot - which he often is - and he spends way too long combing through his ears with a specialty brush he doesn’t let anyone touch. How he’s secretly raindrops and gummy bears and hand holding in the car, so much more than his high school superlative of most likely to grace the cover of GQ.

You wonder, because you know those things, does that make you special? Does it make you immune to the heartbreak that you swear you imagine whenever your mood drops (not often, but often enough)?

You hope so.

“Let’s go shoot guns?” He’s tearing you from your reverie, planting an open-mouthed kiss to your temple. It’s sloppy and not very refined, much less suave than what you’d expect from your school’s soccer captain (and basketball small forward and swim team stand-in). You suppose that’s why you like him so much - because he’s always surprising you, keeping you on your toes.

“Let’s.” You agree, letting your date drag you toward the Time Crisis machine. It’s blissfully unoccupied, allowing the two of you to slide into place. He takes the blue gun, you the red.

He squeezes your hip when you take up position, one eye squeezed shut as you look down the barrel of the plastic weapon. “Better not let me die.”

“Better not get shot,” you return.

He doesn’t listen - failing halfway through the helicopter scene, his shot missing and resulting in some sad miserable death in the form of Continue? blinking across the screen. Neither of you mind that much though. He occupies himself on his phone, free hand tucked into the back pocket of your jeans. You play better when he’s not shouting terrible call-outs, nearly crashing into you because he gets so into it.

(How he’s never got a concussion on the basketball/soccer/etc. field before, you’re not sure.)

By the time you’re done - a good five minutes later, you think - Jungkook’s growing restless, tugging at your belt loops enough that you stumble with every shot, nearly knocking yourself out when you have to steady yourself on the centre console.

“Kook!” Your glare is barely that, too affectionate to dissuade him from his childish antics.

He pulls you forward, traps you between his thick thighs, tattooed hands settling comfortably on your hips. “Let’s go home.”

“Someone’s in a hurry.”

Of course, he doesn’t deny that.

It’s not the first time you’ve been over. Not even your second or third. You’ve met up with him before his games, thrown his jersey overtop and helped him wrap his fingers before hitting the court. You’d even had to grab his cleats for him once, running across campus as he did drills in his socks as punishment.

This time feels different. You know why but it doesn’t make it an easier pill to swallow. It lodges somewhere in your throat, makes it hard to breathe when you kick off your shoes and tuck them neatly beside Jungkook’s.

“Are you hungry?” He’s already in the small kitchen, glancing over his shoulder at you as you linger in the adjoining hallway, bag halfway over your head.

“I’m good.” You are, really. You’d eaten one donut too many at the arcade, indulged in a little too much disgusting nacho cheese goodness. You don’t really understand how your date’s still hungry, a cucumber crunching between his teeth when he turns back to you.

Standing there, vegetable devoured in quick, decisive bites, he looks every inch the French lop bunny he is.

You reach him in the same instant he finishes his midnight snack. Arms fold around you like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing, head dropping to rest comfortably upon yours. Like this, his ears tickle your cheek - velveteen fur lost to the silk of your hair. “Are you tired?”

Another no comes - spoken into the fuzzy fabric of his sweater - and he hums above you, whole frame rattling with the noise.

“No bed then?”

At least he’s transparent, you think.

“One track mind much?” You’re only teasing. A part of you looks forward to… whatever it is that sits over the horizon, lost past the creaky bedroom door and somewhere beneath his surprisingly soft sheets. (You’d asked about them once - he’d told you his mother liked to send him housewares to remind him of home. He was a real mama’s boy that way.)

The monster only laughs, snuggles into your hair like it’s home. “Can you blame me?”

You can’t do much of anything when he’s like this - so utterly adorable and enticing and good for your heart that it feels as if you’ve taken a straight dose of morphine.

“Let’s go to bed, Wookie.” Another nickname, recently coined after you’d spent an evening watching Star Wars for the first time.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You whack him on the way to his bedroom, smack a hand over the arm curled around your shoulders. He pretends like it hurts, howls in a way he he thinks resembles a wounded animal but really just sounds stupid. “Not a ma’am.”

“Sir?” He asks, just to make you laugh.

“If you don’t shut up—”

He pushes you through the door of his bedroom while giggling to himself, sound puffing out of his cheeks. “Don’t be mad, kitten.” The two of you drop to the bed, a tangle of limbs and silken fur and squeaking laughter. “You’re so purr-ty when you’re annoyed.”

He’s doing it again. Dropping those stupid cat puns that make your nose wrinkle, ink-tipped ears folding back against your head.

“I think I’m hiss-terical, don’t you?”

Face adamantly buried into his sheets, you don’t give him the time of day. You don’t even care that your mascara is probably rubbing off against the charcoal fabric, lipstick tint doing potentially irreversible damage. He knows how unfunny you find these jokes, how you’ve heard them your whole life and roll your eyes so hard your optic nerve might sever every time you face another.

What’s the point of sharing your pet peeves with him when all he does is lean into them? Use them against you like it’s the cool thing to do. Make you wonder what you’d seen in him when he was just another customer, another boy in Seoul National indigo and bedhead so dishevelled it begged to be managed.

(You’re not sure why you’re so irritated suddenly, caught in the clutches of a moodswing as you curl into your side and ignore his bad jokes.)

Stupid Jeon Jungkook. Annoying, silly, too-cool-for-his-own-good Jeon Jungkook.

Jeon Jungkook who makes you second guess your choices, leaves you breathless and confused with just one dumb look. Who has convinced you into his bed and teases you mercilessly, snickering to himself as his foot bounces against the floorboards because he finds himself that funny.

“Baby?” The pet name comes, presses itself past your curtain of hair and invades your thoughts.

You say nothing, adamantly faced away.

He doesn’t like that, sneaking his hands around you and cradling you into his chest as if that’ll lighten the mood. (It does, a little bit, but you don’t tell him that.) “Don’t ignore me,” he mumbles, warmth breath tickling your ears, fingers dancing over the rungs of your ribs as if they’re ivory and not bone, playing a tune only he can hear.

“Stop with the shitty jokes,” you retort. You’re being difficult - can feel the vinegar turning your blood even as he tries to will it all away.

You feel the intake, the rise and fall of his broad chest. You can only imagine how hard he’s biting his tongue, careful to keep his next errant pun at bay. People don’t tell him no - only you. Maybe that’s why you do it, to remind him you’re not just like everyone else.

“Sorry.”

You don’t tell him to show you how sorry— but he does anyway.

You’re astounded by him, utterly entranced by the way he moves. How power runs the length of his frame, manoeuvres each of his limbs and turns your own to jelly.

He’s got you face down, ass up, hands cradling your hips like they’re his home and he can’t bear to let go. Every upward stroke feels like heaven - feels like a million lifetimes of pleasure you can barely wrap your thoughts around. He’s impossibly big, thick and long. The first thought you’d had when he’d stripped his black Calvin Kleins was pretty.

You realise now there’s nothing pretty about him. He’s filthy - the devil come to collect as he fucks you across his bed, nearly loses you to the pillows at the head with each snap of his hips. (What they said about rabbits was true, you think.)

“B-Bunny,” you sob, scratch over cotton that’s worn soft and smells exactly like your favourite sweater of his. The linens are defenseless, tangled up and wrinkled with each flex of your fingers, bunched up within your palms every time he buries himself like he’s looking for the answer to life, thinks he might find it within the fluttering walls of your pussy.

“Not my name.” When he sounds like this, he’s more predator than prey, a thousand volts of electricity shooting up your spine. He’s demanding and unrelenting. It makes your head spin.

“Wook—”

“Not.” Bunny teeth are just as painful as a feline’s, doing their job as they dig into the flushed skin over your back, marking his territory with two prominent indents right between your neck and shoulder. “A.” He ruts into you as if he’s got something to prove, snaps his hips to a beat you can’t keep up with. “Wookie.” Grips you so tight you might snap, red blooming beneath his hands.

You sob under him, drool against the pillows because you can’t seem to keep your mouth shut. (You feel like Jungkook post-win, spewing nonsense as he prattles on about game winning plays with his teammates.)

“K-Kookie.” It’s what he wants to hear - hits him right in the chest, a bull’s eye to the thing that beats wildly and in tandem with your own.

His rhythm stutters. The bed is shaking and not because he’s practically breaking the weak wooden frame. No, his foot’s thumping, bouncing across the sheets even as he tries to regulate the roll of his hips, return it to the assured, teeth-numbingly good tempo it’d been at.

It doesn’t work. You love it anyway. Like it more, because it means he’s just as affected by you as you are him. Your heart sings, leaps out of your chest on hummingbird wings, and dances around your head. You’re a goddamn cartoon - Pepé Le Pew in ragdoll form - animated pink shapes circling like a crown.

You don’t care. You can’t. Not when he plasters himself to your back and asks you to say it again, begs you to tell him how good he is, tells you how he wants to make you his.

Who cares if it’s three dates in, if your meeting was cliched and silly and he’s the campus heartthrob?

You don’t - because he’s yours and when he flips you onto your back and you curl your fingers into his hair, it’s your name he stutters out. It’s you who has him coming apart beneath your hands, the feel of his ears like velvet, the little whines he huffs growing louder each time you tug at the base. It’s you who knows what he sounds like as he falls to pieces, throws himself against you as if gravity demands it. It’s you who holds him to sleep, whose skin acts as a canvas for the doodles he traces as he drifts off.

It’s you and it’s him and that’s enough.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle

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catflorist · 3 years ago

Text

Stars (ao3/ffn) catflorist warning: major character death

Sasuke joined the Akatsuki for simple reasons. He heard they had a plan to destroy the shinobi world, and he wanted a part of it.

As a blizzard raged in the cold northern air, he followed a dark-robed figure into a passageway carved into the cliffside of a snow-capped mountain. The tunnel twisted and turned, snaking past cavernous rooms and rocky chambers. Akatsuki forces milled about everywhere, red clouds hovering on dark cloaks everywhere he looked. His guide, Konan, led him past without stopping.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To our leader,” Konan said, leading him deeper. “She says she knows you.”

He was sure they were halfway through the mountain before she stopped by a metal door.

“Wait here.”

She knocked and the door opened a crack. Whispered words were exchanged, too low for Sasuke to overhear.

“You’ll have to wait,” Konan said. “She's still bathing.”

Sasuke was annoyed. Why was Karin going through these theatrics? He hadn’t seen her for months, not since disbanded the team and left to face Itachi alone. How she’d ended up in the Akatsuki he couldn't guess. Not only that, she somehow had all of them tiptoeing around her.

“Tell Karin I don't have time to wait,” he snapped.

Konan gave him a curious look, but stayed silent.

“What?”

“Enter,” a voice called from inside. The way it echoed off the rock, it didn't sound like Karin’s voice at all.

He stormed in. Torches lit the dark room in a flickering glow, and the air felt warm. A shadowed figure rose from a steaming pool of water. An attendant held out a billowing Akatsuki robe, helping guide arms through sleeves.

When the light caught her face, shock ripped through him. Because it wasn’t Karin.

Her pink hair was dripping wet, her cheeks hollowed. She pulled on glasses over red-rimmed eyes pinched with pain, the green irises huge beneath the thick lenses. The dark robe slipped off bare, bony shoulders—was that all she was wearing? He averted his eyes, stared at the steam curled in the air. His guard down, his chakra stretched out to meet hers of its own accord. But there was nothing.

He recoiled. How was that possible? She should be dead.

A diamond mark on her forehead pulsed like the core of a star, the only part of her with any vitality, energy. That and her eyes—they were still bright and sharp. The rest was fading.

“It's good to see you,” Sakura said.

It didn’t take long for Sasuke to understand. The chakra stored in Sakura’s seal was all that kept her alive, and one day it would run out.

At the same time, it all depended on her, it seemed, the meticulously planned attack on the shinobi world. She was its life force. Every ounce of her remaining chakra was rationed and monitored, planned in advance for that day. It was all anyone talked about, the reason why heads lowered in respect when speaking Sakura’s name.

To fill his time Sasuke accepted mission after mission. He brought back intel, took out troublesome political figures, and weakened supply chains, doing anything they asked of him to prepare for the attack on Konoha, three months away.

He avoided Sakura.

One night Konan pushed aside the curtain hanging in the door of his small chamber, an alcove in the stone set apart from the other Akatsuki members. “You’re back. What was it this time?”

“We intercepted a shipment of weapons,” he said. “They’re waiting in the meeting room.”

“When do you set out again?”

“I don’t know yet. What do you want?”

Konan met his eyes. “She wants to see you.”

He crossed his arms. “Tell her I'm busy.”

“You think you’re so important,” she said in that calm, mild way of hers. “You wouldn’t act this way, if you truly understood the magnitude of what she’s doing for us. For the world.”

Overcome with sudden anger, Sasuke forgot he came to the Akatsuki willingly, that each day he helped advance its mission. That he too hated what their world had done to his family.

“It's all for nothing!” he spat. “You’re throwing her away. For nothing.”

“You’re selfish. It’s no wonder you don’t understand sacrifice.”

He grit his teeth. “Find another way.”

“She’s dying already,” she said. “She’s just making something from the time she has left. What have you done with your life?”

Sakura was frozen. Dying. Sasuke pictured her in a land of ice, the snowy expanse that surrounded the mountain lit by a weak and wintery sun. Perhaps she could stretch her life a few years, each day lighting her chakra no brighter than a candle’s fire, barely warming her hands in the cold.

Instead she would burn up all at once, quick and hot and bright, like an exploding star, and maybe something would grow after the flames cooled. Fire always led to life in some way after all. She would not wait to freeze to death.

“Go away,” Sasuke snarled. The curtain was already flapping in the doorway.

Sasuke stormed through the hideout after a botched assignment. What should have been a simple scouting mission had turned into a bloodbath after a surprise ambush. The hidden villages were growing more hostile and clever as the day of the attack drew nearer.

He didn’t pay attention to his loud footsteps, the eyes following him in fear, until a figure darted into his path. One of Sakura’s attendants, blocking his way with an outstretched arm, a finger held to her lips.

“What?”

“She's asleep.” Her voice was hushed, like discussing a sleeping god. Not his old, annoying pink-haired teammate.

Sasuke stepped back. “So?”

“It's the first time in three days.”

Sasuke realized the hideout was utterly quiet except for their conversation. If he listened hard enough he might hear snow falling outside.

An old memory flashed through him. When they were genin, taking missions as a team, how much Sakura hated waking up in the morning. She’d groan and clutch her pillow, though she’d always get up and help him with their breakfast anyway. That Sakura would never struggle to fall asleep for three days. How things had changed.

Sasuke knew when she woke up, because the deathly silence in the compound lifted. Foot traffic picked up again, the scent of cooking food from the mess hall drifted through the halls.

He walked down the twisted passageway to the metal door, following the route he’d memorized, though he hadn’t ventured this way since Konan led him the first time. He pushed open the doors without knocking.

A wide futon was spread on the ground, where Sakura lay against soft pillows. Her eyes were closed, but he could tell from the stiffness of her shoulders that she was awake.

“Sakura,” he said.

Her head turned, set deep in the pillows like it held a heavy weight. She did not look surprised to see him, did not ask why he’d avoided her for weeks. “Sit down.”

With some reluctance, he lowered himself on the edge of the futon. Steam curled in the air, and water gurgled somewhere hidden, feeding the spring. Beneath the blanket, Sakura’s legs shifted gingerly.

“What happened to you?” he said.

“It’s this world,” she said. “Person after person, sent out to get killed. To protect someone else’s money, or goods, or to fight in pointless wars. And the survivors, they sent them all to me. It never ended.”

She closed her eyes again. “I healed, and healed, until something inside me broke. I couldn’t make chakra anymore. Without my seal I would have died then and there.”

Without meaning to, Sasuke’s hand stretched out, brushing her forehead, where the mark lay. Her brow was feverishly hot.

“That’s nice,” she whispered. He was about to pull away, but his fingers changed course, trailing into her hair, drawing a sigh. He didn’t know what to do. It was a long time since he’d tried to be gentle. He tried to think of what he liked as a child, the comforting touches he received from his mother, or Itachi, a lifetime ago.

When he finally lifted his hand, the cords of her neck seemed less tense, her head less heavy on the pillow.

She exhaled. “I was dying. I’d given everything away, but still they wanted more. That’s why I’m here. The way this world is, it can’t go on. Everything I have left is going into changing it.”

“This world won’t change,” he muttered.

A thin arm emerged from the blankets, fumbling at her bedside for her glasses. She slipped the frames on, appraising him with large eyes. “Then why are you here?”

This new Sakura was a stranger in many ways. She carried herself with a quiet calmness, a stillness, like she’d lived longer than her years. When she walked down the corridors of the hideout, heads bowed. At gatherings, she barely needed to speak louder than a whisper, because everyone listening hung onto her every word.

Knowing she favored him, the members of the Akatsuki looked differently at Sasuke, too. They brought him into their meeting rooms, seeking his advice and ideas. He learned why each of them wanted to destroy the shinobi system. Its claws had harmed others beyond himself. He started to believe they could truly build something new. Something better, that would never force older brothers into cruel and heartless choices.

When Sasuke returned from a mission he found Sakura sitting on a ledge under the stars, snow gently falling around her. They were high up on the mountain, but the sky was white and hazy in all directions, so he could barely tell where they were or what lay in the distance beyond the haze.

“What are you doing out here? It’s cold.”

“I like the fresh air.”

He sat next to her, knowing it was useless to argue. Everyone knew Sakura did as she wanted.

“My father used to use his katon on days like this. His fireball was strong enough to span the whole length of the lake. But when it was cold, he used it to warm his breath.”

“Show me,” she said.

His hands shaped the quick signs. When he exhaled, a soft puff of fire curled out, a flash of red and orange warming their icy surroundings. “Like this.”

Sakura watched him with furrowed brows. “Can you teach me?”

“Yes, but…” He stopped, tried again. “You can’t...”

“I can’t use my chakra,” she said. “But I can still learn.”

He took her hands. “Serpent, ram, monkey, boar, horse, tiger.” He didn’t need to, but he shaped her fingers through the signs. “Pull the chakra into your throat. Let it churn. Exhale.”

Sakura mimed the signs, paused in concentration so the chakra could build. Of course, it was only pretend. She exhaled. Her cold breath hung in the air, the furthest thing from fire.

“Thank you. I understand now. Your katon always fascinated me.” She opened her eyes. “Once, I saw you practicing in the distance. I secretly hoped, one day, you would teach me yourself.”

Bitterness filled him. “Not like this.”

“This is enough,” she said, her voice kind.

He thought about young Sakura—energetic and talkative, irritating, nervous around him. He pictured her, watching as he exhaled fire, wishing. The way her voice sounded as she spoke to his back, because he didn’t have the strength to turn and look at her, begging him to stay, or to take her with him.

“Did you mean what you said? The night I left?”

For once she didn’t meet his eyes. “That I loved you? Yes, I meant it.” Then her calm returned. “I’m glad you’ve thought about it since then.”

He felt the urge to throw her off guard, to catch a glimpse of the girl from his memories.

“You still love me,” he accused.

Her eyes seemed to sadden. She touched his face, her hand growing warm. He wrenched away, but it was too late. A cut on his cheek was healed.

He held his cheek like she had burned him. “What are you thinking?”

“I’m in control. I know how much I have left. Shouldn’t I be able to do what I want with it?”

Her hand remained outstretched. He gripped her wrist tightly, so tight it must hurt, and threw it away from himself.

“Don’t ever do that again.”

“Why are you always bathing?” Sasuke asked her once.

Shameless, she stood up in the bath, reaching for her robe. He tried very hard to ignore her body, only glancing up when he was sure the robe was around her. The front hung loose, only her hand clasping it together.

“It hurts less in the water.”

Her eyes always gave everything away. Even when they were kids. They said everything she was thinking. When he met her eyes now, he was dazed to find unguarded curiosity, desire. The difference now was she put it bluntly to words.

“Haven't you wondered?” she said.

He would be lying if he said he hadn’t. He was wondering now, painfully aware of how his body was reacting to her there, so close, so easy to touch.

“It doesn't matter,” he said. “You’re—you’re sick.” Dying. But he couldn't say that. “I could hurt you.”

“I've never been as fragile as you thought I was.”

She let the cloak slip. It draped down low, revealing the narrow expanse from the hollow of her throat to the space between her breasts. Sasuke heard a small noise escape his throat, a strangled cry. And he was crossing the room, because he couldn't refuse her, not when it was something he also wanted so badly. Each footfall shed away the time and distance built up between them, laying in his wake like shed layers, so by the time he got to her he already felt naked.

He walked straight into her touch, her palm pressing against his heart, the other curling around his nape. He slipped her glasses off, let them fall, secretly hoping they’d break on the stone ground. He hated them.

In the dark, as he leaned in to kiss her, he could almost imagine they were somewhere else. In a soft bedroom, in a life they lived together, elsewhere. But he could not ignore the echoes sounding off the rock walls, the feeling of emptiness handing over their heads, the cold pressing in.

Sasuke stared up at the sky, his back to the dirt.

Around him, battle was waging. The day they’d all been waiting for, fueled with Sakura’s remaining chakra, was almost over. He didn’t know which way the tide was pulling now. He could only feel the hole in his side and know for him it was over.

When he next opened his eyes, everything was green, like he was lying on the forest floor. It wasn’t what he expected death to be like. But Sakura was there, leaning over him. He smiled, washed with relief. At least, even in this place, they had found each other. It was such a comfort, it didn’t matter to him what happened next.

He tried to sit up, and pain tore through him, though it was fading quickly. His eyelids drooped. Sakura’s hands shifted across his body, so warm.

“Can I go back to sleep?” he mumbled.

She cupped his cheek. “Yes, my love.”

He almost listened to her, but strange sounds reached his ears. Metal clashing, screaming. He cracked open his heavy eyes. A body lay close by, red staining the ground beneath. Above him, Sakura’s face was streaked with dirt and tears.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

“My part is over,” she said, hands rooted to his chest like an ancient tree to the earth, unwavering and sure. “I have some left. Just enough.”

His body rippled with an electric shock. “Don’t, Sakura!”

He struggled to move, but she held him down with an iron grip.

“Just take it!” she cried. “What else would I do with it?”

It was always coming to this, he knew. But he wasn’t ready. He needed her to stay just a little longer. There was so much he still needed to tell her.

“One more day,” he begged. “You could stay just one more day.”

Her green eyes were like a storm, and as she steamed the last of her chakra into him, she didn’t look like she was dying. She looked as strong as he remembered. “If I stop now you’ll die.”

That night, when he left the village, he should have taken her with him. Taken her far, far, away. Why had he left her there? What use were his prized eyes and Uchiha blood if he couldn’t see the right choice to make?

“Don't leave,” he gasped. It was hard to see her, tears blurring his vision. “Please don't leave.”

Her hands softly slipped from his chest. “It’s okay, Sasuke-kun.” Her voice came from far away. “Just go back to sleep.”

The mark faded from her forehead like a star at dawn.

Konoha fell. The world was raw and overturned. Burning, and growing, and burning, and growing. One day, Sasuke would want to see it. For now he returned to the mountain, to Sakura’s pool.

He floated in the water, weightless, aching with the life she’d given him.

notes: a longer multi chapter is coming soon, but for now take this, and sorry

#sasusaku #sasusaku fanfiction #sasusaku fanfic #ss fic #ss #my fic #stars

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sartorialadventure · 4 years ago

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As a new book is published on African wax print textiles, Vogue speaks to its author about the complex origins and stories behind eight of the most vibrant prints. Once a craze confined to Africa’s Gold Coast; now, African wax prints have gone global. Take Beyoncé, who rocked the printed cotton fabric for her baby shower last year, asking her guests to wear African-centred gelées, kufis and wax-printed pieces. “It is everywhere but at the same time people don’t know really the story and the meanings of this textile,” says Anne Grosfilley, author of a new book, African Wax Print Textiles, published by Prestel this month (£45, available here). The book is a detailed exploration of the fabric’s origins, techniques and cultural currency as well as a showcase of vibrant, eye-popping designs. “There are colours you would not see in other types of textiles,” Grosfilley says, citing deep blue with orange. These are also clothes with deep meaning: often, fabrics have hidden messages. African wax prints actually came from the Netherlands. In the second half of the 19th century, fuelled by the industrial revolution and colonial expansion, new markets opened in the Dutch East Indies (now Indonesia) as well as Africa. With the Netherlands securing its presence in Java, its textile companies began competing with the local artisanal batik techniques, producing their own cotton prints. These Dutch wax prints, however, bombed as the Dutch dyes created cracks, so new markets had to be found. In 1893 the first Dutch wax prints landed in the African Gold Coast (now Ghana), where they became style and status symbols. During the 1950s, their appeal spread across west Africa, when the Mercedes-Benz driving female entrepreneurs (known as the Nana Benz) bought the fabrics into Togo and gave them names to add mystique. Africa’s fight for independence in the 1960s led to wax prints being made locally. More recently, cheap Chinese copies have made wax prints more accessible to the rest of the world. Now, wax prints are worn with denim and other Western styles with men donning the print too. Here, a selection of the most intriguing wax prints and the unusual stories and meanings behind them.

Alphabet, 1920

Created in 1920, this alphabet design was worn mainly by people who went to the colonial school, and could read, write and count with the new mathematics. “People were very proud of it and they would wear this wax print to say, 'look, I’m literate and an educated person’”, says Grosfilley. Today, the design still retains this symbolism, even used by political parties for propaganda, "as if to say, 'look, this is a good value design and I am a good value president, so you should support me because I am as good as education,’” she says. Modern motifs have updated the design with computers replacing blackboards.

Elizabeth II, 1956

Designed for Queen Elizabeth II’s first visit to Nigeria in 1956, Grosfilley believes this wax print was given away to ensure a crowd gave her a warm welcome - as the visit was shortly before the country gained independence. It’s an African tradition for people to wear the same fabric for a specific occasion, whether it's close family and friends at a wedding, or at a political rally where the crowd wears a print with the president’s face, or to show solidarity with a group or community. "In Africa, we are less individualistic than in the western cultures,” argues Grosfilley, though explains that each person wears print in their own way. “So you are part of a group but at the same time you are unique." Don't miss the imperfections of the wax process that appear as cracks in her fur and the early wax print colours, brown and indigo, on the original white of the fabric.

Fly-Whisk, 1950

A fly swatter may seem like an everyday symbol, but actually it symbolises power and prestige. Why? These are the brooms used to swat away the mosquitoes and other flies from the kings and traditional chiefs of the Akan people who live across the Ivory Coast and Ghana. Once wielding great economic power selling gold and ivory to the British and other countries, today these kings and chiefs are more symbolic. Designed in 1950, the pattern is set in big squares à la Adinkra, Adire and other African handmade textiles and has a decorative background to prevent any cracks caused by the batik process being seen.

Darling, Don't Turn Your Back On Me, 1980s

This abstract pattern from the 1980s was inspired by paper used to wrap meat in a French butcher. According to Grosfilley: “This is the magic of wax print, as you see a design and you project something which may be completely different from the original meaning.” For women in Toga, it's known as, “darling, don’t turn your back on me,” when they think their man is not looking at them anymore, but another woman. “In real life, the men don’t understand or don’t care as they don’t pay attention to the meaning of wax print. So although the message is to the man, really it is to the other woman,” she says.

[I am suddenly visualizing women wearing clothing with the boyfriend meme printed on it!]

Shell

One of the earliest wax print designs, produced in Ivory Coast, this is now a classic. Depicting the wings of the Garuda bird, Indonesia’s national emblem, this print symbolises how Indonesian designs have been re-interpreted in Africa. Take the Ghanaians, who see the design as a bunch of bananas, as “it’s part of their basic food as you’d eat it as a fruit or in a stew,” says Grosfilley. Or the Togans, who call the print, “the snail coming out of its shell,” after the snails they eat (and local phrase meaning "busybody"). Wearing the design, according to Grosfilley, means that “you should look at your own business instead of looking at what other people are doing,” she says.

Michelle Obama's Handbag, 2008

Some designs take on famous names. There’s Kofi Annan’s brain, the heart of Barack Obama and this one, named after Michelle Obama when her husband first became the president of the United States, in 2008. The basic appeal translates as: “You cannot afford to be Michelle Obama or buy the same bag as she carries, but because you can buy the pattern on wax print it’s like you’re part of it,” says Grosfilley. Yet, the connection to Obama is accidental. “Vlisco just designed a nice bag but then it’s the African market who said, 'Wow, we should make a connection between Michelle Obama and the bag',” she says. Made from Super Wax, which is softer, thinner and has an extra colour, wearing this more expensive fabric symbolises prestige.

Violent Eyes, The Mouth Says Nothing, 2011

The surrealist shoe with its tongue-like heel and multiple red-varnished toes is a detail of a larger design, created in 2011, in the Netherlands. Called "the eyes see, but the mouth does not speak,” the print is dominated by a huge mouth with a finger against it to say "shush, don’t speak" in the centre with little mouths in the background which also say nothing. “It’s about being an elegant woman and at the same time full of humour,” says Grosfilley. “We are saying, wear something just to see the good side of things.” The quirky design is accentuated by a bright red outline instead of the classic indigo, showing new ways of using the batik technique.

Reproduction Fan Print, 2000s

When electrical fans were introduced to Africa in the 1980s, they appeared on wax print as signs of modernity (as did mobile phones). Now, as fans are only bought by those without air-conditioning, the meaning has changed. “It is casual. You’ve got chairs, table, so what, there’s no point,” the author says. Printed on polycotton from China rather than cotton, bright new colours have been added, like the maroon and yellow and green combo since the original design debuted.

#fashion #african fashion #vlisco #prints #fashion history #africa #dutch fashion #javanese fashion #java #the netherland

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helpinghanikan · 4 years ago

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Sleeping arrangements

Avengers (and Matt Murdock x Reader)

Sum: It's late and the bed is so nice. It's time to sleep and to bring your heroes along with you. (Fluffy little snippets of sleepy time with the Avengers)

Steve Rogers:

It’s the last train home and only one thing in this world is warm. The wall of Steve Rogers your head rested against was beating softly through the jacket and shirt he wore. Keeping your arms around his center to keep any of the heat from getting away. His own arm protects around your shoulders, keeping you in and gibing his hand something to do instead.

He could’ve driven, he should’ve driven, instead he wanted to take the train. He wanted to walk around like he did years and years before, but this time with your hands intertwined.

Although far away the train has started to shake the earth. Taking you out of the almost sleeping world and back into this cold one. The change in worlds brings out a yawn and lets the cold back in. It’s been a long day. With your eyes closed and clothes heavier than they could ever be Steve was the only thing keeping you up. His chin rests on your head after a while, thumb rubbing over your shoulder as the train finally pulled to a stop.

Inside it was the same story but in a seated position. Guided into his lap and landing with a groan as it was just so much work. The practically empty strain allowed your legs to stretched straight out over the seats.

Steve could stay awake longer than most, but he was tired. He was cold and annoyed and really wished he had driven instead of taking this stupid train. He took his frustration out on squeezing you tight, holding on as if you were liable to fall right out of the seat if he let go. At least it was warmer inside the train.

Tony Stark:

Someone staying up late, not getting enough sleep, and making exhaustion their personality trait is funny for maybe week. But After days of trying to coax him to come to bed, to try something other than just giving up on sleep or even talking to a doctor it gets concerning. After weeks of these same issues, it becomes frustrating.

Everyone, from Pepper to Peter have done their fair share of lecturing. Happy has gone out of his way in helping you get the dumbass to appointments. All of which he has walked right out because, unfortunately, he was still an adult who could make his own decisions.

It’s only after using the nuclear word that he pays attention.

“Anthony,” You say just before he leaves the room.

Although speaking to his back he does stop. His shoulders have tensed under the t-shirt and he’s listening in.

There’s an audio book’s worth of things you could say about this issue. But it would all be a repeat that he’s heard before, from many different mouths. Instead, you kept it simple, not even bothering to turn on the light.

“You didn’t even try.” It comes out from a tired partner just wanting the best for him. Yet Tony walks away from the advice, again.

Thor:

Power doesn’t stop for sleep. It’s still in the air when he’s laying sideways towards the window. Because of the whole nighttime thing it’s hard to tell if clouds are actually coming in or darkening. Maybe you’re just insane but Mr. Weatherman didn’t say anything about rain tonight, right?

It was a jolt that really woke you up. Looking over your shoulder at the expanse of muscular back. Thor movements were always a bit too…loud for this world. Whether running through a fight or moving in his sleep it calls attention to everyone. He doesn’t mean to, but it does wake you up enough to see your glass is dryer as a bone.

As if reading your mind, the rain has come down. It could almost be described as torrential how hard it was all coming down. Matching the dramatics of rain, a lightning strike coming straight down into some poor tree.

This wasn’t the first time Thor had a nightmare. Asgardians just seemed to be humans 2.0, making Thor just as a victim to horror as we humans are. At the same time, he was still another worldly being, translating to giving him a few feet when waking him up.

Another strike of lightening and another tree is taken out of this world. Without the lights on that blast was your only moment of lightening. The rest of the journey made to Thor’s side of the bed was done in darkness and pounding rain. Following the outlined Asgardian until reaching his shoulder. A gentle hand on his should does nothing. A little shake and a whispered “Thor,” finally does the trick.

The two strikes of lightening outside somehow reached his eyes. For the briefest of seconds blue, cracking energy is directed right at you. Stopping just as quickly as they appeared, replaced with Thor’s regular blue eyes that blink a few times.

“What is it?” he asks.

There’s no point in telling him the truth about his nightmares and their effect. Then again, there’s no point in lying either. Instead, it’s better to distract. “It’s still super early. Back to bed.” You say instead, kissing with until he takes the hit and holds you.

Bucky Barnes:

Sleep is a luxury that isn’t worth chasing. With the pillows and sheets there were nightmares and enemies that could sense his weakness. Trying to get at least six hours and all that guarantees is waking up sweaty and a call to doc, making sure to get everything back in order before you could ever notice.

Instead, he takes walks. Maps out the city at night, the changes and differences that happened without him. He recognizes the buildings, the structures and bricks that were too strong to be a victim to time.

Most of the time he does this alone. Watching a show about nothing until you were asleep before starting his walk. But there were times you catch him, calling out to him like the neighborhood cat trying to get away. Getting on your own shoes and jacket quickly. Then enforcing the handholding during the little adventure.

It’s only when passing by something important that words are shared. “One of my buddies worked here when this place was a mechanic. Broke his leg just before the draft, I still think it was on purpose.” He’d say then never bring it up again.

These walks are always shorter than most. After two times Bucky learned when to make the loop back home with you. When your building comes back into view the handholding has gotten sweaty. The walking had slowed to a crawl and you were dragging him down by the arm. Even less talking was done after getting through the door; just landing face down onto the bed without bothering about the shoes.

These kind of walks were Bucky’ favorite.

Natasha Romanoff:

The bed was used almost exclusively for sleeping. As the couch was both comfy and expensive. And, as Nat puts it, “Should we do it with the lights off too? Under the covers like grandparents?” Although it was probably another reason to use the overpriced couch more often.

Like any good, and overworked, soldier Nat could sleep anywhere. When a mission is done, and there’s nothing to worry about, a shower and a nap is the best in the world.

“I smell nice,” She says walking into the living after the shower. Steam still behind her, hair wrapped up and a sweater purposefully bought to be several sizes too big.

She stretches and lays over you like a cat. Resting as close as possible so you, too, can smell the expensive shampoo she uses. Making sure that the body wash isn’t ignored either as that, too, was expensive.

“Might as well spend this pay on something,” She says when asked about the prices.

Although she asks what you’re up to she won’t be awake for the answer. Already teetering into sleep land when you answer.

Natasha was as athletic as she was heavy. Only sometimes managing to carry her bridal style and most of the time having to walk/guide her into the bedroom. Either letting her drop onto the bed with the same weight you had carried in, or she holds fast and takes you down with her.

Just like a cat, Natasha gets to decide cuddle time.

T’challa:

Although the mattress was new, the bed’s size was traditional, and passed on through generations of rulers. Forget California king bed, A Wakanda king bed was that and a half. Ten feet length, twelve feet tall. Combined with blankets, pillows and more it was easy to disappear into the thing. But it was also easy to get lost in it all.

In the middle of the night, in the very center of this ocean of bed, you can reach out forever. Finding pillows (both the decorative and the usable kind), smaller blankets or stuffed animals that have managed to be added. But it’s a tiresome journey, one that doesn’t seem to have an end even as you stretched to pointed toes and fingers.

It’s only after touching body heat that you can relax. Finally finding your king that turns to your touch. Making his own journey through sheets and bedding. Using you as the trail into his love. Neither of you thinking about the absolute nightmare it will be to make this bed tomorrow.

Pietro Maximoff:

For most of his life Pietro is moving. Be it running or just running his mouth, he’s not the kind of guy to sit still. Unfortunately, this also applies to sleeping.

“He’s been sleep walking since we were children,” Wanda once said. “Our father once found him crying in a puddle. He had slipped and woken up in the street. He’ll deny crying, though.”

As an adult Pietro doesn’t actively get up and walk around anymore. The man made up of strong and lean muscle still moves quite a bit. Waking up from freezing feet finding yours or because he’s sat upright in bed again. Using soft, but firm, pressure to get him to lay back down or to guide him back to his side of the bed. If you weren’t careful his arms would find you, almost dragging you back to his side of the bed.

He'd deny it in the morning. Smiling with barely open eyes as you’re still pressed against him. No matter how much you’re going to insist this was his fault he’d still mock you. Nuzzling in since you insist on cuddling so much.

Peter Parker:

There’s a time limit next when sitting next to Peter. You have ten minutes before his head finds your shoulder. If you don’t shrug or lean away he’ll stay there, slowly leaning in until he’s all settled.

Although not completely asleep he does rest. If your hands are held in those moments you could probably feel his pulse slow down as his breathing slows. Maybe his eyes manage to stay open, but his eyes do get heavy. Someone could say his name, and he’d respond, but it be from his throat. An annoyed groan directed to whoever was ruining this moment. Even if it was usually a teacher or adult.

It’s only when traveling, and you’re sitting for a while, that he completely falls asleep. Progressing past just leaning his head and adding his arms. If you allow him, putting an arm around your back and the other over your center. With your own arm over his back, he sleeps in a position that, although sweet, always left a pain in his neck. Something he’d complain about until you ask if he want’s you to rub his shoulders.

Stephen Strange:

During aura projection Stephen’s body is dead weight. No muscles or bone working with the individual trying to help them. It’s just taken over by gravity and his entire weight wants to be on the floor. Sleep does the same thing.

Short of a bucket of water to his face he won’t wake up. Part of his experience in med school was taking every bit of use sleep could give him. Which leads to sleeping fast, and sleeping hard, usually opened mouth. No snoring yet, but the moment he does there’s an open target for shutting him up.

Matt Murdock:

It’s a mixture of meditation and caffeine that he is still functioning. Too busy, much too busy, as a lawyer for the two of you to share a bed most of the time. Making any comments you have about his sleep schedule mute.

Watching him doesn’t change give any information either. Coffee in the morning, some deep breathing and self-centering in the between moments at work, and sleep ins on days off were all you could gather. Between that it’s easier to just assume he’s fine.

Just laugh at his “not like I need to rest my eyes,” jokes and move on.

Carol Danvers:

After going through every time change known to man, alien and beyond Carol has developed a very specific still. Carol Danvers, woman with the power of a star and to sleep literally anywhere at any time. Be it a cleared-out corner of some ship, an open floor that keeps her hidden from passersby or on your lap. The latter being her personal favorite.

Like a massive golden retriever, she wants to be in the middle of your lap. Close as possible with a arm holding around your shoulder and the other on her toy, or phone. A being of wiry muscle and heat keeping you pinned to the couch. Most of the time she’s out ten minutes into the movie, most of the time the remotes’ out of reach, and most of the time you gotta go pee.

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whump-town · 3 years ago

Text

Lie to Me

Guess who's back on their shit?

Another cancer fic for you because there's something very weird about me that stays drawn to the idea of secretly being sick

Anyways

Warnings: well... cancer

Pairings: none? yet.

Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner has a certain reputation around the office. The BAU’s ghost, walking around in his leather dress shoes and fancy suits without so much as a groan from the old, torn tile beneath his feet or the muffled swish of the material of his slacks. You never know he’s there until he wants you to and by then it’s always too late. By luck of his poor hearing or his natural affinity for silence, nothing admitted in his silent presence ever graces his lips for a repeat. The secrets all die with him. He’s as loyal as a dog -- in ways that lead to natural gravitation. The reason why Penelope Garcia beams at him every time their paths cross, why she so eagerly rushes to match his pace. To just walk beside him and talk his ear off even though she knows her answers will come in the form of soft hums and furrowed brows. In other ways, it’s killed him. Left him to live the life of a lame dog, dragging his dying body away from them. Hoping to spare them the agony of his death.

Some things that people say about SSA Hotchner are true. He really does move like a ghost and it’s a thing of great mystery and annoyance. It’s cost Emily Prentiss numerous mugs but perhaps the flash of his smug crooked grin makes that worth the shattered cup at their feet (she wouldn’t agree with that statement). He’s made Derek Morgan nearly jump out of his skin, whirling around to attack whatever snuck up on him only to find Hotch frowning back at him. If asked, David Rossi will blame Hotch for 79% of the grey hairs on his head because he hadn’t even begun to go grey until he met Hotch.

He’s really not as scary as people make him out to be.

Penelope Garcia wishes everyone knew that. She wishes cadets looked at Hotch the way that they look at Derek and Spencer. As awe-inspiring giants, they crane their necks to look up to. Instead, they lower their eyes away from him. Whispering to one another about the rumors and the things that they have been told. They regard him as a lesson -- someone to measure their existence against. To know when to get out of the job. To know when they can no longer turn back.

He’d saved her when it seemed no one else in the world really looked at her. She’d watched him take her homemade pink stationary in his hands, held it delicately as he looked over what menial ideas she could think of. He’d looked at her kindly, not at all like the snobby FBI brat she assumed him to be, and shaken her hand, “Thank you, Miss Garcia.” For the months following her career change, he’d been too kind. Brought her lunch to her desk because she was too anxious to leave her office. Gave her advice about where to park and how to miss Strauss in the hallways.

As important as his approval is to her, his well-being is more important. So, no, she doesn’t turn away when she sees him on Saturday in the emergency room. He’s sleeping off a cocktail they’d given him, turns out it’s rather hard to place a catheter near the heart when it’s beating erratically. His anxiety had nearly caused him to be sick and so he’d agreed, finally, to let them give him something to calm him down. Which is where Garcia finds him, left arm cradled to his chest, too long limbs hanging off the stretcher, and breathing slow and steady through the oxygen canal under his nose. A precaution, that’s all, given the sedatives they’d doped him up with.

“Sir?”

The fingers in his left-hand twitch, flexing towards his palm and he grunts softly at the pain that the movement causes. Slowly, breathing hitching and his eyes fluttering open, he wakes up. He’d heard, vacantly, the hesitant “sir” from the end of the bed but he assumed it was a nurse. As his eyes rise up to search the room he’s surprised, entirely so that he thinks he’s hallucinating, to find Penelope.

“Are you okay?”

He’s still piecing together the last few hours but nods. Cracking open his dry lips he swallows thickly, trying to work his voice around the tightness in his throat. Dehydrated and still disoriented he reaches for the cup of water left for him but at the current angle that he’s laying at, he can’t get it. He clears his throat, sniffling, “can you, ugh--” He’s still looking at the cup, dazed to the point he can’t think of the words he means to say. Tired eyes look back at her, pleading silently that she understands.

Penelope nods, moving forward instinctively. She doesn’t look at him, at his dark blood dried to his arm. His hospital gown stopping just at the clear protective barrier between her and the port placed on the inside of his arm. “Here,” she whispers. She needs to be closer so he doesn’t have to stretch but can’t bring herself to be close. Not within his reach. Not so close that she can see the dark rings of sleepless nights carved under his eyes. Far enough away that the tremble in his hand is easily overlooked. So that he doesn’t seem as weak and frail as his voice sounds.

He sips the water, knows from too many mistakes not to drink too much just yet. “Why are you here?” He nearly sounds like himself, dark brows furrowed and voice taken its steady, deep rhythm back.

She looks over her shoulder, past the curtain pulled around them for the sake of privacy. “I, uhm, volunteer for a support group that meets every Saturday here at the hospital.” She points to the front desk, to a woman with curly hair pulled back in two ponytails. “I came downstairs to say hi to Mac and I saw you and I just…” Suddenly, realizes how she shouldn’t be here. That if he wanted comfort he’d have told them, or someone.

Wait. Stop.

That doesn’t matter. Hotch doesn’t know what’s good for him. Everyone knows that. So she made the right decision to come over here.

“You’re not driving yourself home, right?”

In her silent contemplation, he’d began to fall asleep again. The cup in his hand dangerously tipped and eyes held open by slow, deepening blinks.

“Hotch?” She touches his hand, flinching away at just how cold his skin is.

He cracks his eyes back open, cracks of soft brown iris finding her slowly. He hums, mouth cracked open.

“Will you let me take you home?”

Home. He hums again, vaguely aware of her warm hand coming to rest over his. Moving his stiff fingers away from the cup, taking it from him so he doesn’t spill it over himself.

It’s meticulous work, keeping him awake. Even harder making sure he gets dressed but once he’s sitting up he’s much more alert, grumpy now for being duped into asking her for help. She’d offered it but that means nothing to him. He’s no less thrilled to find his brain too foggy and arm too weak to work his arm through his sweater. She still smiles when his head pops through, hair a crazy mess on his head.

She packs him carefully into her car, a boxy little thing he’d frowned at when she bought it. He’d been the reason behind Morgan and Reid both coming to her office with statistics and fear about the safety of it but she’d loved it. He’s a worrier, prone to stewing and her car had taken up a lot of his energy for the first year she owned it. Now he’s being packed into the green monstrosity, senses assaulted by incense. Everything’s sparkly and he ends up sitting with a teddy bear in his lap, a troll in his hand. He’d taken their rightful place as her passenger.

His legs do not fit no matter how far back he moves his seat back and Penelope feels awful that he looks so uncomfortable but also finds it to be humorous. His knees to his ears, dark scary Agent Hotchner holding a stuffed bear to his chest, head resting against the window. It’s sweet.

It’s fairly easy to figure what his thought process today when she pulls up to his house and no one’s home. Jack’s camping, she learns. He’s dozed off again, prone and more willing to whisper half-truths. Will be away for the whole weekend until Tuesday morning. Jessica is getting her nails and hair done, he’d made the appointment just to make sure she really did it. The haircut should have ended just in time that he could call her and ask if she’d pick him up from the hospital. Where he thought he would have already artfully hidden the PICC line under his sweater and played the affair off as a routine sort of deal. A check-up.

“Sir…” she’s standing now, awkwardly, in his living room. The curtains are drawn back the way he likes, closing off the sun. He’s tucked under his heating blanket, trying to remain awake for the sake of the fact that it’s rude to fall asleep while entertaining guests. Yet, failing miserably. “Sir, I was just wondering… Is everything okay?”

“I’m--” the truth nearly slips right out. He clears his throat, managing to sit up just enough to catch her eyes. “Don’t worry about me, Garcia. Jessica will be around in an hour.” He holds his left hand closed, trying to stop his cramped fingers from twitching. “Dave and Emily are coming by for dinner. I’ll be okay.”

It’s completely unethical.

It’s so unprofessional.

But she can’t help herself.

Her eyes prick with tears when Emily shakes her head in the kitchenette, the sound of Hotch’s wet coughs breaking through his closed office door. “He needs to get that checked out,” she sighs, hiding her bleeding worry with annoyance. “Sounds awful.” And Penelope stands there with Hotch’s secret tongue-tied.

He’s getting worse and fast.

She gets a call from Derek, seething anger laced into his words. “He fucking-- He fucking just-- .” She knows it’s really just fear. Can hear him walking, his rapid pacing as he tries to outwalk his expanse of emotions. “He -- He shouldn’t be in the field. I mean, it’s like he didn’t even see it coming. He was just…” She remains steady. Wipes the tears that slip past her eyelashes with the back of her hand. Derek cries, on the ground with his knees to his chest, and he tells her what happened. How Hotch was paying attention to him and if he hadn’t been then maybe…

She greets them at the elevator, feels her smile attempt to waver when Hotch’s tired eyes raise from the ground. The bruise along his cheek a deep agonizing yellow, the wound on his temple still weeping angrily through the bandage. He can’t fly until his concussion is healed, longer if his tinnitus doesn’t get better. “It’ll be fun having you home,” she assures him, giving his fingers an extra squeeze.

Luck, it seems, has never seemed to favor Aaron Hotchner’s particular brand of bold.

Working at the District Attorney’s had been a morally fulfilling job. In theory, he could rest assured, each night, that he was doing what he could to help people. He was putting the real bad guys behind the bars. Even as his dreams filled with the images of the victims who had to wait for months, and even years, to get their proper justice. In reality, he slept poorly and rarely. Unable to properly maintain his workload without impossibly long hours. With time he found his work to be unfulfilling. He was doing nothing to stop crime from happening and sinking further into the realization that was failing more people than he could ever begin to help.

In court, he was ruthless. Haley didn’t like the man he became in the courtroom. Ruthless and harsh, he appeared evil and terrifying with his hawk-like eyes and infallible ability to pinpoint weaknesses in his opposers. Around the office, they nicknamed his alter-ego “Hot-head Hotchner” because the Aaron that gets flushed ordering lunch couldn’t possibly be the same man who made a man wet himself on the stand. Haley couldn’t agree more.

Hot-head Hotchner got him offered a job in corporate law, several firms were throwing big numbers at him to encourage that lasered focus to be on their side. Lest they find themselves opposing it. Morally, he could never go into corporate law but the offer to spend hours bending law into something pliable and poking holes in judicial wordings was compelling. It would be complex, rewarding work with a big pay-out. Better than the shitty salary he made at the D.A.’s office. Before he could make the compromise he met David Rossi and he never got his chance to bend the law to his will, he held his moral ground and instead changed career paths.

It was bold leaving what he knew he was good at for something new entirely.

A costly decision.

He never got to fulfill his secret desire to mold the law but bending the truth wasn’t a far cry from the same thing. Lying has never been something he felt comfortable with and that had no exceptions. He hadn’t wanted to tell the team Emily had died but that had far less to do with his morals and so much more to do with a picture much bigger than himself. The hell he knew that would rain down upon them in the weeks to come. The inability of the team to cope. Intuitively something holding them back and what they could only assume was a stage of grief.

To Emily Prentiss, he has never lied. Stretched versions of the truth he maintains to not be the same thing as a lie. If they count then his answer would be different but the eye of the beholder adds context. And as the holder of this context, he resolutes the power to declare them very different.

“New girlfriend?”

He’s breathing through a bought of nausea attempting to take him off his feet. The cold countertop biting into the skin of his wrist, his palm pressed flat to the surface so that he doesn’t grip the edge. So that his pale bloodless knuckles holding onto dear life do not betray the severity of which he fears he might get sick or pass out.

His phone is on the counter, turned upside down so that he doesn’t have to see the screen light up with every new text that comes through. The high-pitched “ding” of each new message is lost to the tinnitus he’s been succumbing to now for the better part of the week. No amount of coffee or Tylenol has helped.

Raising his gaze makes the pounding in his head worse but he has to meet Emily’s questioning gaze. They’ve started to notice his “off” behavior. His inability to stand for long amounts of time without physical drain. His decision to stay home on the last several cases, working here with Garcia rather than joining them in the field. The way he relies on Morgan’s lead more than he used to, falling silent and allowing the other man to make decisions. He suspects they just assume he’s looking into retiring or that he’s struggling to kick his “chest cold”, he doesn’t bother correcting them.

“No,” he manages, swallowing around the heaviness of his tongue. The way his mouth seems full of salival added pangs to his stomach as he knows he’s going to be sick. “It’s Jessica.” She’s angry with him and for good reason, though he doesn’t offer an explanation as to why.

Emily hums, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head. “What’d you did you do to piss her off?” In other circumstances, he might assume she’s attempting to pry. She’s just here for another cup of coffee, offering him a way to release some of his stress. No hard feelings if he suggests she fuck off and willing to lend an ear if he wants to talk. She’s not holding her breath but she hopes he comes undone. That he admits to some awful conspiracy and that this whole time they’ve been in some twisted social experiment to see how unified they actually are. That he isn’t as sick as he looks. That he’s just in a low spot and in a month he’ll be putting the weight back on and Derek will be telling them all about training for another marathon. How Reid could do more pushups than Hotch.

“I’m sorry,” Hotch whispers. He tries to step away from the counter. Feels the temperature in the room drops several degrees, his skin broken out in goosebumps. “I think to sit down,” he says frantically, knows now he needs to sit before he passes out.

Emily grabs his arm, tries to help him up. To get him to the chair that’s right there, so close.

“Hotch?” Derek jogs into the kitchen, he’d seen from afar and come running. “Emily, what’s wrong?”

Emily helps him to the ground, hand holding the back of his neck as his body starts sinking faster, beyond his control. She sits down on the ground beside him, eyes scanning across his body to find a feasible answer. Below her, Hotch’s breathing has gone rapid and shallow. His eyes rolled back into his head, neck-craning as he unconsciously fights to get air into his lungs. “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know. He just-- He was just--” Hotch wheezes, an awful sound. He chokes, blood coming to paint his lips. To coat his teeth.

“Hotch?” Derek moves to his side, picking up Hotch’s shoulder to move him onto his side. “Hotch, answer me!”

His only reply is a wet gurgle, a blood-coated wheeze.

#tw cancer #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #penelope garcia #emily prentiss #derek morgan #criminal minds fanfiction

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avasghost · 4 years ago

Text

When We Drown Update #2

[image description: a pale blue photo of a rocky cliff, and a boy at the edge in the distance, standing on a pile of rocks and looking down. in white serif font in the centre, reads “when we drown: update two” / end id]

wip intro here. first writing update here.

DISCLAIMER: this is my original work, please do not plagiarize in any way.

hi everyone! it’s been a while since i did a writing update (time is fast) and i’ve written quite a lot! up until about a week ago i was in a really, really bad writing slump (which lasted like,,, four months) and so that’s why there hasn’t been a crane anatomy update for a ages because (: i haven’t been writing it (:

i don’t know if i mentioned this in the first update, but this book is now non-linear which has been an ~adventure! the non-linear plotline is kind of freeing because i can just pick a scene i want to write from any time in april’s life and just ... write it? i don’t have to follow the years chronologically. i try to create some kind of causal thread between the scenes but i don’t know how well that’s working out lmao. since WWD follows an entire life story with the protagonist looking back on it and remembering her life, i try to make her memory of one event trigger the memory of the next event, and usually they’re linked by either emotion or information.

current word count: 13,228

so when we drown is officially longer than crane anatomy now, despite being the side project! fun.

anyway lets get into the chapters because i have nothing else to say. tw for death, and other trigger warnings are before the individual chapters!

excerpts under the cut.

chapter 5: faces

[image description: a birds eye view of a forest of snowy pine trees. above the trees in black serif font reads “chapter 5: faces” / end id]

this is a very short chapter (a page and a half) which is a flash forward to when april and elena live together in a cabin in the woods sometime in their late forties. elena is asleep in an armchair and april stokes the fireplace, and then goes outside and sees elias’s ghost and then it dissapears (tbh,,, i think a lot of the chapters will be like this oops) this is the second ghost sighting in the book, but at the point when april is 48 it’s almost a regular occurrence! i might end up moving it to later in the book eventually, since i might want the ghost sightings to be in linear order if nothing else is, to keep the main thread of the book in order.

I closed the door of the woodstove, and glanced over my shoulder to see if Elena had been woken by the clanging of metal. She stirred slightly, a familiar face in her nightmare, an unfamiliar face in a familiar dream. Two fingers clenched against the armrest, then became limp again. Half of me wanted her to wake up, to see me, to speak to me, to see the fire bouncing in the grate and be happy for warmth. But again, she needed rest. She needed to be alone for a while, even if that was just in her head. She’d seen her fair share of fire.

also its snowing in november and its british columbia and i know this is unrealistic but! aesthetics are more important than logic we all know that.

[image description: blurry pine trees and a light snow falling in front of them, with a ridge of snow along the bottom. white serif text in the centre reads “The snow-tipped pines that cupped the cabin sagged under the weight of unexpected snowfall. Their fallen needles jotted the snow. The sky was white, spotless, like an expanse of faraway ocean or the inside of a crystal ball.” / end id]

The snow-tipped pines that cupped the cabin sagged under the weight of unexpected snowfall. Their fallen needles jotted the snow. The sky was white, spotless, like an expanse of faraway ocean or the inside of a crystal ball. No birds flitted between the branches, no foxes slunk between the pines. All was still. All was white. I was alone.

and the ghost is seen then disappears as usual and april goes inside again.

You were gone by the time I reached the door again, by the time I stepped inside and Elena stirred in her armchair, by the time I had stepped out of my shoes and gone to stoke the fire again, which was already starting to dwindle.

i like having elias referred to as “you” because its like april is telling the story to him, but he’s not there, so she’s talking to herself, which is very in character for her to do.

chapter 6: the party

[image description: a slope of pine trees with a grassy field at the bottom. mist shrouds the trees in the distance. a dirt path leads through the grass towards a cabin. in the top right corner, reads “chapter 6: the party” / end id]

chapter 6 follows the day before elena’s fifteenth birthday, and then her party the next day. this is a traumatic time for april because she decides she should mention her first elias sighting at the party. obviously people think she’s crazy and so you can guess how that turns out (aka april goes home and cries because she’s a soft bean)

elena has a cool tree in her backyard apparently!! this seems to be a running theme.

Dribbles of leftover sunlight sifted through the branches of the elm tree that ribbed the sky, its roots furrowing the lawn like varicose veins.

i will admit i didn’t finish this chapter and haven’t written most of the party scene yet so i will probably update on the rest of it in my next update (if i’ve written it by then which i probably won’t have but! we’ll see.)

chapter 7: sacred ground

[image description: the ocean stretching into the distance, with small waves. a blurry girl with long brown hair stands in front of it, facing the water. in the middle in white serif font reads “chapter 7: sacred ground” / end id]

the aftermath of the first elias sighting, when april goes and tries to talk to elena about it. i actually don’t know if this or the party comes first and the non-linearness might be catching up to me oops but we’ll just pretend everything makes sense okay <3

first she tries to decide who to talk to about it and her options are quite limited. she picks elena because she’ll probably take her seriously, and then goes to her house in a state of shock.

I considered my options. Elena: the calm one, either pretending to be wise or really wise. Magnolia: probably less stupid than she made herself out to be. My mother: still crying over a tragedy of five years ago and a tragedy of fifteen years ago and the tragedy of a lifetime wasted in crowded cult meetings and stark bedrooms, tears always falling, thoughts either always whirlwinding or too dead to pay attention to. I found myself winding up the jittery pathway to Elena’s house, or maybe it was me that was jittery. Maybe it was me, who made the world blurry like this. Maybe it was me who was seeing things, not those things drifting into my line of vision and then falling out of sight. The pearly birches jagged the edges of the valley, their leaves chartreuse in the wind-rustled sunlight.

and then elena rejects her plight and april returns to where she saw elias. turns out elena isn’t as accepting of april’s hallucinations as she was supposed to be! here’s a bit of dialogue i generated from that incorrect quote generator that seems fitting for this moment!

April: Bad things keep happening to me, like I have bad luck or something.

Elena: April, you don't have bad luck. The reason bad things happen to you is because you're a dumbass.

this IS april and this IS elena how does this generator know what my book is about!! anyway back to excerpts:

I ran back to where I had seen you, all slow wonderment vanished, and found the place where my old footsteps in the sand looped around. I knew you wouldn’t be there, I wasn’t surprised that you didn’t appear again, your face bobbing in a rice paper mist. I wasn’t surprised that Elena didn’t chase me out, eyes drained of tears, to apologize. And I wasn’t surprised that from that point forward, I thought of that place as sacred.

chapter 8: always falling

[image description: a blurred black-and-white close-up image of water falling. white serif font in the center reads “always falling: chapter 8″ / end id]

tw: death, drowning, blood, fantasizing about drowning

eight-year-old april and magnolia visit a waterfall with magnolia’s parents. feat. april’s dog, august!

The waterfall coiled down the cliff face, cracking the surface of the river like a thousand strands of thunder. I could hardly hear Magnolia’s parents shouting something up ahead, their voices lost in the blare of water.

shortly after:

When I heard suspension bridge, I pictured one from old fairytales I read: wooden, burlap ropes for railings. A thirty percent chance of falling in. I was reassured by the stability, but August shivered at the way it jilted underfoot. He had never walked on ground that shifted under his feet, maybe it was an earthquake, maybe the ground was breaking in.

and here’s sweet eight-year-old April fantasizing about what it would be like to drown. If you think that’s foreshadowing no it isn’t 👁👁

[image description: a slightly grainy photo, half water and half sky, both tinted turquoise. a hand lifts out of the water toward the sky. above the hand in white serif font, reads “What it would feel like to drown, water snagging in my lungs, sharp stones shattering my ribcage until the entire river turned to blood. Being sucked by the current until someone finally found my body, far from where I lost it.” / end id]

I stared over the edge, tried to pierce the thick buzz of mist that separated me from what would be the teeth of my fall. I imagined the bridge giving way, like it always did in the stories I read. One end breaking, the ropes snapping, the entire bridge swinging into the bottomless river. What it would feel like to drown, water snagging in my lungs, sharp stones shattering my ribcage until the entire river turned to blood. Being sucked by the current until someone finally found my body, far from where I lost it. Maybe it would be an old fisherman, hauling a girl in with the day’s catch, or his frail wife, who would faint on the spot at the sight of a dead child, bloodied and mangled and already tearing apart.

they cross the suspension bridge, and august unfortunately falls in! this is just a bit of april’s childhood trauma and i wish i didn’t have to cause her this pain but i do i’m sorry 😭

chapter 9: dead letters

[image description: a close up sheet of paper with a few lines of cursive writing across it. a fountain pen lies across the page. in the bottom right hand corner, a black serif font reads “chapter 9: dead letters” / end id]

a very young april and elias get caught in a hailstorm then go inside and find letters from their father, who they never met because he still lives in the cult their mother escaped from the day april was born. their mother tries to hide the letters from them but! these children do not relent.

We tracked through the colourful forest in autumn, our rubber boots tore trails through the scattered maple leaves. Pronged pinecones crackled under my heels as I chased you, threading between the trees.

I was eight, you were faster but I managed to keep up all the same. A haze of rain sizzled on my skin, but rain didn’t phase me back then. I didn’t mind the water droplets that pearled down my neck into the hem of my bright yellow rain jacket.

they escape from the hailstorm and find their mother in the kitchen making tea (rare!)

When we tripped over the doorframe and found ourselves panting in the kitchen, the kettle wheezed and mother emerged from her bedroom to take it off. The scent of green tea wafted through the air as she poured it, steaming, into a ceramic teacup with a crack veining down the side.

april tries to take one of the letters but her mother stops her. later during the night, she and elias get out of bed and read the letters and it turns out their father left the cult as well, and wants to meet up with them. april wants to meet him, but elias is bitter about it and doesn’t really even consider him their father because he was never there for them.

chapter 10: frostbite

[image description: two pale hands reach towards the sky, in front of a blurry indigo background. in the top left corner, white serif font reads “chapter 10: frostbite” / end id]

tw: freezing to death

there are those weird times when their mom tells stories about her life. these incidents never end well but happen occasionally! she tells april about a time when her and a few other cult members were in the mountains and one of them froze to death. at this point april is around fifteen (which is where the main plot of the book is at right now)

She cut off there, blanched, stared out the window at the sun-speckled backyard, but I could fill in the rest of the details myself: skin a cold stone blue, frostbite jittering through the lungs and spine like a poison, eating everything slowly. Lying in the snow, letting the cold overcome them. Dead before morning. I wanted to ask if they buried the body, dug a grave of snow that would be melted by spring, or just left the corpse lying in the snow for someone else to find, or be eaten by a wolf pack, or to deteriorate, and haunt those lonely slopes forever.

afterwards, april goes outside (yes its snowing again 😭 as someone who dislikes snow i sure write about it a lot)

On those days, my desperation to leave the house rose to a high and I would slide into a pair of ragged sneakers and a cable-knit sweater and push out into the cold. Once vibrant green leaves now greyed with frost, a snowfall months early but not unwelcome. Striking before the trees had the chance to shed their leaves. Frost brittled the branches of the oaks so I could snap them without an effort, not that I wanted to snap them. The concrete of the road was spined with ice that made it look like the ground was caving in, icicles barbed the eaves of our house like jagged teeth. Sometimes I thumbed snow into my mouth like a child, hoping no one was watching a seventeen-year-old eat snow, and let it blot my tongue and dribble down my throat. The cold shock to my system helped clear my mind of whatever mother had been talking about, helped me cope with the pain I shouldn’t have been feeling in the first place.

aaannd that’s everything i’ve written so far! this has been the worst writing slump of my life and i’m not too happy with most of the stuff i’ve written lately, but hopefully that clears up so i can update y’all again soon!

- ava

wips taglist (ask to be added or removed!) @shaelinwrites @august-iswriting @wildswrites @nodeadnarrators @annlillyjose @shaonharryandpannisim @letsgetsquiggly @strangerays @mel-writes-with-her-dragons @dallonswords @teaandtypewriters @chewingthescenery @kahaaniyaa @coffeeandcalligraphy @47crayons @writing-is-a-martial-art

#when we drown #writing update #when we drown update #writers on tumblr #my writing #writeblr #am writing #original writing

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winter-fox-queen · 3 years ago

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Kisses Like Wine Part 5

Warnings: Cursing, some not very nice dealings to not very nice people, angst.

Summary: Despite his best efforts, you catch up to the Thief…but the consequences are far from what you hoped for.

That bastard had no right to look that good in a red velvet coat.

There he was, in his own private box, watching the opera like like he was the king of the world, opera glasses looking fragile and delicate in his hand.

Concentrate. He’s here for the same reason you are. And you are damned well going to beat him to his prize.

Her brother had come through. Found out who owned the auction house — I’d managed to find out about the discrete, underground auctions when I worked at Gambrel’s. I found out that the couple would be here tonight, all I had to do was see if I could find a way to get their key card fir the suite at the hotel they were staying at. Apparently they did not live in Rome, and only came in when they had things to sell.

They were older than I imagined. The woman looking elegant and patrician, her husband looked like a oversized fire hydrant. Their body language was not what I expected. They seemed to like each other very much, a fondness of many years together That made me a little envious. I’d followed them from the hotel, managed to see where he put the key card. I’d been careful…I heard whispering of how they made their money, and if it as true they where Not to be Messed With.

So, of course, I was planning on messing with them.

I snuck into a seat not too far behind them, but hopefully out of the path of The Theif’s gaze, and tried to be patient. I would move during intermission. Then I would have a whole half an opera and late dinner to break in and get what I wanted.

I glanced back up at the thief. He was too beautiful, and I liked looking at him far too much. His question about why I wanted the star was bothering me. What was the point? I followed him because he told me to. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Because I hoped if I retrieved the star I’d be…more equal. More accepted? I probably have about as much of my family’s love and acceptance I was probably going to get, but the idea of being the hero was alluring.

Maybe even as alluring as the Thief.

I was pretty angry with him, honestly. I knew he drugged me, I felt slightly drunk and out of it for a moment, enough disorientation to give him a chance to flee. It was stupid, probably, to be disappointed. If a tiger bites you, do you yell at it? Or do you accept that you shouldn’t have petted it in the first place?

Intermission. Finally. I followed them at a pace. I actually wanted to see if he would approach them first. So I hid. Followed, pretended to join a group and nod wisely until they noticed me and I muttered apologies and moved on. The place was a crush of people drinking, talking, discussing the opera. Perfect.

There. Flash of deep velvet. He was moving nonchalantly, as if he had nothing to do, closing in along her right side, away from her husband…so I did something awful. I pushed the elegant woman right into his arms. The Thief had two choices, let her fall, or catch her.

He caught her.

I went in, dipped into the man’s pocket, grabbed the wallet and left, letting the jostling of other people and his distraction with a very handsome man holding his wife cover up my actions.

I extracted the key card, turned the wallet in at the bar, and left quickly.

It was all so smooth. I felt fairly cocky. It was all so simple.

Until I got to the safe. I found it fine. There were only so many places to look. But I sat there, cross legged, my tight, elegant dress pushed up so I could sit comfortably on the floor, and realized I was completely out of my element. I fiddled with the edge of my latex glove and worried.

“It’s not in there.”

I squeaked. Like a damned mouse. I turned and hurled a shoe at him, and he ducked.

He smirked at me.

“How did you get in?”

“She had a keycard in her purse…thank you for throwing her into my arms. That made things so much easier.”

I stood. “You are so…insufferable. Yes. Don’t you dare look hurt, you know you are. Now. How do you know it’s not in there? There’s no where else it could be.”

He leaned against the low dresser and shrugged.

“Fine.” I shooed him away and returned my attention to the safe.

“I’m telling you, you are wasting your time.”

“Why should I believe you? You who love to drug me, lie to me…”

“I don’t love that at all.” He had the nerve to sound actually hurt rather than the fake hurt of earlier.

“So either tell me where you think the diamond is, or open the damned safe.”

He smirked at me. “They aren’t going to put a million dollar jewel in a hotel safe…but they might put something less expensive looking in there.” He got out his phone and started playing with the screen. The safe made a sound. I knelt and opened it.

“Well?” He asked.

“You had an app on your phone to open a hotel safe?”

“Absolutely. Hotel safes are worthless, might as well keep your valuables in a locked drawer under some tampons.”

I caught the dig, glared at him. “Everyone’s a comedian. I have an iPad, and a slip of paper.” A slip of paper wrapped around a USB key.

He held out his hand, and I gave him the iPad.

“No, that’s useless…I want the paper.”

I smiled and pushed it down into my bodice.

He stepped closer to be, his eyes dark. “Do you think I am above retrieving that?”

I looked up into his eyes. They were almost completely black, and I shivered. I was filled with the need to feel those large hands, cupping my breasts, stroking my skin. I cleared my throat and said, “The play ended forty five minutes ago. They probably got to Francesco’s for their reservation about ten minutes after that…the place right across the street from the opera house. That means that we probably only have a half an hour left before they get here, so I suggest…”

The elevator dinged. We looked at the still closed door.

“There are three rooms on this floor,” I said softly.

“Not booked.” He threw the iPad back into the safe and closed it. I ran to the window.

“No ledge,” I shot him a panicked look.

The coat closet. They might use that. The Bathroom. They would definitely use that. The bedroom…sneak under the bed, and wait?

He grabbed my waist swept us behind the door as it opened. He sprayed something in their faces and they fell before they were even truly across the thresh hold.

“Now what? If they come to they’ll know…”

“And they’ll change the code you are so obligingly keeping for me in your bosom. So…we must get them ready for bed.” He grabbed the man by the wrists and pulled him the rest of the way in, as I shut the door.

“I don’t…”

He looked me in the eye. “If you woke up naked in your husband’s arms, would you say you didn’t remember how you got there?”

“That’s…that’s horrifying on so many levels. I mean…she does not look like a woman who would be happy with strangers seeing her naked.”

“I don’t want to see other of them nude, but unfortunately someone interfered with my plans and now we have to improvise and hope for the best.”

I started to help him. “I cannot believe this is the first plan you came up with.”

He shot me an annoyed look. So, we improvised.

A short time later we were back on the sidewalk again. “I am going to feel horrible about that for the rest of my life,” I informed him as the cool night air hit my face again.

“We were as polite and gentle as possible. And, in truth, neither of them will ever find themselves guests at a cocktail party in heaven.” He turned to me. “Now, as for you…”

“No. No you don’t. You don’t get to come close enough to drug me or seduce me. Ever. You want the USB, you have to follow me to the warehouse.”

He walked a circle around me. “You are not dressed for the occasion.”

I followed him the best I could. I could feel the bite of the USB under my right breast. “I can adapt.”

“You can. You do. I am impressed with you,” he said in his most satin voice.

“Stop it.” There was a plea edging my words.

“What is your price?” He said, so close his breath ghosted over my bare shoulder. I stepped away quickly, turned. He raised his hands, all innocence.

“You won’t pay it. Now stop this…stop this seduction garbage. You don’t want me. You want the damned USB.”

“I’ll pay. Oh, I’ll pay. My first honest transaction in years. Now. The price?”

I shook my head, I felt overwhelmed. Conflicting hopes and thoughts churning away inside of me, and I couldn’t tell anyone.

“The Star. For your family. Will that give you what you want?”

“What else can I have?”

He gave an expansive shrug, haloed in the yellow street lamp like a Renaissance saint. “What do you want?”

“What about you? Are you on the table?”

He stopped. “No.”

“But you told me to come find you.”

He looked away. I felt like I’d stolen all his lines, and now there he was, naked and exposed on the stage.

“And you did.” His face closed like an iron door. “Good job.”

I’d misread him. I thought I’d understood this wild chase, but I’d been fool. What did I expect? I didn’t even know his name. “I don’t want anything from you, then.” I said, and I pulled the USB out of my bodice. It caught, it was not a smooth motion, it was awkward and I felt stupid, my grand gesture of throwing it at him ruined. It bounced off him and fell in the street. “I’m tired of you. You’re no better than my family.” I didn’t look up to see how the words hit, I just kept walking.

Thank you to you lovely people for being on my tag list, if you want added or dropped just let me know. <3

@grogusmum @mishasminion360 @hnt-escape @littlemisspascal @pedro4ever @writteninthestars18 @fromthedeskoftheraven @sharkbait77

@quica-quica-quica @eri16 @the-blind-assassin @ayoungpascallover-readings @songsformonkeys

#casillero diablo wine Commercial #The Thief #Pedro Pascal

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slapshot-to-the-heart · 4 years ago

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When We Went From Friends to This - a. beauvillier

One day late, but here it is! I’ve been studying for the LSAT, but finally took it today, so I’ll have some more time to be writing more regularly now. Title is from Taylor Swift’s Paper Rings. I loved getting to write this, so please please let me know what you think, my inbox is always open! Reading the tags is one of my favorite things to do, and reblogs help me know people are liking my work.

word count: 7.7k+

September 18 (sat)

Astride Leclair was the kind of person you always wanted on your side. She’d drop anything for a friend, always be the first to reach out, and would never give up on something — or someone — without a fight. She was also incredibly stubborn. Astride had also always had a penchant for adventure, which is how she found herself in a new job 600 miles and one international border from her hometown. And she hated asking for help, it really didn’t matter the circumstance. Which is how she found herself alone, trying to heft an armchair up the stairs of her new apartment building after being very rudely informed by the width of the elevator door that it wasn’t going to fit.

The lump sum her firm gave her for relocation was enough to cover a fair amount of the furniture for her new place and she tried to bring as much as she could on the drive down, but it wasn’t like she was about to rent a U-Haul and there was only so much a Honda Civic could hold. And Astride was still her father’s daughter, still would rather step on a rusty nail than pay Ikea for assembly, so by God she was going to do it herself. And “doing it herself” apparently meant dragging an 80 pound box up three flights of stairs in 90º heat in September, when New York City seemed to have not quite yet gotten the memo that the rest of the Northern Hemisphere was now in fall.

Astride finally managed to get the chair in the door, propping the door open with one of her moving boxes, unceremoniously pulling the box through the entryway as she scooted backwards into the living room. The 600 square foot expanse of her apartment was covered in boxes, more boxes, and for good measure, extra boxes. There were moving boxes, furniture boxes, shoeboxes filled with anything except for actual shoes. There was her guitar leaning against the microwave, three suitcases worth of clothes in the barely-assembled bedroom, and her dog in a crate in the corner, who had started to whine.

“I know, baby, I’ll get you out soon,” Astride said, shooting a sympathetic glance towards the beagle mix. She had adopted Poutine a little over a year ago, soon after starting her first job out of university. It was never a question whether or not she would make the trip with Astride, and thankfully it was much easier than she anticipated to find a dog-friendly apartment in Brooklyn. It wasn’t too long a walk to Prospect Park, a little under a mile, and she was looking forward to getting out with Poutine later in the day. If, that was, she actually finished unpacking enough boxes to function like a normal human being. She had picked up her mattress-in-a-box earlier in the day, but it was still sitting in the corner of her bedroom and she wasn’t particularly looking forward to a night on the hardwood floor.

---

Three hours later, Astride had finally gotten all of the boxes out of her car and began to make decent headway on assembling the chair, finally having let Poutine out of her crate. The beagle trotted around the apartment, sniffing the baseboards, boxes, and single bag of groceries Astride had picked up from Whole Foods earlier in the day. The rest of her Ikea order was coming the next day, the actual bedframe and couch along with a couple of other larger furniture pieces that she had had to leave in Montréal. Whatever she couldn’t order online she’d find at a thrift store.

Astride looked tiredly over at the kitchen. She really wasn’t in the mood to cook, and was in even less of a mood to dig through all the boxes until she finally found her set of pots and pans. She really should have taken her mom’s advice and labeled everything, but Astride was stubborn as a mule, and once she was stuck in her ways, there was precious little anyone could do to convince her otherwise. Pulling out her phone, she navigated to her Uber Eats, feeling a tiny pang in her heart as she switched her location to New York. Not the language, though. Astride was so hungry that she literally clicked on whatever place could get there the fastest, which ended up being a Chinese place a mile or so away. After placing her order — she got an extra box of chow mein so she wouldn’t have to deal with breakfast the next day — she settled back into the hair, the only fully-assembled piece of furniture in the whole apartment. Her finger hovered over her Instagram for a moment before she clicked on it, liking a few photos before going to post one of her own. It was a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge as she crossed it that morning, Poutine’s head lolling out the front window. One tap and one caption later, it was posted.

---

Anthony flopped onto his bed, his duffel landing with a satisfying thump on the floor beside him. Training camp had just ended, and while he’d certainly been keeping up on his workouts over the summer, the hours upon hours of skating had nevertheless made him more than a little sore. He grabbed his phone, opening up Instagram and scrolling through the new posts, only half paying attention. Astride’s new photo caught his eye.

Sometimes, needing a change means a new haircut. Sometimes, it means a new country. Very excited to start this next chapter in my life. Salut, New York! Anthony quickly clicked onto her profile page and read her bio. International economics analyst. Eating my way through the world one pancake at a time. BCom McGill. MTL-NYC. He read the last line over and over again. MTL-NYC. He swiped back to the photo; she had tagged herself in Brooklyn. Brooklyn. She was less than an hour away, not even thirty if the traffic wasn’t bad. But she hadn’t told him, she hadn’t said anything. Anthony felt a pang in his heart. Astride knew who he played for — obviously — and she knew that of course he’d want to see her any time they were even remotely in the same place. She knew that. Right?

He spent the next twenty minutes typing out a message to her. Then deleting it. Then retyping it. Then continuing the type-delete-retype cycle until his head was spinning. This was his best friend. Why was he so nervous to talk to her? Because she was his best friend, and as much as he hated to admit it, he really wasn’t sure where they stood. He hadn’t been sure for a long time. Hey Asty! He internally cringed at himself at the use of her old nickname. I saw you moved to New York, that’s amazing! I’m over on Long Island, so I’d love to catch up with you for coffee or something when you get a chance. It’s been too long :)

It might have been a little petty — scratch that, it definitely was petty — but Astride didn’t respond to his text that night. She didn’t have read receipts on, thank God, but it sat in her messages, without response, like something she was too scared to confront. And she didn’t even know why. Okay, fine, she knew exactly why. She had moved and suddenly they were in the same city for the first time since they were kids and he was, had been, her best friend, but why now of all times? It’s not like he was never in Montréal during the year, or like they couldn’t have committed to a weekly FaceTime or something, or at least texted more than once a month. He could have done something. And that something, that lack of a something, was what kept her from responding until the next morning, tapping out a text as she halfheartedly made her way through a bowl of oatmeal. Hi, Tito, just saw your text! Lie. I did, an opportunity for a transfer came up and I decided to take it. I figured you were pretty close by, so it would be great to catch up. I don’t start at the office for a week, if you’re free any time between now and then. That much was true. She wasn’t stupid, she knew the Islanders played on, well, Long Island, and as much as she wanted to still hold a grudge against him, her heart ached at the prospect of finally being able to see him again.

Anthony responded almost instantly, Astride having just closed the door to the dishwasher — a luxury in New York, she was told — before seeing her phone light up with the telltale bubble. I’d love to, we just finished up training camp so I’m more or less free aside from practices. A second later. Is brunch still your favorite meal?

Astride laughed. It didn’t surprise her that he remembered, but it was still touching to see him say something about it. It is.

How about Tuesday? I’ll send you the directions. It’s this little café in Flatbush, I think you’ll love it.

I’m counting on it.

September 26 (sun)

Brunch had turned into dinner, which had turned into going to a Broadway show — Anthony had insisted the moment she told him she’d never been — which had turned into him coming over for Saturday night movies, an old habit of the pair’s from their days back in Québec. Which had turned into two movies and two bottles of wine, which had turned into Tito sleeping over on the couch instead of driving the thirty-odd minutes back to his apartment. Poutine sniffed him curiously, nudging one hand with her head. Astride stifled a giggle, opening the door to the balcony. “He’s very sleepy, Poutine. It’s not good manners to wake up your guests.”

“Even when they fall asleep on your couch and steal all your blankets?” Anthony said sleepily from behind.

Astride wheeled around, greeted by a half-awake Anthony Beauvillier, who was indeed bundled in all of the blankets she owned that weren’t actively on her bed. “Tito! Oh my God, you scared me. How’d you sleep?”

He shrugged. “Not bad, about as well as can be expected.” He tapped his phone, cursing when he realized it was dead. “Do you know what time it is?”

She glanced down at her watch. “8:52, why?”

Anthony jumped up, throwing his shirt back on and grabbing his still-dead phone. “I’m supposed to meet Mat for breakfast at 9:30, and the place is,” he paused for a moment, running through the grid system in his head, “probably half an hour away? I’m never the late one, can’t break that streak now.”

“Gotcha.”

He grabbed his keys, looking back at her. “Why don’t you come? You’re already dressed, and you remember Mat, right?”

She wiggled her hand. “Kind of?” She crossed the room, letting Poutine back in. “You only want me for my charged phone and navigation system.”

“You got me,” he said, laughing.

---

“You named your dog Poutine?” Mat snickered, taking a bite of his eggs.

“Would you rather I named him Tim Horton?” Astride deadpanned. “He’s a good Canadian boy with a good Canadian mom. He needed a good Canadian name.”

Mat raised his coffee mug, tilting it over towards her. “Touché.”

Anthony waved his hand in front of Mat’s face, trying to catch his attention from where he was utterly preoccupied with destroying his sourdough toast. “Hey, Mat.”

“Mmm?” He glanced up.

“Did you know that Astride lives right by Barclays? Like, right by Barclays?”

His eyebrows rose. “No way?” Astride nodded. “That’s a great area, would have been awesome if you were here a couple of years ago. Short walk to the games.”

“That’s what I told her yesterday,” Tito responded.

---

“You’re kidding,” Anthony said, looking up at her building, then across the street to Barclays, then back to Astride, one hand tangling through his hair. “We used to play right across from here.”

Astride laughed. “I thought about that,” she said. “You know I still watched your games, right? Even after we fell out of touch?” Anthony shook his head. “You were still someone I cared about, are still someone I care about, even when we only talked a few times a year.”

Beau stood there, unable to formulate a complete sentence. As far as he knew, the last Islanders game she watched had been the 2016 opener, his NHL debut and her first year at McGill. Why did he assume that? Why did he assume the worst? You can care about people even when they’re not in your life anymore. And sometimes, if you get really, really lucky, they come back.

October 9 (sat)

“Ebs is having a barbeque thing over at his house this weekend, just stuff to celebrate the beginning of the season if you wanted to come. No pressure if you’ve got plans already, though,” Anthony said over the FaceTime.

Astride nodded enthusiastically. “That sounds great, I’d love to come! Just let me know when to show up and what to bring, and I’ll be there.”

It was almost a fifty-minute drive for Astride from her apartment in Prospect Heights to the house in Garden City, but there wasn’t too much traffic and besides, she had always liked driving. So she set off in her Civic, plugged her music in, and headed down 495. Anthony met her outside of the house, greeting her with a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek as he cocked his head towards the backyard. “Party’s this way. Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

Astride dutifully followed, trying not to let her nerves take hold of her. Everyone might have already been Beau’s friends, but she didn’t know them, or the dynamic of everyone’s relationships, or really, what to expect at all.

He noticed her apprehension, stopping her with a feather-light touch on her arm just before walking through the back gate. “Hey, Asty. What is it?”

She let out a little huff, still upset that he could read her like a book even after all this time. “I’m just worried that I’ll feel like I’m intruding on everything, like everyone already has their friends and a group and everything, and here comes some random Québécoise who’s a friend of Tito’s—”

He laughed, turning her around to face him. “Astride, they’re going to love you. As long as you’re the hilarious, witty, caring person I know you are, they’re going to love you as much as I do, and you’re going to fit in just fine. Do you trust me?”

She gave a tiny nod. “Yeah.”

He smiled, squeezing her hand. “Good, now come back, everyone’s waiting.”

They walked through the gate, greeted by a crowd of smiling faces as Anthony brought her around to everyone to make their rounds. There was Anders, he was the captain, and his wife. There was Jordan and Lauren, and she already knew Mat, and JGP — who was excited to have another person to speak French to — and a dozen or so others, along with their respective partners and children. Anthony had gone over to talk to Mat and some of the other players, while Astride had wandered over to the drinks table. Some of the other women were chatting nearby; one of them caught Astride’s eye and waved her over to join them.

“Beau didn’t tell us he was bringing anyone!” one of the women said, pulling her over to the group with a bright smile and handing her a glass of sangria.

“Mhm,” she replied, taking a sip of the drink. “I’m new to the city, obviously, so I think he wanted me to have some people I know outside of just work.”

They all nodded. “How long have you two been together, though?” another asked. “I didn’t even know he was seeing anyone, did you?” She looked around at the others, who shook their heads as Astride’s eyes bulged.

“Together? No, no, we’re not together. We’ve been best friends for ages, but,” she shook her head.

“Could have fooled me,” Lauren said with the smallest of winks.

Astride suddenly became very interested in the floating berries in her sangria. She looked over at Anthony, who was throwing his head back, laughing at something one of the rookies had said, and smiled. But Lauren’s words kept lingering in the back of her mind. Could have fooled me. Okay, it wasn’t like it was the first time they had been mistaken for a couple; whenever she’d make the trip up to Shawingan to visit him when he was in the QMJHL, more than once she’d have to explain to his teammates that no, she wasn’t Beau’s girlfriend, they were just best friends who had known each other forever. Just best friends.

Astride had always equated her lingering feelings for Anthony to the nostalgia of a childhood crush, the safety and security that came with remembering something from a time that seemed so simple and so easy. But childhood crushes didn’t last for ten years. And that wasn’t something she hadn’t wanted to come to terms with, something she’d been putting off for years if she was being honest with herself.

“You didn’t tell me Astride was coming,” Mat commented, seeing her mid-laugh in conversation with the other girls.

Anthony nodded. “Yeah. She didn’t have any plans for the weekend and I thought it would be nice to introduce her to everyone. I remember how shitty it felt to be in a new city away from your family, don’t want her to be lonely. Plus, I genuinely think she’ll fit in great with everyone.”

Mat hummed his agreement. “She’s changed since Switzerland, don’t you think?” he asked appreciatively, referring to over five years ago, the last time he had seen her in person.

“Don’t even think about it,” Beau mumbled to Mat, seeing his eyebrows go so far up they were hidden in his hairline.

“I see a hot girl, I appreciate a hot girl,” Mat shrugged. “But don’t worry, I won’t try anything. I know she’s off-limits.”

The rest of the afternoon passed quicker than she would have thought, and after a few hours and more good conversations, it was time for Astride to leave. “Have a safe drive back,” Anthony said, giving her a hug.

“I will,” she responded.

He opened the driver’s side door for her. “I’m really glad you came, you know. Everyone liked you, you fit in great.”

“It wasn’t all me,” she said, sliding into the seat, turning her head to Anthony to continue the conversation. “Everyone really did seem to go out of their way to make me feel included, I think they understood the feeling of moving to a whole new place without a big support system and wanted to do what they could to help mitigate that for me.” Astride consciously left out Lauren’s little comment, four words that had been bouncing around in her head for hours since they had been said. He didn’t need to know. She didn’t need him to know, it could confuse him and complicate things when they were just getting back into the rhythm of friendship, of being each other’s person.

Anthony tapped his fingers on the car door. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

Beau went to sleep that night, Mat’s words bouncing around in his head. “I know she’s off-limits.” It’s not like Cass was his sister or something, someone who would inherently be barred from his best friend’s dating pool. But Mat seemed to know right away, without having ever been told, that she wasn’t someone he could ever even consider pursuing. Why? And what did Mat seem to know that he didn’t?

November 12 (fri)

It was early November, and Anthony and Astride had just settled down at a table in Prospect Park, coffee cups warming their hands through the late fall chill. “How do you feel about last night?” Astride asked teasingly. He had a three point game, two goals and an assist in a 4-1 win over the Canes, so there really wasn’t any question that he was still riding on the high.

Beau rolled his eyes. “Good, obviously. It would have been nice to get a hat trick, but I know that’s asking for a lot and I didn’t want to tempt fate too much. They made a really good push late in the second.”

“But you won,” she said, poking his shoulder with the hand that wasn’t wrapped around her mocha.

“But we won,” he agreed. He suddenly got quiet, the kind of quiet where, if you know the person well enough, you can tell that something’s up. That they’re thinking of something. And Astride was right. “Do you ever think about Switzerland?” he asked.

Astride looked at him from the side, knowing right away that he wasn’t asking about the country. “All the time,” she admitted.

---

It was the spring of 2015, and they were in Lucerne. By they, Astride meant her, Tito, and the rest of the 2015 Canadian U18 World Cup team. And by in Lucerne, she meant crowded into someone’s hotel room with no adult supervision. Anthony wasn’t sure where any of the coaching staff had gone, but if he was being honest, he was riding on way too big of a high to even care. They had clinched the bronze medal earlier that day, celebrating with the family and friends who had made the trip out, gotten dinner, and then packed into the first team room they came to. Well, technically, Astride, Tito, and Mat had made a stop at the grocery store before meeting everyone else back in the room. The drinking age in Switzerland was 16 for everything but spirits, and everyone was planning on taking full advantage of that. The cashier gave them a look as she took her and Anthony’s French licenses and Mat’s English one, but the charge went through just fine, and fifteen minutes later they were walking back through the doorway with three cases of beer and a few bottles of sparkling wine for good measure. Astride had never been so grateful to have her own checking account.

“You ever drink before?” Mat asked her as they opened the cases.

Astride shrugged. “Not really. A glass of wine every now and again back home with my parents, but nothing too crazy.”

He held out a bottle for her, fishing around in his pocket for the bottle opener they had picked up at the store. “Have fun.”

And have fun Astride did. She had finished off two of the beers, and one of the younger teammates — she didn’t remember who — had popped open the wine. In his slightly inebriated state, it took longer than it should have to twist off the muselet, which then led to foam all over the floor and fifteen sixteen and seventeen-year-olds running to the bathroom to grab towels to try and mop it up with. And then running back to the bathroom to get the water glasses because they needed something to drink it out of, right? And then to everyone else’s rooms because they quickly realized that two cups definitely wasn’t enough to go around, and then everyone was back in the room, on the beds and around the beds, finally letting themselves celebrate. Astride was just finishing her glass when Mat spoke. “Anyone up for never have I ever?” Nobody said otherwise, so two minutes later, they were all arranged in what could very generously be called a circle, fresh drinks in hand. After a solid five minutes of repeating the rules — there was always at least one person who seemed to genuinely struggle with the idea that you drank if you had done the thing, not if you hadn’t — they were slowly but surely making their way around the circle.

Questions ranged from the mundane — “Never have I ever gotten detention” — to the raunchy — “Never have I ever had my parents walk in on me” — neither of which Astride or Tito drank to.

By the time it was Mat’s turn, he had had plenty of time to think, looking around the group with a conspiratorial grin. “What is it?” Tito asked skeptically.

He shrugged. “Never have I ever...kissed anyone in the circle.” As expected, nobody drank, but apparently that wasn’t expected, not for Mat, at least. He looked between Anthony and Astride incredulously. “Seriously? You two have never kissed?”

Anthony shook his head. “Nope.”

“How? You’ve been friends for, like, a million years, not even when you were little or anything?” he asked.

“Never,” Astride said. “Kind of hard to kiss your best friend when you haven’t kissed anyone before.” She barely even realized that everyone was still listening in.

“You’ve never kissed anyone?” Anthony asked, surprised.

Astride looked down at her hands, sipping her beer. “Nope.” She gave him a brief smile. “I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but no. Just hasn’t happened yet.”

Maybe it was the alcohol talking, or maybe it was feelings buried so deeply in Anthony’s mind that he didn’t think would ever see the light of day, let alone have to be confronted, that made him say what he did next. “I could—if you wanted—you don’t have to, but—” he stammered.

Astride laughed, looking at him curiously. “What is it, Tito? You’re not normally one to stumble over your words like that.”

He picked at his fingernails, an old nervous tick from his childhood that his mother was never quite able to get him to break, keenly aware that the whole room had decided to listen into their conversation. “I was just trying to say...I could do it, if you want. Kiss you, I mean. If you just wanted to get it over with, or whatever. I just figured. You know me, you trust me, you’re comfortable with me. Better that than some idiot at school who doesn’t care about you.”

Her cheeks burned as she looked over at him, but even though it took her nearly a minute to respond, she had her answer after five seconds. “Why not?” Astride flashed him the purest, gentlest smile, the kind that let him know just how much she cared about him and how deeply she trusted him. And the look on her face meant the world to him.

Anthony leaned in, his hand coming up to rest on her shoulder, his fingertips just barely touching her cheek as their foreheads leant together. “You sure about this?” He needed her to be sure.

She nodded. “I’ve had a couple of drinks, and I never imagined my first kiss would be in front of an audience,” she paused to giggle at the rest of the team, who were giving the scene their full attention in a way that somehow wasn’t uncomfortable at all, just wholesome and supportive, “but yeah. I’m sure.”

That was all the permission Anthony needed to lean forward, pressing his lips against hers, in a kiss that was soft and sweet and somehow everything Astride needed all in one. He pulled back after a moment, a goofy smile on his face. “How was it?”

Astride couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “Good, it was really good, Tito. Thank you for that.”

“What are friends for?”

---

“Friends are for kissing each other, apparently,” Astride giggled, leaning into Anthony on his couch.

He laughed, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over her arm. “Did you ever think something was going to happen between us?” Anthony asked curiously.

Astride shrugged. “At some point, yeah. I think it was kind of hard not to, with our parents and literally everyone we spent time with saying we were destined to fall in love.” She looked down at her hands, trying not to give away the fact that at one point, she had believed them.

November 30 (tues)

“Do you want to come over Friday?” Anthony asked, sprawled out across her couch on one of his rare nights off. He had made the drive over to Astride’s apartment, cooking salmon and roasting vegetables while she took the much more daunting task of picking what to watch on Netflix. She settled on Back to the Future. “I can order in Thai, I know we’re trying to work our way through the Mission Impossibles.”

Astride grimaced. “I actually...kind of have a date Friday night,” she admitted.

Anthony made a hum of surprise. “You do?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t act so shocked, Tito. There are men in this city of nine million who want to take me out.”

He sputtered. “It’s not that that shocks me, Asty. You’d have men lining up around the block for you if you’d give any of them a second glance. It’s just that. You never seem to bother actually going after any of them. What made this one different?”

“I mean, honestly hour?” Astride said, shrugging.

“Honestly hour.”

“I haven’t been on a date since I left Montréal, you know that. It had been a few months there too. And I’ve loved hanging out with you more, getting to know Mat and the team and everyone’s partners, but...I needed something different, too. Something that felt like a part of my life that wasn’t directly connected to the team. Which, don’t get me wrong,” she added hastily, “I love them, and it’s been so nice to be a part of that group, I just…” Astride trailed off.

“You can’t let that be the only part of your life. I get it,” Anthony added helpfully.

“Yeah,” Astride agreed. “So enter Cole. He works in a different division of the IE department, I’m obviously Europe and he’s Asia, mostly does work with Taiwan and Singapore. Um,” she said, her eyes turning towards the ceiling, “he seems really nice, did international business at UPenn, which is a great program. Speaks fluent Mandarin, uh, I think he mentioned he’s got a few fish at home.”

Anthony snorted. “What’s wrong with fish?” Astride asked defensively.

“Nothing, nothing’s wrong with fish,” he said. “Just seems like an odd choice. Maybe his building doesn’t allow pets or something.”

“Maybe,” Astride responded. “I wouldn’t know, he lives in Manhattan, over in Tribeca. Bikes to work.”

Tito laughed again. “I don’t trust people who bike to work in New York City, Asty. They have zero regard for their own lives or safety.”

She giggled. “That might be true. But I’m looking forward to it, the date, I mean. I really am. It’s been a while since I’ve really put myself back out there, and I’m ready for something good. Something real.”

He gave a half-smile from his side of the couch. “I’m happy for you, Astride. I hope you have a great time, and I hope he treats you right. If he doesn’t, just let him know that you can sic an entire professional hockey team on him with a single phone call.”

“I will,” she said. “I’ll call you when it’s over, tell you how it went.” “

I’ll be waiting,” he said.

Anthony thought back on the conversation as he sat on the corner of his bed that night, about to go to sleep. He turned his phone over and over in his hands, his eyes fixating on the chip in the crown molding that he hadn’t gotten around to fixing yet. He wasn’t lying to Astride when he said he was happy for her. He was, of course he was, who wouldn’t want their best friend to be happy? But while he wanted nothing more, nothing more, than to be able to give his full-throated support for her date, and the potential the future held for her and this Cole guy, he couldn’t do it. There was something stopping him. And the worst part of it all was that Anthony was starting to realize what it was.

---

Astride had said that their dinner reservation was at 7, some brasserie in the West Village. “That’s a French thing, right?” Cole had asked.

“It is,” Astride responded, gearing up for her translation skills to be used for the first time in months. She spoke almost exclusively French around Tito, and with JGP and Brassard, but the majority of her day was spent in English. Cole said that the restaurant had come highly recommended from one of his Wall Street friends, something that should have been the first red flag.

“Never trust the finance bros,” Reese, a German specialist and one of her friends at the office, had said. “They all think they’re God’s gift to mankind when I can guarantee you they ain’t shit.”

She had said it was at 7, so Anthony wasn’t expecting to hear from her until much later; honestly, he would have been surprised if she had called before 10. He tried not to think about what it could mean if she didn’t call at all that night. She had said it was at 7, so when he heard a knock at his door at half past nine, he practically jumped out of his skin before scrambling to open the door. His eyebrows rose when he saw Astride on the other side of the door, then his face contorted into a look of sympathy as he saw the sad smile on her lips, her jacket slung over one arm.

“Can I come in?” she asked. He nodded without question, holding the door while stepping out of the way. He padded to the kitchen, bringing out a bottle of Moscato and two glasses. Astride smiled gratefully at him as he uncorked the bottle and poured. He knew that she couldn’t do red wine when she was upset, and she was upset.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked tentatively.

Astride shrugged, sipping the wine. “Not much to tell other than it was probably the worst first date I’ve ever been on.”

That piqued Anthony’s interest. He’d never be happy that she was upset, but something told him the story wasn’t quite that simple. “What about it was so bad?”

“Where do I begin?” she sighed. “He was on time, but that’s pretty much the only thing Cole did right the entire night. He was rude to the waitress when we had to wait all of ten minutes until our reservation was ready, because the couple ahead had gone long. Then he ordered the most expensive bottle of red wine they had, without even asking me to see what I wanted. He really just was trying to show off that he could afford it. And it was a Sangiovese, and you know I hate dry wines, so I was just trying to choke the whole thing down. And then he insisted on ordering for me, which is probably the most chauvinistic thing I could think of, I mean, who does that anymore?” she asked incredulously.

Tito shrugged. It was disrespectful, absolutely, but more than that, it was just weird. If women have mouths that work, then they’re more than capable of doing something as simple as ordering their own food.

“And he kept trying to pour me more wine after the first glass, even when I told him a million times I was good.” Anthony’s grip on his glass tightened. Astride rubbed her temples with her free hand. “He just kept going on and on about work, and this big promotion he’s insisting he’s going to get even though I know for a fact that they want Maria for it. I could barely get a word in edgewise. That’s when I just decided I couldn’t take it anymore. I faked that Jean-Claude was calling, grabbed my jacket, and caught a cab over here.” She looked up at him, the same disappointed expression she had worn when he opened the door. “I was really hoping this one would pan out, Tito.”

He felt an ache in his heart. He may have been less than thrilled about the prospect of Astride going out on a date, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less to see her so despondent. He leaned over, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear that had fallen loose. “I know, Asty. And I’m sorry it didn’t.”

December 13 (mon)

Anthony and Mat were the last ones in the locker room after a morning practice. “I found this new place nearby last week that’s got great smoothie bowls, want to get one after you finish packing your stuff?” Anthony asked, looking over at Mat.

“Yeah, yeah. Sure, Sounds good,” Mat nodded, half-listening.

Anthony glanced over at him, a weird look on his face. “You good, dude? You sound distracted.”

Mat spoke abruptly, looking over at Tito with a laser-focused expression. “How long have you been in love with Astride?”

Anthony’s eyebrows jumped a foot. “In love with Astride? Why would you think that?”

Mat gave him a look, the kind of look that let Anthony know he was dead serious about what he was saying, and more than that, that he believed it. “Tito, I’m dumb, but I’m not stupid.”

Anthony leaned forward, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “It’s that obvious?”

“Yep,” Mat said, popping the p.

“Do you think she knows?” His voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Mat said, shrugging. “I don’t think so, she doesn’t seem like the type of person to really be able to know about something as big as that and not address it. Doesn’t like to keep things bottled up, it’s not really her style.”

Anthony nodded. “It’s not.” He raked one hand through his haid, his head still leaning on the other one. “God. How do you tell your best friend you’re in love with her?”

Mat put one hand on Beau’s back, comforting him as best he could. “I don’t know, Tito. I wish I could help. What I do know,” he said, “is that you’re going to have to eventually. Because it’s going to tear you up if you don’t.”

December 18 (sat)

Astride tossed one final empty can into the garbage bag. “I think that’s it,” she said, giving his living room a cursory look. What had looked like a warzone only less than an hour before now more closely resembled the somewhat-messy but perfectly respectable bachelor pad of a man in his 20s, like it should have. With the holidays approaching, Anthony had decided to take it into his own hands to host a party — alongside Astride, who he had practically begged for help — intent on showcasing his newly-acquired skills by playing bartender the whole night. He was surprisingly capable, Astride had thought, if her Sazerac was anything to go by.

He smiled at her. “Thanks, Asty. And thanks for staying and helping clean everything up, you really didn’t have to.”

She tied the bag off and set it by the door with the other one. “I wanted to. And besides, I’m staying over,” she said, looking over at Anthony, “so what did you think I was going to do? Lock myself in the guest room while you cleaned up the whole apartment by yourself? What kind of a woman do you take me for?” she asked in mock offense.

Anthony laughed, sitting down on the couch with a satisfying thump, pulling Astride into his side when she settled next to him.

“I’m so glad we got back in contact,” she said, muffled against the fabric of his hoodie. “I’m so glad we’re friends again.”

He felt guilty; more than that, he knew that the guilt, at least some of it, was deserved. “I should have done more,” he lamented. “I should have done more to keep in contact, more to show you I cared, more so you’d know that your friendship is one of the things I value most in my life.”

Astride gave a small smile. “It’s a two-way street, Tito. Sure, I won’t lie and say that you really put all that much effort into keeping in contact. You didn’t.” He winced, she shot him a sympathetic look. “I love you, but you know me. I don’t mince my words. But I definitely could have done more than text you congratulations or leave a thirty-second voicemail on your birthday. We both could have done more. We both should have done more,” she said, correcting herself. “What do you think happened, though? Where did we go wrong?” As much as she might have hated it, Astride was that kind of person. She went through every bad decision in her life with a fine-toothed comb, needing to know what went wrong, needing to know what she could have done differently.

“I think,” he began, “that it was just so easy to get distracted from ‘back home’ things. From our friendship, from my relationships with my family. From the important things, the things that I should have made an effort to prioritize even when the season got hectic and games got hard. And I’m not trying to make excuses,” he added quickly, “but there was just something about where I was, physically and mentally. I was 19, a rookie in one of the biggest cities in the world, and I think I just lost sight of things. Between the practices and games and going out and community events and trying to get in more than five hours of sleep a night, it was a lot,” he admitted. “It was stressful, probably weighed on me more than I wanted to admit. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because I’m well aware I was — and am — living a life thousands of kids would kill for, but there’s a lot that goes on behind the scenes that you don’t really understand unless you’ve been through it. I don’t have many regrets from my rookie season, or really many in my career so far. Don’t regret moving for minors, don’t regret going to the Isles, don’t regret any of the contracts I’ve signed or plays I’ve made. Well,” he smirked, “maybe a few. But the one big one? The only real regret I’ve had? Letting you go.”

Astride swallowed hard, choosing her next words carefully. “What do you mean, letting me go?”

Anthony let out a hard sigh. He’d put it off for long enough. He couldn’t do it any longer. “Never telling you how I feel.”

“How you feel?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, her fingers tangling in the fringe of the fleece blanket that was slung over the couch cushions.

“Like I love you so much my heart could burst.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “How long have you known?”

He looked at her with a soft smile. “Ever since Switzerland.”

“Six years?”

“Six years.” He reached out slowly, so slowly, pushing a stray piece of hair behind her ear when she didn’t move back. They sat in silence for a moment, and when Anthony spoke again, his voice wavered. “Asty? Say something.”

Astride’s lifted her head, finally meeting his eyes. “I knew since I was 15.”

His face split into a grin, wider and wider until she was sure she’d never seen a bigger smile. “You did? You do?”

She nodded, leaning forward so their foreheads were touching. She put her hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat fluttering butterfly-fast underneath her fingertips. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been in love with you since I knew what love was, Tito.”

He pushed forward, pressing his lips against hers for the first time since 2015, the first time since Switzerland. It was gentle and meaningful and somehow communicated all of the love and emotion that had been built up between the two of them in the past six years. Anthony pulled back after a minute, his lips pink and slightly puffy. “Tell me where your head’s at, Astride.”

“Is it too cliché to just say that this might be the happiest I’ve been in years?”

He shook his head, smiling. “Not at all.” But there was something that she wasn’t quite letting go of. “What is it, Astride?”

Astride sniffed. “I want this. You and I, I want it so mad it hurts. I just hate the idea that we’d turn into some sort of cliché. Childhood friends who grow up and fall in love, but something goes wrong and they split up and suddenly the dynamic of everything is messed up and I don’t want that, Tito. I don’t know if I could deal with you hating me because of how things ended.”

“But things don’t have to end, Asty. Every broken heart, every date where some asshole has stood you up has led you to know that you deserve more. You deserve so much more, Astride, you deserve the sun and the moon and someone who would hang them in the sky for you. It doesn’t have to end in heartbreak. It doesn’t have to end at all.”

Astride had always been someone who was cautious, someone who thought before she acted and never spoke without thinking through every possible outcome. But this was one of the times that she couldn’t do that, one of the times when, as much as she may have hated it, she needed to take a leap of faith. And so she did. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Anthony asked, his voice lifting.

She nodded, the happiness on her face unmistakable. “Okay.”

And as Astride and Anthony FaceTimed her parents to break the news, her mom slapping her dad’s shoulder, claiming that she had “called it” back in 2014, Astride was filled with a sense of undeniable, irreplaceable joy. The kind of joy that the poets write about and artists put brush to canvas trying to depict, the kind that most people go their whole lives only hoping to get a glimpse of. The kind that made Astride more certain of one thing than she had perhaps been in her entire life. It didn’t have to end in heartbreak. And this one didn’t have to end at all.

And as they stood two years later in a little church in their hometown, promising in front of their family and friends and the entire New York Islanders to love each other for the rest of their lives, Astride finally believed it.

#anthony beauvillier #hockey smut #hockey writing #hockey imagine #hockey imagines #nhl imagines #nhl imagine #nhl smut #nhl writing #new york islanders

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imaginejamesandsirius · 4 years ago

Note

James and Sirius live together. during a meeting with friends, someone makes a comment that James is a terrible neighbor, to which Sirius either agrees or just laughs. despite the fact that it is a joke, James seriously thinks about it and comes to the conclusion that it is true. then James packs up his things to move out while Sirius is away, bc he knows that Sirius will try to talk him out of it (out of politeness?) Sirius catches him before he leaves. what happens next?

Adult parties were weird. When they were kids, parties were basically getting together with your friends while all your parents all talked. When they got a little older, they played games. They got to be teenagers and spent all their parties drinking while they played games.

Then they got to be the adults at parties-- without kids, for now at least-- and they were weird. James enjoyed himself. There wasn't any disputing that, but it was kind of weird. He didn't feel old, but all of them were sitting around-- well, okay, some of them were standing but his point remained the same-- sipping wine and snacking as they caught up.

Because that's all they did at these parties: they caught up with each other. He learned that Marlene's boss had come onto her even though he was married, Dorcas went and threatened him after it happened, and Lily had tried to be supportive about it all but mostly ended up laughing. Work complaints dominated the conversations since that's all any of them spent time doing, but most of them weren't as colourful as Marlene's. Little things. Like Mary's coworker that always asked to borrow a quill and never returned it, but she didn't feel like she could say no when they asked. Or Peter's boss, who always gave him enough time for a project, then asked why it wasn't done halfway through that time limit. James, for his part, liked to complain about the other people on the Quidditch team.

They were all still friends from Hogwarts, but that didn't mean the group hadn't expanded. James and Sirius were the only official couple-- less official and more like they were still dating between one party and the next-- but there were a few other people that were flatmates. James and Sirius lived together, obviously, and then there was Lily and Remus. Everyone else either lived on their own or with a flatmate that none of the rest of them knew. Alice's flatmate had been homeschooled, and apparently was very difficult to live with.

James didn't think anything about the way the conversation he was a part of moved to talking about the person you live with until Lily said to Sirius, "-and he said that James did the same thing in Hogwarts! And I was like 'er, if you want us to keep living together, you have to stop that right now and forever'. He said he'd think about it, but come on! It's like the worst thing in the world, isn't it?" and Sirius laughed. He didn't say, "Yeah, totally," or nod, but he laughed, and it made James feel sick to his stomach, like the wine was churning in his stomach.

"Remus has always been a bit of a tosser," is what Sirius actually replied, and it didn't make James feel any better. He hadn't really been part of the conversation, content to sit on the side and sip at his drink, sometimes paying attention and sometimes not.

It was a pretty unfortunate time for him to be paying attention, but it probably didn't mean anything. Him and Sirius got on each other's nerves sometimes with their little quirks; it didn't mean anything deeper.

James couldn't get it out of his head. He tried to tell himself that Lily had just been venting, Sirius had only replied to the part about Remus and not his own boyfriend, but the more he thought about it, the worse he felt.

He'd brushed it off by saying that him and Sirius had disagreements about their living habits sometimes, but that wasn't true, wasn't it? Sirius didn't do things that James didn't like; James did things that Sirius didn't like. Sirius would talk to him about it, James would get pissy, and they'd compromise.

Why the hell did they compromise? James liked to do everything his way, it's true, but Sirius had never been wrong when he complained. James did rubbish like leave food out overnight and never folded his laundry, and when Sirius asked him to be more mindful, James had pretty much refused. Oh he'd done it in a way that wasn't angry and came across as more joking, but he'd still refused. That had still been the end result: him refusing to do the simplest things. The 'compromise' had been for Sirius to doublecheck the counters before crawling in bed. The 'compromise' had been for Sirius to put the clothes on the couch when they were done, because if James could see it right next to him, he'd fold it just to have something to do with his hands.

And once he'd started thinking of that, he'd realised that he didn't really do a fair share of the household chores. He did dishes, and he cooked, but what else? He hadn't put a lot of thought to it before, but when was the last time he'd cleaned the toilet? Or the kitchen? He didn't do most of the regular household cleaning, and he was as hell didn't do any deep cleaning, like washing the drapes or scrubbing the windows-- both of which he'd seen Sirius do before. He'd always assumed that if Sirius wanted help, he'd ask for it. That had been a rubbish excuse, and he knew it now.

The only real question left was: why the sodding hell had Sirius put up with all of this for so long?

The answer, unfortunately, was obvious. He put up with it because he loved James.

James had never had to question whether or not Sirius loved him, because he said it all the time. When they graduated from Hogwarts, Sirius had told him that he never wanted to live without him. When they decided to move into the same room instead of having two separate beds, Sirius had told him that he loved him more than he'd known was possible. Over the years, it was obvious that that hadn't changed. Sirius still loved him; Sirius would let him get away with anything if it meant they were still together.

And again, compare Sirius's feelings on that to the disagreements they had when Sirius tried to talk to him about something that was bothering him, and it was just easier to let it go.

James knew that if Sirius was presented with the options of keeping James and having to do everything himself, or losing James and getting the perfect flatmate (or boyfriend), Sirius would choose him.

No matter how miserable he otherwise was, he'd choose James. He'd choose James because he honestly believed that he didn't deserve better-- he didn't think that he deserved James, either, but James had worked pretty hard on making sure that Sirius knew that he loved him too.

Sirius would never tell him to leave or be better. James could always try to be better-- and he certainly would be, in the future-- but for now, with Sirius, he knew that he couldn't salvage that. Not completely. He could get better about the chores and the laundry, but he wouldn't be able to trust that Sirius would tell him about any new problems they had. Hell, he couldn't even trust, that he'd caught everything. What else was there that Sirius wasn't drawing his attention to? How often did Sirius put aside what he wanted in favour of something James wanted?

There was no telling.

And James had no idea if Sirius would respond truthfully him if he asked.

There were other options. Better options, probably, but he couldn't think of any. He didn't believe that Sirius would communicate with him if he asked, and he had no way of knowing if what he was doing was wrong without it. Even with it, there was no guarantee that he'd be better.

James had to leave. He had to get away and clear his head. Do some self-reflecting and figure out what kind of person he was versus who he wanted to be.

He'd taken Sirius for granted; he'd taken his presence and his love for granted. He hadn't put in the effort that he should have. He knew that relationships took work, and he'd been putting in only half the effort that Sirius deserved.

Yeah. He needed space. He had to get time away from Sirius and get his head on straight. Did he want to live without Sirius? Of course not. Did he want to break up with Sirius? Hell no. But he thought that it would be better in the long run. For both of them. He had to remember that this was going to turn out for the best, for both of them.

It was still hard to start packing up his things. He'd have to talk to Sirius about it-- he wasn't going to just vanish without an explanation, and after everything else, Sirius definitely deserved to know what was happening-- but there was no need to draw it out. Sirius was at work, so James had plenty of time to get his clothes into the suitcase. He left anything that could've been considered both of theirs where it was. He hadn't put any effort into their life together, so he didn't have any claim to the objects that might represent it. Besides, what would he do with dishes? He was going to the Leaky while he looked for a new place; he wouldn't need dishes or a laundry basket or towels of his own. When he found a new flat, there'd be plenty of time to buy all those things.

James had to cast an expansion charm on his suitcase, and then he sat heavily on the couch.

Everything was packed. This was it. Sirius was going to get home in about an hour, and then he'd have to tell him that he was leaving. He didn't know how he was going to tell him. How the hell did he even start that conversation? 'We need to talk'? 'I need to tell you something'? That one made it sound like he was cheating.

He was going to go drop off his bag and book a room at the Leaky and then come back.

It would be... neater.

He got to his feet and picked up the suitcase. They didn't have a floo linked to their flat since they both preferred apparation, so he turned to the door, only to freeze in place when Sirius opened the door.

"Hey," Sirius said with a smile. He kicked off his shoes like he always did.

"You're home early," James said, feeling panic start to seep into him. His heart was hammering against his ribcage like it wanted to break free. He'd thought that he had more time until he had to do this. Another hour to get it in his head that it was the end and come to terms with it.

"Yeah," Sirius said, still not noticing that anything was amiss. "I figured I could call it an early weekend since I had to work so late the last two days." He stretched his arms over his head with a satisfied groan. "Working at a desk all day really doesn't do me any favours," he said, turning to James with a grin. That was when he noticed James's expression. "Are you alright?"

James reached up with his free hand and rubbed at his face. "Erm."

"What's with the suitcase? I'm pretty sure you have to tell your boyfriend before you go on holiday," Sirius joked. He knew that something was wrong, but he was still joking because he had no idea which direction this was going to go.

James felt like the worst person in the world. "I was going to the Leaky."

"Well that doesn't count as a holiday," Sirius said. He reached for James, and James stepped back. Sirius froze, hand in front of him. "James?"

He swallowed thickly. He hadn't planned what to say. He didn't know what to do that might soften the blow. "I'm moving out."

"What?"

"I-" James stopped, his throat working. "I'm leaving you. I'm going to stay at the Leaky until I find a new place."

Sirius was struck dumb. He stared at James with wide, disbelieving eyes, not moving.

James tightened his grip on the suitcase. He couldn't leave unless Sirius moved, and he wasn't going to push him to the side. When he'd made this decision, he'd agreed that he would tell Sirius why he was doing it. Not all of it, because Sirius would try to tell him that it wasn't true-- he'd say anything to make him stay-- but he deserved an explanation of some sort for all of the time they'd spent together. "I don't think we're happy together."

"What? I was happy. When weren't you happy? You always looked happy to me. If I did something that made you-"

"You didn't do anything," James said miserably. "I swear you didn't. I did some thinking and realised that I haven't been... I need some time to think. I need space, and I don't think that we were good together."

"We aren't good together?" Sirius repeated. "What the hell does that mean? We were perfect together."

He swallowed again. He knew that he had a lot to make up for, and a hundred different things to apologise to Sirius about, but he didn't want to get into that right now. If he brought it up, they'd just end up arguing. Once Sirius had some time to get used to them being apart, then they could talk about all the details. Rather, James could apologise, and maybe Sirius wouldn't argue with him over it. "I disagree. Look, I- I really think we should get some space from each other before we talk about it."

"No! There's no sodding point in putting it off if we can figure it out. James, just- for fuck's sake, listen to yourself," Sirius said, putting his hands on either side of James's face desperately. "We're happy. We've been happy, and we will continue to be for years. Nothing's changed. If you need some space, I can move to the other room for a few days. Or- hell, a month, however long it takes, but don't do this. We don't need to break up. You can sort yourself out here fine; you don't need to go the Leaky and make yourself miserable. Just stay here and everything will be fine."

James shook his head. No, nothing had changed, but that was the problem. James brought up a hand and put it on Sirius's arm to get him to let go, but he found his touch lingering, savouring. "I'm going to miss you," James whispered. He was going to miss going to bed next to him and waking up the next morning, warm and content. His smile, his laugh, the way he got everything wet after a shower because he didn't dry his hair, his leather jacket by the door, the way he kicked off his shoes like he couldn't stand them the second he was home... everything.

He leaned in, pressing a last kiss to Sirius's lips.

Sirius's grip on him went slack. "Please," Sirius whispered against his mouth as tears spilled over.

"I'm sorry." James pulled away and-

He walked out. It was as simple as that. One foot in front of the other. He fished the key from his pocket and dropped it before opening the door. He stepped through, closed the door, and turned on his heel, casting a spell he'd done a hundred times. It felt no different this time to disapparate and land in Diagon Alley right outside of the Leaky Cauldron.

It should've been easy to do all of that, but James could hardly breathe. Sirius was the best thing that had happened to him, and he'd just left him. Abandoned him.

He tried to shake that thought loose.

He didn't abandon Sirius. He told him that he was leaving. Sirius still had the flat and all his belongings, not to mention all his friends. He had plenty of people to turn to if he needed support. He'd be fine.

James had a length of parchment as long as his arm, and he'd been working on a comprehensive list of everything he'd done wrong in his relationship with Sirius. Not every little mistake and time he'd snapped when he was angry, but the patterns he'd fallen into. The things he'd done that showed a disregard for being part of a partnership.

The chores, the thing with the milk, the laundry, that all went on the list-- they were the first things he wrote down since they'd already been on his mind. He'd been staying at the Leaky Cauldron for a week now, and he felt like the list was complete. It was like a testament of his sins, of all the reasons he'd been right to leave because Sirius deserved so much better.

His mind told him it had been the correct decision at the same time his heart screamed in pain.

He missed Sirius. It was like missing half of his self. Any time he left to buy food instead of eating the inn's meals, he bought too much, like he was buying for two and not one. He'd see a ridiculous ad in the Prophet and wanted to turn the paper to show Sirius.

It was going to take a while for him to get used to the change. That's all this was. Sirius had been a part of his life for over a decade. He wasn't going to get used to not seeing him after only a week.

Someone knocked on the door, and James got to his feet to answer it, assuming it was Tom. He didn't know if Tom pitied him or if he did it for all the people that stayed there longer than a night, but he'd taken to checking in on James-- ostensibly to make sure the 'accommodations were still satisfactory'. He opened the door, and instead of Tom, it was Lily.

It was obviously a day that she had off from work, because she was dressed down, hair pulled back, and she wasn't wearing any makeup. "Hey," she said with a small smile. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah. Er, sure," he said, stepping back. There was a small table with two chairs in all the rooms, so James sat down and hid the list from view as she closed the door.

Lily walked over and took the other chair, crossing her legs and putting one arm on the table so she could lean onto it. "How've you been?" She knew about the breakup. James hadn't told anyone, but the sympathy in her face was hard to misplace. Not to mention that she'd known to look for him here.

"I'm fine," he lied. "How's Sirius?"

"A mess. It would almost be interesting to see what someone looks like after having their heart ripped out if I wasn't wondering what the hell you were thinking when you did it. So James, what the hell were thinking? This isn't like you. Sirius means the world to you, and he's hurting right now. You shouldn't be the cause of it, you should be there, comforting him."

"You didn't even ask what happened."

"You said you were fine. If you didn't think this was your fault, you would've been more open about it. Maybe not with me, because I know we don't talk about our feelings with each other all the time, but you would've given me something different than what you'd tell some sodding stranger." She took a deep breath. "Look. Sirius is miserable. You're miserable. You think it's your fault, which-- from where I'm standing-- means this is fixable. If you want to talk to me about it, I'm here. If you'd rather talk to someone else about it, I suggest you give them a visit very soon."

James knew that the smart thing to do would be to tell her that he had the situation in hand, but she was right; he was miserable, and more than that, he was tired of it. He wanted nothing more than to crawl into Sirius's arms and just exist with him again. "Do you remember that party a few weeks ago? You were whinging about something Remus does that drives you barmy."

"I remember."

"And Remus said that I did it too."

"Yeah."

"And Sirius laughed it off."

"I can't say I remember that part too well, but okay. Where are you going with this?"

"I'm terrible to live with. Any time Sirius tried to correct me on something, I blew him off, and he only ever did it for little things anyways. I'm- I was a horrible flatmate-- and by extension boyfriend-- and he didn't talk to me. For a couple things, yeah, he did try to talk to me and I didn't listen, but the rest of it? He never mentioned anything. He shouldn't have had to, I know that now, but it's... I couldn't ask for him to forgive all that."

Lily blinked, slowly digesting that. "So you broke up because you were doing a whole bunch of annoying things around the flat? Is that what you're saying?"

"It's not just the stuff around the flat; it's what it meant. Sirius was having to do everything, and I was acting like a tosser about it for no good reason."

She nodded. "I can see where you're coming from. You want my advice?"

"I'm not sure there's any advice to be given about a relationship that's already finished," James said.

"Do you want my advice or not?"

James motioned as if to say 'go ahead'.

"That's definitely a problem, but I don't think it's something worth breaking up over. Did Sirius say that it was bothering him? Rhetorical question, I know he didn't. He has no idea what's going on. He's convinced you fell out of love with him and never said anything."

"What?" James asked, aghast. "That's ridiculous!"

"You can get into that later. My point is that maybe you did have things that you needed to work on, but all of them combined still don't look like a good enough reason to breakup. You have a problem like that, and you talk about it. You don't bail."

"How would you know? You've never dated anyone for longer than two months. Sirius and I have been together since we were sixteen. It's not really the same."

"Lucky for you, then, that I'm not giving this advice based on my own personal experience. I've never found someone that I can get on with for long enough to have these problems, but I do pay attention. From where I'm sitting, it looks like you had a real problem in your relationship for the first time, and you panicked."

"I didn't panic," James denied. It was a bit of a lie because he had panicked, but it's not like he'd thought of it and then run for the hills. "I looked at the situation and came to the conclusion that we couldn't fix it."

"You came to that decision all by yourself? Without talking to Sirius?"

"That's what 'by myself' means, yes."

"And you don't see a problem with that? That you thought there was this big problem in your relationship and you didn't talk to your partner about it?"

"I'm not really hearing anything that makes me want to change my mind."

"I think Sirius deserves better from you."

James went quiet. "I told him," he said slowly, "that it wasn't his fault."

"Is there a reason you didn't tell him all of this?"

"Yes," James said and didn't elaborate. Lily was judging him enough without him admitting that he hadn't talked to Sirius because he didn't trust him to be honest.

With the time that had passed-- or maybe it was just the space-- that reason didn't sound as good as it had when he left.

He blew out a breath. "Look, thanks for coming by, but we can deal with this on our own."

Lily's expression was tight like she wanted to argue, but eventually she said, "Fine," and got to her feet. "Don't be afraid to owl if you ever want to chat or get tea or summat, yeah?"

"Yeah. It was good to see you."

She left, but the effect her conversation had on James lingered. Maybe he'd overreacted a little. He could've talked to Sirius about it. He should've. He hadn't wanted to bring all of it up with him though, only for Sirius to insist that it wasn't a big deal. He hadn't trusted Sirius to tell him the truth if it did bother him, and if Sirius hadn't realised before that it bothered him, he'd thought that with his absence, Sirius would figure it out.

But James was miserable, and if Lily was to be believed, Sirius was miserable too. The last thing James wanted was to make Sirius sad. He'd broken up with him because he'd genuinely thought that it was the best option.

He'd gotten the time and space that he'd asked for, and he'd changed his mind-- with a little help from Lily, but he wasn't in the mood to admit that to her. The next step would be to talk to Sirius about it, the way he should have from the beginning.

With a sigh, James got to his feet and put on his shoes. He'd check by the flat and see if Sirius was there. If he wasn't, then James would send him a letter and ask if he wanted to talk. The only reason he didn't do that first was because he didn't want to make Sirius worry. If he showed up and they could talk, it would be easier than planning a big meeting and letting both of them get anxious about it.

He walked down to Diagon before disapparating, landing on the welcome mat for their flat. He knocked on the door, then ran a hand through his hair anxiously. What if Sirius told him to get lost? What if they could've worked through the original issues, but James leaving was too much for Sirius to forgive?

The door opened, and James's mind went blank.

"Hey," Sirius said, reserved. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he'd always had trouble getting to sleep. He had his hair pulled back too, which usually meant that he was too tired to take a shower. Sirius looked basically the same way he always did, if a little more worn out; James probably looked a hell of a lot worse.

"Erm. Yeah, hi. Hello." James winced at how awkward that sounded, ruffling his hair some more. "I was... hoping we could talk? About us?"

"Yeah, sure," Sirius said easily, opening the door wide and stepping aside to give James space.

The door closed, and James turned to him, blurting, "Are you mad at me?"

Sirius blinked, confused. "Like, for breaking up with me? I mean, yeah, a little. It came out of nowhere, and you kept saying that we weren't happy together."

"That's not- I mean, yes, that's good to know, but that's not what I meant. Before that. When we were living together like normal. Were you mad at me?"

"No? What kind of question is that? Did you really move out because you thought I was mad at you for some imagined slight?"

"No."

"No?"

"It was more like-" James shifted his weight uncomfortably. "It was more like I thought about all the stuff you were doing around the flat that I refused to help with. Or that thing with the milk? All you did was ask me to put it away when I was done, and instead of saying yes like a good boyfriend, I sodding made you do it."

Sirius blinked at him again. "You left," he said slowly, "because you thought I was pissed off about the milk and the fact that you don't clean the shower."

"It sounds stupid when you say it like that," James muttered.

"I don't care about the sodding milk. Or the way you leave your laundry sitting around for days even though you end up having to wash it again. Does that annoy me? Yeah, but it's- it's not worth you."

"See, that," James said, pointing at him. "That's why I didn't talk to you about first. I knew you'd make excuses and say that it didn't matter to you even when it does."

"You broke up with me because I don't punish you for doing shite that bothers me?" Sirius asked incredulously. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You break up with someone because you don't love them anymore or because they've done something you can't forgive, not because you don't always clean the sodding flat."

"But you deserve better. You shouldn't have to do all of that, and you shouldn't have to put up with someone that just lets it happen! I wasn't about to tell you that you have to forgive me over and over when I bugger up."

"Who the hell have you been dating this entire time? Do you even know me? It's me, James. I clean the toilet, like, every single week because it gives me something to do. It doesn't need to be cleaned that often, but you know how I am about cleaning-- or at least you knew when we first moved in together."

"You said it cleared your head," James said, remembering. Bugger. How had he forgotten that? He'd spent weeks thinking about this, and not once had he remembered the way Sirius cleaned his room at the Potter's house every single week like clockwork. At Hogwarts had been different because of the house elves, but when Sirius was anywhere else, he liked to clean. Turn on some music, and he spent a couple hours up to his elbows in cleaning charms and loving it.

"Yeah, so why would this be any different? The milk thing- okay, I admit that one did kind of piss me off, but everything else? Even the laundry thing is annoying when it gets in my way, but I don't actually care. Just- for Merlin's sake, come home. I hate it here without you."

"I thought you'd be happier without me," James said quietly, because it was important to him that Sirius knew where he'd come from. The chores were the details that he'd been wrong about, but the conclusion had come from a place of caring.

Next thing he knew, Sirius was hugging him, arms almost painfully tight. James hugged him back, just as firmly. "Next time you think that, for fuck's sake, ask me first. I'm happy with you."

James swallowed thickly. "I happy with you too. Does this mean I can move back in?"

"If you don't, I'm kidnapping you."

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