#since hearing about the sun deal its impossible to hear this and not think about that

[todays-just-a-daydream]

maybe the dream that we had is gone

Full version of ‘Do The Damage’, the B-side to ‘In The Heat Of The Moment’.

[luveline]

losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes. 

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating. 

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye. 

A phone number. 

If lost, please call. 

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day. 

It goes for ages. 

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess. 

You’re the opposite of fearless. 

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it. 

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it. 

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you. 

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches. 

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on. 

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip. 

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness. 

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.” 

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles. 

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?” 

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?" 

"Yeah, really." 

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you. 

"That's you?" Moons asks. 

"That's me. Sorry." 

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling." 

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside. 

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with. 

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair. 

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it. 

"Nice highscore." 

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound. 

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair. 

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?" 

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?" 

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course." 

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting. 

"Sure you don't mind?" 

"I'm paid not to mind." 

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please." 

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?" 

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be. 

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused. 

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you." 

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me." 

"Yeah." 

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes. 

"Is there something wrong?" you ask. 

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands. 

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it." 

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul." 

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable. 

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it. 

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside. 

You look up in shock. "I can't–" 

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view. 

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one. 

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself. 

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line. 

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it." 

"Are you kidding?" 

"No, seriously." 

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach. 

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front. 

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes. 

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way. 

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it. 

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited. 

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin. 

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons. 

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe. 

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage. 

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours. 

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing. 

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow. 

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them. 

They're good. 

Like, too good to be openers for long. 

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out. 

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places. 

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set. 

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship." 

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl. 

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says. 

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons. 

You try not to tense as footsteps approach. 

"Can I sit?" he asks. 

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up. 

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say. 

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup. 

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted." 

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion. 

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?" 

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then. 

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup." 

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice." 

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet." 

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call. 

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar. 

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over. 

"Hey, it's you!" 

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together. 

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?" 

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?" 

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians." 

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames. 

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now." 

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says. 

"And the handsomest." 

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly. 

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?" 

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here." 

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound. 

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back." 

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody. 

Not that it matters if he is or isn't. 

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is. 

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything. 

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say. 

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?" 

"I'm not a big drinker." 

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino." 

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?" 

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much." 

"What's in San Marino?" 

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding. 

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it. 

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch. 

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino." 

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar. 

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

— 

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again. 

James has never seen Remus like this before. 

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever. 

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour. 

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out." 

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close. 

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy. 

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly. 

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes. 

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does. 

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone. 

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake. 

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming." 

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it. 

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?" 

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous." 

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before." 

"This is your first date?" 

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that." 

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special." 

"It doesn't," you say. 

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–" 

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning. 

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?" 

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair. 

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it." 

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners. 

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?" 

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect. 

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married." 

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance. 

"He's devoted," you guess. 

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding." 

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared. 

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying." 

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest. 

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man." 

"Half?" 

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me." 

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say. 

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does. 

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other. 

"They've always been like brothers." 

"But not…" 

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time." 

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now. 

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful." 

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes. 

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise." 

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own. 

"Charming, isn't it?" 

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?" 

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in. 

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble." 

"No trouble at all." 

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another. 

It's not so bad. It's agonising. 

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this." 

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay." 

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–" 

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder." 

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing. 

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time. 

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says. 

Not promising. "Okay." 

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me." 

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries." 

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh. 

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down. 

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep. 

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume. 

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking. 

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo. 

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same. 

The date is suddenly over. 

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest. 

You nod rather than answer. 

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes. 

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling. 

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours. 

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands. 

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it. 

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly. 

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again. 

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long. 

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming. 

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly. 

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. 

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered. 

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you. 

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking. 

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own. 

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath. 

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm. 

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say. 

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane. 

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him. 

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie. 

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated. 

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away. 

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure. 

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear. 

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date. 

Which means he has to get out of his head. 

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice… 

He wants to see what other sounds you make. 

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air. 

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible. 

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice. 

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands. 

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still. 

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips. 

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?” 

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down. 

Your thumb traces a scar. 

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs. 

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor. 

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone. 

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head. 

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again. 

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat. 

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat. 

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine. 

“Was that alright?” he asks. 

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time. 

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden. 

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge. 

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move. 

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.” 

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore. 

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart. 

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said. 

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes. 

Close? Remus is fucked. 

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back. 

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans. 

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far. 

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly. 

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up. 

He drags the quilt over your naked back. 

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead. 

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up. 

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?” 

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently. 

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought. 

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen. 

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.  

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

[blluespirit]

i wish that there was more time between the day of black sun and sozin's comet bc zuko's official desertion from the fire nation would have the most insane ripple effects (and it would be nice to see the gaang interacting a bit more than we got but hey i'll take what i can get)

zuko's desertion would have been essentially impossible for the fire nation to bury since it was such a big deal that he returned at all. so i imagine the smear campaign against zuko would have been craaazy. i think it would have been interesting for the gaang to try and deal with that when navigating the FN. zuko would be very recognisable i think at this point, and it would have made staying hidden much harder. would they still have chosen ember island? maybe the kids didn't recognise zuko and azula during The Beach , but with the prince of the fire nation committing treason would there be more wanted posters? would there be more talk around the island? would zuko have to remain hidden while the rest go out and get food?

i wonder if zuko deserting and very meaningly committing his loyalty to the avatar influenced other soldiers in the FN to also desert? or would it have had the opposite effect and made people feel more patriotic since zuko was banished, returned under the guise of having killed the avatar, and then left when aang announced his survival to world during the failed invasion?

SPEAKING OF THAT!! the rumours around this would be INSANE. we know what really happened, but the public don't. did zuko and the avatar plan this so that there would be an inside man during the invasion and then zuko used that chaos to escape? what really happened in ba sing se if zuko didn't kill aang, but azula thought that he did? (again: we, the audience know the truth, but the general public don't). if zuko and the avatar where working together... for how long? was iroh involved somehow since he also disappeared the same time that zuko did? did iroh get captured on purpose to be close to zuko to possibly help him if needed? did zuko break iroh out of jail or did one of the guards or was iroh alone? you could spiral on this as just an average person in the avatar world for years like. if youtube existed in atla imagine the video essays breaking down all the conspiracies

its a kids show so obviously Nothing Bad Happened BUT in the Boiling Rock, zuko getting found out as not only an imposter (already, a very bad situation), a traitor (extremely bad), AND the traitorous (ex) prince of the fire nation (devastatingly terrible) would have been... incredibly dangerous for zuko. in zuko and iroh's original wanted poster, the official translation says “Permission is granted to kill them on sight” and this was before zuko has gone right ahead and committed Treason On Purpose. the warden is not going to be nice. when the warden visits zuko in his cell he literally tells him "If these criminals found out who you are, the traitor prince who let his nation down, why they'd tear you to shreds." the boiling rock would be hell trying to survive. it also puts a lot more weight on zuko refusing to leave sokka in their first escape attempt. also ozai obviously knew that he has his son was in prison bc he... broke in to the prison bc azula was there but then zuko manages to escape with sokka (another imposter) and suki and hakoda (POWs) and chit sang (a prisoner) and two of azula's trusted friends end up in prison for treason as well i just. that is literally insane for the average person to hear about. again, THE CONSPIRACIES!!

when zuko eventually does take the throne there's a lot of conjecture around what zuko did while he was banished and moreso, what he did the second time he left, this time voluntarily. i think zuko's loyalty would be questioned a lot; by other world leaders who are understandably wary about the fire nation and its motivations, but also by its own people - some who believe that zuko is a traitor to his country and is trying to sabotage it since he helped end the war.

idk these are all just me rambling but it would been so interesting to explore the implications of zuko leaving the fire nation and how that would have impacted the gaang and how they interacted with others in their travels. there are so many fic where zuko joins the gaang early, but neither myself with the aus that I have written, nor many that ive read have explored this very much or at all.

[changingplumbob]

Glenn had a good sleep his first night, like his body was relaxing into the surroundings. When he woke up the sun was shining and after going for a quick run and showering he headed to another spellcaster's house. He had meant to visit Harmony yesterday but Drusilla had kept him too busy. Practicing his smile, he knocked on the door of the house she and Koko shared. He stood for a minute before hearing the sound of it unlocking and took that as his cue to go in.

Glenn: Good morning

Koko: Morning. Harmony this is Glenn, I met him last night during a gap in my meditation

Harmony: Nice to meet you Glenn. Are you getting settled back alright?

Glenn: For sure, I did miss all my plants when I was gone

Harmony: *chuckles* I know exactly what you mean, they're like my kids. I'd hate to be parted from some of my favourites

Glenn: You're in to gardening?

Harmony: I enjoy nature. I'm not a massive academic on plants though, I just have a few favourites. I enjoy water based magic, not as much as Marisol obviously, but enjoy using all the elements together

Glenn: So your powers are like Jackson and Coleman

Harmony: Not quite. They mainly deal with the transfer of heat, I work all elements and make new ones

Glenn: New ones?

Harmony: I have a gift for conjuring

Glenn: Like Carmine then?

Koko: Harmony is more powerful than her

Harmony: I'm just older and have been at this longer. Carmine transfigures, she takes what is there and changes its form. Similar to how Gillian changes her form. Conjuring is different

Glenn: I thought they were the same

Harmony: Not quite. Conjuring is crafting something from nothingness. The creation of matter rather than the manipulation of it

Glenn: I mean... is that even possible

Harmony: I've conjured a lot and I assure you, it's possible

Koko: It's just your science brain telling you it's impossible

Glenn: I said I don't follow science much anyway

Harmony: But you like plants, yes? There is science in that. Ph of soil, grafting of different types-

Koko: How much light they should get, that's super important

Glenn: I suppose. I just didn't think it was that technical since I understand it so easily

Harmony: Lesson one Glenn, never downplay your talents

Koko: Others will do that all by themselves, it's best not to help them

Glenn: Well... I guess I do have one good trick

Harmony: Care to share?

Glenn: Well, I can tell what a flower is going to be

Koko: Like what species

Glenn: That sure, that's easy if I've seen the type of plant before. But I mean like when the flowers are starting to bud, I can tell what colour they'll be when they flower, even if I'm not sure what type of flower they are

Harmony: Oh now that's pretty cool. See, we'll have you shouting about your talents in no time

Glenn: I'm normally pretty good at showing off. The whole bc experience just shook me a bit I think but I want to get back to who I am

Harmony: Sounds fair. First time I got my heart broken I was awful company for months, it really stifled my practicing

Glenn: Practicing! I almost forgot that's why I'm here. Phoebus wanted me to check in with you for any magic tips. He said you're the best at untamed stuff

Harmony: Untamed is just a category for stuff people can't fully comprehend but sure. I might be able to teach you to conjure small things, or umm... you enjoy plants, can you move the earth?

Glenn: Move the earth?

Koko: Earthquakes *makes rumbling noises*

Glenn: I don't know about earthquakes

Harmony: There are smaller applications. Scooping dirt and moving it with magic rather than your hands. Being able to tell what bugs are in the soil, that kind of thing might be helpful

Glenn: For sure. Oh, do you reckon I could cast a barrier to keep aphids off the plants

Harmony: Probably but with such small creatures it requires a lot of finesse

Glenn: I'm good at finesse

Harmony: Okay. Well I'm often busy with my own studies in conjuring but I'm sure I could fit in some tutoring once or twice a week

Glenn: That would be amazing

Koko: Oh if you're wanting to learn more everyday type of magic you should talk to Elise

Harmony: Oh absolutely! She's right next door, gems are her thing

Glenn: Alright. Well thanks for the chat

Harmony: Any time Glenn, good luck with that confidence building

Koko: And happy dreams

Previous ... Next

[madcatscribbles]

Five Kingdoms - The War (Part 1?)

War was hell - Everyone knew that. Humanity had seen enough war - On Earth, anyway. God only knew where the hell this place was. What these... Monsters were. They said they used magic, fel power from beyond reality. Hex had assured them that was impossible, that magic wasn't real. But... Some smaller, more defiant part of Zan's mind rebelled against that concept. Only six months ago, it wouldn't have, but today... Today was a wholly different story. Because the events of the past six months had changed the way he thought about the world.

It had been six months since the Crash - That was what they'd been calling it. At first, the skies had gone dark - Inky blackness that had consumed the city, cut it off from the rest of the world. Shame, too - Reconstruction efforts had been chugging along impressively. Two days later... The rest of the world was gone. The skies brightened. Stars above. Stars nobody recognized. Vast, empty deserts in all directions. They'd chugged along as normal - Their food supplies carried on, algae vats providing them with nutrients if nothing else. Construction kept up. Mining efforts continued until the news came.

There were other cities, out there, they were told - Spotted from the skies. Four of them. Four bastions, homes of civilizations. Lawless wastes by now, they were certain - No way any civilization could survive for six months. Mines had already run dry in this hellish place, this horrid, scorched desert. Least the solar panels worked. God, the solar panels worked. The sun felt like it was trying to kill them on its own, and sometimes, Zan worried it just might do the job. Aquifers were running low, too. The city was dying, and there was no way the others were doing any better. No way they were nearly as well-prepared. So... An armed detachment had been sent to claim one. Quick and easy. Go there, grab the resources, get back. Deal with any monsters along the way. Set up for a larger detachment, find a way home. They didn't expect to find anything but dessicated corpses anyway.

The ones who'd come back were raving of impossible things. Of storms summoned from the skies, of monsters summoned from thin air, made of naught but lightning and frost, bound together in glowing light. Of dragons. Most of Raykan had dismissed it as delusions of dehydration, really. Seriously, dragons? Must've been their cyberware acting up.

But Zan... He just didn't quite know. Still, though, another detachment had been sent. He was assigned to it. Reluctantly, he'd gone - Even if nothing else, he had to investigate these dragon and... Rumors of dragons. He still wasn't quite sold on it. The briefing had been simple and concise - Armed resistance was, by this point, expected. All drones that had attempted to draw near had ended up destroyed, their data unrecoverable. But... It looked like a standard medieval European city. A wealthy capital city. Problem was, something like that? Zan hadn't been the only one to note that it wasn't sustainable. Big, fortified place like that, surrounded by towering walls and filled with houses? Big castle in the middle? There was no food, no water. No farmland. All of that would've been outside the city. So how in God's name were they still alive? Zan's bet was robots, but still... Something in his mind still tickled at the ravings of the soldiers who'd returned...

Could it be possible...?

Zan had felt his connection with Hex click out a few miles back. It was... Well. He had to admit it was nice, not hearing the robot in his head all the time. Not knowing it had access to all his thoughts. Not that he'd ever dare think as much while he was in the system - Hex was a benevolent and kind leader, and he didn't want to anger him by implying his presence was unwelcome. No, never - Hex had been the only reason the world had ever recovered from WWIII. The only reason Raykan had ever... Existed.

It was weird, though, not being tuned into the soldiers next to him - The local connection was something he'd really gotten used to in his time in the city. Being able to read everyone's surface thoughts made it nice and easy to communicate with those around you without actually having to go to the effort of speaking. He didn't have much time to mull on it, though, before the walls of the city were revealed to him - Between great gusts of wind, the sands cleared, and the city walls suddenly towered above him. It seemed for a moment like they were all that existed, and he wondered briefly how he'd ever missed them - Even through the sandstorm, he should have noticed this.

The walls were towering constructs made of slabs of granite mortared together - Huge, laid-brick designs that looked too vast for any human hand to manipulate, each stone the height of his body and three times its height across, the wall itself easily two hundred feet tall. A colossal gate stood before him, cast from iron and steel. To conventional handheld weaponry, it would be impenetrable.

...To Zan? Well. The sound of ninety nine laser rifles firing up behind him was music to his ears. From his own back, he pulled the hefty plasma cannon he'd been carrying, feeling its weight settling into his hands. The Z16 Ultra, rated for up to twelve inches of reinforced steel plate. He was grateful they didn't have these back in WWIII - If they had, humanity would've been extinct in an hour.

"Attention, citizens of... Whatever the hell you call this place. Open the hell up, or I'll do it for you."

[hqmillioncorn]

To see you smile again

Babycorn looked out the window, though the weather was cloudy she could tell that the sun was finally out again. She let out a long yawn. "It's about time." In her opinion nighttime could take its sweet time. Having the sun out was much funner anyway. Babycorn grabbed her backpack and swung it around her back. She had no idea what time it was or if anyone other than her was awake but she could probably wait around the docks until someone called her over. Whatever came next it couldn't be any worse than what already happened.

Lalapril 4/10 Silence

Babycorn can't sleep so she stays up all night yipppeeee

Babycorn took out another book from the bookcase and flipped through it. Just like the one before it was full of words and phrases she didn’t understand. She huffed, “They should put more pictures in these things.” Surely at least one Old Sharlayan scholar had gotten a headache from staring at words for too long.

A nice picture in the middle of all this text would be a nice change of pace.

There was nothing more Babycorn could do but put the book where it had been. She was very quickly running out of things to do. There was always the option of grabbing books on the top shelf but they were proving to be impossible to grab, even after dragging a chair over to help. 

Babycorn walked over to look at the chalkboard in the room. Several pieces of chalk were strewn all over the ground. As expected, most of the chalk had a chunk of them bitten off.

If Babycorn had to rate the taste it would be a solid seven out of ten. It was a little too plain for her tastes.

The chalkboard was covered with doodles from Babycorn, Cherrypit and Tilika. Babycorn had drawn whatever cool things popped into her mind like croissants, scrunchies and carrots. There were also a bunch of nonsense shapes that she had used to fill up empty space.

Cherrypit had drawn a bunch of hearts and stick figures of their friends. There was a sun with a cheerily happy face in the corner. Tilika had drawn a doodle of all three of them higher up on the chalkboard. 

After she had shown them the drawing of the three of them, both Babycorn and Cherrypit had asked Tilika to show them how to draw just like her. Of course Tilika agreed immediately. She looked so excited about it too.

Something about that must have made Cherrypit that much more interested in drawing. Babycorn hadn't noticed at the time but now she noted that ever since they first arrived in Old Sharlayan up to their stay in Garlemald, Cherrypit always had a drawing to show her during their downtime. 

A stack of them were placed on the table in the center of the room. Babycorn didn’t dare lay a finger on them. She couldn't.

With a sigh Babycorn moved over to the large lounge chair on the other side of the room. The bed was occupied so this is what she had decided she would sleep on in the meantime.

Tilika had begged her to not sleep on the floor. Doing that would be bad for her back in the long run! Apparently. That’s what Tilika had told her and Babycorn trusted her. 

Sometimes Babycorn trusted her friends more than she did herself. 

Oh well, she could deal with that when she wanted to. Right now all she was thinking about was how quiet it was and how much she didn’t like it. 

Normally she would fall asleep to the sounds of Cherrypit crawling on the ceiling or the sounds of his toys walking around the room. There were some nights that Cherrypit wouldn’t sleep and all and he would just sit next to Babycorn and talk to her. 

‘Bebe? Bebe! How’s Bebe?’

He would poke her face and grab onto her braids. 

‘Bebe sleepy! Sleepy! Goodniiiyy’!’

Some nights he would just play with his toys besides her. As long as Babycorn could hear his voice she knew he was okay. He was safe and everything was okay and fine. Everything was okay. 

Babycorn looked over to the bed. Cherrypit was lying down on it, unmoving and pretty much lifeless. Her mind was still hazy as to who had told her exactly that Cherrypit wasn’t dead, not all the way. Babycorn just figured that whoever it was just wanted to make her feel a little better

It hadn't really helped.

Babycorn sat back and lied down on the lounge chair, she held her arm out and looked at her hand. Sometimes it still didn’t feel real. Her life had been returned to her, she was truly and fully alive. No more slow heartbeat and no more occasionally bleeding scar. 

As far as she knew she was normal now. Or what she considered normal. 

Babycorn closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound of her heartbeat. Maybe that would help? She thought. It happened to do the complete opposite, the sound was so wrong to her, it felt wrong. Babycorn wanted to scream. All she wanted to do was to sleep and wake up from this whole nightmare. 

“I should have never come here.” She whispered to herself. 

Though it wasn’t like she had a choice. The entire world and even all of existence as they knew it was depending on him. Most of the consequences flew over her head, even now so many years later.

Babycorn was sure that she would do anything in her power to keep the world that Cherrypit would grow up in safe.

But now what was even the point?

Babycorn set her arm down and blinked, there was a slight glow in the corner of the room. It couldn’t be the sun, it wasn’t bright enough to be that. That’s when Babycorn remembered the strange flower that Krile-Hydaelyn had given them.

Something about it made Babycorn’s stomach turn, even back then, but Cherrypit had been absolutely enamored by it. That was the only reason that Babycorn had kept it around. 

The flower was glowing a dark blue color. It reminded Babycorn of the color of Cherrypit’s eyes. Back when they were both younger. It was almost like it was taunting her. 

Babycorn let out a loud groan and quickly covered her mouth when she was louder than expected. It was late and people that weren’t her were probably still sleeping. “Sorry…” she apologized to no one in particular. 

Despite her best efforts of closing her eyes and counting cactuars Babycorn was nowhere closer to falling asleep than she was five hours ago. It was actually making her mad now. It was either being mad or sad at this point and she didn't know which one she liked LESS.

Babycorn tried to concentrate on any sound around her. Any sound, but there was nothing. On occasion she could hear footsteps outside in the hall and the breeze of the wind but besides that there was nothing.

Sure it was the middle of the night, almost four in the morning but still!!!

It was way too quiet! 

Babycorn started tapping the side of the lounge chair. The noise was unbearably loud in the silence of the room. This was a loud sound but it wasn’t the right sound. 

There was a fleeting thought in her head to walk out of her room and knock on someone’s door to check if they were still awake too. The least she wanted was to have someone else in the room with her. Right now there was no one in this room with her.

Airy had taken off somewhere without telling Babycorn. And Cherrypit was…

That’s probably why it was so quiet.

There was something about all the silence around her. It was just, so much. Too much. 

Babycorn thought about the rest of her friends. All of them were probably asleep by now. It was pretty late at night. Babycorn would feel bad if she woke them up just so she could sleep on their carpet or something. She had already caused enough trouble for everyone already. 

“Hmm…” Babycorn sat up and kicked her legs back and forth. 

Tilika slept early so she was out of the question. She had told Tilika very clearly that she would be able to handle staying alone in her room just fine. If she backed out of it that easily she would look like a fool. Not only that but she didn’t want Tilika to worry about her any more than she already was. 

And if she didn’t want to bother Tilika, then she for sure wasn’t going to consider asking anyone else for anything. 

“It’s fine.” Babycorn brought her legs closer to her and rested her head on her knee. “I’m fine.” All she needed to do was close her eyes and let herself drift off to sleep. It was that easy. There was nothing to it. 

‘Bebe? Okay?’

Babycorn grit her teeth together. “I said I’m fine!”

‘Gonna be okay? Bebe be careful!’

“I am being careful! Shut up!”

‘Bebe!’

“I SAID SHUT UP!”

In her anger, Babycorn grabbed a plate off the table and threw it as hard as she could at anything in her way. That happened to be the wall in front of her.

It shattered into pieces with the force of the impact. A loud noise echoed inside the room for a few terrifying seconds. Babycorn covered her mouth on instinct. "Sorry...Sorry..." She whispered as quietly as she could.

The noise of the plate breaking rang in her ears for a few seconds until silence surrounded her again. 

Babycorn kept quiet. Listening for the sound of footsteps outside her door. Would someone come in here and tell her to keep quiet?

She held her breath and looked at the door to her room.

Babycorn spent the night alone.

[theeyeofinfinity]

How a thousand lifetimes becomes one.

I think part of my process of dealing with things that bother me are to almost think them to death. I will sit and almost cauterize my spiritual wound with the hot piece of metaphorical steel that is my source of hurt, pressing it to myself until its numb and sealed. I think I’d rather it be that way than running from it. It would just follow the trail of blood i leave behind and find me over and over again. That i feel is infinitely more exhausting than a brutal week or weeks or month of just sitting with it and then moving on after but i digress. I’ve been thinking about all the beautiful moments shared. I think about the time i spent out in the woods behind your parents house. Sitting by the tree that was claimed so long ago and the many trips i took to find it. I remember the peace i felt sitting there and imagining a version of us that never stopped loving each other. Seeing how happy i was to sit with my best friend. Flowers in your hair while i gave you a piggy back ride by the river. Laughs and talks about our struggles in life and how happy we were to have this little pocket of earth to escape from our day to day. Happy to have each other, knowing we’d never leave or love anyone else. It brought me closure because the two that belonged together both died together. We are different people and in essence not them anymore. Thats why we can never have what we had before. So I’d go to pay my respects maybe once a week after work or if a storm was coming. Found the fastest ways in and out so i could watch the little movies in my head before having to race against the sun.

I remember when i felt like i couldn’t stay away anymore and started looking at your page. Seeing that you had found my coordinates and went there yourself. Part of me always hoped I’d run into you. I knew i never would because its not a place youd be in casually to begin with. I remember seeing the post about going on an adventure somewhere secluded. And then leaving an address for me to follow. I remember how conflicted i was trying to decide what i should do. How i begged myself not to go. I wanted to leave it behind like i had promised myself because there was no point in prolonging my own suffering. I unblocked your number just to see if youd say anything as the days got closer. I remember how much my heart fluttered when i saw your name come up on my screen again. I knew i had to go but i didn’t want to tell you. I wanted you to be surprised. But i told you anyway out of fear youd be asleep and i wouldnt be able to find you. Youd already expressed frustration that i wouldnt be coming so i felt compelled to. I got there after what felt like an eternity on the road. I found you. Spent the night talking, watching the stars, and eventually connected in a way that seemed impossible. We had bound ourselves together yet again. I remember laying there the day after just as confused as you were. Scared of what the future might bring. In some ways i was right to be.

I remember how we would talk so often and feel like we had so much to say. So much to catch up on. So happy to feel each other again. We started to bond so much and i felt like i was the only thing that mattered to you. So happy that we came back to each other that youd hold on so tight that I’d never be able to get away again. I started opening myself up to the idea of loving you again. One night while i was in your apartment we had another passionate night. We were so intertwined and i remember how serious you got telling me how glad you were that i was your first. How thankful you were it was me. I spent every day since wishing for another night like that. I remember going to trivia night and hearing “mirrors” come on after we talked about you telling me how much the lyrics matched us all those years ago. Hearing it again when we went for ive cream from a lady street performing. i remember taking you that train tour in the middle of nowhere. It was pretty and cool to sit and watch the scenery. We met a cool waitress there and i got the utmost satisfaction being outside the train while it went through a tunnel. Cold but memorable. What i remember most is getting our picture taken at the end and the waitress told us to look at each other like we were in love. I looked at you and you just looked straight at here pretending like you didnt hear it. It kinda hurt but looking at that picture was just a reflection of how things have been for a long time. Me loving you and you looking away. We got to go explore the old haunted assylum turned hotel that we almost stayed at, looked at some cool shops, and tried out a really tasty bakery. It was also the trip i gave you a stethoscope. I did a bunch of research to see what brands worked the best and finally found one i thought would suit you well. I was so excited to give it to you and the look on your face made it worth the wait. I wanted you to know that through it all, even if you didn’t believe in yourself, youd always have me in your corner cheering for you. I believed in you and us more than anyone ever would or could. You would also carry a piece of me and that sentiment with you for however long you kept that stethoscope in use and in a sense have me there for support whenever you were hard at work.

I remember our trip to go get your motorcycle and you telling me how good i looked on it. I was so ready to ride listening to my music but you wanted to keep talking to me and it made me smile the whole ride back. I also remember waking up at just the right moment when you had texted me late at night to ask if i was awake when you had gone to take a ride on said motorcycle. How the timing of me being there when you need me most always amazed me. I let you come crash at my place because it had started to rain and kept you warm. I was so happy to be your warmth… and to just have you there unexpectedly. I remember the first time not cooking hello fresh but making you soup and grilled cheese from scratch. Our movie marathons and watching top gun and its sequel with you for the first time. Now i’ll never see those movies without thinking about watching it late at night after your shift, cozy together in bed and falling asleep to a video of a fire place. I remember being there for you while you moved out and basically did it all with just you, while your roommate acted off and pushed you aside, i was your rock and finished it out with you. One night that we spent together and you packed my lunch and made me coffee and sent me out with a hug and a kiss. How for a split second i could imagine the happiness I’d feel being with you, coming home to you, you being my everything for the rest of my life. Or when you showed me your pill remover and i asked you to try it on my favorite shirt and it made a hole in it. The gasp and the look on your face made me laugh and all i could feel was love for you. I remember driving out to firefly on a whim to see you just because you said you wished i was there. Hell, i flew to new orleans just to see you. The whole thing was crazy from the start and even while on the plane i kept thinking to myself, “ i cant believe im really doing this…”. It was cool, new place, same girl i couldnt stop loving. From the cool stores and stands, bourbon street, “bagnets” and the aquarium we went to on our last day, i think you were my favorite part every time. Even if it ended with the worst heartache i had felt since the day you left... I remember taking you to jingle ball right after you took me because i wanted to surprise you. Not knowing that because of how eager i was i had given it away. And how chaotic the night we went to yours was, insane traffic that made us so late we couldnt go eat dinner, parking in the wrong spot and walking around a college campus trying to figure out where the concert was without telling me why we were there. Having you finally give up and tell me so i could help find the way. All i could think to myself was just how much i love this woman. It was also the night i unveiled the bad bunny playlist i made for us that took me a while to make. I listened to every album he had and picked all the songs i could tolerate and was going to show you during MY trip to jingle ball with you but you looked so sad and stressed that i pulled it out early. All the small dates scattered around. All the nights i came late in the night just to spend a few hours with you. Some of those nights my nose would whistle and i wouldnt know why but it would annoy you but i thought it was kinda funny. The chemistry when we’re both at our best is truly unmatched. Its a shame the last things i’ll remember is watching it all go cold as you started to back away and in my panic holding on so tight that you flew away. My heart will always remember. What a world isnt it? Reduced to being a ghost for the rest of eternity…

[peace-coast-island]

Diary of a Junebug

Traveling back in time by rocking out to jukebox tunes

Stepping into the Checkerboard Shake Diner feels like traveling back in time, especially when jukebox begins playing. Even though this place now sticks out like a sore thumb as it’s in the middle of nowhere, I think it’s quite fitting how it ended up like that.

According to Dixie, the town of Diamond Prosper was once a hub of activity, with its humble beginnings as a miner town, hence its name. Although the mines were quickly abandoned, the city kept growing as attention was shifted towards the Moonrock Forest and its moonrock oak.

By the time the Checkerboard Shake came around the 1950s, Diamond - the Prosper in the name had been completely dropped since then - was a bustling city that served as a checkpoint in the forest. Without the city, travelers would have to travel through dense trees and high mountains before finding civilization, which would be near impossible as it was super easy to get lost. That was why the location worked in its favor.

However, due to a variety of reasons, including the dwindling number of moonrock oak trees, Diamond went into a steep decline. But again, because of its convenient location as a checkpoint, even after people moved out, several places remained up and running to this day. Along with the Checkerboard, the other remaining establishments are the Golden Sun Inn, which is the oldest building in Diamond, a general goods and gift shop, and a couple admin buildings.

Dixie’s good friends with the current owner of the Checkerboard, the granddaughter of the founder. That’s why she invited me, Daisy Jane, Almie, Emilie, and Valerie here. Another reason is that Connie told Dixie that Pai and her group were traveling from Eventide, which is from the south of the forest, so they’ll have to stop by Diamond on the way back.

The funny thing is that not too long after Connie said that they have to stop taking in new recruits for a while so they can recoup the costs of taking in 6 people in such a short time, they received an offer from Aurelie of the Phantom Rose that they couldn’t refuse. After all, the Phantom Rose is a big deal in Marippe, and they helped Connie and Pai out a lot - not to mention that the boss is a pretty cool person. To refuse her offer would have been a foolish decision!

While that means tightening the purse strings for a little while longer and splitting up to take on more missions, Connie says it’s not too difficult to work through. Besides, with the Phantom Rose officially backing them now, they consider it an investment that’ll benefit all parties. After hearing from Beryl, Eloise, and Connie about the power and respect the Phantom Rose holds, especially its boss, I figured that it won’t be long before I meet her myself as she would inevitably become one of Connie and Pai’s traveling companions.

So that’s why Pai and the others - Aurelie, Eloise, Madeleine, Xiang, and Ruby - were in Eventide. Aurelie just finished orientation with the guild so now she’s in training while Eloise and Madeleine are almost finished with theirs. Pai said because of the holidays it took a bit longer for Eloise and Madeleine to get all their training hours in, which is why they’re playing catch up now. At least with things picking up again, Aurelie won’t have to wait as long before becoming a full fledged party member and be able to go on more adventures, something that she’s been looking forward to.

Eloise described Aurelie as a ball of sunshine, and I have to say, she’s spot on! She’s weathered through a lot of storms throughout her life, especially after her father died and she took over as the head of the Phantom Rose. Aurelie was also instrumental in protecting the civilians during the earthquakes and floods that nearly wiped Marippe off the map, nearly losing her life in the process when her hometown was hit hard. It can’t be easy for someone in her position to weather through a crisis of that scale, but she persisted and the Phantom Rose’s reputation rose because of her.

Once things have finally calmed down and the reconstruction of her hometown took off, Aurelie can finally relax. While there will always work to be done regarding her duties as the head of the Phantom Rose, Aurelie isn’t going to let that stop her from living her life. Although she respects her father for all he’s done as the former head, she always wished that he took the time to live for himself. After all, it’s not healthy to tie yourself down to something and make your life revolve solely around that.

From how she speaks about her father, it sounds like Aurelie has conflicting feelings about him. It’s clear that she loved and respected him, but she’s also critical about him as a person and how his principles made him somewhat difficult to get along with. Not in a bitter or resentful way though, more like a nuanced standpoint that allows her to look back and sort of analyze what worked and what didn’t and how she could learn from those experiences. She gets that while people comparing her to him and saying that she’s becoming more like her father is intended as a compliment, she can’t help but feel a bit miffed about it.

Madeleine was well acquainted with her father and admitted that she initially made those comparisons too before really getting to know what kind of a person Aurelie is. As someone who was often compared to her predecessor, Madeleine gets where Aurelie’s frustration’s coming from. Sure, they may share some of the same qualities that makes them well liked and respected, as well as common goals and aspirations, but aside from all that, they’re two different people with their own dreams and worldviews. The point is not to be just like their predecessors, but to forge their own path and lead the way without being shackled down by the past.

Dixie has some friends in Marippe, so she’s been informed about what has been going on over there. She was also acquainted with Aurelie’s father, and while she got along with him, she agreed with Aurelie’s criticisms, particularly when it came to shouldering the burdens of being the leader of an organization.

In short, his biggest flaw was that he was the kind of person who felt responsible for handling things alone and taking matters into his own hands while leaving others in the dark, even at the cost of his own life. Aurelie has come to understand the reasoning behind some of his questionable decisions, but that doesn’t change the fact that despite his intentions, he ended up causing more problems down the line.

Dixie’s seen a lot of people like him go down a road where they can’t turn back. sure, he sacrificed himself for the greater good, but was that really necessary? For years, Aurelie struggled to pick up the pieces after her father’s death, causing her to resent him for a time. If it weren’t for Connie and Beryl, she wouldn’t have been able to uncover the true motive behind her father’s death, and in return, help Beryl and Ruby with their predicament as those two incidents were linked to a much bigger problem.

After meeting Aurelie, Dixie says she’s gotten a good enough grasp of her personality that she can day that she’s a lot different compared to her father. First of all, she’s straightforward, which Dixie finds really rare in people of her position. Aurelie is the kind of person who admits to her shortcomings and is willing to ask for help rather than pretend that everything’s fine when it’s clearly not. Madeleine also pointed out that had she downplayed the seriousness of the impending crisis in an attempt to keep morale up like her father probably would have done, that could have backfired in the worst possible way, potentially leading to even more casualties.

It’s not easy to judge whether or not to conceal information to avoid unnecessary anxiety and dread or being honest about the severity of an impending disaster, so you have to carefully weigh your decisions. Sounds like Aurelie had been making the right calls. Again, not an easy thing to do, and she deserves all the respect for that.

Not too surprisingly, Dixie’s also acquainted with Madeleine and Fontaine, though it’s been years since she last saw them. She had been curious to find out how Madeleine’s been doing since she stepped down from the Court. Pai had mentioned that Madeleine was a lot easier to get along with when she didn’t act like a stuck up diva, which was apparently an act she had to keep up to protect herself because of her position. Since meeting her, I have the impression that she was around the same ranks of those like Fontaine, Roselyne, and Aurelie.

From how it sounds, Madeleine willingly stepped down and is intent on closing that chapter in her life. She said what’s done is done as she fulfilled her purpose, but that wasn’t without making some grave mistakes that she implied ultimately led to her resignation. Sounds like the kind of person whose records are full of redacted information - an interesting person indeed.

Despite a rough transition after resigning, Madeleine finally found a second lease on life as an artistic consultant and director. Aurelie said she used to be part of a theater troupe, though as her work in the Court took over her life, she made less and less appearances on stage, her last one being a couple years ago. Everyone naturally thought Madeleine would return to acting since she was incredibly popular because of her immense talent, but she wasn’t up for it.

However, she was willing to work behind the scenes and help Connie and Pai with a struggling theater troupe, which in return, broke her out of her depressive episode. Despite having no directing experience prior to that, she was a natural at it. Aurelie said it wasn’t surprising considering how much experience she has with theater, not only on the creative side, but also with the logistics and business side of things.

The whole thing was intended to be a one off deal, but Madeleine ended up doing such a spectacular job that now she’s been getting offers left and right. Then again, according to the others, just her name alone is enough to draw a crowd, especially after she suddenly reemerged in the public after weeks of silence following her resignation. While Madeleine finds it a bit overwhelming, she found that she wasn’t too opposed to the attention, especially after coming to terms with the fact that living in obscurity would never be an option for her.

I got curious and checked out some of her work, and yeah, it is impressive! I mean, aside form being immensely talented, she’s also the reason why the performing arts is such a huge part of Marippe’s culture. Along with theater, she also performed with several notable orchestras either as the star or as part of the ensemble. I can really see the passion in her eyes when she’s on stage, whether it be the star or in the background - it’s no wonder why people wanted her back on stage.

While Madeleine still has a passion for the arts, she’s more interested in working behind the scenes these days. She finds being a director and artistic consultant fascinating, though it can be exhausting at times, but worth the sleepless nights. As for acting, she’s not as entirely opposed to it, but she considers it a very low priority, especially since directing takes up a lot of her time and energy. As for being a musician, she has been working with a local symphony orchestra - mostly for fun - though they want her to perform front and center. She’s not entirely opposed to that either, but nothing set in stone on that yet.

After hearing so much about Madeleine, I’m hoping to catch a show directed by her when I visit Marippe again. After all, theater is such a big part of the culture over there, so it’s one of those things worth checking out. She might not see it as a big deal, but it’s clear how much of an influence Madeleine has on Marippe’s art scene. Maybe it sounds a bit unbelievable, but she’s been around for centuries, so it’s safe to say that she knows the arts really well.

The Checkerboard has been a nice change of pace for everyone, myself included. Dixie spoke with the owner and so we got the whole place booked to ourselves for a day. Since it gets really slow and quiet during the winter months, it really was no problem at all as the owner was happy to have some company. We even got access to the kitchen, which was nice.

Of course, with Xiang here, we had fun cooking up a storm. Since it’s a 50s themed diner, our creations were basically milkshakes, burgers, and fries. sure, they sound simple, but they’re easy to jazz up with a variety of different things. As soon as the owner told Dixie that the kitchen was ours for the day, Xiang stocked up on a lot of ingredients so we can get creative.

Like I said, the jukebox really sets the mood. Dixie says it’s a real antique that has been well maintained over the years. A Checkerboard stable, they say, along with its cypress gold vanilla malt shake and Checkerboard Classic double cheeseburger with fries. The classics are called classic for a reason.

Flipping burgers in the kitchen, dancing to the jukebox to an oldie but goodie, and sharing coffee while hanging out with friends - it really felt like a legit 50s diner! It’s a prime example of the more things change, the more they stay the same kind of thing. Maybe we should’ve dressed like they did in the 50s for a really immersive experience!

With Xiang being known for her creativity and Pai and Aurelie being the type who’s not afraid to try the weirdest things, even knowing full well that it’s risky, they came up with some interesting creations. Obviously we made a lot of really good things, but it’s fun to kinda spice it up with the wild and weird - well, minus the potential food poisoning part. Thankfully, we managed to avoid that.

Aurelie also brought along some ingredients for baking, so we made a bunch of desserts too. Turns out that most of Pai’s gang are sweet tooths with Aurelie being a pro baker. Her specialty are macarons, which takes a lot of skill. She whips them up like it’s nothing and it’s amazing! In fact, one of the first things she did when she first met Connie and Pai was offer them some freshly bakes macarons that she made on the spot with a portable oven she happens to take with her often. Well, that’s one way to make a first impression!

Eloise has been looking forward to meeting Xiang after hearing about her culinary creations. Even though Xiang’s traveled to lots of different places, it still blows her away that people are interested in what she cooks up. Eloise said she’d be willing to try Xiang’s experimental dishes, but a lot of them are really spicy and she has a sensitive stomach that really can’t handle heat, which she says is a shame.

Then again, where Xiang’s from, they eat hot peppers like it’s nothing. Xiang has a really high tolerance to spice, though nowhere on the same level compared to some of the elders in her hometown, who she describes as scary. Dixie, I would say, has a fairly high tolerance to spice too. Same with Emilie and Almie.

As for me and Daisy Jane, our spice tolerance has definitely gone up, so maybe we’re like a lower middle level sort of thing. Valerie and Aurelie like to think they have a slightly above average spice tolerance than most. Aurelie likes eating spicy food, but her tastebuds and stomach don’t really see eye to eye, which she jokingly blames on culture clash.

Madeleine has been trying to cook for herself more and found that she really likes spicy food. Unfortunately, a lot of spices she has come to enjoy aren’t readily available in Marippe so she has to buy them online, which can be pricey. So Xiang and I insisted on making a trip to an Asian grocery store on the way home so she can stock up on pantry staples.

Also, the place we’re going to has a lot of Asian snacks so we’re gonna get a bunch of those too as a lot of what they have isn’t stuff we’d find normally. Since the Marippe girls aren’t too familiar with Asian snacks and are interested in trying them out, it’s gonna be fun. As for me, I’m gonna be stocking up on tempura seaweed snacks. Those things are kinda expensive, especially for half a bag of air, but they’re soooo good, especially the spicy flavored ones.

I hope the Checkerboard sticks around for years and years to come. There’s a reason behind its longevity - I can’t quite describe what it is, though maybe nostalgia has to do with it. The place might be nothing spectacular according to its owners, but clearly something is keeping that place alive, and I think it’s the jukebox.

I swear, it must be magic or something! Why else did it hold up so well after over half a century without ever needing repairs or replacement parts? I wasn’t exaggerating when I felt something as soon as I slipped a coin in - the others felt it as well! We can’t quite put our finger on it, but it was a carefree feeling that made us want to throw our worries to the ground and float freely away in the sky.

Read on AO3

[nevermythologized]

the license to devalue femininity

i’ve taken an interest in astrology since i was fourteen, and have been absorbing as much information as i could these past five years. my first impression was of the simple sun sign pop astrology that dominates our cultural awareness today. it can be easily written off as frivolous and inaccurate generalizations, a hobby for immature women. i’ve seen it described (with no traceable irony) by men in my life as a genuine source of discrimination, that it causes these shallow women to write off people and deny relationships because of the month they were born in. there is a biting resentment in their voices when they make these statements, a tone i am all too familiar with, making itself heard when men discuss women that they hate.

i found myself making the argument that perhaps we have all made at least once in our lives: sure, there may be some women who do that, but I’m not like that. 

but these past couple years i have found myself re-evaluating this argument, to wonder why this harmless pastime evoked such emotional, visceral reactions in these men (and i have heard this criticism from women as well, but it is mainly men that i hear this from- and later i will elaborate on why i think this dismissal and villainization of astrology is a gendered phenomenon). 

because the more you learn about astrology, the more you understand that it is nowhere near simplistic. you may not believe in it, may not practice it, but you cannot deny its validity as an ancient spiritual practice, one that is mathematically based, grounded in the physical world, and has been used for millennia. it requires years of in-depth research to have a grasp on it, and even then, it is impossible to learn it all. you can find skeptics understanding and accepting the butterfly effect, the flap of wings thousands of miles away changing the course of your life- is it so strange to suggest that of the stars, these massive bodies with measurable gravitational pulls could do the same? after all, all astrology is is patterns. an understanding of cycles, observations dating back thousands of years.

regardless, i am not here to proselytize. i have not come to my own conclusion about astrology, am not sure if i “believe” in it. but a spiritual practice does not require truth to have tangible meaning. and that is the argument that i will be making, that astrology has real, felt effects and influence regardless of its disputed “truth”. 

so how is it any different than any other religion or spiritual practice? why is it associated with frivolity, and sometimes even hatred?

and why do we feel the need to make ourselves distinct from other women? from the caricatures that men offer up of us? should we be making these defenses in the first place, should we be okay with allowing these generalizations to exist as long as men understand that we are not among these women they resent? 

because do we ever gain freedom from these generalizations anyway? no matter how much you insist that you are “not like other girls” (to be cliche), you will always be like other girls. there is no escape. no way to argue your way out, prove them wrong-they are not looking to be proven wrong, not willing to change their minds about this. it is a universal truth that they believe they are stating, when you hear that boiling anger that laces their words. nothing you say will ever truly convince a man who does not believe women could have more insight than him.

something that i have discovered, in my years of study, is the fact that learning astrology requires a great deal of introspection and empathy. it forces you to dive deep into why and how you think certain things, why you react certain ways, the way you develop relationships with others. through reading the charts of my friends and family, casually, without any presumption of truth of the practice, it has stimulated intensely raw and vulnerable conversations. i would leave each reading with a much greater understanding of the people i love, having strengthened our relationship through emotional vulnerability.

and there is the root of it all, it seems. emotional vulnerability is something every man is taught to fear.

and what is misogyny, but hatred borne out of fear? from being taught that woman is lesser, that femininity, emotions, are weakness? that to act or behave in a way that remotely resembles womanhood is shameful. to be a womanly man is to deny your station. to have power handed to you and toss it away. it is an embarrassment, to be avoided at all costs.

this is what we teach men. and we also teach them to not process or understand their emotions. and so this fear of womanhood, of femininity expresses itself as resentment. as hatred. as a grasping, pathetic claim for power and dominance. to direct this self-hatred of the “feminine” traits, that all men undoubtedly possess, outward. 

and part of this manifests as a hatred of astrology. because of course a man fears emotions, understanding, empathy. it requires a great deal of bravery to break out of the cage patriarchy places upon all of us.

so, think twice, before you dismiss something. think on why something is not true, why it deserves to be mocked. you may find that, no matter how much you may like to believe, that social institutions leave scars on us all, and some are much harder to identify than others.

when something is met with hatred, it usually means it strikes fear. that it has power, unrecognized or not. and we should not be so quick to deny the power of “femininity,” whatever that word is supposed to mean.

[sylviareviar]

She didn't think about what she was doing when Teddie sat down and patted her back. It didn't do anything to cease her coughing, and she turned away from him as she did, her eyes brimming with tears, but when she finally managed to settle down again, she inaudibly groaned and leaned her head against his shoulder. She tested her throat in a whisper, but when she felt it closing up again, thought against it and gave up, resting against Teddie for a bit while he rubbed her back. In this, she hadn't the heart to tell him it wasn't doing anything for her throat. The physical contact helped her regardless. Yes, she was being selfish about this, but it was such a small thing. He didn't have to know, right?

His hand was warm on her back. He was warm, just in general. In a way that felt almost unlike other people, Teddie actually radiated heat. He probably didn't notice, but just being next to him, she felt her skin growing warm with the contact, and it wasn't just her crush. He really was like a human ball of sunshine.

Sometimes Sylvia tended to notice things about Teddie he didn't even notice about himself. Like how he had sharper fangs-- a fact that, when she pointed it out, he became a little self-conscious of, and ever since then, she didn't see his teeth as often. She hadn't meant to make him feel discouraged. If his teeth weren't hurting him, then that's all that mattered. Besides, it was kind of cute. Or, she noticed, how sometimes he seemed a bit more comfortable in his bear suit than out of it, how it was as equally a part of his identity as his real self. She could understand that, too. Sometimes it felt better to hide behind an avatar, like a picture on the Internet, or a bear suit. He also had better hearing and vision than her, and often he, more than anyone, understood how she felt when she was overwhelmed with noise.

When she noticed things like that, she ended up learning her lesson from the first time and mostly kept it to herself. If she pointed out too much, she was worried she'd come off as a bit creepy or something, or she'd create new insecurities for him without meaning to. Teddie wasn't infallible-- she knew that well. His worry now was evident, and knowing him as well as she did now, she believed he was just as gentle a soul as she was. The difference between them was how they'd taken life's hardships. Teddie did his best to stay positive. Sylvia wallowed in her fears and hated and blamed herself for everything she did wrong. Teddie helped others with a smile and was warm and kind. Sylvia wasn't in any state to help anyone anymore, and she felt cold and depressed.

Teddie had once referred to them both as "stars," and she didn't quite know what he meant. But if she were to take his analogy seriously, then Teddie was the sun, the closest star to the earth. He was warm in a way that was humanly impossible for anyone but him. And if she was a star, she was a shooting star. Pretty for the split second it explodes in the sky, before eventually dying out, never to be seen again.

Despair clawed at her throat, threatening to force her into another coughing fit, and so, begrudgingly, she finally had to pull away from Teddie for just a moment, to lean down into the box and rummage until she found a box of lozenges. She searched for the expiration date, though she probably wouldn't have to worry since it was bought just before she moved in, and when she was satisfied with what she read, she opened the box and popped one out of the tin foil packaging before putting it in her mouth.

The moment it touched her tongue, she wanted to vomit. God, she'd forgotten how horrid these things tasted, even though the packaging said "honey lemon" as its flavor, and her face twisted with pain and disgust as she attempted to swallow her lozenge-flavored spit down her throat anyway, knowing it would help. Already it was starting to numb her mouth a little, so she was just going to have to deal with the discomfort for a while, and thankfully she was quick to get used to the taste as she settled back on the bed beside Teddie.

Before she could think twice about it and hesitate, Sylvia returned to the position she was in before, her head resting on his shoulder, although this time she loosely wrapped her arms around his waist, a silent plea for him to stay. Her phone was laying discarded on the bed, and she couldn't talk without it in her hands. Maybe it was a little greedy, but she hoped that barrier would be sufficient to protect her from explaining her actions.

Teddie warm. Sylvia pain. That's all that mattered now.

Teddie will definitely need to ask Sylvia about where she was from someday. He's never been to any country besides this one and already each city seemed so drastically different. Inaba, Okina City, Tatsumi Port Island, Tokyo, each one was unique in its own way. Teddie enjoyed exploring each one. If Teddie can show Sylvia around Japan then perhaps she can show him around her country as well? Now there was another plan that made the bear smile.

"That means a lot to me, Vi-chan. Thank you bear-y much!" A soft grin accompanied his appreciation.

He would've continued on his current train of thought further, then Sylvia's next text arrived...Sylvia was sad most of the time? Teddie looked down at his phone in silence. Ever so slightly he pursed his lips as he read through her last four texts again. Outside the screen he noticed a faint blush on her cheeks but she didn't appear sad to him. Was there a deep sadness his friend was hiding from him?

"Vi-chan...are you...-"

Teddie rushed over to be closer to Sylvia's side as soon as she began to cough. Her pain, again, clear on her face. Looking ever closer as she held the tea he made, even that couldn't help with her woes. Teddie could recognize that tongue fanning anywhere as a sign of a tongue burn.

"Oh no! Was it the tea?! Did my tea make it worse?!" He made no attempt to hide the panic in his voice as he frantically looked between her and her small kitchen. Should he find a way to make the tea cooler? Putting it in the fridge could work but that'll take way too long and Sylvia needed it now. There was ice as well but he didn't know if her dorm room had any ice cubes. Then again, that also takes a little while and would dilute the tea.

Oh! If tea wasn't the answer then what was? More cough drops maybe...?

With no more options in his mind, Teddie went up to Sylvia before slowly sitting down on her bed next to her. He wrapped his arm over her then gently began massaging her upper back. This helped with coughing, right? Or was it nausea? Or chocking?

"I'm here for you. Whatever it is, I'm right here..."

[black-dhalias]

Blunt Force

Platonic!Finnick Odair X Reader

Peeta Mellark X Reader

Warnings: Language, brief descriptions of human trafficking, sexual themes

You won at fourteen, the youngest female to ever win, tied for the youngest ever with Finnick Odair. A District Two prodigy—a Capitol favorite and one of Snow’s favorites to pass around. Male victors rarely ever reached that level of appeal, but Finnick did… That’s what made Snow so malicious, so evil to you—a package deal is what he would call it.

Maybe you were too bitter about the whole thing, too stuck in the past, but being bitter is allowed in such circumstances. You breathe in deeply, a frigid District two wind burns your cheeks a harsh red. The furs of your jacket doing little to protect—you hear the distant cheers of the people. So much value put into the Hunger Games by District Two citizens, that even when Two doesn’t win—they cheer for the arriving Victors. They chant for victory, but you only remember the faces of Cato and Clove… You trained them. Helped raise them in the center. But it was rarely ever enough to keep them alive, but 74th Annual Victory Tour is upon you.

Everything is for survival, so its not like you can blame Katniss and Peeta. The star crossed lovers, not that you really believe that pathetic story got a second. Its all a performance in the games. Just like you killing your allies during the day, when you easily could have mercy killed them at night when they left you to watch by yourself. Just like you, they did everything to survive.

“Ms. Y/L/N… When I say jump, you will jump. When I say kill them… You kill them. When I tell you to fuck someone, you fuck them. You may not have a family, but Ms. Y/L/N, your certainly care for people.”

“I don’t have anyone.”

“Keep saying that and I’ll show you the price of lying to me.”

That was the day you learned your place in Panem, it made it impossible to forget. You would have to do anything to survive, do anyone—all at the beck and whim of a temperamental President. But he controlled you, and your body—he kept a tight grip. Your life comes in flashes, colors and shades—bright lights. It all happened so fast. You get dressed. You get to the party. You drink until your cheeks are warm, and then you see the boy from Twelve.

“Peeta Mellark.” Your lips still taste of spirits, as you smile at him—maybe he saw you first. Maybe he was curious. Or maybe he saw you staring, but you take his outstretched hand with a grin.

“Y/N Y/L/N.” He probably knows your name, most of Panem knows of your famed victory as you raise a brow, grinning more vibrantly. “Tell me Peeta Mellark… Would you like a drink?”

It didn’t start out as flirting, but now as he pins you to a wall—you begin to think that you might have flirted a bit. Might have thought he had a nice smile. Might have let those blue eyes entice you a little too close to the sun.

What do you care though? You like the way his lips taste—like red wine with a texture as soft as cotton. Sloppy kisses. Aggressive touches, needy—your back against the wall and fingers in his hair. All in flashes as you pull his ear to your lips, “Tell me what you want?”

“Bite me.” You oblige, his moans pushing you over the edge. And before you know it, your locked in an office in the Justice Building with your clothes on the floor.

You don’t see him again until the Victor’s parade, the 75th Hunger Games nearly underway. Clad in the skimpy armor, not much has changed in the way they dress you—just more skin as you grew up. Now they have more to work with than they did when you were fourteen. The same stylist. The same mentor. Different district partner. Brutus—probably your closest friend of the Victor’s, since he is your neighbor.

You were so angry when you got back from your Games—couldn’t understand why you woke up screaming, when all you ever wanted was to win. So why did you feel so haunted? But Brutus helped, he made you sane. Or more sane.

You see Finnick—someone you’ve had to stand naked in a room with. Sold and bartered for, but at least you had each other.

“Are you okay?” You ask, not trying to draw attention to you.

“Don’t let him kiss me again.”

“I‘ll try, Finnick.” You can take it, that’s what you tell yourself every second. He’s a couple years older, four years to be exact. Stuck in this nightmare longer, forced longer; and some days, you need him to take it. This party has been hard though, roughly ten people and all of them want a taste. Just sixteen and twenty… Kids… But you’re already pawns, and have been from the moment they announced your names as Victors.

You slip off the sheer robe and immediately met with a round of praise, just enough of a distraction. Just to take the attention away from Finnick. Let them look.

Johanna is there too—in the typical District Seven tree get up. You won’t hear the end of her antics, so you stay away, but naturally you gravitate towards Peeta. Your last encounter stuck in your head, locked in—you wonder if he thinks about you too.

“Hey Pretty Boy, miss me?” He smiles more innocently than before, more than you remember.

“Kinda sucks, huh?” There’s an edge to his tone, but you don’t think anything of it—everyone is on edge right now.

“I was hoping for another chance with the famed Peeta Mellark.” You pause, stepping closer. “I hear you’re engaged.”

“And I heard about what you do with Odair.” You had thought his smile was kind, but it held a double meaning like a double sword. Your smile fades and your expression drops, and you’re met with the cruel reality of your decisions.

“I don’t—That really doesn’t matter.”

“If you do it with him, and me, then I bet you do it with everyone.” Whore, that was the word Snow used the first time he partnered you with Finnick.

It echoes; however, what can you do? You go numb, then you harden and walk away. A heart of stone is the only way to survive the things you have done, and gone through. Standing in the chariot, your head held high—you tighten your jaw.

You needed someone. You always need someone, one way or another, but you actually liked Peeta. Liked how he spoke, how he made you smile, but there you go. All the hope of having someone drains away. All at once—you don’t care as much.

“Y/N… You have to smile.”

“I have no reason to smile, Brutus.”

In the arena, you stay close to Finnick—he was supposed to keep District Twelve alive, and you made it your mission to keep Finnick alive. You keep far away from Peeta though. You resent him and his judgement, because your actions kept you alive. You don’t need that from anyone.

“Y/N!” Your body pins to the rocks, digging into your skin, spilling red as your fingers blister under the pressure. Finnick is the one yelling your name you think, the knife still stuck in your side from Cashmere—round and round until you slip. Just a split second of not holding on, is enough to send you flying through the air. A salty spray blinding you as you reach wildly—but there’s nothing to grab.

Finnick… “I couldn’t do this alone… Y/N I really couldn’t, its nice to have someone who understands.” You’ll never see him marry Annie, or have a little Finnick of his own. You lose sight of him on the Cornucopia, and pray he’ll be able to hold on a little longer.

Brutus… “Y/N, you made it all okay. Like I wasn’t alone.” Maybe Brutus makes it out of this, you tried desperately to reach for anything, but there is nothing to grab.

“Immerse yourself in the moment, the Hunger Games are an honor, and you should be honored to train as a potential tribute. Next to none of you will be chosen, but a select few will bring honor and glory to District two. Prepare yourself, you will be broken down and then built up into the perfect tribute. Look around, you’re no longer friend, but instead, competitors. Fight well, earn your place in history.” You always believed the Hunger Games were righteous until you won—then it really became twisted. Because kids are just kids, until they’re not.

Peeta… “For some reason, I thought you were scary. But you’re not.” His fingers rub against your bare shoulder, brushing the skin with care. He was the first to show you love, real love—or what love could taste like. He didn’t ask anything of you, only to exist.

“I’m terrifying.”

“No you’re beautiful.”

Your head smacks against the rocks, at least that’s what it feels like because you’re not sure. The whole world, has gone black.

When Finnick feels the world stop spinning—when the rocks stop burning the palms of his hands. He launches into a search for you. “Y/N!” Bu his search is a blind one, because you don’t speak. Or yell for help. You are just gone. “Y/N!” Why isn’t anyone helping? Why—your Y/H/C hair stands out against the dark tones of the ocean. Every time Finnick blinks he is closer to you, he is huffing. Counting the seconds. Drowning kills faster than a blink. Him dragging you to the rocks.

The next time he blinks he is performing CPR, demanding you come back to him. He’s never had to perform CPR on someone that matters to him, its usually just strangers. You come back though, sputtering to life and inhaling a hard breath—one that burns your throat. Too much salt water causing burns to the inside of your cheeks and chest.

Finnick embraces you tight and you melt into your best friend, having tasted what death feels like. It was flashes and bright, and you wanted nothing to do with it. But the moment ends.

“Oh yeah… Nothing’s going on.” You look up at Peeta, getting up too fast, your footing almost sending you back to the ground. But you don’t, you are glaring at Peeta through your vision that continues to go in and out.

“You know what, maybe I am just some whore. Maybe I did what I did, to myself. Created that reputation of mine. But I did everything I did to survive. We did what we did to survive.” You sneer, your head spinning as you stumble back a step. But Finnick puts his hand on your back and keeps you upright, but you shake him off. The whole world is spinning. “And I will be damned before I let some low life from District Twelve shame me.” Then it goes black…

Finnick calling your name, your body on the rocks—his hands cupping the back of your head, fingers coated in thick blood. Your hair drenched. He feels the tears carving up his cheeks, they burn with the salt water. Peeta numb and still as your cannon echoes over the arena. One second you were here, fighting for the right to just exist without shame. The next you are gone, your best friend—your person, crying. Begging.

That’s the thing about blunt force trauma, you never know how long you’re going to last.

.

.

.

.

Your death haunted Peeta, stuck with him and never seemed to get easier. He couldn’t rationalize how he treated you, or explain away the pain he caused. He partially blamed, no completely blamed himself. Maybe if he had just listened. Heard you out, you wouldn’t have stood up so quick or pushed yourself too far… Maybe you would have lasted a little longer, but you died. Just like that. There and gone.

He asked Finnick in the tunnels, if it was real—if that really happened. It was the only nightmare that wasn’t glossy, it was untouched. Just painful and blistered, that’s why it was left alone to stay there.

You took the force of Panem. Of men and women who felt entitled to your time. Of President Snow. Of judgement. Of a lot. Of Peeta… You were the victim of blunt force trauma long before it killed you, that was the worst part.

“Real…” He whispers to himself, sitting on the porch—wondering what could have been. All the what ifs. He never had a chance to get to know you, all Peeta knew was he liked you. He liked the way you carried yourself. What you stood for. He imagines he would have fallen in love with given the chance, if time would have permitted it.

That was his blunt force trauma. An injury that’ll slowly bleed him dry without there ever being a visible wound. The fact that he might have been the reason you slipped, that he might have pushed you a little too far.

[talesofstyles]

Drs Styles

paediatric heart surgeon harry, husband harry and dad harry. honestly the holy trinity.

warning: they did it in the car. bloody animals.

Harry

“Move your car, please!”

“What are you going to do? Write me a ticket?”

“This is in the interests of safety for the children!”

I look at the time in the car. I’ve still got about twenty to twenty-five minutes to watch this drama unfold at the school gate. I just wish we had popcorn because drop-off and parking situations at the school gates are always more entertaining than Good Morning Britain. 

The school gate is a strange social scene, and honestly, I don’t blame my wife for trying to avoid it like a plague. Sometimes, you don’t even have to talk to these people to know everything about their lives and more. I swear there are more gossips in the class WhatsApp group and daily playground chattering than in the copies of The Sun and Daily Mail combined. You know who’s married, who’s getting a divorce, whose husband shagged the au pair again, whose party you haven’t been invited to, even who’s looking for a builder. 

I see the school caretaker chuckling to himself as he sweeps the autumn leaves off the pathway, no doubt also enjoying our morning entertainment. 

“Why is Mrs Chambers screaming like that?” Alma, our eldest daughter, asks from the back of the car. 

“Because that man parks his car in a drop-off zone,” I reply, still watching him as he removes a child from his car seat. “Do you know who that is?”

“I think the boy is your classmate,” Alma turns to her sister.

Fiona, our youngest, peers over to inspect. “Oh yeah, that’s Rufus and his dad.”

“Do we like Rufus?”

“Not unless we like boys who pee down the slides,” Fiona scrunches her nose up. “He stood at the top and peed down like a waterfall. I haven’t gone down the slide ever since.”

I shake my head and let out a chuckle. “M’sure they’ve cleaned it up since, button.” 

Did you know that choosing a school for your child after nursery can be a head-throbbing, stomach-twisting, heart-pounding experience? Well, it can. How is one supposed to choose a school anyway? According to the proximity? Leavers Results? Adorable uniforms? Parents’ agendas?

After many, many discussions and visits through more schools than I can count, we ended up with Thomas’s Kensington. It’s a great school, and only ten minutes away from our home, making school runs easier. The downside of this school is the fact that it costs us an arm and a leg and that they’re always trying to rip us off any chance they get. Also, they only take the kids until 11, so after that, we’ll have to look for other schools again. But since our girls are only seven and five, we can worry about that later. 

There’s a strange mix of parents at this place. I went to school up in the North and the school gate scene is nothing like this. Here there are more au pairs, fancy cars, nicer clothes and people coming with impressive tans from their last weekend break in Antibes. The kids here are suited up too: the PE kit is the size of a small weekender bag, and we put them in uniforms that make them look smart, hoping that will increase the size of their brains. A child walks past our car with a cello case, another with a hockey stick. It’s a different land here. One that my socialist in-laws constantly tease us about and one which my mum was hysterical about because she was scared her grandbabies would be little Tories. I promised her I’d keep them grounded by only giving them plain hobnobs. None of those luxury chocolate covered ones.

Jokes aside, my girls are happy here. They’re thriving. They learn French and Spanish and Mandarin, even if they share a class with kids who have ridiculous names like Kitty and Archibald. 

A knock at my window calls me to attention. I wind it down.

“Are you Fiona’s dad?” A mum asks me.

“I am.”

“It’s about Ophelia’s riding party this Saturday at the riding stables.” 

Like I said, it’s a different land here.

“I thought we RSVPed to that?” I look at her in confusion.

“Yes, you did, but we have to change the food options as one of the partygoers is allergic to nuts. I’m making everyone aware and we need to let the guests know that they can’t bring any nuts on the day.”

A dirty joke is right there on the tip of my tongue and I’m trying my hardest to keep it in. My wife would definitely find it funny though, I’ve got to remember this and tell her later. 

“Noted,” I mean, I wasn’t going to send my daughter to a party with a packet of cashews anyway but I nod politely.

“And just gift vouchers for gifts please. Smiggle, if you can.”

Again, I nod, biting my tongue at the presumptuousness. But then I suddenly panic, because we haven’t entered the realms of pony riding just yet. Do I have to buy jods and boots? If I don’t, will my daughter be the odd one out? But Ophelia’s mum saunters off before I’ve got the chance to ask.

“Do I have to go to that party, daddy?” Fiona asks. 

“Well, we’ve already replied, poppet,” I tell her. “Did you not want to go?”

“I’ll go if I have to.”

I don’t answer because I get distracted by a vacant space. I edge the car forward so my girls can hop off. 

“I love you both. Have a good day, make good choices.” 

“Bye daddy! We’ll see you after work!”

***

Evelina London Children’s Hospital is our second home. Of course, as a children’s hospital, we try to make the place as fun as possible as not to freak those little patients out at being ill. It is bright and primary coloured, and each ward is decorated according to its own theme with different colours and lovely artworks. There are televisions and toys almost in every corner. We have a giant slide on the ground floor, and even the bins are shaped like red London buses. The aim was to help the children to forget that they’re in a hospital and take their minds off their sickness.

Since my wife and I are in the same department, our offices are next to each other, both overlooking the Thames. It’s nice up here. Would’ve been nicer if we could sneak in a quickie, but that’s practically impossible with our shared secretary’s desk sitting literally in front of our doors. 

Speak of the devil.

“Good morning. Here’s your tea,” my secretary follows me into my office with a cup of tea and a tiny plate with a couple of rich tea fingers. “Clinic until 3 pm, scheduled PDA ligation in the laboratory for 4 pm and then evening rounds on the wards.”

“Mornin’ Rhonda, you look lovely today,” I greet her cheerily. She’s a stern-looking woman who definitely likes her tea as strong as tits and who has probably never cried in her life. With such severity, she runs a tight ship, but she secretly has this affectionate side in her too. Not only is she a great secretary, but she also takes care of us in a way as a grandma does. She makes us tea, feeds us in between surgeries with biscuits or nice baby cheeses and crackers just so we wouldn’t starve. 

See that sofa over there in the corner of my office? Rhonda got me that. It was around the time when I had just become a new father with the sweetest, most gorgeous little baby who did not sleep. Alma wasn’t a fussy baby though. For some reason, she just wouldn’t go back to sleep after her midnight feed for months. Believe me, I tried everything. I changed her nappy, I swayed and jiggled and rocked and sung her to sleep. Odd nonsensical songs like, ‘Alma darling go to sleeep. Sleepy sleep sleep. Pleeeeease. I’m so tirrrred. My eyeballs may actually exploooode. I don’t want you to see thaaat.’ And she would just look at me all wide-eyed like I’d lost the plot. Those were song lyrics? That was rubbish. Please don’t give up your day job. Also, it’s not sleeping time. I’m awake. I’m ready for life. Come on, entertain me, old man. Isn’t this nice, just you and me? Tell me everything you know. EVERYTHING. 

Except of course she didn’t say all that. She would just stare at me and I had no idea what was going on in her little head. 

I took over my wife’s patients at the hospital during her maternity leave, so I had longer hours at the hospital. One day Rhonda found me napping on the floor between surgeries, so she sweet-talked some porters into looking for any old sofas on the go and paid to have this one reupholstered. She even bought me a fleece throw for it too. We really don’t deserve her.

“You hittin’ on me?” She deadpans. “Yer wife not doing it for you these days?”

“It’s the blazer. I’m a sucker for a blazer.”

“If I’d known, I would’ve worn it more often,” she replies. “Did my nice dress yesterday not give you the fanny flutters?”

“It’s schlong shiver for me,” I roar with laughter. “And it’s the tartan, makes you look well old.”

“YN, yer husband’s a bloody git, did I ever tell you that?” Rhonda says loud enough for my wife to hear, and I can hear my wife’s laughter from her office next door. “Drink your tea. Your first clinic appointment is in twenty.”

“Yes ma’am,” I salute her. 

***

The Arctic ward in the Evelina is home to many of our imaging, heart and kidney services. The name is probably giving it away, but everything is decorated in blue and white to go with the theme. We have several zones, and since paediatric cardiology clinics are held in the Walrus zone, I spend a great deal of time each day looking at walrus and snowflake decals. 

“Doctor Styles!” I hear a little voice shouts in excitement as I walk towards the waiting room in the outpatient ward. I smile, because I recognise that voice even before I see the little person.

The waiting room is very open here compared to other hospitals. There’s a sea of noise, snacks, tiny juice boxes and colouring pages. There’s also always a look of expectation, judgement on the faces of parents and guardians every time I walk in. They want to see if their doctor is old or qualified enough to see their children. There’s always one child who has the whole gang with them; parents, two sets of grandparents and even several aunts and uncles, and there’s also at least one child running around in circles out of boredom. 

This little lad bounces off his chair and hurls himself at me in a way like a little puppy would when its owner comes home from work. I put an arm out, hoping that he’ll apply the brakes but no such luck and he bundles himself into my arms. “Nice to see you, mate.”

His parents smile as they watch their son’s antics, who then runs off as I shake their hands. I turn around to see what caught his attention, and I can’t help but chuckle when I realise it’s my wife. 

“Doctor pretty Styles!” He exclaims excitedly as he bundles himself into her arms. She gets a mouthful of curls in the process. 

“Hi Rory,” she greets him as she runs her fingers through his curly mop. 

“Oi,” I pout as I walk towards them. “You don’t think I’m pretty?”

“Your wife is prettier,” he says with a shrug, his tone matter-of-fact.

She laughs and gives him a high-five. “Rory, you are officially my favourite patient.”

She is right. Rory is one of our special patients for sure. We’ve both known him for about six years now, ever since Rory’s mum gave birth to this tiny human next door at St Thomas and his heart was literally broken. I remember watching proudly from the theatre when my wife replaced two of his valves when he was born. It was in our early years of training. Long time patients like Rory almost always feel like family. We’ve seen all their parents’ tears and watched over their children throughout the years. They send us cards and wine every Christmas and despite all attempts to keep a professional distance, their kids do feel like our own.

Rory shrugs off his dinosaur rucksack and unzips it, pulling out a drawing of a blue whale and an opened packet of KitKat. I like that the whale wears a top hat and appears to also don a moustache. 

“I drew you both a picture. Only one though, because I figure you can share,” he says with a big toothy grin and hands the packet of KitKat to my wife. “And I’ve got half a KitKat here. Do you want it?”

“I’m good for now. Keep that KitKat for later on the tube,” she smiles and waves at Rory as she begins to walk away towards the fetal cardiology ward just down the hall. “Bye Rory, thanks for the picture.”

“Bye doctor pretty Styles,” Rory replies, making my wife laugh as she walks away. I give her a wave and a wink. 

“Hey Rory, did you know a blue whale has a heart the size of a small car?” I ask him and his eyes widen.

“No way! That’s mega!” He exclaims. “Do you think you could operate on a whale heart?”

“I would need a very big ladder,” I tell him. “And a wetsuit. I’d give it a go though.”

A senior nurse from the outpatient ward, Florence approaches us with a junior nurse trailing behind her. “Dr Styles, always a pleasure.”

I smile at her. “Florence. How are we today?”

“Busy as usual,” she replies. “We’re about twenty minutes behind I’m afraid. We had Dr Goodridge in this morning and you know he likes to talk.”

“He always runs over,” I chuckle. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll skip lunch and get us back up to speed.”

“I’ll make sure to send some snacks for you. Here’s your chart, your files are already in your office. And this is Alice, your nurse today. She’s newly qualified so might need some instructions.”

The new nurse looks terrified so I smile at her to try and calm her fears. I totally get that. When you work in medicine, unfortunately, you’ll realise that there are a lot of rude self-important wankers. 

I look down at my chart and find Rory’s name on the top of the list. “Well, look who’s coming with me to the exam room.”

Rory reaches out to hold my hand and we walk towards the examination room. His parents follow us closely, carrying the usual coats and devices that people do when they know they’re bound for a hospital waiting room. I see them inside and sit behind the desk.

“So, young man, I hear we’ve had a touch of drama with you. Can you tell me what happened?”

I’ve actually already got the information in the file, but I like the way this kid tells a story. He reminds me of my youngest. 

“So… I was at school and we were doing PE and I wasn’t really feeling it because it was cold and really we should have been inside but Mr Witter makes us go outside because he used to be in the Army apparently and he says we should get used to the cold but that’s what they do in prisons.”

I smile. “Go on.”

“And then my heart started running.”

“You mean racing?”

He nods firmly. Racing isn’t even the word. It sprinted to the finish like Bolt at 252 beats per minute, three times the speed it should.

“It felt like bubbles in my chest and then the school went crazy panicky and they called the ambulance and they brought me to the hospital but not this one, it was another one and it wasn’t as good because you weren’t there and they had really bad biscuit.”

His mum adds. “And they gave him some drugs to bring it back to a steady rhythm; they were close to shocking him.” Her voice trails off and both parents’ faces look drawn and pale remembering the incident.

Rory looks absolutely unbothered by this. To be fair, we have put this little man through everything. We’ve cut his chest open more times than is necessary for someone so small, we hook him up to machines and put him on treadmills. His resilience and character amaze me, and I really can’t imagine what it feels like to see your child so vulnerable and helpless, to be paralysed and weighed down with such worry.

“Alright then, little man, we need to make sure that your heart is working as it should. This is Alice, and she is going to take you over for an ECG and we just need to make sure your tick-tock is in good shape.”

Rory nods and jumps off the chair. His dad offers him a piggyback, and his mum smiles at them. I can hear Rory offering that half KitKat to Alice as they leave the room. 

His mother turns to me as the door is closed, her shoulders relaxing, allowing herself to breathe. “And how are you?” I ask her.

“You just think it’s done and then something like that comes along to scare you,” she says with a sigh.

“Let’s have these tests and then see if it’s anything major to worry about,” I try to calm her. “Episodes of rapid heartbeat is quite common in Rory’s case, and we can look into drugs to remedy that if necessary.”

She smiles, nodding.

“Did you have any other questions for me?”

She studies my face for a moment too long. “I… well, it will show up in Rory’s records soon, but my husband I are… I mean we’re getting a divorce.”

I pause for a moment. Of course, I know these things happen in life, but I’ve known this couple for years. I’ve seen them at their lowest ebb, bound by friendship and their love for that boy. I really do feel sorry for them.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I mumble.

“We just… we’re terrified about telling Rory.”

“He doesn’t know?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “We’re scared of breaking him. I mean, look at him. All of this stuff he’s been through and he carries on like nothing has happened. We don’t want to upset him.”

“It took a team of us the best part of six years to build Rory’s heart. There's a warranty on that workmanship,” I reassure her. “Have that chat with him. He’ll be fine.”

***

“Have we got time for dinner first?” I turn to my wife as we walk out of the hospital. We don’t normally have the luxury of ending our shift at the same time, but today is exceptional. We have parents’ evening at the girls�� school so Rhonda made sure to clear up our schedule after our evening rounds at the ward. 

“No, but we can raid M&S and eat in the car?”

I’m starving and I almost cry with relief at the suggestion. “Always knew I married the right woman.”

She chuckles. “Damn right you did.”

We leave the car at the hospital and she drags me along the walkways to Waterloo, the breeze biting at our cheeks. I pull her into M&S, dodging the marching commuters and grab a basket. 

“I’ll look for some wine,” she says before she saunters off. “Oh and I want sushi. None of that crap with the mayonnaise please.”

“Alright.”

I skipped lunch today so the whole place calls to me. I start taking very random things off the shelves: a packet of raspberry iced buns. That’ll do. I also take some hummus for my wife because she bloody loves hummus. I’m not even joking, I’ve seen her down a whole pot of it. Then I take some sushi as requested, some coleslaw, a family bag of mature cheddar and red onion crisps and a trifle. I hope I don’t bump into Rhonda. Next are cheese twists, noodle salad and cocktail sausages. 

It takes me a while to notice that there is a man right next to me with a roll of yellow stickers in their back pocket. Hello there, you are one of my favourite people tonight. Have I managed to find that sacred hour when all the food is being marked down? He labels some prawns with dip and even though I get a little squeamish about eating fish near its expiry date, I put it in my basket. I then follow him around the corner. Now, this is dinner. I put all sorts of random food in my basket and smile at the thought.

Ooh, knockdown pizzas. I should get a pizza. That’s tomorrow’s tea sorted, the girls will love it. Although I can’t help but wonder, what’s the limit for us to feed our daughters frozen pizza in a week before they get taken away from us? But eh, we might be able to get away with it if we give them frozen peas on the side. 

“Look at you,” says my wife, depositing two bottles of red in the basket. 

“Yes, it’s me. I’m the yellow sticker bitch.”

She snickers as we turn to head for the tills. “Excellent work.”

***

“Mr and Mrs Styles, welcome.”

“Mrs Ebner, always a pleasure,” I shake the headmistress’ hand who’s standing at the door. 

“Busy evening?” My wife asks her as she shakes her hand next.

“Always,” the headmistress replies with a smile, then proceeds to speak like she’s reading out of brochures. “But such a wonderful opportunity to connect with our parents and build on the special relationships we have with our school community.” 

Two uniformed minions appear.

“Lewis, Maggie, could you please show Mr and Mrs Styles through to the drinks reception?”

They both nod in unison. The boy holds his arms out like a waiter showing us to our table. We follow them through the school’s grand corridors to the main hall. It’s the one thing I like about this place. It’s very Hogwarts-like with hefty engraved name boards and sepia photos of successful sports teams. In the hall, a throng of parents mill around waiting to see respective teachers. It’s the same every year. We all dodge the people from the PTA trying to sell us quiz tickets, and the bowls of crisps out of hygiene concerns.

“Red or white?” Asks a lady in an apron.

This right here is the very reason we get through parents’ evening. From the look of the bottle, it’s decent wine too. I think that’s where a good proportion of our fees is going. 

“Red, please.”

We both take our glasses and walk to the corner of the hall. It’s essentially a holding area without the background music. The idea is that all the parents will get on and create a party vibe but it just becomes a strange family gathering. As terrible as it sounds, it’s sorted into cliques: parents who know each other via NCT groups, the international expat brigades who keep to themselves, the parents who’ve ostracised themselves by gossip, the ones who you know regularly brunch and ski together.

The boy from earlier suddenly appears in front of us. “Mrs Hughes is ready for you.”

I put my hand on the small of my wife’s back as we walk towards the classroom. Fiona’s teacher first and then Alma’s straight after. Right, we can do this.

“Mrs Hughes, we meet again,” I shake her hand. I’ve got no qualms about Mrs Hughes. She’s a seasoned teacher who likes a slack and sensible moccasin and we’re familiar with her since she taught Alma two years previously. When we enter the classroom, Lewis bows in reverence, taking his leave and I wonder whether to tip him. 

“It’s always lovely to have another Styles girl in my classroom. Fiona is a particular delight.”

My wife and I smile proudly. I’m sure Mrs Hughes says this to every parent here about their child, but that’s always nice to hear. 

“She talks a lot about you,” my wife says. “She seems to have settled in well.”

Mrs Hughes opens up a couple of books and it’s classic Fiona. Alma is ordered and neat—if she makes a mistake then she erases it completely and she underlines things with a ruler and listens to instruction carefully. She gets that from her mum. Fiona though, on the other hand, she’s all me. She has more wild abandon about her; no rulers, no rubbers. She puts giant crosses through things that don’t work and likes her bubble writing decorated with doodles of many, many cats.

I glance around the classroom as Mrs Hughes talks to us about standardised scores. The theme of the school is to show you how smart and educated these children are. Look at the copperplate handwriting, their reproductions of Van Gogh and our languages corner where they’ve all had a go at telling us what they like in French. I spy a contribution from my girl. J’adore les chats et le gâteau au chocolat. 

I’ve lost track of the conversation so I try to catch up.

“So to push Fiona into those top scores, perhaps we can look into tutoring? For maths, in particular, so she can grasp some of the concepts a little more tightly,” says Mrs Hughes. 

My wife and I look at each other confused. “Uh, I don’t think there’s a need, right? She’s only five.”

“It’s never too early,” replies Mrs Hughes. “We run an after-school tutoring club on Tuesdays that would help.”

Back when I was a youngster, clubs were fun endeavours that involved matching baseballs caps or were a chocolate biscuit that you had in your lunchbox. Maths tutoring session was not a club.

I ask her. “Is it free?”

“It’s fifteen pounds per session.”

See? My point being this should be a parents’ evening, not a sales session.

“Well, then it’s something to think about,” says my wife. “It could be that Fiona catches up with people throughout the year.”

“Possibly,” Mrs Hughes nods. Still, though, she proceeds to go into her folder and passes me a form. Sneaky. “Fiona has also shown great interest in languages and art. Her pictures have been a joy.”

Mrs Hughes goes to a file and pulls one of Fiona’s drawings. I glance down at it. It’s a standard child piece of art. The grass and sky are strips of colour to the top and bottom. It’s a family portrait, and we are as tall as the broccoli style trees. Wait, hang on a second. I count the number of people in the picture again. Is that-

“And Mrs Styles, I gather congratulations are in order,” she says with a smile. “Such lovely news.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Fiona told me it’s a boy,” she adds, and the sheer terror on my wife’s face at the realisation is priceless. “You must be very thrilled.”

I study the picture. There’s a house in the middle, and standing in a line in front of the house is our family. The one slightly taller than the broccoli tree is me. I’ve got my white lab coat, and I look like a serial killer because I’m holding a scalpel with the size of a butcher’s knife. Next to me is my wife, also with a white lab coat, but instead of a scalpel, she’s holding a very chunky baby who rather looks like a basketball with a head.

“Oh dear,” I chuckle. “Guess now we know what she’ll ask for Christmas.”

“Yeah,” my wife shakes her head. “We’re not expecting.”

“Oh, I apologise,” Mrs Hughes says with a sheepish smile.

“No worries, Mrs Hughes,” I tell her. “So, what else has our girl been up to here? Besides gossiping of course.”

Mrs Hughes laughs under her breath. “Well, in class, Fiona is attentive, bright and very helpful. She is a credit to you both.”

***

“I swear your daughter, Styles.”

We’re sitting in the car now. Finally done with parents’ evening, still laughing at the slightly creepy, chunky basketball baby in Fiona’s picture and the fact that three people, including Mrs Hughes, have congratulated us for the ‘baby’.

“You haven’t called me Styles in years,“ I turn to her with a grin. “Not since medical school.”

I can’t help but flashback to the good ol’ days when we had matching university hoodies and we’d test each other on the parts of a kidney whilst walking into lectures, sitting next to each other, sharing pens and cans of Lilt. 

“Well, after that I became a Styles too,” she chuckles. “Would be confusing then, wouldn’t it?”

“True,” I laugh under my breath, then I grab her hand and pull it to my mouth so I can kiss her knuckles. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For being a Styles.”

“Aw, aren’t we soppy tonight?” She smirks. “Alright, stop the car.”

“What?”

“There,” she points to a dark empty spot and I oblige. 

Then, before I can even ask her why, she reaches over and grabs me by the collar. Pulling me close to her and gives me a kiss. I kiss her back, and I smile when she bites gently on my bottom lip.

“Oi, oi. Something’s got you randy.”

The next thing I know, she undoes her seatbelt and then rolls her trousers down her legs along with her knickers, fumbling and giggling at the awkward movement. I push my seat back and pull my trousers down. 

“Don’t fall on gearstick now,” I joke as she climbs over to straddle me. “Well, unless you want to, of course…”

She laughs as she lowers herself over my lap. I really can’t believe what’s happening here.

“Mrs Styles, we’re about to have sex in a car. Around the corner from our daughters’ school.” 

“I know,” she says with a smile before she runs her tongue along my neck. “Not our first rodeo though.”

“Oh right, we did it in our Volvo years ago, didn’t we? Thought the suspension couldn’t take it.”

“And it turned out fine. Told you that you needed to have more faith in the Swedes, they’re a reliable breed.”

“I love it when you talk about Sweden.”

“Ikea.”

“Fuck.”

“Meatballs.”

“Billy Bookcase.”

She throws her head back in laughter and I take this as an opportunity to run my tongue along her collar bone. She gasps. I reach down to lift her before I slowly lower her over my cock. We both sigh as I enter her, a long exhalation with our lips barely touching. 

“Viggo Mortensen.”

“Isn’t he Danish?”

“Tomato, Tomahto.”

I smile at my wife and push my hips up, silently telling her that we don’t need to talk about Swedish people anymore. She grabs onto the car seat and levers herself up and down. I look at her in the eye, a goofy smile still plastered across my face.

But then I squint. Light. Bollocks, what’s that? Where’s that light coming from? Crap, that’s bright. Shit. I see the flash of a hi-vis jacket, a knock at the window and someone shaking their head.

Oh sodding fucking bollocking shit wank.

[softscummymammon]

€Male Hashira React to Their MALE S/O Coming Out As Asexual€

••Part 1 ||→ Giyu, Rengoku, Obanai

••Part 2||→Sanemi, Gyomei, Tengen

→+*:;;:*Demon Slayer Headcanon*:;;:*+←

I have decided not to do Muichiro because of the context that he is 14 years old. Due to this, I will not be adding him to the fic. Though this is about asexuality, and therefore the lack of sex, it is still considered wrong to me.

←Sanemi Shinazugawa→

Really, you were kinda shitting your pants at the idea of coming out to Sanemi. You know he's only abrasive and stubborn because of his past, but sometimes reading him is like asking Gyomei what color shirt you should wear.

Aka, pretty much impossible.

But you both were in a committed relationship, and you didn't want to feel like you were leading him on. There is also the possibility of him feeling like you had higher expectations. Knowing how that feels, you never wanted your boyfriend to feel like that.

So, deciding to get this over with and be blunt, which really is the only way you can approach this like this with Sanemi, you sat him down after his afternoon training. When he heard your voice and how serious you were, he made no move to object beside the occasional grumble.

His normally scowly face turned inquisitive as you sat at the chabudai. He sat across from you and asked what you needed him for. Steeling yourself, you tell him you're asexual, and have no or little desire to have any sexual activity. Making sure Sanemi didn't blame himself was key. Otherwise, he'd blame himself.

His face blanks for a second, then he asks if he made you uncomfortable in anyway. You tell him no, that you trust him to control himself, but some touches just can't happen. Sanemi starts to get a little irritated and asks then what is comfortable to you then? You try to calmly explain that cuddles are fine, soft touches on the shoulders, arms and head are fine, kisses too, as long as it doesn't get too heated.

Sanemi takes a few breaths, but explains to you that he has needs too; sexual needs he wanted to carry out with you since you're special to him. You can't help the tears that start to fall, but Sanemi is quick to sit by your side and wipe them away. He's cursing himself out and telling you he's sorry while you're trying to say you understand and feel sorry you're limiting the his show of love.

It gets so hectic, Sanemi leans forward and head butts you. Nothing like that brat did to him, but it was enough to catch your attention. He firmly apologizes for any misstep he took, and shushes you when you trying interrupting him. He carries on saying his love for you can be expressed in more ways than sex ever could, so he'll just have to get creative. Sanemi loves you dearly, and he doesn't want his lack of self control to be the end what the beautiful thing you both had.

So, he does. Whenever he gets that urge he'll leave and deal with it, then come back and pamper you till you both fall asleep or take a nap. He's still weary about how he touches you, but confident hands on your part will ease his hesitancy. Sanemi also becomes super over protective. He'd glare and growl at anyone that gets too close.

He can't grope you like he would have done originally. So, to combat those people that can't seem to think through their brains, he uses his wind breathing style to quite literally blow them away.

←Himejima Gyomei→

Trust and commitment was always an issue of Gyomei. But once he opens himself up, he is unwavering in his care. He loves you dearly, and he takes this relationship seriously. So why have you been avoiding him?

Gyomei sighed heavily and settled down near the water stream. Thinking over the day within his memories, he recounted how you seemed to have been anxious. Himejima may not be able to see, but he can hear your emotions clear as day, your anxious heart and breathing.

The water rushing through the stream eased him slightly, but the memory of your fear put him on edge. He never liked when you felt anything negative. Himejima always wanted to hear that smile on your face and laugh in your speech.

Standing up, Gyomei listened for your heart beat and followed it towards your shared home. Ever since this relationship became serious, you both decided living in Gyomei's home was the best idea since it had more medical supplies and felt more lived in. So it was an easy walk he figured out leads to the training area in the back of the house.

Opening a sliding door that leads to the Zen garden you helped him plant, he found you setting next to the water fountain you both had chosen as an added on feature. Sitting down next to you, he heard you sigh and felt you lean into his side. Gyomei wrapped a careful hand around your waist and let you get whatever was bothering you out your self.

Mustering up your confidence, you suddenly blurt out that you believe you are asexual. He pauses and let's the thought wash over him, trying to remember where he had heard that term before. Now that he recalled, one of the many older children he had helped before becoming a demon slayer had confided with him about the exact same thing.

With a careful voice, he addressed your rising nervousness, " Sex was never my end goal with you, my Rock. My only goal that I ever had was to make you happy. If you believe that sex would only ever make you uncomfortable, or that being sexually active on a regular basis is unnecessary, then I will do whatever it takes to love you thoroughly another way. "

He embraced you that night, feeling the coolness of the sun slowly setting behind the hills. Gyomei held you close to his chest as he rocked you back and forth, setting a firm, callused, yet somehow soft hand on the back of your neck to keep you still and comfort you.

Himejima no longer tolerated you being around people that he could tell made you uncomfortable. He knew all too well how dangerous and capable you could be when you wanted to, but he also wanted to get that feeling of accomplishment when he successfully guarded you away from those he knew where only trying to get with you for something other than your opinion. Besides, it was rather easy to just walk up behind them and set a hand on their shoulder to scare them off.

← Tengen Uzui→

To say that you were nervous with your most recent, yet blatantly obvious, discovery was an understatement. Being with Uzui was a whole other thing in on its own, and you had to overcome hurdles like any couple to be together. For one, it was rather odd to you that he already had three wives, beautiful women that could give him anything he wanted, yet he still chose to date you.

It unnerved you, a little. Though it was common in your home country that having multiple married partners was common, you always felt like you were encroaching on their daily lives.

But, they always made a show of accepting you. Even going as far as to invite you to their gatherings and trips to the city for shopping and sight seeing. You had an amazing time with them, but you can never get away from their....steamy stories. They always got blushy when recalling their first times with Tengen. It never ceased to make you uncomfortable, and they would always tease you about having to excuse your self when the topic of their sex lives came up.

Now that you thought back on it, it was glaringly obvious how you came up with your discovery in sexuality. Though it was already said, you were nervous. Nervous about what Uzui would think, about how his wives would think, and your standing in the relationship would turn. If you even had a relationship after this to begin with.

But, this needed to come out, and you don't think you'd be able to continue to live in a relationship where you couldn't be yourself. So, you had called them all in. It was a lot more intimidating than you would have imagined it to be. All four of them sat around the table with you, each had a different expression on their face.

Tengen set a firm hand on your thigh, trying to give you a supporting hold, but it only made your nerves stand on end. Taking a deep breath, you took his hand into your own and lifted it to sit firmly on the table. Tengen blinked in surprise, as did Suma, Hinatsuru, and Makio.

Deciding to not beat around the bush this time, you tell your recent discovery about being asexual. The silence given afterwards was very...tense. They looked in between each other for quite sometime, likely having a silent convention you weren't privy to even try and understand. It started to get suffocating, and it felt like you couldn't breathe.

You quickly made your way out of their. Standing up quickly and getting out of the room despite your name being called out by four other voices. Getting to your room within Uzui's home, you close the door and lock the door. Going to your futon, you breathe deeply in and out while tears stream down your face.

Footsteps made you freeze. And a soft whisper of your name made you look up towards your door. Hearing a slight thump, you can only imagine as Tengen sits against the locked door and calls out your name again. Sighing, you get up and sit on the other side of the door, giving him a chance to hear you.

Uzui makes sure you're okay before telling you that he was sorry. He explained that he didn't mean for allowing your anxieties to eat away at you like they did, and expressed his wish to be able to help you with them like a good partner should. He tells you that he loves you no matter what, and Makio, Suma, and Hinatsuru agree. He didn't mean to make you uncomfortable with his touch either, and his wives apologize for not seeing how uncomfortable you were listening to them talk about their past experiences.

Listening to them, you could hear that they were genuine. So, you stood up and unlocked the door, immediately getting engulfed in a hug by the man himself. Sighing, you felt so much better for being accepted. Leaning into his embrace, you were swept off your feet with a yell and layed down on your futon where he and his partners cuddled up around you.

<————««➹𓆉➷»»————>

[yelena-bellova]

Safe Haven: tfatws!Bucky Barnes x fem!reader - Chapter One

Chapter One: The Other Wilson Sister - chapter two

Series Masterlist

Plot: Y/n grew up with Sam and Sarah Wilson in the bayou of Delacroix. During the Blip she stayed with Sarah to help run the family business. With Sam back and trying to save the day, Y/n’s perfect opportunity to confess her long-kept secret to her best friend presents itself.

Warnings: tfatws ep.1 spoilers, language, suicide mention, undertones of racism, lots of Wilson sibling arguments, tragic backstory

Word Count: 5.9k

A/N: As I wrote this first chapter out I realized it’s most definitely also a Sam Wilson x platonic fic. Bucky doesn’t come in till next chapter but rest assured, it’s gonna be a wild ride...Also I didn’t know till now how difficult it is to plan out a series in its entirety when the show isn’t completed lol. Hope you enjoy! (I may or may not change the title depending on how I feel about it later today lol)

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Delacroix, LA 2024

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One of the only things I was certain of in life was that blood didn’t make a family.

I had no official tie to Wilson family, I wasn’t a daughter or some distant cousin sent to live with them. We shared no DNA and they had no reason to love me as much as they did. But throughout my life I had known no kinder people than them and I doubted that would change. As I stood on the family boat helping to unload the catch of the day, I thought of how our corner of the Louisiana bayou felt more like home than any place I’d ever been.

“Hey,” Sarah said from the dock, “Head out of the clouds and down here helping me.” “Sorry,” I shook myself out of my thoughts and hopped off the boat, “Not a bad catch if you ask me.”

Sarah sighed as she bent over a large bucket of fish, “It could’ve been better.” I came to stand in front of her and held my hands out for a bucket, “Take the wins where you can get ‘em, Sar. Lord knows we don’t get enough of them.” Sarah Wilson was the only superhero I’d ever aspire to be like. She was a widow who had raised two kids and run a business all by herself with no family for support. The past five years had been challenging with so many people gone and while I had moved in with her to help however I could, I could take no credit. She was one of the strongest women I’d ever known.

“You had that look on your face again,” she said as we worked.

“What look?”

“That look that lets me know you were thinking real hard about something,” Sarah imitated the expression in question by thinning her eyes slightly and furrowing her brows, “Like this.” I laughed heartily at her impression, “So what was it?” I gazed out at the bayou waters before turning to the boat and finally Sarah, “Family.”

She nudged me with her hip, something we’d done when we were young and an affectionate gesture we’d carried into adulthood. A half hour went by with us and the boys unloading and sorting the fish we’d caught. I was too wrapped up in the task to notice the sound of a vehicle approaching until AJ and Cass announced the arrival. 

“Blue for the snapper, orange for the whitefish.”

“Uncle Sam!”

My head shot up upon hearing his name, as did Sarah’s. I used my hand as a visor against to sun to spot the familiar rusted truck parked a few hundred feet away, with my best friend standing outside it hugging his nephews.

“That’s right, Uncle Sam,” Sarah called, “You’re back early.”

I grinned as I shucked my gloves off and made a beeline for him, slamming my body into his for a tight embrace. It had been a few weeks since I’d seen him, having spent the only weekend he was off away, and I’d naturally been worried sick about him. My best friend and un-biological brother may have been an Avenger for years, but after losing him in the Blip I didn’t think I’d ever stop worrying about him.

“Every time I come home, you act like I’ve been gone for five years,” he joked over my shoulder, resulting in me pulling away and slapping his bicep.

“Not even a little funny,” I pointed a finger in his smug face, he slung an arm around my neck as we walked over to Sarah.

“What’s goin’ on? You got Mom’s sneaky look on your face.” “How you gonna try to read me when you know I’m the one that reads you?” Sam smiled, passing by and greeting a long time customer of ours. “That look is permanently glued to his face, Sar,” I chuckled, “I learned that in grade school.” Sam shook his head at me and laughed before making his way up the dock to the Wilson family boat. “You gotta marvel at it, baby’s being held together by duct tape and prayers.” I leaned into Sarah, “Are you telling him or am I?” She took the initiative, “It just needs to float long enough for me to sell it.” “I thought we were gonna discuss if we were selling it,” Sam replied as he helped unload another bucket of fish. “We did, and then you were off fighting Doctor Space Cape or whatever while we,” Sarah gestured between us, “Were holdin’ it together for five long years. Now that the world is going back to normal, this thing’s gotta go.”

Sam looked to me with a look of displeasure, “Were you in on this?” “Don’t drag me into this,” I waved my hands as if wiping my involvement away, “This is a Wilson sibling discussion.” “Uh-uh,” Sam called me out, wagging his finger, “Don’t do that. Dad said every chance he got that you were one of his own, you’ve got a say in this too. What is it?” I scrunched my face up, dreading the argument that was knocking on our door, “It’s dead weight, Sam. The money we could get for it would be enough to keep us comfortable for a little longer without having to worry.” “We grew up on this thing. It’s not just Mom and Dad’s name on it. This thing is a part of our family.”

I sighed as Sarah stepped forward, “You know the situation we’re in. This is why I prefer not to dwell on it in front of everybody.” “Well what if we don’t need to sell it?” Sam said. “Can we talk about this in private?” I suggested, tiring of having to convince Sam that we were in the right when he hadn’t been around to witness our struggles. A long time friend of ours called out to Sam and he willingly took the distraction, opting out of having the inevitable difficult conversation. Sarah and I trudged back, totes of fish in hand and tried to get through the rest of the work day without worrying if we were approaching our last.

————

During golden hour, when the clock had struck five and we’d started packing it up for the day was the only time to get Sam to actually listen. I knew how much the boat meant to him, it meant something to us all, but he wasn’t living in the reality that Sarah and I were.

“Sam, the boat’s gotta go,” Sarah finally said, breaking the silence we were working in on the vessel. “Wait-“ “No, let me finish,” she said, “Y/n and I are doin’ everything I can to keep this business afloat and every day we’re making $5 and spending $10.” Sam looked between the two of us, “So why won’t you let me help?” 

“Sam, don’t…” I winced, knowing Sarah’s reaction would be strong.

“No, don’t start with that. We made a deal before Daddy died,” Sarah carried a few buckets to the center of the deck, “You’re out there, I do things my way here. Y/n agreed to it too when she went off to school.” “Right, but you tangled the house into this when you took those loans,” Sam finished tying off one of the ropes, turning around and giving Sarah the perfect opportunity to punch his chest, “Forgot how hard you hit.” I sighed as I passed him by to follow Sarah, “Low blow, you deserved it.” 

“Sarah, Y/n, c’mon,” he chased after us, “Look, and don’t hit me again…What if you had money to fix it up? Make it nice so you can charter it when you’re not out working the waters?” “Sam, do you think this was an easy decision for us?” I faced him, leaning against the doorway next to him, “I tried every tactic I learned in business school and got nowhere. Anything I thought up, we needed more money to do. This is our only option.” As he always did with the things he cared about, he fought. “We can take a loan and consolidate everything, it’ll take down your monthly,” he looked confused as he watched Sarah laugh, “What?” “You think I didn’t try the banks? They’re in with all that big business now.” I followed them like the little sister I’d always been as they moved their fight towards the cockpit of the boat. Sam blocked another doorway, “Yeah, but now you have me.”

“Don’t, Sam,” Sarah shook her head, “I just got good with this.”

“All right…”

“Maybe it is time for us to move on,” Sarah sighed. “Either way, just let me help,” Sam offered, “I’ll set the appointment. Look, I won’t let you guys down. We can turn this shit around. Trust me.” I peered over at Sarah, wishing I could see the calculations going on in her brain. It seemed pointless, but any shot at changing our luck was an avenue worth pursuing.

“It can’t hurt to try,” I shrugged.

Sarah finally relented, “To the rescue, huh?”

“Always,” Sam smiled, “Now, let’s get some dinner. I’m hungry.” ————

Sarah was taking AJ and Cass back home while Sam and I took his truck to go pick up food.

“So how was Tunisia?” I asked, sticking my hand out the window and letting it rise and fall with the wind.

“Hot, but the mission went well,” he answered, looking out of the corner of his eyes at me, “And that’s all you need to know.”

I snickered, “C’mon, it’s our thing. I ask you detailed questions about your confidential missions, you tell me you can’t reveal anything, I keep asking…You’ve gotta honor tradition.” “I flew, I fought, I rescued. Boom, mission explained.” “Ugh, you’re impossible, Wilson,” I waved him off, “How was the museum dedication?” The atmosphere changed as the subject of conversation changed from easy to complicated. “It was nice to see Steve’s accomplishments celebrated. Got to see Rhodes which was nice…” “You’re avoiding a red white and blue topic,” I said, trying to coax his true feelings out of their shells, “Seriously, are you really okay with this? Giving up the shield?” Sam inhaled deeply and exhaled, gathering his thoughts. “I don’t think it was ever meant to end up in my hands. I did the right thing, it belongs with Steve and the museum is the closest to Steve I can get.” I respected my friend’s choice but I knew there was so much more to his decision and I wished he would just say it. He had an enormous amount of respect for Steve Rogers and what the shield represented, but Steve Rogers never had to face the issues that Sam Wilson did. Steve Rogers could follow a government and be respected in return with no problems whatsoever. Sam Wilson couldn’t, not always. There was an elephant in the room and if neither of us wanted to talk about it, I wouldn’t push it.

“You’d have looked good in that uniform though,” I smiled as we turned into the take out place’s parking lot.

“Damn right,” Sam waggled his eyebrows and unbuckled his seatbelt. Laughter rang out in the truck sending me on waves of nostalgia. The memories that me and him had in this truck still were infamous between us. As proud as I was of the Falcon’s heroics, I was prouder to call Sam Wilson my best friend.

————

Just as he’d promised, Sam made the appointment with the banker. He and Sarah were already on their way as I made the hour long drive in the opposite direction to New Orleans. I’d told them I’d be back in the evening to discuss how it went, but I had my own appointment to keep.

Sam and I had met back when we were just a couple of first graders. I’d always struggled with making friends as a kid, but Sam never had an issue when it came to connecting with others. It was one of his strongest qualities. And so he used his gift on his desk neighbor, the loneliest kid in class, and pulled her out of herself. We were inseparable until college and adulthood forced us apart, but we’d never lost our bond. Even when he was a pararescue, he wrote to me as often as his work allowed him.

All the Wilsons had taken a liking to me after Sam brought me home one day after school to watch cartoons. Darlene had told me I was welcome to come over any time I wanted, an offer Sam and I accepted till I became a permanent fixture in their house. Paul and his wife had frequently tried to get the rest of my family over for a crawfish boil or a barbecue. They’d send me every few weeks with a verbal invitation to my parents and the next day I’d always come back with a polite decline and excuse as to why we couldn’t make it. Mom was busy with spring cleaning, Melanie had a recital, Dad was feeling under the weather…

The only one that had ever been true was about my dad not feeling well. He was never well. But as a child, how do you explain that your father is a ghost around his own home who drinks himself to sleep and wakes up each night screaming from nightmares? There was no polite way to phrase circumstances that dark. Sometimes I felt like my dad had never returned from the military and though there hadn’t been a war at the time of his service, he still came back with his share of trauma. Mom did everything she could to try and help him. She found support groups for veterans, she took him to the best psychiatrists, she created a safe space for him within our home to retreat to. There was no amount of help that could kill my father’s demons and that was proven the night he’d said we were out of milk and he was going to the store. A few hours later, with my sister and I fast asleep upstairs, my worried mother answered the door and was informed by the police that my father had crashed his car and was dead. After speaking to Mom about what his mood had been like before he’d left and if he suffered from any mental illnesses, it was ruled as an undoubtable suicide.

My mother didn’t get much time to mourn after the funeral, she had two children to provide for. She took three jobs just to earn enough to move us from our house in New Orleans to a dingy apartment in Delacroix by the bayou. When the Wilsons heard that Mom needed to scrape enough money in the budget to hire a baby-sitter for me and Melanie, they put a stop to her efforts immediately. The insisted that Mel and I would be happier spending the time my mom was working with them and their kids rather than a stranger. That was how the Wilsons and the Y/l/ns had ended up so tightly knit. While Sarah and Melanie had bonded as the older sisters and were often off doing their own thing, Sam and I caused havoc of our own in classic younger sibling fashion. By the time we were in high school, both parents called the other’s children their own.

When Paul and Darlene passed away, it was incredibly hard on all of us and it was equal when Mom had a fall and the doctors suggested she move into a facility. Sam, Sarah and I had worked hard to get her into one of the best nursing homes in the city and she hadn’t stopped raving about how much she loved it. Pulling into the parking lot was like muscle memory now, I never missed a weekend visit with her. This one was special because Melanie, her husband and brood of children had come too. I grabbed my visitor’s sticker at the front desk and made my way down the familiar hallways. The sound of laughter and cooing echoed out of my mom’s room, bringing a smile to my face.

I knocked on the door and heads turned, my nieces and nephews being the quickest. “Aunt Y/n!” I embraced Sophia and Max tightly, “The twin tornados! I missed you guys,” separating from them was difficult as they clung to me but I made it to Stephan, giving him a kiss on the cheek and doing the same to Mel, “You look hot, mama.” “I certainly don’t feel it,” she remarked as she cradled their newest addition, baby Alexandra, close to her chest, “I spend more hours of the day covered in glitter glue and spit up than you could imagine.” “You wear it all well,” I patted her shoulder before coming to my mother’s bedside and hugging her, “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart,” she kissed both of my cheeks and looked to the door, “Sarah and Sam couldn’t come?” “No, but they send their love. They had an appointment at the bank,” I set down my purse and pulled up a chair, “We’re trying to get approved for a small business loan.”

Glen took Alexandra from Mel so she could tend to the twins, “I wish we could help out, Y/n. I’ve looked at the budget over and-“ It warmed my heart that my brother-in-law cared so much about a problem that wasn’t his to bear. “Glen,” I held up a hand, “You guys are stretched thin enough. This isn’t me asking for charity, it’s our problem and Sam’s confidant we’ll find a fix.” “How does he have enough time to be a member of the Air Force, an Avenger and save the family business?” Mel asked.

“Well, the Avengers are kind of off doing their own thing right now from what I understand and he’s home for a little while from the Air Force,” I explained, “So his main job at the moment is to get us our funding and annoy the snot out of me while doing it.” After earning some giggles from Sophia and Max at the expression, Glen announced that they were going to go and grab lunch for everybody. My mom took my hand once it was just the two of us and I settled into my seat, “How are you, sweetheart?”

“Hanging in there,” I sighed, running a hand through my hair, “Tired, stressed, I smell like fish most of the time…We need this loan or else we’re going to have to sell the boat. You should’ve seen Sam’s face when Sarah told him…”

“I’m sorry, I know how much that boat means to you kids. I could’ve offered you the moon and stars and it still wouldn’t have been enough to get you off it.” I smiled at the memories of summer nights spent laying on the deck stargazing, dance parties on the stern and early mornings spent with Mr. Wilson teaching us how to fish. A childhood with so much sadness had also contained so many joys. To part with a tangible one killed me more than I’d let on to Sam.

Sensing that the topic was making me emotional, my mother was kind enough to change it. “How are things otherwise? Have you been getting out there?” I dropped my head back dramatically and groaned, “Mom…” “I’m just saying,” she dropped my hand and held up hers in surrender, “You should get out there, meet someone. There’s no shame in trying those online dating services. What’s the one…the…Tinder?” “Oh my gosh, Mom,” I buried my face in my hands and moved my fingers so she could only see my eyes, “Please stop talking.” “You know who I ran into the other day? Jack’s mom, from high school. She lives just down the next hallway, she says that he’s still single. You could get in touch with him.” “Y’know, for a woman who advocated for her daughters to lead such independent lives, you’re sure quick to try and marry us off,” I chuckled, “The second Mel started dating Glen you were practically booking the church.” “And I’m very proud of both my girls for being such strong young women,” she smiled proudly, “But finding love doesn’t mean losing your independence so long as you’re with the right man. I love that you’ve been helping out Sarah these last few years but honey…I see how lonely you are. In those big y/e/c eyes you think I still can’t read after all these years.” The y/e/c eyes in question started to fill with sadness at hearing my pain verbalized. It was true, I was lonely. More so than I would ever let on to anybody. I was a shy enough kid who only withdrew further after Dad passed away, that kind of introversion wasn’t one that you outgrew. But I’d given up the idea of finding someone to spend my life with a long time ago for a bevy of reasons.

“Sometimes it’s better to be alone, Mama,” I nodded as if to force myself to agree with my statement, “No chances of getting hurt…or hurting somebody.” “You couldn’t hurt somebody even if you tried,” my mom argued sweetly, “You couldn’t even kill spiders when you were a kid.” “And now there’s a Spiderman out there so I’m glad I didn’t,” I shot back with a laugh.

“I’m serious, honey,” she took my hand once again, “Don’t let your heart’s wounds keep you from finding someone who could help soothe them.” 

I was convinced my mother was both a poet and a therapist at some point in her life, she gave advice in the most beautifully phrased way. And while I’d loved to have taken her words to heart, tell Mel to fix me up with one of Glen’s friends and put an end to my loneliness, I feared that I was just too broken to give love to someone.

————

I arrived back home late, shedding my boots and bag at the doors. I’d expected to hear a triumphant chorus of Sam shouting ‘WHO DA MAN?’ as he typically would when heroically proving me and Sarah wrong, but there was only silence. When I walked into the kitchen and saw their glum faces, it wasn’t hard to guess the outcome of the meeting. “You’re kidding me…” “Said that things had tightened up,” Sam said, leaning against one side of the island and taking a swig of his beer, “Had the balls to ask me for a picture afterwards.” I groaned and grabbed the beer bottle Sarah had extended to me, “Okay, we’re out of options. It’s time to move forward-“ “Don’t say it…” Sam tiredly warned.

“Someone has to, Sam. We can’t keep searching for solutions when the right one is sitting out on our dock,” I gestured to the window that looked out on the road we took each day to work.

Sarah set her beer down and held her hands up in surrender, “I’m not having this argument again tonight, I’m going to bed. If you’re gonna kill each other, do it quietly.” She left as me and Sam silently stared each other down, waiting for the other to speak. I was too frustrated to play the game, “What’s this really about?” “It’s about the damn boat and that you and Sarah are throwing in the towel too-“ “What,” I elongated the single syllable word, “Is this really about?” Sam set his drink down and rubbed his hands over his head before looking back up at me helplessly, “You guys were on your own for five years and you’ve done an amazing job. But now nothing’s working and I just…I just want to help because I couldn’t for so long.” It all clicked as to why Sam was being so insistent on trying to eliminate the whole matter. He was used to saving the day and finally meeting one that he couldn’t save was a wall he thought he could still find a way to run through. He’d been like that ever since we were kids, always trying to help the people he loved even when it was impossible. He had the biggest heart of anyone I’d ever met.

“I love you,” I set down my bottle and crossed the island to come next to him and wrap my arms around his shoulders, “But this may be one problem that the Falcon can’t swoop in and fix. The Avengers work hard, but a business graduate helping to run a struggling seafood business works harder,” I succeeded in getting him to crack a smile, “Believe me, I’ve run all the numbers and consulted with anyone who would listen. The boat’s gotta go.”

“Yeah, well, humor me and give me a little while longer.”

“Fine, a couple more days,” I grabbed my beer once again and clinked it against his, “But it’s not my fault if Sarah smacks you again.” Sam laughed, slung an arm around my neck and kissed my temple. “You coming up soon?”

“Yeah, I’ll be up in a few minutes,” I answered, watching as he finished his drink before leaving the kitchen and heading upstairs. Once I’d heard his bedroom door open and close, I exited out to the back porch. I took in the late night sounds of the bayou, the crickets chirping and the wind rustling trees had always soothed me. I wished they could touch what I was feeling right now, but the noise didn’t do a thing to drown out my worry. For the business I feared we may lose, for Sam as he ran himself ragged trying to help and for myself and what him and Sarah would think of me once I confessed the secret I’d kept from them for so long.

I held out my hand and watched as the blue energy flowed from my fingertips. Would Sam ever forgive me for not telling him I had powers? They had manifested when I was young, my parents said. I couldn’t remember a day where my body hadn’t produced a magical energy that when harnessed incorrectly could be destructive. It had been a sad day for my mother’s garden when I’d discovered that bit…According to her, she’d wanted to take me to a school for people like me run by a man named Charles Xavier but my father had said no immediately. He’d been so insistent on keeping my powers a secret that my mother said she’d only seen that type of fear in his eyes when he had a war flashback. So I was instructed to never show my powers to anyone under any circumstances and I’d done just that. I’d thought about revealing them in 2012 after the Battle of New York, but my dad’s fear rang in my ears. Three years later when Sam became an Avenger was when I began to feel guilty that I was keeping a secret from him. I’d wanted to join him and find somewhere where I didn’t feel so out of place, but I’d decided against it again. Now with their team so broken and Sam off with the Air Force, I’d finally gathered the courage to confide in him and Sarah. I should have done it six months ago, but I’d chickened out too many times. Tomorrow, I decided. Tomorrow was the day. But would they still see me the same way once I showed them? ————

The next morning, after dressing and running over what I wanted to say three times, I hesitantly headed downstairs to face the music. With there being nobody in the kitchen, I followed the sounds of the television to find Sarah and Sam staring at the screen intently. I stood to the side of the room and watched a suited man give a speech out front of a government building. “We need someone to inspire us again, someone who can be a symbol for all of us. So, on behalf of the Department of Defense and our Commander-in-Chief, it is with great honor that we announce here today that the United States of America has a new hero. Join me in welcoming your new Captain America.”

My jaw slackened as a man marched out in front of the gathered press, dressed in a variation of Steve Rogers’ patriotic uniform and carrying the iconic shield. The shield that had only weeks ago sat upstairs in Sam’s bedroom in a case. I dragged my gaze away from the screen to look at my best friend, hunched over in his seat with his eyes shut in sorrow. Sarah looked just as distraught, her eyes trained on her brother as well. We waited in silence until the breaking news broadcast switch back to regularly scheduled programming before Sarah switched the box off.

“I thought you said it was going to stay in the museum,” I finally spoke, my voice choked with emotion.

“It was supposed to,” Sam ground out, his grip on his own hands tightening. Without any warning, he rose from his seat and left the room. My instinct was to follow him and try to comfort him, but there was nothing I could say to ease the deep pain he was feeling. I wasn’t even sure I could form words that weren’t doused in raw shock. The two things I was sure of were that a) the government had fucked up royally and b) now was definitely not the time to tell Sam about my powers.

————

It was a few days later and Sam still hadn’t spoken much to Sarah and I about the situation. It was unnatural for Sam to suffer in silence especially around us, but we both gave him the space he needed. 

I was taking laundry to AJ and Cass’ room and had to pass by Sam’s, surprised to see him packing a bag. “Thought you were sticking around.” “Something big came up,” he replied as he set a stack of t-shirts in his duffle bag, “I need to go check it out.” I leaned against his doorway, “Air Force big or Avengers big?” “The second one.” “And you’re going by yourself?” I asked with raised eyebrows.

Sam looked over his shoulder at me finally, “Don’t have anybody to else to call. Besides, I can handle myself.” I hummed in response before setting down the stack of laundry, an idea forming in my head that could solve both of our problems. I folded my hands together and dug my feet into the carpet, “What if you didn’t have to go by yourself?” He looked confused, “What are you talking about?” My folded hands began to make circles in the air as I struggled for the right words, “What if I came with you?” “What, like take your family to work day something?” Sam scoffed, “That’d be fun.” “I’m serious.” “Are you crazy? Of course you can’t come.” “Hear me out,” I looked to his bag and the pair of jeans he had next to fold, “Actually watch.” He folded his arms and waited for my demonstration. I took a deep breath and extended my hand, forcing my energy outwards to levitate the jeans. “Whoa!” Sam exclaimed as he watched me maneuver the clothing inside his duffle, “W-w-what…What was that?” I shrugged and pulled my hand back to my side, “The reason why you should take me.”

“How long have you been able to do that?” “Since I was a kid,” I moved out of the doorway and closed the door, the last thing I needed was AJ and Cass knowing their aunt could move things with her mind, “My parents told me never to tell anybody. I’ve thought about telling you for years since you’re used to this kind of thing but I was scared…Then you were gone and when you came back, life was moving non-stop and I lost my courage. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” Sam stood with his jaw hung for a few seconds before shaking his head back into reality, “Why are you apologizing? You never had to tell me, but I’m glad you did,” he pointed a finger towards me, “But you’re still not going.” “What are you talking about? I’d be an asset to whatever it is you’re fighting! And I love you but c’mon bird boy, you may be able to fly but I can do it without any tech.” “Oh, so that’s how you wanna play?” Sam gestured between the two of us, “You think insulting me is the way to get me to let you come?” “Come on,” I moved to sit on his bed, “Tell me what the problem is and I’ll prove that I can help.” “Alright, alright,” Sam took a stance in front of me, “You wanted to hear the tea on my missions, I’ll spill it. There’s an online group called the Flag Smashers, their MO is to get the world back to the way it was during the last five years. My military contact, Torres, went undercover in Switzerland when they robbed a bank. Knocked him unconscious when he tried to fight back.” I balanced my elbows on my knees and tapped a finger against my lip, “So kind of a Robin Hood deal, right? Stealing things from the rich and giving it to the poor. In this case, the poor being those who never disappeared.” “Exactly, except the guy that knocked Torres out was strong. Too strong. I’m thinking they could be a part of-“ “The big three.” Sam’s neck snapped back, “How do you know about the big three?” I shrugged nonchalantly, “The little you do tell me about your avenging always ties back to either androids, aliens or wizards. Though I think you’re being a little dramatic with the term ‘wizard.’”

“Are you seriously gonna correct the guy who’s actually there doing the fighting?” “Are you seriously gonna deny yourself valuable help against either an alien or an android?”

Sam sighed, I was successfully backing him into a corner. “Can you even fight?”

Extending one hand, I levitated Sam and gently slammed his back into the ceiling before reversing course and lowering him onto the carpet. He moaned as he rolled over to face me, “Could’ve given me a concussion.” “Maybe that would knock some sense into your head,” I stood and gave him my hand to pull him up, “Sam, I know that I don’t have any experience but I am more than capable of defending myself. I want to actually do something with these powers instead of sitting on my ass. I’d rather do it with you than on my own. Please?” I watched the cogs in his mind turn through his eyes, I knew he was only fighting this hard because he wanted to keep me safe. But he was in way over his head if he thought it wasn’t worth taking me with. He accepted my hand and stood to his full height, “Pack a bag, we’re leaving for the air base in an hour.” I smiled and threw my arms around him, “Thank you, you won’t regret this.” “I’d better not,” he warned, his arms stayed straightened in displeasure of my enthusiasm, “If you take some stupid risk and put yourself in jeopardy, I’m putting your ass on a plane home.” Quick footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway until the door opened to reveal Sarah, “What was all that noise? It sounded like you were throwing each other into walls.” “Busy,” I quickly dismissed her, using my energy to shut the door in Sarah’s face from a distance.

“Um,” her muffled voice rang through, “What the hell was that?!”

--------

Taglist: (open)

[the-dream-team]

Can I Try Again

Another ridiculously fluffy one-shot for @efkgirldetective's summer of jily week four prompt: picking berries // I know I've kissed you before, but I didn't do it right // the entire song, pink in the night <3

She is beautiful and he is in a perpetual state of falling. Down and down and down the goddamn rabbit hole, but somehow the further James plummets, the brighter his life becomes. It’s the kind of brightness that blinds him- somewhat painfully- and leaves his vision spotty, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Lily Evans walks ahead of him, a spring in her step, sunshine pouring through her hair. She’s cut it short for the summer, just above her shoulders, and he’s mesmerized by the way it bounces around her neck as she walks through the gardens of his family’s home. It’s an image he’s played over in his head an infinite number of times, but his rosiest daydreams don’t hold a candle to the real thing. The afternoon light hits his glasses just right and suddenly there’s a halo of glowing stars framing her as she tucks a dark red strand behind her ear. He can’t even see her face, but it doesn’t matter. I could stare at your back all day.

He is the luckiest boy in the world and every moment is made up of the sweetest form of torture. Agony and exuberance whipping his heart back and forth like a rogue Bludger.

She must know, he thinks. Must have some sort of clue that she’s occupied every corner of his mind for well over a year now. Even more so now, after the platform. He wishes more than anything for the ability to read minds as she glances over her shoulder with those startlingly green eyes, that friendly grin.

He can’t help but smile back- or maybe he was already smiling before she even turned around. It doesn’t matter. By some miracle, she’s here, and he can only marvel at the kindness of fate.

***

It had been a passing comment. One of those early morning conversations as his friends frantically scribbled out unfinished essays while shoving waffles down their throats. Chatter muffled by mouthfuls of eggs and yawning. Remus had commented offhandedly about the fruit bowl being passed around, and then-

“Oh, raspberries are my favorite.”

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t already looking at her when she spoke. But truthfully, he was always looking at Lily, a habit he’d long since stopped fighting once he realized how fruitless his efforts were. She was beautiful and he was hopeless. Simply lucky to be in her presence. She was the sun, and he, but a lonely planet, entirely reliant on and endlessly seeking out her light.

Sirius spoke the words James should have if his mind hadn’t gone fuzzy from hearing her voice.

“You know, the Potters have a raspberry patch in their gardens.”

“Oh, really?” She glanced from Sirius to James with a brilliant smile and excited eyes, so purposefully glued to his that he had to duck his head and rake a hand through his hair to hide his heating cheeks.

“That’s right,” he said more to his plate of sausages than to her. “They’re usually ripe to pick by early August.” When he peered back up, she was still looking his way.

“You should come over this summer and take some off our hands,” said Sirius casually, turning towards James as if it had been his idea.

“Yeah,” he jumped in a little too eagerly. “I mean- if you’d like, you’re more than welcome.”

Her smile widened, rounding the apples of her cheeks in a way that made his stomach flip pleasantly. “That sounds like fun.”

He assumed she’d forget the conversation, it had been just another morning, just another casual chat among housemates, but that didn’t keep him from daydreaming about the potential of a far-off day in August rather incessantly during the following months. But then as the school year ended and summer rolled on painfully slowly (and Lily-less), an owl arrived. And her handwriting crawled across the page like a message written in the clouds.

***

Lily swings the woven basket back and forth in her pursuit of the best raspberries. There’s already an impressive bounty growing in her basket, far more than he’s managed to collect- too busy watching her kneel down and pluck berries off their delicate branches to pick any of his own.

He turns to a leafy bush, green and lively and swaying slightly in the warm breeze, and quickly pinches off a handful of berries in an attempt to catch up with her. When she spins around, he’s thankful for the distraction. A minute earlier and she would have caught him staring. Again.

She smiles pleasantly and brushes her fringe off her sweaty forehead with the back of her wrist. James’ heart leaps into his throat.

“You’ve been quiet,” she says, but not accusingly.

“No I haven’t,” he responds, voice gravelly from underuse. “Just been busy picking raspberries.”

She glances at his measly basket, then back to his face with arching brows and an amused smirk.

He can’t help his own guilty grin. “Alright, Evans, I’m sorry we can’t all be unreasonably talented at everything we do.”

“It’s berry picking, Potter,” she laughs, “not advanced Arithmancy.”

In retaliation, he plucks a raspberry off of the nearest branch and playfully throws it at her. She somehow has the gall to lean her head back and catch the goddamn berry between her teeth. His brain short circuits. He’s quite certain his jaw is on the ground. She acts as though this is no big deal, swallowing the fruit with a satisfied smile, her tongue brushing her lower lip before tossing another into her mouth.

“Oh, these are delicious!”

He can’t form a response even if he wants to. Even if it was a matter of life or death, which it sure as hell feels like. He can only stare at her mouth, at her lips stained raspberry-pink, and lose himself in the knowledge that he knows how they feel against his own- even just briefly.

***

The platform teemed with students stretching their legs after the long journey home from school, saying their goodbyes to friends as their families greeted them for the summer.

A pit sat in James’ stomach- heavy and demoralizing- the entire train ride back to London. He knew she’d be gone soon. Back with her parents in Cokeworth for two excruciating months before their seventh year began. He’d taken their close proximity for granted during the school year, and as he faced a summer without the promise of her warmth, he wondered if it was even possible living in the dark.

He laughed loudly at a joke Peter told, overcompensating for the fact he’d missed the punchline while his thoughts were spiraling over her. Sirius shot him a look that suggested he wasn’t doing a great job of masking his emotions. Had it been so obvious the entire way home? Could she have noticed the despondency in his eyes, heard the heavy thumping of his heart? He rolled his eyes at Sirius and mustered up the most unbothered smirk he could manage.

But then, without warning, she was in front of him.

“Alright, Potter, don’t let your head overinflate while I’m not around to keep you grounded.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Evans,” he laughed, thankful his voice sounded steadier than he felt. “Just so long as you promise to consider switching your loyalties to Puddlemere. There’s no way the Harpies even make it to the semi-finals this season, and I can’t bear seeing you heartbroken again.”

“Oh, piss off, Potter,” she replied, but the way she threw her arms around his neck seemed to argue she didn’t mean what she said. Instinctually, he hugged her back, and thank Merlin he had her to hold onto as the wind was knocked out of his lungs at her touch. An overwhelming warmth sparkled across every surface their bodies met, and it took every ounce of control he had to restrain the truly pathetic sigh that threatened to escape his throat.

“And I haven’t forgotten,” she spoke into his shoulder, breath hot thorough his t-shirt, “you promised me berry picking this August.”

It would be impossible to miss the rapid beating of his heart through his chest pressed up against hers. “I’m already counting down the days.”

When she pulled back, hands resting on his shoulders for a beat longer than expected, his body moved faster than his brain could keep up with. He leaned forward, aiming for her cheek, but miraculously landing against her mouth- connecting for the briefest of moments before parting again, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened between them. If it weren’t for the ghost of her lips still burning against his own, he might have thought he’d dreamt it.

“Lily, I’m not waiting any longer, we’re leaving, now,” came the unpleasant voice of her sister from across the platform.

Lily’s disoriented smile faltered slightly before she composed herself again, meeting his eye. “I’ll see you in August?”

“Yeah, August,” he somehow said with his mouth still tingling, forever changed by what they now knew.

***

The memory of her lips, how they feel pressed between his smile, is harder to ignore when they’re in front of him. He can remember the warmth where they touched him over a month ago and absentmindedly he brings a raspberry to his mouth so he can imagine how she must taste.

His emotions were hard enough to control before he knew what he was missing, but now they are impossible to reign in. He forgets how to breathe, and as a result, his head spins maddeningly. Unsure of how much longer he can stand up straight without making a fool out of himself, he walks forward and lays a hand on Lily’s back- partially to lead her forward, partially because the desire to be connected to her in any way is driving him mad.

She lets him guide her through the rows of bushes, under an ancient wooden archway, and across a courtyard of blossoming poppies and forget-me-nots enclosed by walls of hedges. Yellow and purple petals reflect brilliantly in her green eyes, creating their own fields of wildflowers within her irises. He walks her towards a wide, circular fountain in the middle of the grass where bubbling water spills over onto stone tiers and pours into the basin below, its floor littered with glinting coins, dancing under the water’s rippling surface.

He sits down and she follows suit on the stone ledge surrounding the water, partially shaded by an impressive plum tree. Cool droplets spray off the fountain, refreshing like summer rain singing I love you, I love you, I love you. Lily glances his way and he wonders if she can hear his thoughts.

“Are we finished picking berries?” she asks, eyes squinting and nose crinkling in the sun.

“I figured you had enough to feed a village.” He reaches over and grabs a raspberry from her basket and she gasps in faux outrage.

“Are you really stealing my raspberries, Potter?”

He adores his name on her tongue. “My apologies,” he says, pulling a silver Sickle out of his pocket and sliding it over to where she sits. She looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “For your troubles. Go on then, make a wish.”

“Oh!” Her eyes light up and she takes hold of the coin, lifting it to her heart as she closes her eyes in search of a wish.

He thinks he could look at her forever. Happy, sunkissed, an unconscious smile playing across her lips. With her eyes shut, he uses a minute to take a deep breath, attempting to calm his racing heart and compose his dopey grin. They’re sitting close together, knees almost touching with the basket of berries between them. As she tosses the Sickle behind her shoulder, he smells the faint scent of her vanilla shampoo.

She noticeably tries to hide her smile when her eyelids flutter back open.

“What did you wish for?” he asks, unable to stop himself.

She freezes with her eyes locked on his. A pink blush spreads across her cheeks, growing darker the longer he stares back at her. “I can’t tell you,” she says, words sounding choked, “or else it won't come true.”

Her flushed face awakens something in his chest, a confidence that blooms magnificently, turns his nervous, pattering heartbeat into a steady, powerful drum.

His voice drops to a hoarse whisper when he asks, “Can I guess?”

Her breath hitches. “I think you might already know, James.” Her words, the sound of his name, melts him down to a puddle. By some miracle, she continues speaking. “Look, I know I’ve kissed you before-”

“But I didn’t do it right,” he says frantically, his hands finding her face and brushing through her hair. He starts to understand why people advise against looking directly at the sun because being this close to her fills him with such astounding emotion he thinks he might explode. She stares up at him, blush deepening, lips parting, and he takes a ragged breath. “Can I try again?”

This time, when she smiles, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He leans in slowly, letting their breath mix together, their noses bump lightly before he closes the space between their lips. She’s soft and warm and beautiful and radiant and he’s never felt a happiness quite like this one, never experienced a kiss this perfect. His fingers travel over her scorching skin and brush her neck as he deepens the kiss, tasting the raspberries on her tongue, his heart soaring as she responds blissfully until they’re both left breathless.

“And again?” she asks, pulling him back with a smile against his lips.

“And again,” he smiles back, marveling, once again, at the kindness of fate.

[egcdeath]

hook, line, and sinker

summary: steve was never meant to be anything more to you than a check, a basic mission. but somewhere along the way, things had veered from that.

pairing: steve rogers x spy!reader

word count: 1.9k

warnings: angst, bad decisions, betrayal, unhappy ending

author's note: it has been a minute since i've posted a fic! i hope you enjoy :)

you can find my masterlist and taglist here

Despite the different rooms you found yourself in, the harsh morning sun was always the first thing you saw in the morning. Its bright rays would peek through the room’s shades and land right onto your face, intruding on some of the more vulnerable moments of your life.

When you finally angled your face away from the beaming star, your tired eyes fell upon the man next to you. The man you should’ve never taken things this far with. A man on the run, who you were sent after.

You sighed softly as you became a bit more conscious, and a now slightly more awake Steve threw a large arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him.

“Don’t get up yet,” he mumbled softly against your ear. You nodded and relaxed further into the slightly stiff motel mattress, mentally snapshotting and framing this moment in time. Yet another to add in the five month scrapbook of your time with Steve. Time that you recognized was quickly running out.

You allowed yourself to close your eyes once more, to listen to Steve’s soft breaths as he inhaled the scent of you. It made your heart hurt knowing that within the next week you would no longer get to be in those arms. Knowing that you would have to wake up alone in a new apartment in a new country and wait for a new mission while the news on the television droned on about the nomadic Captain America being flushed out of hiding. That Steve was no more to you than a mission. That it was your fault that you had fallen so hard and so fast.

So you treasured it while you had it. Hummed contently as Steve massaged your side before peppering little kisses against your neck. Tried to absorb the stubborn tear that threatened to fall down your face at any moment.

“We have to leave today,” he whispered against your ear, sending goosebumps up your arm. “Natasha wants to meet you.”

Your eyes shot open and your brows momentarily furrowed, something you quickly attempted to play off with a wide smile. There was no way that she wouldn’t recognize who you were— despite being declared ‘dead’ years ago, you were one of the more esteemed spies in your community. What that also meant is that you had even less time with Steve than you’d expected.

“When are we leaving? Am I gonna have to get used to another time zone?”

“Probably a few. Nat’s already with Sam, but we heard there’s something weird going on in Scotland with Wanda and Vision.”

“Should I really be getting involved with this then? It sounds like some pretty intense Avenger business if the parts of the team you still communicate with are getting together. I can just stay here ‘till you guys are ready to come back.”

Steve gave you an ‘are you serious?’ look before breaking into soft laughter, “are you serious?” You nodded wordlessly in response. “Oh, you’re serious. I promise that you’ll be fine.”

“Well, things better not get weird,” you giggled right along with him, reaching out and grabbing Steve’s face so that you could look into his eyes. You took another mental picture of him. You just hoped it wouldn’t have to be the last.

——

After you prepared yourself for the long car ride ahead of you, you slipped your second burner phone out of the hidden pocket of your suitcase, you were met with several missed messages by the man who sent you on the mission in the first place.

What is the wait?

I was referred to you for a reason

Have you even found him yet?

I’m not paying for you to sit around and go to brunch all day.

Do I need to send more money for a plane ticket or something??

No, I’ve got it. He’ll be in custody by tonight.

He better be. Or else you won’t be around to see tomorrow.

You swallowed thickly. You wouldn’t be dealing with this in the first place if you weren’t so irresponsible. And if word got out that you were falling in love with your targets, your reputation would be in shambles. You should’ve known from the start that this could never end well.

Steve stepped back into the bedroom area, a goofy smile on his face at the sight of you sprawled out on your back on top of the dingy motel bed. “You ready?” he asked, sounding chipper. You assumed he was ecstatic that you were finally going to be able to meet his friends, which made your heart hurt even more.

For a moment you considered the possibility of not going through with it. Of going along with Steve, work, prestige, and that hefty bounty be damned. You would still be living life on the run, but you’d have Steve, and everyone else on his side on your side too. You’d have some semblance of a family, and maybe someday you’d have a real family and someone to grow old with.

You chastised yourself for getting soft before sitting up, “I’m ready.”

——

You weren’t ready.

You knew you had to move quickly, the sun was going down, and you’d made a promise that needed to be fulfilled, or god knew what would happen to you.

You reached for the volume dial on the radio portion of the car, and turned down the song that Steve was currently humming along to.

“We should probably get off on the next exit that has a gas station,” you prompted, “the tank’s getting pretty low.”

Steve’s eyes flicked down to the dashboard and he nodded in agreement, “you’re right. Good catch.”

Steve pulled the car off and drove you to the nearest gas station, humming pleasantly along to the music once again. Your stomach was twisting and untwisting knots with every foot you got closer to the station, knowing exactly what you would have to do once you arrived.

Somehow, this was the most nerve wracking moment of your career. Not infiltrating secret government operations, not pulling the trigger on a mark, not even seeing the message from Tony Stark asking for you to find a way to bring Steve in.

You hurried into the main building of the station, making up an excuse on the spot to go inside. You made your way into a bathroom stall, and slipped the phone you hid away earlier out of the extra pocket in your pants.

Your hands shook as you dialed the first two numbers. You took one last deep breath as your finger hovered over the final number. You had one last chance to change your mind, to go back out to the car like nothing had happened because nothing had happened. You would drive a little longer before staying in another shitty hotel, and think about how you made the right decision as you curled up next to Steve’s warm body.

But you couldn’t. You were given this mission, and you needed to complete it.

You pressed the last nine, immediately connecting with an emergency service operator. You gave them the tip that you had seen Steve Rogers pumping gas into a black Honda Civic, and provided them with your location. With every word, your voice trembled a little more. You were grateful for your proximity to a toilet, as the lump inside of your throat threatened to force the contents of your stomach up with every passing moment.

You hung up the phone and looked at yourself in the mirror for a moment. You could barely recognize yourself now, and you weren’t sure if that was from the flagrant betrayal of your partner, or the undermining of your own personal rules for the past five months of your life.

After reflecting on what you’d done for a few minutes, you made your way back to the car. You sat down in the passenger seat, lip trembling as you thought about Steve, and the fact that you’d laid a trap for someone you had such strong feelings for.

Steve sat down just a few minutes later, a smile on his face, and snacks from the gas station in his arms. As he passed you a water bottle, he couldn’t help but notice the tears slipping down your face.

“Hey, what‘s wrong? Are you alright?” he asked, dropping the rest of the items on his lap and leaning over the middle console to console you.

You began to full-on sob now, each tremble of your body filled with regret. “I’m sorry, Steve. I am so sorry,” you repeated.

“No, no, you’re okay. What’s wrong?” he asked, frowning as he wiped your tears away with his thumb.

“I- I had no other choice,” you wailed, “I’m sorry.”

His brows creased and he pulled away from you, betrayal evident in his features, “oh.”

You swallowed hard and shook your head.

“So this was the plan all along?” he questioned. Your lack of response seemed to answer the question for him. “Was any of this real?”

“All of it was, Steve,” you all but whimpered out.

He sighed deeply and leaned his head against the headrest, eyes squeezed shut. He seemed to be searching for the words, but couldn’t quite put together what he truly wanted to say. It was silent in the car for a moment, aside from your quiet sniffles.

“I loved you,” he finally said, hurt evident in his delivery. The admission shook you to your core. You almost couldn’t believe that the first time you were hearing it was after you had put him into such a terrible situation. After you turned in someone that you cared about for your own gain.

“I know,” you looked away from Steve in shame, the look of hurt on his face now permanently imprinted in your mind.

The sound of sirens began to fill the air. Not too long after, you noticed the unmissable blue and red of emergency vehicles approaching your own. It was time.

You unlocked your door and exited without another word. You refused to look back to the car, keeping your head down and your eyes squeezed shut, knowing that if you had to see Steve being taken away, you might never get over the permanent sick feeling you were currently in the midst of.

You walked right inside of the building, stopping in front of an aisle of chargers and finally looking back at the mess that you had made.

“What’s going on out there?” the clerk asked from behind the counter, peeking out the large glass windows.

“I don’t know,” you feigned ignorance and casually shrugged, ignoring the fact that the sight of about a dozen police and SWAT vehicles was tearing you up inside. What were they going to do to him?

You turned away from the scene once again, pretending to browse through the low quality electronics next to you. You heard some yelling, a bit of a struggle, then it was all over.

The coast was clear. Your mission was over.

You left the store without purchasing anything. You moved sluggishly as you got back inside of the now abandoned vehicle.

You started the car once again. This time without the radio playing overplayed pop songs, and without Steve happily humming along. You stared blankly ahead of you, feeling numb above anything else. Steve's words resonated in your mind, bouncing around in your head as you attempted to make sense of what you just did.

Guilt was beginning to creep up on you in a way that you’d never experienced before. You immediately felt haunted by the ghosts of your memories with Steve. Of every entry in your mental scrapbook, of the final image of the hurt on Steve’s face as he confessed his true feelings for you. Of all, you were left with one terrifying thought.

You loved him too.