all fic recs
batman/batfamily
black butler
boku no hero academia
bts | member list
call of duty
dc
enhypen
fruits basket
got7
haikyuu!! | multi | chara/group list
how to train your dragon
jujutsu kaisen | multi | chara list
kaiju no.8
kimetsu no yaiba
kpop demon hunters
kuroko no basuke
love and deepspace | chara list
marvel
narnia
one piece (anime/manga & live action) | multi | chara list
p1harmony
pjo
seventeen
shinee
shingeki no kyojin
sk8 the infinity
spiderverse
spy x family
stray kids
yuri on ice
other fic rec lists - not mine
(one) (two)
summary: zuko's straight-forwardness in appreciating the attractive qualities of the lone stranger saved by aang has you curious on whether you could get him to spill on what he thinks of you. (no major movie spoilers)
"He's very attractive." Zuko admits, eyes unblinking as he stares at the unconscious stranger.
The entire team whips their heads to stare at Zuko in unconcealed shock.
"What?" Zuko mutters, gaze lingering on the surprised expressions casted onto him, before eventually landing on yours. "He is. It's all in the bone structure."
You blink, unable to process his straight-forward words that landed on you like a gut punch. You've never considered it, the fact that Zuko also found others attractive.
It seems like a completely, silly notion now that the thought has verbalised itself in your mind. Of course Zuko would notice if others were considered attractive. Maybe it just never occurred to you in all your years of knowing him—of also finding him—
You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look away from his prying gaze, confusion alight in his eyes from your taken-aback expression.
If he's unconsciously considered the attractiveness of this stranger... has he ever—no, this should not be your priority. It doesn't matter what he thinks of you, it's not like it would change a thing. He's practically admitted it non-verbally through that monotonous admission of his, that a person's looks is assessed by him in a completely, impersonal standpoint.
Bone structure? You shouldn't be curious. Knowing Zuko, he might accidentally insult your structure if you asked.
The curiosity does not disappear. In fact, it digs deeper and deeper into the crevices of your mind—subconsciously affecting your attitude around Zuko.
It doesn't help that it's painfully obvious that he's noticed your strange behaviour ever since his comment. Once, when his hand had come up to your shoulder to alert you that everyone was boarding the ship—and your entire body jumped in response. Again, when you completely blanked out when he asked if you would like some firecracker buns.
It's not like you wanted to hyper-focus on his observation on purpose. It's just that after years of knowing him and pushing down that sub-concious attraction—of not allowing yourself to even see him as anything more than the Zuko you know, the rebound impact of all your resurfacing emotions combined with his lingering presence is far too much.
Zuko isn't the type to beat around the bush either, one of the rare habits his uncle hasn't passed onto him. In a moment of needed reprieve, your attempt at regaining your composure fails spectacularly when you find yourself in a stand-still, cornered in the back of the ship—one firecracker bun in his hand as an offering.
"Have I said something to make you uncomfortable?"
Zuko's gaze is akin to a puppy's, wide-eyed and brows furrowed. Afraid that he's done something wrong, overlooked the choice of his words once again and destroyed the atmosphere without realising.
Straight to the point as ever, you'd appreciate it more if he had given you a few more minutes to come up with a reasonable excuse. Something more plausible than 'Do you find me attractive?', a lingering question that should've remained buried in the soil that you departed from nearly an hour ago.
"Not exactly." Taking the firecracker bun from his hand, the crumbs coat your fingers. You needed something to muffle your words, anything to distract you. It's easier to focus on the lingering spice that melts into your tongue, rather than his unblinking stare.
"So—I did say something." His mouth parts, a slight tilt downward in the corner of his lip. "Or I've made you uncomfortable."
There was no winning with him. Swallowing your last bite, you brush the crumbs against your sleeve, the slouch of your posture a key sign of surrender, your invisible white flag waving at the sight of his increasingly dubious expression.
"The first one." You admit with a sigh. "Earlier—"
He leans in subtly, a habit he does when he's listening attentively, and the luscious wave of his bangs brushes against your knuckles. His amber eyes pierce through you, and the words practically die off your tongue.
Why is he looking at you like that?
It isn't fair that he has such an effect on you. You still remember the old days, when he had a worser temper instead of the softened expression that lingers warmly on you. Plus, that horrible haircut, a singular ponytail with the rest of his hair shaved off forever engrained in your mind. Even recalling the image doesn't help calm your thundering heartbeat when the Zuko in front of you is so—overwhelming.
"You were saying?" He prods gently.
You swallow, averting your gaze. "When you mentioned... about attractiveness. Was that like—a spur of the moment kind of thing, or do you have a first impression for everyone you meet?"
His brows furrow for a moment, before recognition lights his golden gaze. "Ah—that."
"Right, that." You feel the seat warming beneath you in your embarrassment, a hallucination of senses in your sudden need to escape his assessing gaze. He barely even remembers his comment, and here you are, still obsessively prying over it.
"I was only answering Toph's question." He states. "No one was stating the obvious."
"The obvious." You muse. "Do you assess the attractiveness of everyone you meet?"
"I suppose it depends." He mutters, hand rubbing over his chin in consideration. "If it was during a battle, I wouldn't be prioritising on considering the opponent's appearance. As compared to someone knocked out on the ground, it gives me plenty of time."
You barely resist a snort. Only he could treat a topic like a person's attractiveness like one of his battle strategies. "I suppose you didn't have time during our first meeting then."
As soon as the words leave your mouth, both you and Zuko freeze. Your lips clamp shut, an immediate wince shuddering through your frame. Cat's out of the bag, you suppose.
"Never mind." You wave it off, your own laugh echoing much too loudly through your ears. "It wasn't like I was wondering—well, maybe I was. You just sprung it out of nowhere earlier, and I got... curious. You don't have to answer—"
"I did." He cuts you off unceremoniously.
You blink, his vague words echoing in the thin distance between the two of you. "What?"
He swallows, and for once, he's the one flustered in this conversation. "I did notice, during our first meeting."
No way. Your first meeting with Zuko was anything but pretty. You remember being covered in sweat, grime, and ashes coating your clothes as he shot flames at you from his palms. The twisted grimace on his face when you had him writhing under your grip, as he loudly declared his revenge on you, rupturing your eardrums with all his yelling.
"You mean—" You barely resist a grin stretching on your lips. "—when I pinned you down on your airship, and you were spitting death threats into my ear."
"Yes, that." His long locks cover his ears now, but you can bet the rims are reddened from the reminder. "You were formidable."
Formidable. No, that wasn't enough. His sudden focus on the floorboards of his ship made it obvious that he was simplifying his observation.
"I was gaining the winning hand." You state out-right, disbelief coating your tone. "And you had time to notice?"
A restrained sigh escapes Zuko's gritted teeth, already regretting his slip of tongue.
"What of the angle? Does the Fire Lord recall my bone structure during our first battle too, when I pinned you to the floor?" You tease.
He scoffs in a light-hearted manner, shoulder lightly bumping into yours. "It was the first time anyone had pinned me down. I wasn't exactly given another view to look at."
"Was the view bad then?" You prod.
"Not at all." He answers absentmindedly—quickly without hesitation.
Your lips part, speechless. Zuko immediately separates his shoulder from yours, a bashful expression overtaking his features.
"Objectively." He states hurriedly, waving his arms. "I was expecting to find the Avatar at the time, not... you."
The way he says it, the almost breathless note that leaves his lips. You devour it hungrily, now being the one to lean in, prying.
"And how did you find me, Zuko?" You ask earnestly.
He huffs in defeat. His softened gaze finally meets yours again, his eyes roaming over your features, ones that he's familiarised with for years, and yet... it still takes the breath out of him. "...You were the most beautiful person I've ever sparred with."
Oh... wow. You didn't expect that.
"You were threatening to kill me." You recall in disbelief.
"I was multi-tasking." He mutters, ashamed.
Your intended snort escalates into a cackle, unable to contain yourself. "I would have never guessed that from the way you glared at me. So full of shame—and destroyed pride."
"What about you?" He asks in a hurry, though his tone drops towards the end in hesitation—hinting his regret in the wrong change in topic. He grimaces, gaze dropping to his tightened fists over his lap. "...Did you find my scar hideous?"
Surprise colours your features.
Immediately shaking your head, you're at a loss for words on how to convey just how off-course he was on his guess. How could you ever find Zuko hideous? Your heart barely survived your visits to the Fire Nation, not when their own Fire Lord always insisted on attending to your presence personally, even when it arose suspicion of your shared bond with him, to have him so easily distracted when you arrived on his lands.
Even now, he's overwhelming your vision. Healthy muscles that are barely hidden under his clothes, or the hair he's refused to cut ever since his youth that now flows lusciously down his broad back. His amber eyes that glint golden when the sun reflects his irises, and even the conjured image of the way his arms move when he's fire-bending.
He's— "Beautiful."
By the time you realise your second slip of the tongue, Zuko has already blinked once, caught off-guard.
You purse your lips, finding this conversation to be as riveting as it is a weaponised self-attack. "Objectively speaking. You're attractive, Zuko."
"Objectively." He repeats slowly, amused that you're using his own deflecting choice of words.
"Fine, like really attractive." You deadpan. "It's annoying, because I'm supposed to be focused on the mission, and you're just... standing there."
It was the truth. You couldn't be the only one who noticed it. His subtle change in demeanour over the years, how he carried himself into a room now instead of randomly announcing his arrival at the worst timings. Even Sokka noticed.
He snorts, and the sound deflates the tension in your chest. "Funny, I should be saying that about you."
You gasp, expression aghast. "You're joking."
"It is not honourable to lie." He shrugs. "You've always been the most magnetic in my eyes. I can never find myself looking away from you."
You grow quiet, the genuine sincerity in his words leaving you defenseless. Have you been blind all along? Is that why he always sent letters—asking you to visit his nation for purposes other than meetings? Or why he sought for your company constantly during this entire trip, despite it being the first time the entire set of Team Avatar being together in months?
You had been too focused on what was comfortable and familiar, to teasing and prodding, that you never considered this.
"For the record." You whisper, leaning in to truly look at him. "I never found your scar hideous. You were always beautiful to me, Zuko."
He swallows, something intense flickering in his gaze—but too fleeting for you to catch onto it. Maybe it had always been there, when his eyes linger on your form when he accompanied you in his palace gardens, or even back then, when he was a banished prince who sought for you, even with a grimace on his face.
"That haircut when we first met, though?" Your smile breaks out into a toothy grin. "Absolutely hideous."
The softness in his gaze falters, before a groan rumbles past his throat. "Will you ever let that one go?"
"Never."
He lets out a low breath, drained of his energy. "I admitted to finding you attractive, and this is my repayment?"
"Who's finding who attractive?"
Sokka's voice strikes a jump in your shoulders, and Zuko's in an impressive halt, frozen completely after being caught red-handed.
"Ah, between the two of you—" Sokka whistles. "I was wondering who was going to break first. Congrats, love-birds!"
"We're not—" Your voice clashes with Zuko's. "This isn't—"
You sneak a glance to Zuko, and his hand is already covering half of his face, his embarrassment shielded by the shadow of his large palm.
Sokka's confused gaze switches between the two of you, blinking slowly.
"Ah, couple years too early?" Sokka shrugs, before clicking his tongue. "That's rough. I'll check back in with you guys in another time." Making his way back towards the front, he shouts once more to prove his point. "Just don't let me catch you guys making out or anything, I'll need to poke out my eyes for that one!"
"...We better restrain him before he starts blasting it as news to everyone." You groan.
"Agreed." He mutters.
Right as you made your move to leave, Zuko's hand grips yours—stopping you.
You lift your head, meeting his gaze. "Yeah?"
His Adam's apple bobs up and down, consideration clear in his expression before he decisively leans in. His voice is a warm hush, soft and intimate when he whispers. "For the record." Your own words echo back to your ears in the low hush of his voice. "I wasn't only referring to our first meeting when I said that you're beautiful."
His smile quirks up into something tender, a secret expression reserved only for you. ...At this rate, your curiousity was really going to be the death of you.
likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333
a/n: i need to write more firelord zuko stat. he looks so good and still so awkward my childhood crush has been reignited.
The apartment was a quiet, suspended stillness where nothing asked anything of either of you. Xavier was on the couch, ostensibly reading, though the book had been open to the same page for ten minutes. You were cross-legged on the other end, watching him not read.
“Xavier.”
“Mm?”
“Would you still love me if I turned into a capybara?”
The page turned. You were almost certain he hadn’t read a single word on it.
“...What?”
“A capybara. If I just woke up one day and I was one. Would you still love me?”
He finally looked up. The book lowered incrementally, like he was deciding whether this conversation merited his full attention.
“You’d be a rodent.”
“Yes.”
A pause. “A large one.”
“The largest, technically.”
He studied you quietly. Then his eyes moved to your hands. Then your face. Then somewhere in between, the way they did when he was running through something, building a picture.
“When did this start?” he asked.
“When did what—”
“This feeling.” He’d shifted forward slightly, elbows coming to rest on his knees. “Is it gradual, or did you wake up with it? Any other symptoms like unusual heaviness, difficulty regulating temperature, peripheral vision—”
“Xavier, I’m not actually turning into a capybara.”
“You came back from the No-Hunt Zone 64 two days ago.” His voice was even, careful. “There was that protocore fragment we couldn’t fully analyze. The residual Metaflux reading was atypical. If it had a morphogenic property, something like that could theoretically—” He stopped. His eyes narrowed fractionally. “You’re not asking because of the fragment.”
“No...? I’m asking because it’s a hypothetical.”
A pause. A different kind this time.
“A hypothetical,” he repeated.
“Yes, Xavier. Just a question.”
He leaned back. Something in his face settled, the concern dissolving back into its usual calmness, though not entirely. You got the impression he was filing the fragment concern away rather than discarding it entirely.
“Oh,” he said.
Then, after a moment; “Would you still be you? Your thoughts. Your—” he gestured vaguely, the way he always did when words weren’t cooperating, “—everything else.”
“Let’s say yes. Trapped in there. Tiny capybara eyes, completely aware.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
“Then yes,” he said finally, with an assuring nod. “I’d still love you.”
“You’d just… love a capybara.”
“I’d love you.” He picked the book back up. “The body is irrelevant.”
You stared at him. He turned a page. You genuinely could not tell if he’d thought this through entirely or not at all, and somehow both possibilities were equally believable.
“Would you take me to the park? Let me sit in the water feature?”
“...The one near the east plaza is cleaner.”
“Xavier.”
“Yes?”
“You’re a little strange, you know that?”
He glanced at you over the top of his book. The corner of his mouth moved—barely, but it moved.
“You’re the one who asked about the capybara stuff.”
You settled further into the couch cushions, pulling a blanket across both of your laps. The quiet rebuilt itself easily, the way it always did between you. It was only later, when you got up to make tea and passed behind him, that you noticed his phone on the armrest. A search tab still open;
Protocore morphogenic degradation rate, fragment classification B-tier and below.
He’d looked it up. At some point during the conversation or after, he’d actually looked it up.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
Zayne was supposed to be off work, which meant he was at his desk reviewing files instead of resting, which you had long since stopped arguing about. You’d planted yourself in the armchair across from him with a book of your own, coexisting in the particular comfortable silence.
He was circling something in a case file with a red pen. You’d been watching him for a while.
“Zayne?”
“Hm?”
“Would you still love me if I barked at strangers on our date?”
The red pen stopped.
He looked up with the expression he reserved for patients who’d been ignoring his medical advice.
“Barked,” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“At strangers.”
“Passersby. Fellow diners. The waiter, potentially. Anyone who caught my eye, really.”
He set the pen down with the precise measured placement of a man deciding how much of his attention this deserved, and arriving at more than he’d like. “Why,” he said, “would you do that?”
“I didn’t say I would. I asked if you’d still love me if I did.”
He looked at you for a long moment with the expression he used when distinguishing between what a patient was asking and what they actually needed to know. “Is this something you’re considering doing?”
“Hypothetically.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s a very good answer.”
He exhaled through his nose and picked up his coffee. The slight compression of his mouth was doing a great deal of work. “You’d be sitting across from me,” he said, “at a restaurant I’d made a reservation at, and you’d bark at strangers.”
“Enthusiastically.”
“I’d want to be clear,” he said, with the careful diction of someone navigating a sentence on principle, “that I would not join you.”
“You’d want to, though.”
He looks at you through the rim of his cup, not the slightest impressed. “I would not.”
“Just a little. Somewhere, deep down—”
“No.” He picked the pen back up, which clearly meant the conversation was over, except that he didn’t start writing. “I’d be mortified,” he said, to the file. “I want that stated clearly. Sitting across from someone who is barking at strangers would be… deeply embarrassing for all parties involved.”
When he reached for his cup again, there was something in the downward angle of his gaze that made him look, briefly, like he was working very hard to stay on the correct side of something.
“But you’d stay,” you said, surely.
A pause that lasted exactly long enough to be revealing.
“Yes,” he said. “I’d stay.” He finally put the pen to the paper. “I’d request a booth with better privacy next time. If it went beyond that, I’d ask for a secluded booth and request we don’t come back.” He glanced up once—quick, dry, and with that particular expression he saved for moments when he was being precise about something he didn’t fully want to say.
“So that’s a yes. You’d still love me.”
“I already said yes.”
“You said you’d stay. I want the actual words.”
He looked at you over the rim of his glasses with the expression of a man who was aware he was being maneuvered and had decided to let it happen anyway.
“Yes,” he said. “Obviously. Don’t make it into something.”
You smiled. He went back to his file. Two minutes of quiet passed.
“You thought about it,” you said. “Barking back. Just once.”
“I did not.”
“For about half a second—”
“No,” he said, without looking up, and turned the page.
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
He was on the phone with Thomas, which meant he wasn’t really—the device was balanced on the windowsill while he worked, and Thomas’s voice was becoming increasingly frantic about something exhibition-related that Rafayel had apparently agreed to and immediately forgotten. You could hear ‘I just need to confirm the timeline, Rafayel, it’s one question’ drifting across the room with the resigned energy of someone who’d been having this exact conversation for years.
Rafayel was adding a layer of cerulean to a canvas.
You waited until he’d wrapped up—a cheerful ‘we’ll talk later, Thomas, stop worrying so much, it makes you look old’—and then, in the quiet that followed;
“Would you still love me if I muted you mid-call?”
He turned around.
The brush stayed raised. His expression took a moment to fully arrive, starting at neutral and traveling through something that landed decisively in deeply, theatrically wounded.
“You’d mute me,” he repeated.
“Hypothetically.”
“You’d mute me,” he emphasized once more to give you a chance to change your answer if might.
“While you were talking, yes. Just—” you mimed the tap of a button. “Gone. Silence.”
He set the brush down. Oh, this was serious, apparently. He turned fully to face you with the particular quality of attention he usually reserved for a canvas that had started doing something interesting, except in reverse.
“Do you understand,” he said, “what it takes to get five minutes with me? Interviewers have been trying for months. Months. Thomas has a whole spreadsheet. People have written letters.” He moved closer, and there was a gleam in it now, the performance already delighting him as he built it. “My voice, specifically, has been described, and this is a direct quote—as a spiritual experience. And you would just—” another mime of the button, his own this time, accompanied by a small, mock offended exhale.
“I might.”
“You’d really do that to me?” He looked at you with his chin slightly tilted, the look he gave things he was pretending to find tragic. “After everything?”
“I said hypothetically—”
“I would never do that to you,” he said, with a slight pout on his lips. “Never. You could be telling me about your grocery list, alphabetically, reading every ingredient on every label, and I would be listening.” He picked the brush back up. “Because it’s your voice.”
“That’s very sweet, but you’ve fallen asleep on calls before—”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“You snored.”
“I rest loudly.” He turned back to the canvas. “And that is completely different from deliberately silencing someone, which is... which is frankly mean, is what it is.” He made a mark on the painting that was possibly just to have something to do with his hands. “And you want to know the worst part? I’d call back. Immediately. The second you muted me, I’d call back.”
“And if I muted you again?”
He glanced over his shoulder. The theatrics had thinned just enough for something else to show through, that particular look that came out when he forgot to keep it managed.
“I’d keep calling,” he said simply. “Until you picked up.” A pause. “You’d answer eventually. You always do.”
You opened your mouth, and closed it.
“So yes,” you said. “You’d still love me?”
“Obviously.” He turned back to the canvas. “But I’d like an apology.”
“You’d get a very small one.”
“I’d accept it.” A beat. “And then I’d make you listen to an hour of me talking on speakerphone so you understood what you’d been missing.”
“That sounds like a punishment.”
“It’s a gift,” he huffed. “You’re welcome.”
His ears, you noticed, had gone the faint pink they got when something had landed and he didn’t want to make a thing of it. You watched him paint for a while, the afternoon light doing something gold and unhurried through the studio windows.
“Yeah,” you said eventually, mostly to yourself. “I know you’d call back.”
He didn’t answer. But the pink didn’t go away.
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
The record was mid-side, something slow and warm that filled the penthouse without demanding anything of it. Sylus was at the shelf, turning a small piece of amber over in his fingers—opaque, irregular, genuinely unspectacular, which was probably exactly why he’d bought it. The N109 Zone glittered below the windows in its usual state of low, industrious chaos.
You were on the couch. The question had been sitting in your head for about ten minutes looking for an opening.
“Would you still love me if I turned into a mashed potato?”
He didn’t stop turning the amber. But the small rhythm of it paused for just a beat.
“Mashed potato,” he said, to the shelf.
“Yes.”
He put the amber down and turned around, and the look on his face was already doing something. The kind of expression that meant he’d decided this was going to be interesting.
“I’d eat you,” he said.
“Excuse me—”
“You said mashed potato.” He walked toward the couch in a lax manner. “If you turn into a food, I’d eat you. That’s just logical.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“You brought up the potato.” He settled at the other end of the couch, that almost-smile still exactly where it had been, and there was a brightness to his expression now—the particular animation that came out when something genuinely entertained him. “Though I’ll be honest with you—” he tilted his head, “—if you turned into an antique vinyl, I’d play you. Every evening. I’d know every skip, every worn groove.” A pause. “You’d be my favorite song.”
You opened your mouth and found you had nothing to say.
“And if you became a stone—” he continued, as though this were a perfectly normal progression of thought, “—even if it’s not a particularly shiny one—” a look, brief, that dared you to argue, “—I’d have the finest display case in the N109 Zone built around you. Velvet lining. Lighting that costs more than most people’s apartments.” He paused, apparently considering the specifics. “You’d be the centerpiece.”
“You’d put me in a display case...” you deadpanned.
“I’d cherish you in a display case.” He reached over and took the glass from your hand with the calm ease of someone who’d decided it was his now. “The mashed potato, though—yes. Eaten. Immediately. I don’t negotiate with potatoes.”
“You can’t just—”
“Kitten.” The almost-smile finished becoming a wider one. “Yes. Obviously yes. To every version of you.” He sipped the drink. “Though I do prefer this one. She asks better questions.”
The record reached the end of its side. The needle tracked quietly through the runout groove—a soft, repeating hiss that neither of you moved to stop.
“You’d really have a display case built?”
“I’d commission it tonight, if you want,” he said, without any hesitation at all, in the tone of someone who was only partly joking and very much wanted you to sit with not knowing which part.
You looked at him for a moment. The amber piece was still on the shelf where he’d left it. He’d turned it over in his hand for twenty times by now.
“You and your collection,” you huff.
Something shifted in his expression. “Everything I collect,” he said, “I keep.” He handed your glass back. “That’s the only rule I’ve ever applied consistently.”
The record hissed on. You leaned back into the cushions, and a moment later his arm settled along the back of the couch—not quite around you, but close enough that the warmth of it reached you anyway.
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
He’d been talking about wind shear for about six minutes, which you understood was a real and serious phenomenon and also that Caleb would talk about it for six more minutes without noticing if you let him. His hands kept moving, tracing the shape of an approach path in the air between you, unconsciously, the way they always did when he was explaining something he actually cared about.
“—and the thing about crosswind correction is that most people overcorrect, they lose confidence in the aircraft when actually—” He caught your expression. “You stopped listening, Pips.”
“I’ve been listening.”
“You went somewhere else around the three-minute mark.”
“I came back.”
He laughed, easy and quick in the way that things were easy when it was just you, no rank involved, no distance between now and all the years before it. “Sorry. I know it’s not exactly—”
“No, keep going,” you said. “Actually… First, would you still love me if I clapped when the plane landed? Every time?”
He stopped.
The laugh was still fading from his face, which made the pause funnier—him sitting there mid-expression, recalibrating.
“Clapped?” he repeated to make sure.
“Applause. Full clap. Maybe a little cheer.”
“Every landing?”
“Every single one.”
He ran his tongue over his teeth, and that was the tell, that was what he did when he was actually thinking about something rather than just reacting. Then he laughed again, properly this time, a little helpless, tilting his head back.
“You’d be embarrassed,” he said. “Right? You’d be the only one. Everyone else just collects their bags and you’re just—” he clapped three times, slowly, demonstrating, “—putting in full effort while everyone looks at you.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t be embarrassed.”
“You’d be a little embarrassed.” He was grinning now. “Though I guess, I’d be the only pilot alive with someone in arrivals who actually clapped.” He considered this with some satisfaction. “That’s not nothing.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“I mean, obviously, yes.” He shook his head, still grinning. “But here’s the thing—” and something shifted in his expression, “—I’ve taken you up, what, four, five times now? Private aircraft. Smooth approaches every one of them.” He tilted his head. “You never clapped.”
“I was trying to be cool.”
“You were trying to be cool.” He repeated it like he was tasting how absurd it was. “For me. You’ve known me since we were kids. I’ve seen you apologize to the wall after accidentally hitting it. And you were trying to be cool.”
“Don’t make it weird—”
“It’s a little weird.” He pointed at you. “You were sitting right there in the co-pilot seat and you stuck the landing and I didn’t get anything. Not even a little—” he did a small, pointed golf clap.
“I said thank you.”
“You said nice.”
“That’s a compliment—”
“Nice.” He said it again, flat, like he was reading a verdict. “Four years of flight school. Ten thousand hours. And all I get is nice.” But the grin was back now, brighter than before, the one that had nothing self-conscious in it. “Next time I take you up—” he leaned forward, elbows on knees, “—when we land, and we will land perfectly because I am excellent at my job—you clap. As much as you want. Make a whole thing of it. Stand up. Whistle if you feel moved.”
“You just want someone to clap for you.”
“I want you to clap for me,” he said, easy as anything, like the distinction barely needed explaining. “Which is different.”
He sat back and went back to the wind shear explanation like that had been a completely normal sentence to drop into the middle of a Sunday afternoon. When your knee ended up against his on the couch, he didn’t move.
He glanced down at it once. Then back up at whatever middle-distance thing he was describing with his hands.
Starting to get sleepy by the time I write for Rafa, but heeey, we must continue (˶˃𐃷˂˶)
two huh's and two lavender heads turn at you. the grin you try so hard to conceal spreads wide anyway. those same sunset eyes and same confused expressions. the smaller guy rests in your lap while the other guy is sitting beside you on the comfort of your couch.
"what that mean, mummy?" kashiel blinks. rafayel nods along too.
"i mean, why your face," you cup kashiel's face, "your eyes, your hair, and oh! your nose too," you gently pinch his little nose, "all the same as daddy?"
"'course i look like daddy! i daddy baby." it's the obvious, sure. bless your baby for his mummy about to bully him.
"and you're not mummy's baby?" you ask, putting a very hurt, sad face. your son's proud face washes away as he panics seeing you pout.
"wha–!! i mummy baby too." determined little thing as he kneels in your lap, facing you with hands on your shoulders to prevent himself from unstable footing. "why you say i no mummy baby?"
"you tell me, kashiel." it's fun to tease kashiel. he's so smart and mischievous. always have something to come up with in any situation. you wonder how this one will turn out.
your husband at the same time has snuggled up at your side. head tilted back on the couch as he watches his wife and son having a conversation. his most favorite thing in the world.
"uh.." kashiel turns to look at daddy for help. rafayel stuck his tongue out instead. never mind!
"uhm.. mummy.. i.." the gears in his brain are working overtime to prove he's just as much as mummy's like he is daddy's. "i kind! mummy kind! that why i mummy baby too."
kashiel carefully observes your face. please mummy smile, please mummy smile and say he's mummy's baby chanting internally.
"oh so daddy's not kind, kashiel?" a voice that's not mummy chirps and intervenes.
kashiel huffs and loops his little arms around mummy's neck, seeking your hug and attention. melting like a puddle when you laugh and kiss his hairline.
"daddy no kind! you eat my donuts."
"excuse you, you already had so many donuts that day and they were going to spoil, mister. someone had to finish it, we don't waste food." rafayel eyes the way kashiel's clinging to you like a damn barnacle. your husband has yet to have his own fill of cuddles today!
"i no care. i mummy baby."
"you are mummy's baby indeed. tomorrow we buy some donuts, okay?" you agree easily, revelling at how your husband turns sulky now. another big baby to deal with here.
Thank you to all who have sent in requests lately. I'm in a better spot now so I'm going to start working on them. This is one of them: "an idea for an imagine they stop you from tripping or falling." Also, small detail but I updated the divider colors - instead of their microphone colors, they now possibly (probably not) match the Arirang vinyl colors.
Namjoon
A book, left on the floor by the coffee table. He is able to stop you from falling because he is right behind you, but that doesn't mean guilt doesn't immediately wash over him, as he knows he was the one to leave the book there in the first place. When you're steady, you wrap your arms around his torso. "It's OK, Joonie," you quickly reassure him, "It was an accident. You didn't mean it." He tries to argue but you gently shush him. "Accidents happen," you tell him.
Seokjin
A splash of water from when he carried a pot of water from the sink to the stove, now a tiny puddle on the kitchen floor. You hit the wet spot just right, causing you to slide. You catch yourself by reaching for the counter but he is still by your side in seconds. "Yah, (Y/N)," he says, his hand reaches for your shoulder, "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" You look up at him. "Give you a heart attack?" you gasp, "I almost just perished in our kitchen." He apologizes and kisses your forehead.
Yoongi
A cable running across the floor of Genius Lab. You see it. In your head, you acknowledge it. Your foot still catches on it. Cat-like reflexes, his hand shoots out and he grabs you before your head catches the corner of the console. "Are you OK?" he asks first, looking you over, and then he says second, "One of these days I'm going to wrap you in bubble wrap." You giggle and comment how that would require a lot of bubble wrap. He looks at you, "It'd be worth it."
Hoseok
A dance step gone wrong. When you fall out of the step, he immediately falls out of Dance Teacher mode. He steadies you, his hand cupping one of your elbows. "Ankle all good?" he asks. You lift your foot a few inches off the ground and wiggle it before you step down on it, making sure it can still bear your weight. You nod. "I think it looked worse than it really was," you say, brightly. You begin to say 'let's run it again,' but he stops you. "Water break first," he insists.
Jimin
Air, literal air. When he stops you from falling, he first makes sure you are OK and then he looks for the cause. As far as he can tell, the floor is even, and there is no random object disguised as a trip hazard. He looks back at you. "How did you manage to do that?" he asks, a small smile appearing on his face. "Talent?" you respond with a giggle, causing him to smile more. "Well, I don't like this talent," he replies, "I worry about you enough as it is - now you trip on air?"
Taehyung
A crack in the pavement. When you get to the walking path along the river, he pretends to pull up his fitness app on his watch. "You tricked me," you gasp, thinking he is going to make you run. He laughs and loops his arm through yours. "I'm only joking," he assures you. But then as you begin walking, your foot catches on a crack in the ground, his arm being what keeps you upright. "I'm rethinking this whole walk, Tae," you tell him. He pats your arm. "It'll be OK," he says.
Jungkook
One of Bam's many chew toys, scattered across the living room. You step on the chew toy, which throws you off-balance. His hand on your waist steadies you. "You need to tell your son to pick up his toys," you tell Jungkook, which makes him laugh. "Oh, he's just my son now?" he questions. You look at Bam, who is watching innocently from the couch, paused mid-chew of one of his toys. You instantly soften. "Of course not," you coo. This somehow ends with you apologizing to Bam.
