#and THEN with saving the country. a whole new set of smothering expectations.

[beneathsilverstars]

what if mira's parents were like... "oh our precious darling baby, please never grow up!" sort of parents.... not cruel, but stifling. deciding what she'll do, and then doing it for her. not letting her learn and try and fail and grow into her own, independent self.

of course she would love the religion of change! of course she would believe so passionately in the importance of discovering and reinventing yourself. of course she would have been missing basic life skills when she first came to the house, and enamored with whoever patiently taught them to her. of course she would take every class available, try everything she was denied.

and of course it would feel awful, when she kept failing. she started out at a deficit and has felt two steps behind ever since. and every time she tries a new skill and makes a mistake, she hears her parents say, just let us do it for you. and every time she compares her same-old self to the unique and talented people around her, she wonders if maybe her parents were right about her. maybe she wasn't meant to have her own interests, to make her own choices. maybe she can't learn. maybe she can't grow. maybe she'll be a useless child forever.

it's hard to decide how she feels about her parents. they never hurt her, so why does she feel so hurt when she thinks about them? they loved her, so why doesn't she love them?

and it's hard to admit the faults of the change belief. it saved her from stagnation! and yet, here she is. smothered again. expected not to stay the same, but to become someone else.

why can't she just be who she is?

[yayeetsonny]

New Beginnings~Chapter 3

This is shorter than I’d like but hopefully that’s okay. I noticed my timeline was all screwed up so the book is actually set in 2020, my bad. Also the pandemic doesn’t exist in this universe. Enjoy!

4 1/2 Months later…

Ryley PRO//

It’s been over 4 months since my accident and I am finally out of all my casts and no longer have to use a wheelchair to get around or write with my other hand. I won’t sugar coat it the first 4 months were hell and there was a lot of tears and lot of moments where I wanted to give up but Christen, Alex and our teammates made it all worth it. They helped me through the lows of physical therapy and they were there to celebrate the highs too. They had to return home after the first 2 weeks but came to visit at least once a month if not more. I was initially worried that I wasn’t going to recover in time for the Olympics at the end of July but after putting in a lot of work and pushing myself past my limits sometimes I was able to get through physical therapy much sooner than expected and I was able to show Vlatko that I still deserved a spot on that roster.

After that scare I had in the first month when I woke up not being able to breath the girls took me to a doctor and I learned that I did in fact have asthma and that I had experienced a laryngospasm because of it. I was given an inhaler and everything was explained to me so now I know what to do if it happens again, but I haven’t had one since, nor have I had any asthma attacks. Alex and Chris hovered a lot after that but now they’re much better at trusting that I’ll be okay.

I ended up finishing my junior year online and when I was able I moved back to the group home in Colorado. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t remain under Christen and Alex’s care if I wanted to be able to travel with the team this summer to Japan. They would have had to adopt me in order for that to work but I still wasn’t ready and they understood. We still text and call all the time of course and they come to visit me when they can. I still haven’t told them the true extent of how poorly I’m treated here but I decided that was for the best. 

It was warm out today and I had decided to ride my skateboard around town, my free time before I had to leave for the olympics was coming to an end so I had to take full advantage of it. We would be getting on a plane in a week and then hopefully we would return home with the gold and we could say that we pulled off the impossible: World Cup champions one year and olympic gold medalist the next. 

I reluctantly decide to head back to the group home after another hour and when I get there it’s no surprise that the house is full of potential adoptive parents and families. After politely introducing myself to a few of the people I make my way upstairs knowing no one would be interested in getting to know me. I check my phone and see I have a few texts and missed calls from Alex.

“Hey sweet girl, hope you’re having a good day. Chris and I Love and miss you.”

Read one text

I decided to call her as I had been missing their voices. She picked up on the third ring

“Hello?” Came her raspy voice through the phone.

“Hi Alex.”

“Well hello my sweet girl, how are we doing today?”

“I’m doing good, I miss you guys though.”

“I know but we’ll see you really soon.”

“Next week, do you think we’re ready?”

“As ready as we’ll ever be baby.”

“Am I ready?”

“Don’t second guess yourself, of course you are. You are going to do amazing I just know it.”

“Thank you for always believing in me.”

“Always have, always will. I love you kid.”

“I love you too.”

“I gotta go but we’ll see you soon okay?”

“See you soon. Tell Chris I said Hello and that I love her too.”

“I will, bye R.J.”

“Bye Alex.”

While I was talking to Alex I was completely unaware of Ms.Williams listening outside the door and when I hung up Ms. Williams stormed into my room, completely disregarding my “Knock first.” Sign, yanked my phone out of my hand and prevented me from taking it back,

“This is now mine, thank you.”

“What did I even do?!” 

“You were talking to that Alex Morgan girl.”

“Okay first of all she’s a grown ass woman and second, why is that such a problem?”

“Whenever you talk to her or that Christen girl they give you false hope.”

“What? Again, they’re grown women, not teenagers. What do you mean “false hope”? That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“I’m talking about the fact that you think you’re going to the Olympics.”

“I am going, I already made the roster.”

“If you think I’m going to let you leave the country while I’m still responsible for you, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“You can’t just not let me go! That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

“You can’t stop me from going, it’s my life.”

“While you live here I decide what you can and can’t do.”

“Well, then I just won’t live here then.”

“Pfft, where are you gonna go then?”

“Anywhere is better than here.”

“If you leave now you’re not allowed to come back.”

“I don’t care. Give me my phone.”

She threw my phone on the bed and left, leaving me to grab my duffle bag and get out of here. I packed only things I would need, grabbing my board I started to climb out the window, using the tree by my window I was able to get down safely and remain unseen by the families that were still in the house. I didn’t know where I was going to go and I realized this was probably a really dumb thing to do but I couldn’t give Karen the satisfaction of knowing I had backed out. 

I just started walking in a random direction and kept going until I couldn’t anymore. When I took in my surroundings I realized that I had already walked pretty far and that it was getting dark, if I wanted to find at least a semi-safe place to sleep I need to start looking. 

I was able to find a good enough bridge to sleep under for the night and settled there. Chris and Alex are so going to kill me.

The next week flew by, I was able to make the bridge a “home” of sorts and I was able to do some chores for the manager of the grocery store I walked to everyday and in exchange he paid me with food. This way I could save my money for Tokyo and for getting more clothes before I left. I knew that he had his suspicions about me being homeless but he never brought it up and by the time it was time for me to go to the airport we had become good friends and I even told him about the team and going to Tokyo. As for showering I was able to convince the owner of one of the gyms in town to let me take showers there without having a membership. I was just wrapping up my last day of chores when the manager of the store, Kevin came out of his office to see me off.

“Hey kid, you leavin’?”

“Yeah, I’ll miss you Kev.”

“I’ll miss you as well kid, good luck in Tokyo. Bring home the gold.”

“Yes sir. I’ll try to visit from time to time.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you again.”

After we said our goodbyes I grabbed my stuff from the back and started to ride my skateboard to a department store where I could get a suitcase and some more clothes. Then I headed for the airport. It took forever and having to hold a suitcase made it pretty hard to stay balanced but I finally made it and after getting my luggage checked and going through security I just barely made it on time for my flight. I would be flying to Portland first and then from there we fly as a team to Japan. It would be a long couple of days and I’m sure I’m going to be exhausted by the end of all the flying but it’ll all be worth it once we get there.

When I arrived in Portland I was greeted by almost the whole team, a few people’s flights were still just landing or would be arriving shortly. The first people I saw were Chris and Alex, they ran to me and wrapped me up in their arms, smothering me with kisses. I hadn’t told them about anything that happened over the last week, they still thought I was at the group home. It got a little hard when they called me a couple times and there was a lot of commotion on the bridge but I just told them I was out riding around and that it was traffic in the street.

“Hey baby! We missed you so much.”

 Christen all but tackled me to the ground as Alex came around to hug me from behind. We landed on the floor and I found myself in a Chrislex sandwich. 

“I missed you guys too!” I gigged at their excitement

I made my rounds and was sure to say hi to everyone as they arrived and once everyone was together we were ready to head to our gate for our second flight. We had to wait around for an hour or so before we were able to board, I sat in between Al and Chris. Mal, Rose and Sam sat in front of us and Morgan, Kelley, and Emily behind us and Ali, Ash, Megan, Julie, Tobin, Crystal and Lindsey in the rows directly across. Everyone else filled the remaining rows. This 13 hour and 10 minute flight was going to be long and it would probably get really old fast but I knew my teammates would make it fun and entertaining for at least part of the time. 

14 and 1/2 hrs later…

We had finally landed in Tokyo and after almost 15 hours of traveling we got to the hotel and were able to go straight to our rooms. It didn’t surprise me that I had been placed in a room with Christen and Alex, after not seeing each other for a while I was glad to be with them. Everyone was exhausted, so much so that all anyone said to each other as we went to our rooms was “Night.” Or just a grumble as a way to say “See you in the morning.” 

I was allowed first dibs on a bed so I picked the one closest to the window. 

“Goodnight baby love, see you in the morning.” Christen said from her spot on their bed.

“Goodnight kiddo, sleep well.” Alex yawned

“Goodnight guys.”

They both fell asleep instantly and I was left to wonder how I was going to tell them about everything. I knew I had to tell them the truth soon, I just didn’t know how. On one hand I knew that they would be mad that I had taken off from the group home but I also knew they were going to be even more upset that I didn’t tell them. I knew that if I had they would have come to get me and then they could be arrested for kidnapping or something like that if Ms. Williams found out and decided to report me as missing just to spite me. And yes technically she could do that now and it would be 10x worse since I left the country but she’s not going to risk her reputation by doing that. At least I don’t think she would. 

I ran through what I was going to tell them in my head over a dozen times before I was finally able to go to sleep. I knew tomorrow was going to be tough but I just had to hope that I’d be ready to face the music. 

//

Hey guys, this isn't my best work and this is probably all over the place but I hope it was still good. Sorry for mistakes.

- N

Tag list: @slow-dance-in-the-dark​ @messyheath​ @yeetlysonnett​ @anniekin-98​ @kayleighromae​ @ihavebeenchangedforgoodmenzel​ @laikato​

[fanfic-scribbles]

My 2020 Tumblr Top 10

I did this last year and thought it would be fun to do it again this year. Happy new year, and may 2021 treat us all a little bit better.

~

1). 220 notes - Mar 8 2020

Gremlins – Bucky/Steve/Reader

This is a new shirt.

Bucky really likes it.

It, too, is gone.

“What the fuck,” Bucky says and flings the not-favorite shirt across the room. It lands with a ‘thud!’

And an “Mm!”

He whips his head around and sees you peeling the shirt off your face. You give it a once-over and then turn a wry smile at him. “At least it’s clean.”

You hand it back and look over the small piles of clothing scattered across the bedroom floor. “What’s going on? Is that shirt still missing?”

“Four shirts,” Bucky grumps and flings the one he’s holding down to the floor. He rests his forehead on your shoulder and sighs. “I don’t know what the hell I did with them.”

He expects comfort, but the way your body tenses is…confusing. At first he thinks he’s heavy or has somehow made you physically uncomfortable, but before he can pull away you rub his shoulders and absolutely every aspect of that motion feels awkward.

And when you say, “I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually,” he knows you’re hiding something. He just doesn’t know what.

Or why.

2). 167 notes - Jun 19 2020

Life of the Party – Bucky Barnes/Reader

“Don’t relax; we’re not safe yet.”

You don’t even realize it at first; you’re so fucking done with the whole damn day you just roll your eyes and say, “Boy, you’re a real party, huh?”

He freezes in the middle of loading a gun and you gasp when you realize when he just said. Well shit.

“You know,” you chuckle, because what is your life right now, “–I thought we’d be in the middle of pulling off a prank or something. Not, you know, a war zone.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t…think of it,” he says, then flinches and looks at you, brows creased in worry. Or is that aggravation? No, that looks like worry.

“Cool,” you say and smile at your soulmate. “I have no expectations to live up to. That’s nice.”

The lines in his face soften. He raises one eyebrow. “What expectations do I have to live up to?”

You run your hand over your arm absently, though the words are covered by a jacket. His eyes flick there and linger. “Well, I always thought you were a troublemaker,” you say lightly. “But here you are, saving my life.”

3). 72 notes - Sep 20 2020

Marry Me – [established] Steve Rogers/Reader and [past/future?] Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes

A hand sets on your shoulder and you flinch. “Sorry,” the voice says. He sounds gentle, so you look up with a cautious sense of hope.

You gasp at who it is. “Bucky?”

His smile is pained, but he holds out his hand and helps you up. “I guess Steve told you at least some of it.” He looks back and frowns, then faces you. “I’m sorry but we’ve gotta go.”

“I should call Steve,” you say and pull out your phone.

“No. In fact–” Bucky snatches it from you and tosses it into a nearby garbage bin. You barely get out an offended yelp before he’s dragging you along.

“They’re tracking it,” Bucky says, speeding up. “And they’ll be back soon.”

You get to a motorcycle and Bucky grabs a helmet and holds it out towards you. “I know Steve doesn’t have a lot of reasons to trust me right now, but please. I want to help.”

You take the helmet, because you trust the latter sentence. And it’s not his fault he’s wrong about the former. You think you’re the only one who actually knows why.

4). 67 notes - Jan 5 2020

Dinner Date: Chapter Two – Steve Rogers/Reader

“Hi lovebirds.”

I jolted back from the table as someone– two someones– slid into the empty chairs on our sides. It was just Clint and Natasha, but they looked shockingly normal and well-matched. Clint looked nice, like a normal person and not an absolute disaster, while Natasha seemed mildly dressed down in an obviously well-loved jacket and muted colors.

“Is your hat a polar bear?” I asked, staring at her beanie. It had little ears and everything. “That is so fucking cute.”

“Thanks,” she said and pulled over a menu from the little stand in the center of the table.

Steve cleared his throat. “Natasha. Clint. What are you doing here?”

“Looking into a new lunch place,” Natasha said, not even looking at him. “It’s a free country, Steve.”

“Then maybe you can get your own table, Natasha.”

I had no idea what the hostility was all about but Clint started picking at Steve’s plate, distracting him long enough for Natasha to lean closer to me and say my name. “So you’re making an honest man out of our captain?” she said.

“Oh my god Natasha.” Steve was so red I practically had to smother myself to keep from laughing. “We talked about this!”

“We did,” she agreed easily but angled her body towards me. Something about her face made it easy for me to stop laughing. “You said I couldn’t talk to her while she was on her own. So now you get to be present for it.”

At first I couldn’t fathom what ‘it’ was, until I took in Steve’s face (a mixture of annoyed and concerned), Natasha’s body language (very business-like), what Natasha had said (about making an “honest man” out of Steve), and added it all together.

“Is it shovel-talk time?” I asked in wonder.

5). 62 notes - Jan 28 2020

A Little Pickle – Gabriel/Reader

“Gabe.”

“I’m just saying– we have to wait for our heroic rescuers anyway, so why not have a little fun in the meantime?”

“Gabriel.”

“Oh no. Full name.”

“Oh yeah full name. However, ‘on the bright side,’ I now have one whole bar of cell service and I’m sending a text out.”

“Don’t you want to wait?”

“No. Oh look, it just went through.”

“Shit.”

6). 60 notes - Nov 11 2020

Dinner Date Chapter 12 – Steve Rogers/Reader

He didn’t say anything at first. He turned slightly to wrap both arms around me in a hug. “You’ll always be safe with me,” he murmured and squeezed momentarily. “I can promise that.”

“I believe you. I trust you, so much,” I said. I kissed his shoulder. “Thank you. For staying with me, and not going after him– even though I know you probably wanted to.”

“I did,” he admitted. “But I wanted to make sure you were okay more.”

I took a satisfyingly deep breath. Sleep was pulling hard. “You’re the best.”

“And you’re soft,” he said and gave me a gentle kiss. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

“I know.” I smiled and let my body relax fully at last. “I trust you.”

7). 58 notes - Dec 22 2020

Supernatural Fic Masterlist

8). 52 notes - May 15 2020

Dinner Date Chapter Seven – Steve Rogers/Reader

“Hello Natasha,” I said to the woman looking intently through my cupboards. I had a bunch of questions: ‘what are you looking for,’ ‘do you think I keep a safe in there,’ ‘your hair looks very bouncy today are you going somewhere nice,’ and, my personal favorite, “How did you get in my apartment?”

“Trade secret,” she said and shook a half-empty box of cereal. Okay, by the sound of it there was a lot less than half. “Do you not have any real food?”

9). 49 notes - Feb 27 2020

Dinner Date Chapter Five – Steve Rogers/Reader

“I’m sorry,” I said, still buried in his shirt. “It was really nice.”

“It was.”

“I’m sorry I fucked it up.”

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” he said, too quickly.

“I did; I just got…overwhelmed, I guess?” I lifted my head for a moment, barely caught a glimpse of his expression, and then immediately shoved my face back in his chest. “That sounds stupid; forget I said anything.”

He shook with quiet laughter and I grumbled, “Shut up or I’ll pinch your tit.”

“Don’t move too fast for me sweetheart,” he said and, damn it, that made me laugh. He cleared his throat and said, “Would it make you feel any better to know you weren’t the only one feeling overwhelmed?”

10). 48 notes - Feb 11 2020

Dinner Date Chapter Four – Steve Rogers/Reader

“What time is it?” I asked, already sinking into a measure of comfort. At last.

“Almost midnight,” Steve said, sitting next to me. He handed me the cow, which was nice, but…

“It’s late,” I said and looked at him. “Do you want to stay tonight?” Wait, that was terrible, I was gross. “You can have the bed, if you want; I can take the cou–”

I didn’t even get up on my elbows before Steve lay down, wrapped his arms around me, and pulled me into him. I snuggled even closer and he flicked off the bedside light.

“You know if you wanted me to stay you could just say so?” he chuckled in the warm dark.

“It seemed rude to assume you’d want to,” I said and shut my eyes. “You’ve been so good to me. I don’t want to…take advantage.”

“I don’t mind,” he said softly, running his hand up and down my back. “I hated being sick. I like being able to help.”

“Mmm.” I started drifting off. “Did you have someone to take care of you?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, a little sadly. “My ma was busy a lot but she always did what she could. Bucky took over the job. He was even stricter than she was.”

“Good,” I said. “You would need someone to browbeat you into bed.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I really did,” he said fondly. “But you couldn’t blame me. God; the home remedies we had…”

“Don’t give me nightmares,” I said without meaning it.

“All right,” he whispered, a smile in his voice. “Go to sleep, sweetheart. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Created by TumblrTop10

[opcnwounds]

katie mcgrath, bisexual, cisfemale + she/her ➸ hey look, it’s CARYS PALLAS! they’re 24 years old and originally from DUBLIN, IRELAND. now they’re in new york, working as a STRIPPER at ANGEL'S. i heard they’re pretty FRIGID, but i think they’re so DEVOTED at the same time. have they found their calling on the avenue ?

mild mentions of eating disorders, injuries and child abuse

Carys was born into a family of ballet royalty. Her mother was a prima ballerina that had danced in the most prestigious companies and her dad was a seasoned choreographer for the Bolshoi theatre. The youngest of three children, her older siblings were already getting attention because of their impressive ballet skills and seemed to be glad to follow in their parents’ footsteps to live up to their pedigree. 

Ireland was Cary’s place of birth but it never felt like a home. Nowhere did because the Pallas family lived a nomadic existence, traveling from country to country, from stage to stage depending on who was dancing where. The children were homeschooled by their parents and sometimes tutors, but formal education always fell behind ballet. It was all dancing, dancing, dancing.

So it wasn’t hard for Carys to fall in line with them too. Black hair, striking green eyes and porcelain skin, petite yet proportionate; it was like she was purposely bred to become a ballerina, and in the Pallas universe, there was really no other option but to become a dancer. Carys took to it like fish to water, quickly surpassing her older siblings’ abilities to their chagrin, and becoming the main focus of her parents. They were overjoyed. 

But children need stability to thrive, so Carys began developing overwhelming anxiety and a passive personality; it had been branded onto her psyche that her only worth laid in ballet, how perfect she executed a pas de deux, how slim her figure was, how many hours she devoted to practicing. Her actual identity had been smothered from before she learned how to walk. Something wasn’t right, she wanted friends, she wanted to go to a real school, she wanted to play a board game with her family, she wanted to have her own room. There was none of that. She didn’t have it in herself to rebel against the life that had been imposed into her, so Carys started internalizing everything, a deep and dangerous depression brewing inside of her with no relief.

At the tender age of 13, Carys was accepted into the most prestigious ballet academy in the world in Paris. It was funny that she didn’t remember even applying, but setting up camp in the City of Love sounded better than constantly uprooting herself. And maybe if she went to the ballet boarding school, she could get some independence from her family. Her expectations were met during the first year, she had a dorm with a roommate that became her friend, she got to explore the city in her breaks, take her lessons in a classroom and meet all kinds of people. It was the first time Carys actively remembers herself being happy.

And then her mother retired and accepted a position within the same academy. Suddenly, Carys’ rehearsals had doubled (one with the school, one with mother) and she had to quit doing the non-ballet things she enjoyed so much. Mother was always there, and she was controlling every bit of Carys’ life again, prepping her to become the actual best prima ballerina in the world. 

To Carys’ mother, collapsing from exhaustion was a sign of a job well done. The dangerously small numbers on the scale were never good enough, they could always go lower. Carys was never good enough, no matter how many times she got the lead roles in productions. Odette, Odile, Clara, Nikiya, Sugar Plum Fairy, Carys played them all, yet there was always one more to get that she had to be perfect for. No vacations allowed, no sleepovers with friends, no treating herself to a delicious cookie for Christmas, no nothing. Carys was wasting away in a nightmare of tulle and pastel pink. 

The breaking point came after a mishap while being lifted in the air by her male ballerino, Carys slipped out of his grip and landed hard against the barre. A sprained ankle and three broken ribs was the verdict, with a warning to stay out of the leotard and pointe shoes, taking it easy until next season. Carys was 22 and a stranger to autonomy, so when mother made her get back to her grueling schedule, she did as she was ordered. No matter how black and blue she was, how it hurt to breathe. It took only two weeks for a wayward rib to puncture her right lung and the first thing she heard mother say after surgery was “when can she go back to dancing”, over the voice of her doctor talking about potential permanent damage. It was the most painful bucket of ice cold water to the soul, but Carys was done. She was done with being a puppet for her mother’s unachieved dreams.

Taking the sizable amount of money she had amassed as a prima ballerina, Carys left Paris in the middle of the night, leaving behind a concise letter to her family. She headed to NYC, a place she had visited many times before. It was the perfect place to reinvent herself, or actually just find herself. With most of her savings gone in the move and securing a place to live, Carys went looking for a job. She had very minimal education, only knew how to dance, and she didn’t want to do ballet no more. It was the lights of The Avenue that called her, the anonymity of the beautiful dancers under neon lights, untouchable and powerful. It took Carys a couple of visits to the strip clubs to perfectly mimic and conquer pole dancing. Nobody knew her here, she just needed some red lipstick, some twirling and the crowd would go wild. It was something much visceral and raw and real. Angel’s gave her a job on the spot and off went Carys to exchange the tights and leotards for skimpy babydolls and body glitter. 

Just like ballet, dancing is a mere façade. Carys doesn’t know what she likes, what she wants, who she is. The high of the pole is a blessed distraction from the debilitating black hole in her heart that threatens to swallow her whole, but when morning comes, the act of the empowered, irish stripper gives way to the sad girl that feels like she’s always drowning. But maybe soon she can find some peace.

[blackaquokat]

Proposals Part 2

So there will be a third part, because this one got a little long. I JUST CAN’T WRITE SHORT STUFF, OKAY? Warning: I may have butchered how the draft worked back during WWII, it may change when I go back through and do edits in a more polished version because I’m a perfectionist. Also: my first attempt at a nonbinary character, please let me know if I did something problematic and I will fix it.

oo000oo

You meet Damien at his dorm room, at his request, in order to solidify the plan. Since you see a long night ahead of you, you bring dinner…well, you bring canned vegetables and biscuits. College life during wartimes at its finest. 

Luckily his roommate is out with friends, leaving the room for your full use without judgment. As a result, you’re sitting next to Damien on his bunk without a care in the world.

“So, how far are we going to go with this?” you ask him as you take a bite out of a carrot.

“I say we don’t admit the truth until the ‘I do’s,” Damien laughs as he takes a bite out of a biscuit. “We may as well see this through to the end.”

“So we’ll need to have some people in on it.” You tap your chin. “I’m sure my mom will get a kick out of it. I’ll write to her.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s overseas,” you explain. “But that’s not important right now. Do you know anyone who can officiate a wedding?”

“Um…I think one of my professors mentioned he was ordained.” At your confused stare, he continues, “Apparently it’s how he met his wife, he told us about it the first day.”

“Oh! Well perfect, in that case!”

Damien chortles at your enthusiasm. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You lift your eyebrow at his observation. “And you’re not?”

“Fair enough.” He chews on a piece of broccoli before asking, “How many people should we invite to the ceremony?”

“We’ll play it by ear. When should the big day be?”

Damien hums in thought. “We should begin ‘sharing’ surnames in two days, I think.”

“I can hardly wait, Sugar!”

oo000oo

Between the two of you (mostly Damien, since he apparently has this mystical quality which compels others to adore him on sight and hang onto every word he says as opposed to your prickly antisocial tendencies), you manage to garner about fifty guests by the next day: students, mainly, with a few professors who are in on the joke.

It’s almost too easy, how smoothly it all comes together at first. You and Damien consider renting the gym for the event until Professor Lee, the one who will be “marrying” the two of you, suggests the lovely gazebo on the campus.

You’re both there now, resting against the columns and clutching clipboards with the other minutiae of the plan. The setting sun leaves a stunning pinkish-orange glow over the campus, and it warms your back (you hate when the sun is in your eyes, so it’s well acquainted with your back).

“So, how likely is it that your parents will actually attend the wedding?” you inquire, tapping your pen to your lips.

“I honestly do not know,” Damien answers. His pen is tucked behind his ear. “On the one hand, they wouldn’t come in order to express the full extent of their disapproval. On the other hand, I am the only child they have left now, would they really want to miss out on such an important event in my life?”

“Guess we won’t know until the day of,” you muse aloud. “Have you seen them since we broke the news?”

“No, but they keep calling to try to talk me out of it.” Damien jots a note down on the clipboard. “I think my roommate hates me, he finally unplugged the phone this morning when it rung off the hook.”

You smother a laugh behind your hand, before returning to your clipboard. “Okay, so do I want to wear a suit or a dress for my first fake wedding…”

When you catch a glimpse at Damien out of the corner of your eye, you realize you said that out loud. The blood rushes to your face and you need to remind yourself that breathing keeps you alive while you wait for his reaction.

(In hindsight, you probably could have played it off as a joke, or even spun it as a quirky fashion choice to make his parents irate, with a wink and quirks of your lips, but given the words to blow off your slip-up are already strangled in your throat, all hope of acting like you did not just expose your secret is for naught.)

Damien blinks at you curiously, and if the seriousness of his gaze is any indication, he is fully aware of your mistake and its implications. He shrugs the next moment. “I say whatever you feel like. My parents are going to snap their caps no matter what you wear, so I say go with whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“You…um…” you clear the hesitation out of your throat. “You don’t mind…?”

“Why would I mind?”

Bitterness crawls under your lips and you bite it back, but it still leaks through, “Some people do…”

(Some people you thought you could trust only for them to just leave and never speak to you again, some people who think you need to have your “proper identity” beaten into you when you don’t dress or behave as they believe you should, some people sling words that cut like knives or bullets that rip through the flesh of your lungs, but you don’t talk about that, none of that, you just go on with your life; dig the bullets out, stitch up the cuts with reality and stoicism, and give the world the façade they want, at least you can be who you want at home, the most important people in your life have accepted you sans one, and he’s abandoned you now so what does it matter?)

“Well, I don’t,” Damien dismisses. “It’s like I always say: life is ours to choose.”

But other people (just two, no just one because the other is underground, remember, dead from the fight for his country as if that helps when the grief suffocates you in the middle of the night) offer balms with kindness and acceptance about your refusal to subject to binaries, and it makes the wounds easier to bear (maybe two again, maybe, maybe).

A handkerchief appears next to your clipboard. Damien’s. You look up and see nothing but compassion lined in his face.

You hadn’t even noticed the tears welling in your eyes.

oo000oo

The morning before the “big day,” Damien comes to you with unexpected news.

“They want to have dinner with us tonight?”

The two of you are studying in the library together. Not the school library, but the local one, since your shift will be starting in the next ten minutes and your boss likes you to at least arrive early. You are collecting your scattered notes from the table for your mandatory college math course (a subject you could have gone your entire life never touching again), but you’re a little more preoccupied with the idea of speaking with Damien’s parents again.

Damien nods and crosses his legs at the ankles. His socks are stripes of blue and pink (why do you notice that?). “I was surprised too. Maybe they think they can still talk us out of it.”

The amusement in his voice is adorable.

“In that case,” you begin, “We should probably establish our boundaries, huh?”

“What?”

“We have to act like we’re a couple, don’t we?” you point out.

Damien’s mouth gapes for several heartbeats before he stutters, “I…I didn’t even think of that.”

You chuckle at the blood rushing to his face. “Clearly.”

“Well-I mean…erm…” Damien clears his throat. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“Ultimately, we’re doing this for you, Damien,” you interrupt. “So we can act as intimate as you would like and I’ll go along with it.”

“I suppose…”

“I guess what you need to ask yourself is how uncomfortable you would like them to be.” You collect the last of the papers and shove them into your backpack. “Since that is the primary goal here.”

You’re not foolish, and you’re not a lovesick child who can’t discern reality from acting (not to mention you have a love for the performing arts; you took part in several school plays during high school), so this will be a piece of cake.

“Uh…” Damien shakes his head with a nervous laugh. “I have no idea what I’d like to do, to be perfectly candid…I’ve never been in a fake relationship before.”

“Neither have I. You’re my first.” You wink at him and what the hell, since when do you flirt, shit, he’s going to think you’re an idiot—

Damien stares at you with wide dark brown eyes, mouth agape (you are regretting every decision you’ve ever made, why are you like this?) before he laughs again, a little more genuinely. “That…I wasn’t expecting that from you.”

That makes two of us.

You clear your throat and stand up. “Well, anyway, you better make up your mind before tonight, because,” you check the watch on your right hand, “my shift starts in two minutes, so I need to go. Where are we having dinner, how dressed up do I need to be, and where do you want to meet?”

oo000oo

“So…what are you attending University for?”

The question wouldn’t be such a bothersome one if it weren’t for his mother’s passive-aggressive I’m-sure-you’re-not-good-enough-for-my-boy tone.

The restaurant is one of the more higher-end ones—the like you and your family would never afford even if all four of you worked half-a-year—called Charlotte’s, and thus far, the wait for food has been the most awkward fifteen minutes of your life.

You take a sip of your water, a pocket of saved time to think up a response, and collect your nerves. “Criminal justice. I want to be a lawyer.”

Damien’s parents (Walter and Lois, you finally learned upon the official introductions) exchange glances at this. “Is that so?” Walter presses.

You nod.

Lois taps her blood red nails against the white-tablecloth. “Even after your marriage?”

Your brow furrows and you meet Damien’s gaze. He’s a little stiff in the shoulders, but that’s the only tell for how nervous he is about this whole situation. The suit he’s wearing looks more like a costume than a symbol of high class, then again that might just be because you witnessed him do cartwheels in similar attire the night before this whole fiasco began (the night that caused the whole fiasco, you should say).

You look back at Lois. “My parents believe it’s important that I have a way to support myself, and I’m inclined to agree, so yes. Even after I marry Damien.”

Walter addresses his son. “And you approve of this decision?”

Damien surprises you when he places his hand over yours atop the table. “Absolutely. I respect my fiancé ambitions, and,” he turns to you with a smile more natural than anything else he’s attempted over the course of the night, “you respect mine, don’t you, love?”

You smile right back, and his silent support helps you muster your courage to initiate the more fun portion of the charade before this gets anymore awkward.

Namely: speaking more of the very not-at-all-high-class wedding you two are planning.

“Now,” you begin, “there are only a few things left for us to take care of before tomorrow. Since my parents are overseas,” it astonishes you, how easily the lie falls from your lips (they don’t need to know about your father, after all, it’s none of their business, future fake-parents or not), “We have the flowers we need, I have my outfit put together, and we even found someone to officiate us.” You pretend not to notice his mother flinch at the last one. “The main problem is that I will need someone to walk me down the aisle.”

The blood leaves his parent’s faces, and you bite back the laughter bubbling in your throat.

“I was going to ask one of my Professors—McGowan, she teaches Women’s Studies at the university—but if either of you are willing to walk with me, that would make me so happy!”

Once again, the powdery sugar sound of your voice is just nauseating, but also, once again, it makes the act totally worth it to see Walter’s face redden to the shade of a pomegranate.

“I…” Walter’s mouth opens and closes like a trout. “See here—”

“Were you speaking to me, too?” Lois squeaks. She looks like she wants to vomit.

“Of course!” You smile at her as innocently as possible. “Since my mom would have been the one walking me down the aisle if she were here, I would want to offer you the same opportunity!”

The color leaves Lois’s face, but she manages to keep from doing anything drastic. “I…I am not so sure that will be a good idea, my dear—”

“Well, if neither of you are interested,” Damien interjects as though his parents are not about to have individual coronaries, staring at you with such over enthused joy (you hope that means he’s having fun with this too), “I will walk down the aisle with you, my dear.”

To your surprise, he presses a swift kiss to your cheek. Aside from a slight widening of your eyes (he even seems a little shocked at this move), you think you hold onto your composure fairly well.

“Oh, thank you so much sweetie,” you gush. You turn to his parents again. “You have the most amazing son, I don’t know what I would do without him…especially with both of my parents—” you pretend to get choked up and fan your face a hint, “both my parents away, fighting for our country and the world…”

As Damien faux-coaxes you out of your act with his typical gentleness (hands patting your own and pulling you in for a small hug while muttering comforting words), you catch his parents alternating between expressions of what might be guilt and horror (whether it’s horror about your “situation” or the way you and Damien are playing up the couple act, you aren’t sure).

Dinner finally arrives and his parents take the opportunity to stuff their mouths with food as quickly as possible, probably to avoid further conversation for as long as possible.

oo000oo

As you and Damien leave the restaurant and bid his parents farewell, it takes every ounce of strength the two of you have to wait until his parents are out of sight before bursting into fits of laughter.

“You are a fantastic performer, my friend!” Damien commends through his sniggering (a deep, rumbling sound in his chest). “You really frightened them with your act!”

“Frightened? I guess that’s one word for it!” you chuckle, hands on your knees. “You were fantastic too! Offering to walk me down the aisle? That was perfect.”

“Well, what’s a future husband for if not to make his fiancé happy?” he jokes with a wink. You shove him playfully and the two of you crack all over again.

You both walk to your car as you talk, gushing over each other’s acts and having a good laugh at the expense of his parents. This cheerful atmosphere lasts the two of you until the first traffic light.

“Back there, you mentioned your parents again,” Damien begins.

You roll your eyes. “If this is about not mentioning my dad, there is no room in this whole shindig to bring that up with them—”

“No, I was going to ask about your mother.”

“…oh…”

“It’s just…obviously, she wasn’t drafted,” Damien begins, hesitation slowing his words, “and I just…I wondered why, with your father gone, she hasn’t returned to you.”

Your hands grip the steering wheel so tight you feel tendons pop.

“I’m not trying to judge her,” he hurries to add. “Obviously whatever she’s doing in the army is important, anything to stop the Nazis, I just wanted to ask—”

“She did it for my brother.”

Damien’s head jerks to you, but you focus your eyes on the road, blinking away thoughts of the last time you saw James. The traffic light changes and the scenery outside moves once more.

“I didn’t…I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“He left some time ago,” you explain briefly. “For…reasons”

Because he doesn’t approve of me, doesn’t approve of my choices, and hates that our parents do.

“But before he took off,” you continue, choking down the pain like bile, “Mom and Dad were worried about the draft. They didn’t want him to be enlisted, because…well, I think that would be obvious. But they weren’t happy with just my dad enlisting when we have an able-bodied young man, so my mom offered to go instead, and James promised to look out for me while they were gone.”

Damien doesn’t say anything for a long time. He doesn’t need to. The fact that you’re alone in your house says enough.

“He pays the rent every month,” you add. “Among other bills, and he sends me money in case I don’t make enough to eat, but that’s it. I’m getting through this first semester on scholarship money and what I have saved up from working at the library.” You shrug. “It’s fine.”

And it is, you tell yourself. Solitude doesn’t bother you. The quiet in your house doesn’t reach into your head and suffocate your thoughts (not all the time anyway). You can cook your own meals when you have the rations you need, and the radio offers pleasant background noise and war propaganda to listen to (though you were tempted to chuck it out the window when it mentioned the battle your father died in as a successful operation).

When Damien’s hand rests on your shoulder, you take in a deep breath and let it out as you pull into the entrance to his dorm.

You clear your throat and glance at him with a smile. “Guess I’ll see you at ten o’clock sharp then, darlin’?”

Damien returns your smile. “Of course!” But partway out of the car, he stops. A moment later, he looks back at you.

“What is it?”

He chews on his bottom lip and says, “Actually…can I spend the night at your place?” He must sense the irritation stirring in your skin and adds, “This isn’t pity, I left my suit at your house last time I was there and it will be more convenient for us to get ready and drive here together, since I’m walking you down the aisle anyway.”

But by the quirk of his lips, he knows you see right through that, and also knows you can’t exactly argue with the logic.

Not that you really want to argue, but he doesn’t need to know that. Nor does he need to know how much you’ve enjoyed his company and time these past few days, a welcome reprieve from the crushing quiet.

“Sure, but I’ll be taking the couch,” you assert.

“What, no!” he argues as he shuts the door on the car. “I’m the guest, I’ll take the couch!”

“I’m the host, it’s only fair—” you cut off and drop your head back against your seat. “There’s more than one bed in the house,” you recall with a sigh.

Damien bursts into such loud, bellowing laughter and it warms you up from the inside like a warm cup of coffee, so you can’t really regret your embarrassing mishap.

As you watch the streetlights flicker against Damien’s laughing face out of the corner of your eye, you’re reminded of the moon.

You’ve heard your fellow students, men and women both, describe him like a sun, and personally, the comparison doesn’t feel accurate. The sun is too bright, too harsh, and it’s there whether you want it or not, a constant irritating if necessary part of life.

Moonlight, on the other hand, is a subtle sort of loveliness that illuminates dark places and leaves you breathless. His smile is like that, a subtle but illuminating show of teeth. It draws everyone around him in like the tide, and even if they could, people never seem to look away from him.

And...and...

It’s just really not fair.

oo000oo

@damiendeservedbetter , @sweetestlittledarling , @silver-owl413 , and if anyone else wants to be tagged for Part 3 (where we FINALLY get to the wedding and aftermath), let me know!

[cloversreblogs]

Cognac

My FrUK secret Santa gift for @historia-vitae-magistras with the prompt WWI! I tried my best to write it, though I’m not as familiar with the subject, so please forgive me for any inaccuracies ^^’

—

A week ago, at the word of the Germans invading Paris, the French government moved to Bordeaux out of panic. France was summoned from the trenches of the Western Front to go with them.

Turned out, they had not invaded Paris after all. At present times, France sat on the porch of his Bordeaux home and watched the vineyard. He could hear his government officials talking behind him discussing about the war, but he was too consumed by memories of the Somme to notice. The way the grapevines blew in the wind and the way the sky was so blue was too troubling. It reminded him that he was hiding away from the war just a couple of miles up north.

And there was nothing that he could do about it. As a nation, it was his duty to serve for the good of his people. As a nation, he had more power than most. A figure of solid authority, centuries old, an embodiment of his people who could even influence Government authority. Yet here he was, hiding away from conflict due to an order from his boss.

While countries were to move to their new capitals, with the war going on, he was to be in Bordeaux for a week to symbolise the city as the new capital of France. In two days, he was to go back to the trenches. A shadow of fear loomed over him as he remembered what he had to face. He tried to grasp onto a small part of him, the small part of him that was grateful for being able to at least do something, but to no avail.

To serve in the war was like going to hell and back. Past battles were quicker. Just a jab of a bayonet to the head or the heart, and that was it. But this war was a game of stalemates, where men died slowly and painfully. Of disease, malnutrition, hypothermia… there was this thing called trench foot, which rotted their feet from standing too long in the cold, wet mud. He had to distract himself with another thought.

A familiar voice joined into the mix along with the voices of government officials. He rolled his eyes. He knew who that voice belonged to.

“France, there is a visitor.”

As he had expected, it was England who stood in the room. Since the Entente Cordiale, their relations had been less violent, though he still couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the sight of him.

He was much calmer than France had expected him to be, but he could tell that he was exhausted. Despite his clean suit, England looked worn down, especially with the sling that his right arm rested in. His eyes were bloodshot, his face was sullen and dirty, and dark eyebags hung under his eyes, which set him far apart from the neatness of France’s Government officials.

He knew why. While he himself was pulled out from the trenches, England had to stay there. In fact, he was probably there this morning, pulled out and given clean clothes for this meeting. He was too tired to make any big reaction at the sight of France, but still, he persevered to continue the meeting.

The meeting flew by quickly. Words related to the war were tossed around. Apparently, they were to be stationed at Morval next week.

When the meeting ended, his Government officials walked away. France stayed and lied down onto the table.

The sound of boots clicking on the wooden floor caught his attention. He didn’t even need to look back to know who it was– England.

As he had predicted, said person sat down next to him. England passed a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches not out of politeness, but clearly out of instruction, from how stiffly he passed. France took a cigarette and a match without saying another word, and England tucked the cigarette packet back into his pocket.

“So,” England started nonchalantly as he looked around the room. “Having fun in paradise?”

“Not with the war going on.” Francis striked the match onto the side of the matchbox and lit his cigarette.

He heard England inhale beside him before sighing in frustration and banging his head onto the table.

“Good God, I can’t take any more of this bloody war. Back before the Autumn leaves fall my arse!”

“True.”

“Ugh, I need a drink. You have whiskey?” He asked.

“No. But there’s wine. Bordeaux is where the best wine is, after all.”

“Fine, brandy. Burn some wine or something if there isn’t any.”

“I think that the word you’re looking for is cognac. Also, brandy’s distilled, not burnt, though you would get a Molotov cocktail if you did so.” England growled in annoyance, and France smirked.

“Fine, ‘cognac’ then,” he said in annoyance, making sure to pronounce cognac as hard and horribly as possible. France rolled his eyes as he extinguished his cigarette with the ashtray.

“Good to know that you’re still cynical. I was scared that the war morphed you into a compassionate sentient or something.”

Despite the Entente Cordiale, they still liked to bicker from time to time. After all, that was the basis of their whole relationship. He expected a scoff from the other. England just blinked for a while, and then sighed. A twinge of concern appeared within France. How much had the war affected him?

The house had previously belonged to a vintner. While the vintner’s possessions were carried out, he wasn’t able to take all of the wine, so there were still quite a lot of it in the cellar.

As Francis rummaged the place, he wondered if he could empty a cognac bottle and serve cheap wine to England as a joke, but he dismissed the idea as he reasoned that he couldn’t bring himself to empty a bottle of good cognac.

At last, he found a cognac bottle. He retrieved the bottle quickly, and headed back with two glasses.

Something about the fully sealed bottle of the liquor made him stop and think. Liquor was enjoyed in a celebration, and thinking about drinking it now suddenly made him feel cheap. After all, flavours were to be enjoyed, but with the war going on… enjoying fine cognac in somewhere hidden while thousands were sacrificing their lives… it was just too unsettling and ignorant. Sure, they were allowed alcohol there, but they were all of poor quality used for medicine and comfort, far from the quality of this bottle of liquor.

England was still sitting at the table, and had lit a cigarette as well. The room started to smell of tobacco as smoke filled the whole place. He sat beside him and placed the cognac and the glass in front of him.

“Here. You have it, I don’t want it.”

After smothering the cigarette, England grabbed the bottle, and bit into the cork with his molars (how crude!). Just as France was expecting a ‘pop’ of the cork being pulled off from the bottle, he faced silence. England glanced at the bottle, and placed it down onto the table. For an alcoholic who chugged booze down like water, it was quite a surprise to see him reject it.

“Nevermind.” There was a distant feeling of hopelessness in his voice.

France sighed. “To be honest, I feel guilty for wanting to chug down cognac while the war’s going on.”

“Same.” It was so quiet, he thought that he had imagined it.

“That… makes it the two of us, then.”

England sighed.

By now, it was dusk. The inside of the house dyed a rich peach colour. England left the table and headed upstairs to the guests’ bedroom. It was then when France remembered that they had to go back to the frontlines in two days’ time. He looked down at the cognac bottle that rested in his hands, and thumbed its glassy surface.

“Hey,” he called out. England glanced back.

“What?”

“Maybe… we could put this somewhere and drink it after the war’s finished.” England raised an eyebrow.

“Well, why not take it to the Western Front with us? The liquor there’s piss poor enough already.”

“This is some pretty fine qualitied cognac. I want to save it for after the war’s finished.” He could hear England roll his eyes.

“Fine, whatever you say. Where should we put it then?”

“Well, we can’t just put it back into the cellar. How about let’s bury it somewhere?”

—

France patted the small mound of dirt with the shovel flat. In a couple of months time, grass will grow, and the patch of dirt will blend in with the surroundings.

After some negotiation, they had agreed to bury the cognac underneath a tree somewhere outside the border of the city.

“The next step would be to remember that we even did that,” England muttered. Just as France was about to reply, England pulled out a Swiss army knife out of his pocket.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m marking the tree.” While they talked, England was carving an X onto the tree’s bark as best as he could with his left hand. France shrugged. Fair enough.

When he finished carving, England sat down onto the grass, and France followed.

Beyond them were golden hills that shone in the late afternoon sun.

The shimmering of the grass, the setting of the sun.. was stunning to watch. Bordeaux was a beautiful city hidden in the middle of the French countryside. Even the surroundings were beautiful. He got so caught up with musings of the war that he had actually forgot about the scenery around him.

“You know, frog, it only seemed yesterday since we were kids.”

“True.” Oh how quickly time flew by. France started to chuckle dryly when he remembered a certain memory. “Hey. Remember Dover?” He snickered. “You’d flip me off across the channel every time. You were, what? Physically eight?” He scoffed. “No wonder you were such a barbarian child.”

England snickered. “I was a hundred at the time, I was bound to learn how to flip people off, anyway. Also, barbarian? Well, guess who started the Industrial Revolution?“

“Guess who started the Age of Enlightenment that started that?”

“… Fair enough.” England laid back onto the grass, and France did as well. The sky was a soft beige colour mingled in with ingo from hints of the incoming twilight.

“So. We’re going back to the Western Front in two days,” France started.

He didn’t know why that slipped out, but it just did. Just as he expected a reply, he faced only the sound of grass rustling in the wind.

“Right.”

The surroundings seemed to feel empty as soon as he said so.

“Call me a coward all you want, but… I’m scared to go back.” He heard England inhale

“Honestly with all the shit that’s going on there, no wonder.“

It was the closest thing to a “me too” he’ll get from England, but it was enough.

“Look. Erhm, we’ll get through this war,” England started. “We’ve survived longer wars, hell, we survived one longer than a century.

“To be fair, your king wanted my throne.”

“… True. But that’s beside the point. What I mean is that sooner or later, this war has to be over one day. Maybe… just think of it as the hundred years war but condensed into a couple of years. We’ll manage.”

They’ll manage.

It was sort of comforting to hear that. Sure, it wasn’t the best advice, but it was good.

As he lied down, he realised that he hadn’t felt this relaxed in ages. Just a bit of a chat to ease his nerves and take his mind off of the war.

It was so peaceful here. France chuckled a bit when he remembered England’s comment about Bordeaux.

It was like paradise.

[adamlynnch]

Voltron (Klance): Fic Rec List (Updated)

Edit: Added some more fics!

can you tell me by aknightley 

28k, Oneshot, T

Keith works in his brother's coffee shop for the summer, expecting a boring break before college. Lance changes all of that.

The boy is still in the front of the group, but he doesn't take off his glasses so Keith can't tell what he's really looking at -- either the menu or Keith. Keith feels a flash of annoyance but smothers it and pins his smile in place.

i'm betting everything by aknightley

23k, Oneshot, T 

(a continuation of Can You Tell Me)

A summer of dates between a prince and a boy who works in a coffee shop.

"I wanted to see you." Keith's eyes widen a little, and he ducks his head, but not before Lance sees the smile tugging at his lips. "This is the part where you say 'Me too, Lance,'" Lance prompts him, although he's ridiculously charmed by Keith's awkwardness.

"Of course I wanted to see you," Keith says, rolling his eyes.

*The Quilted Lion by geewillikers

97.5k, Complete, Multi-chapter, T

Keith is stuck in New York City barely making ends meet so he and Pidge can live in a decent part of the city close to her university. They scrape by on the illegal winnings Keith makes in street boxing matches, but his manager, Shiro, decides that it's time Keith gets a side job. He's whisked into The Quilted Lion café owned by the woman Shiro's been fawning over for over a year, only to find that he has more to worry about than his lack of magic and cooking skills- -There's a waiter at The Quilted Lion who is entirely Keith's cup of tea.

Drive It Like You Mean It by Zizzani

94k, Complete, Multi-chapter, M

The Castle of Lions is the venue for the city's most dangerous illegal street races where drivers come to test the cut of their tires. Lance has long defended his title as champion, but when a newcomer shows up and threatens his position things take an interesting turn. 

*How to Train Your Voltron by nerdy_cait05

38k, Complete, Multi-chapter, T

When Lance McClain, a Viking Paladin who aspires to hunt dragons, becomes the unlikely friend of a young dragon herself, he learns there may be more to the creatures than previously assumed.

so why don't we fall by aknightley

8k, Oneshot, E

Five times Lance used a pet name for Keith, and one time Keith used one for Lance. Keith has no basis for having a relationship with someone, so he's trying to follow Lance's lead.

The Arch Project by Seliphra

9k, WIP, Multi-chapter, M

When Lance McLain gets promoted to a top secret research project, he is delighted to learn that the old conspiracy theories about something crashing in the desert of New Mexico were right. No one is entirely sure what it is that crashed, but it appears to be a man. A very pretty man who hasn't woken up since the crash. Lance is determined to be the first person on the project in a century to finally crack the case of just what this unconscious being is. Human, alien, or something else entirely? But there are forces out there determined to uncover the truth, and steal it if they must. The Voltron Group, a well known hacker group will apparently stop at nothing to find out what Galra Associated Corperation is hiding. And sooner or later, Lance will have to choose where his loyalties lie.

*What We Make of It by wittyy_name

46k, Oneshot, M

Keith has been training for this for months. So despite feeling like everything else in his life is falling apart and could be summed up with a big, blaring question mark, he finds himself halfway across the world with Shiro and Allura, preparing for his first ironman triathlon. He was expecting some typical touristy activities and a grueling day of physical activity. What he wasn't expecting was to meet a gorgeous boy with bright blue eyes and a smile that made his insides squirm.

Lance has been in a rut, unable to find the happiness that once filled his life. Everything looks gray, and he feels suffocated. And that's how he finds himself halfway across the world, backpacking across a foreign country with his best friend, Hunk, and their new friend, Pidge. That is, until they run out of money and decide to get a job. He's having fun, and colors are leaking past the dam and back into his life. What he wasn't expecting was to meet a beautiful boy with dark eyes and a shy smile that broke those flood gates wide open.

What a Healing Pod Can't Repair by Remember_Me

55k, WIP, T

The compromised wormhole was ripping apart at the seams, sending everyone spiraling away in completely different directions. Lance could feel himself being pulled and bent in ways he was definitely not supposed to be. Stitching the team back together after everyone is separated is difficult, and for one Paladin rescue wouldn't be coming for a very long time.

*Watercast by Fishwrites

83k, WIP, M

Shiro has been a Galra prisoner for over a year; with his flight feathers clipped and unable to fly. Desperate to escape, he jumps overboard while being transported to the capitol on a Galran ship. Lance is a merman who saves him from drowning. Keith thinks Shiro is about to become mermaid dinner. Hunk just wants Lance to stop going to the surface all the time, dammit!

(AU where Avians (winged folk), Galra, humans and merfolk cohabit earth. Shiro and Keith are avian soldiers, Lance is the youngest son of a Queen, Hunk is also a merman and Pidge is still looking for her family.)

Of Lions and House Cats by Ms_Towa

147k, WIP, Multi-chapter, M

Welcome to the City of Monsters.

Crime runs rampant in the streets, and the Voltron Alliance was established to combat the rise of crimes involving superhuman abilities. Revered as upholders of justice and peace, there are measures the Alliance cannot afford to take in order to maintain their public image. All they can do is protect the innocent, defend the law, and keep the peace. The Galra have been dominating both the city and the criminal underworld for too long, however, and what's needed is change.

Change is not meant for heroes. Change is meant for revolutionaries, for rebels.

(Enter Lance.)

tldr;  Keith is a superhero who's been pining after the cute boy who works at the music shop across the street from HQ. He also doesn't know that the cute boy is the same vigilante he wants to bring to justice.

*Dancing Lions, Painted Wings by genericfanatic

35k, Complete, Multi-chapter, T

Years after peace has been made between the Galran and Altean kingdoms, The witch Haggar comes for vengeance. The young symbol of peace, the half-galran, half-altean Prince Kalor is lost. His aunt, Princess Allura, and his bodyguard, Shiro, are heartbroken. 10 years later, an orphan named Keith sets out on his own, trying to find the key to his past. All he has to help him is a small figurine with a cryptic message, a friendly engineer, a technician and her friendly robot, and a cocky con man with a mysterious, yet familiar past.

what are you willing to do? by aknightley

3.8k, Oneshot, E

They fuck in the Red Lion. "This is such a bad idea," Lance says, running his hands down Keith's sides and jerking his shirt out of his pants.

show me your kitties by boydivisions

10k, WIP, Multi-chapter, T

Lance just wanted another dog after his corgi, Nutmeg, died. Instead he got a cat and a crush on the cute guy working at the shelter who makes horrible fashion choices for someone with his job.

*Shut Up and Dance With Me by wittyy_name

152.8k, WIP, Multi-chapter, M

Lance and his friends have been regulars at the Altea Dance Studio for years. Not just for classes, but to hang out, practice, and spend time with good people who love dancing. Every year, they audition to be one of the few representing Altea at the regional dance competition. Lance always auditions solo, but this year he misses out on auditions and blows his chance to participate. And so does his self-proclaimed rival, Keith. Luckily, Shiro comes up with a brilliant plan: convince Lance and Keith to audition as a duo. With a little convincing, and a lot of effort, these two might just be able to pull it off and go to regionals... or they might crash and burn.

*Crowd Pleaser by WhatTheBodyGraspsNot

98k, WIP, Multi-chapter, E

Scoring the new bar-tending position at Lady A's strip club is a lucky break for Keith. What's luckier? He gets to work alongside his brother Shiro. Even luckier than that? It's a male strip club, which means Keith's never short of entertainment during working hours - especially when Blue Rider takes the stage. Because Blue's hot - definitely talented - and definitely taking an interest in Keith. The only thing that isn't so lucky? Keith's already got a boyfriend. That, and he's bad at saying no when it comes to attractive boys with magnetic personalities.

and of course;

*Dirty Laundry 

85k, Complete, Multi-chapter, M

"Two whole months of free laundry in exchange for two weeks of being my fake boyfriend. Deal?” Keith hesitated for a moment. Was this really worth it? Hardly. Lance was an asshole, and he wasn’t sure what fake dating would entail. But, free laundry was free laundry, right? “Alright, it’s a deal.” Or: Lance makes the mistake of telling his Mom he has a boyfriend coming home with him for Christmas. Keith makes the mistake of agreeing to be Lance's 'fake boyfriend'.

[sour--strawberries]

Answer the call

fandom: Stony (Steve x Tony)

universe: post CA:CW, where Tony and Steve were lovers before everything got destroyed. follows the fic written about Tony’s bday party, after Steve comes to see Tony.

summary: It is Steve’s birthday and he has this bizzare feeling of being torn between past and future, and is not able to connect to the present.

length: 2 212 words

warnings: starts with sad to end with kind of fluff

a/n: I was planning to write this fic since I wrote “It’s my party and I will cry if I want to”, so finally, on Steve’s bday, it happened! I am still trying to figure out CA:CW in my head and I hope I did manage to connect with Steve here. hope you like it!

Happy Birthday, Steve!!

———–

Answer the call

"--- and then we watched some fireworks. It was nice, really."

Steve had been sitting perfectly still on the chair during his whole story, gaze fixed on his shoes. The same scenario repeated every evening. At the end of the day, he kept coming here, to the empty, almost cold looking lab to have a small chat.

"Remember how we used to celebrate my birthday back in our days?" he asked, lips twitching into a short-lived smile. He gazed up at his friend, solid and silent, barely seeing him behind the frosted glass. "You were saving for months to buy me a box of Charleston Chews. They tasted of artificial vanilla and stuck to my teeth, but it was the best thing I had in months. They are still available, you know? In Internet sale. Just… they don't taste like they used to. Too sweet," Steve lowered his head down again, feeling memories smothering him. Bucky remained unresponsive. How he wished for a response.

"I will be going, Buck," he said almost sounding sad, looking at the time on his mobile, before hiding it back into his pocket. For the whole day, he was glancing at the phone, waiting for a message that never came. He scolded himself for expecting it, knowing that it won't come and just lying to himself that it would. He walked to the cryo and put his hand against the frosted glass, feeling the cold seeping through it and to his skin. It stung a little but was bearable. "You know, sometimes I think about what you told me back then. That you are not worth it. You are worth to me. I don't regret my actions," Steve said, his voice gaining strength, before breaking again, "I just wish… It all ended differently," he closed his eyes, remembering the events from months ago. The argument that took the Avengers apart. The moment he lost everything he was building since he woke up in the new world, tossing it aside to save an innocent man. The sound of a heart breaking when the shield pierced through an armored chest. The utter betrayal in the brown eyes.

He wanted to go home. Back to the comforts he knew, back to the feeling of belonging to someone. He wanted the people who followed him to go home. They didn't belong in Wakanda, hiding from the law. The fight didn't tear only friends apart, but also families.

"I almost forgot to tell you," Steve smiled weakly, his thoughts traveling to the happy moments from today, "Laura and kids visited. And Hope and Cassie," he remembered the happy faces, the laughter and the hidden tears when Clint could hug his wife and kids, and Scott rushed to his squealing daughter, hugging her tight and kissing Hope. After all, 4th of July was a day for families to gather. T'Challa surprised them all. Each day, the king was doing more and more for them, although no one asked him. Steve was grateful, but he felt that they overstayed their welcome. But if they took a step out of Wakanda, they all would be in danger again. He couldn't do it. He couldn't put them in the harms way again. The images of Wanda in a nearly catatonic state from when he had freed her from the Raft were still haunting him. Like many things from that time.

"It was a good day. I am gonna be 100 years old next year, Buck. I hope to see you then, you don't want to miss the party," he forced out a laugh when something on the glass drew his attention. "I see Sam visited you again," this time he didn't have to fake it, and laughed genuinely. On the upper part of the cryo, just in the area where Bucky's head was resting, on the frosted glass was a drawn speech bubble with a 'feed me' scribbled inside. It wasn't the first time he saw some humorous notes left on the glass, and while it angered him at first, he remembered that in the short time Sam and Bucky spent together, they were somehow always getting on each other nerves. It could have been a start of a great friendship.

"Rest, Buck. I will come tomorrow," Steve ended, drawing his already cold hand back and putting it into his pocket. He quietly went out, closing the door behind himself, feeling lonely all over again.

"Captain Rogers."

Steve looked up and saw T'Challa coming in his direction, black robes swooping around him with every move. Even the way he walked was regal.

"Your Highness," Steve greeted. He owed T'Challa more than he could name. The king gave him and his team shelter and catered to their need of a 4th of July party, combined with Steve's birthday party, although he didn't have to. They were in a foreign country after all.

"You look troubled," T'Challa pointed out, standing next to Steve, briefly glancing at the closed door to where Bucky was resting. He knew about Steve's evening ritual and never questioned it.

"Just tired after the day. In a good way," Steve smiled, telling the truth. It was the first time since two months when for a short while he felt carefree, laughing and joking with people close to him. Half of the people close to him. "Thank you. For today," he nodded to the king.

T'Challa looked deep into Steve's blue eyes, seeing the hidden longing and sadness. He could hide his feelings from many people, but not from the Black Panther. "Captain, I hope that despite the circumstances, you found happiness today," he said, putting his hand on Steve's shoulder, "and I wish you to find comfort tonight. Rest well," he said, and turned around, walking away to his chambers.

Except for a goodnight, Steve didn't say anything to the peculiar sentence, growing accustomed to T'Challa's way of speaking. He turned heavy steps to his room, located on the lower floor, where he could open the window and step right into the jungle surrounding the palace. Back in New York, his room was high above the clouds, and he felt free. Near the jungle, he felt hidden and safe.

Before he grabbed the door knob and pushed the heavy door open, his hand stopped. Something was wrong. He heard the rustle of the leaves and wind swooshing through the branches. And he was sure that he closed the window when he left the room this morning. The guards would know if there was an intruder in the palace, so maybe it was some curious animal finally making its way into his room. Secretly, Steve started to hope that it would be true. Wrestling with a tiger before sleep didn't sound so bad. He cautiously pushed the door open and peeked into the room and his mouth dropped at the sight together with his stomach.

The window was opened alright. In the corner was a gold and red Iron Man suit, gleaming in the dim light. And on his bed, was Tony. In an all black suit, in sunglasses, one leg crossed over the other, hands resting on the knee. He was looking back at Steve, as if waiting for him.

Steve stepped in and slowly closed the door behind himself, not letting his eyes of Tony, not even blinking as if fearing that if he do, the man would disappear. It seemed almost unreal and maybe it was his mind playing tricks on him. His eyes started to feel dry, and he closed them quickly, but Tony didn't vanish. He was still there, real and breathing, sitting in the middle of the bed, looking as if he always belonged there.

"Sorry, I came uninvited," Tony finally spoke, and Steve's heart melted a little. He forgot the warm baritone of brunet's voice.

"That's--- that's okay," Steve said, unsure what to do or say. Can he go and sit next to Tony? Or should he stay in his place?

The decision was not his to make, and Tony unwrapped his legs and stood up, walking to the baffled soldier. "Remember when you crashed my birthday party?" Tony asked quietly, smoothing some crease on Steve's shirt on his chest, the simple touch already igniting some flame in the pit of his stomach. It had been too long since last time he was so close to the brunet. "I know it is your birthday, but I am gonna take that booty call now," Tony stood on his toes and moved lips closer to Steve's, parting them slightly, invitingly.

It was too good to be happening. Steve would wake up any minute now, sweating and cold and alone. Please don't let him wake up.

"Umph!" Tony made a sound when two strong hands grasped around him and lifted him up, lips pressing together in greedy kisses. So familiar and so new all over again. Steve almost exploded with happiness when Tony crossed his legs around his waist, moving in closer, beautifully responsive and eager. He remembered those nights he had carried Tony to their shared bedroom, exactly like this, while on their way they were driving each other crazy with needy touching and hot kisses. Steve had a feeling that Tony would love Wakandan mattresses. The bed made a sound of protest, unused to the weight of two people tumbling on it, but none of them paid attention. The bed could collapse and still, their mind would be set only on the other person.

"Oh, by the way," Tony gasped out, lips flushed from almost bruising kisses, his body trembling from the touch he didn't feel in ages, "happy birthday."

Steve couldn't imagine a better birthday gift.

Or maybe he could, when morning came, and the sunlight seeped in, illuminating the bedroom with a soft glow. Usually, he and Tony slept cuddled close, but this time, Steve rolled away a little. He observed Tony, taking in every detail, watching the other man sleep under the light covers pulled down to his waist. The way his hair curled on the top, and the strands of silver hair near the temples, more than he had remembered. Funny, perky nose, and neatly trimmed goatee. And… a scar. On Tony's chest. The scar he personally made deeper. He didn't regret his decision and not caving to the Accords. He did regret putting the shield through Tony's heart. Slowly, he inched his hand closer, feeling and urge to touch the scar. Not to hurt, but for once, to comfort.

"Don't," Tony whispered, feeling what the other was planning.

Steve froze, his hand slumping down, as shame took over him. Of course. He lost that privilege a long time ago.

"Don't, because if you do, I will start to think, and I will remember all over again why I am mad at you," Tony muttered into the pillow, blindly taking Steve's hand and wrapping it around his shoulders, "just enjoy the moment, Steve," he asked, needing some more sleep before T'Challa would lose his patience and personally ask him to leave.

For once, Steve decided to listen to Tony. He scooted closer and pressed their foreheads together, breathing in brunet's spicy, warm scent. More. He cuddled Tony close until he could feel the steady heartbeat against his chest. More. Legs wrapping together, locking them in place. Just like it was supposed to be. Then some thought made him chuckle.

"Whah?" Tony asked in a yawn, not feeling like opening his eyes. Not yet.

"Yesterday, I thought that when I enter, I will have to fight with a tiger," Steve admitted, eyes sparkling in humor, "instead I found a duck on my bed."

Tony snorted, forgetting that there were times when Steve called him his 'Ducky'. Maybe one day those moments would come back. They both drifted back to a calm sleep, comforted in each other arms, feeling united.

When Steve woke up later, the covers next to him turned cold, and the Iron Man suit in the corner was gone. He turned on his back and looked at the wooden ceiling, feeling empty again. Maybe it was for the best that he didn't see Tony leave. Still, he was sad that he couldn't kiss him for the last time. Who knew when they see each other again. Steve blindly reached his hand to the nightstand and took his phone out, flipping it open and noticing that it was near noon. He saw a small envelope icon on the upper right corner, indicating that he had a text message. He clicked to open it, and his eyes widened before a goofy smile appeared on his face, and Steve had to roll on his belly to hide it into the pillows, the warm feeling coming back. The message had only six words, but it was enough to fill him with happiness and hope for the future.

'Next booty call is on me.'

Seemed that the day won't be so bad after all.

[gravelgirty]

Hogan’s Heroes: Above My Pay Grade (and over your head)

Part III of the Tape and Needle and Scissors and Thread series.

Follows after Part II, Irish Rejected Potatoes and Incendiary Chocolate

Baker was just a little smaller than Kinch, and wasn’t he grateful for it.

The young man slithered into the radio bunker holding his breath with a grimace over the effluvia of Slim’s mint chewing gum. The man couldn’t live without that stuff.

Weather was not the camp’s friend right now, but at least most of them were dealing with it.  Baker had kicked around a lot of the country before joining up, and the one thing you couldn’t do was yell at the great outdoors and expect results.

He liked Newkirk—most of them did even if they wouldn’t let him anywhere near a card game. The man was a little grouchy but Ma said artists were like that. And anyone who didn’t call Newkirk an artist never saw the man crack a safe. Or make a ballgown out of a Nazi uniform.

Baker looked twice in the tiny space and hunkered his bottom into the one dryish part of the room. Kinchloe had worked a wonder building this room right the first time, and as he’d been told, the earth had been rock-hard and dry as pumice at the time.  Oh, for the days. Smuggling timbers to hold up the sides had been another Kinchloe-miracle, and figuring out how to wire the camp’s reception using the Stalag’s own watchtower? Sheer genius. Baker hoped to meet him someday when the war was over. And if he was denied that chance? Well, unlike a lot of the men at the Stalag, Baker was quite comfortable with his faith in the ability to finish one’s affairs—if not this life, the next would do.

He checked the readings, double-checked the switches, and kept a sharp eye on the main circuit that fed the power through the main box. They weren’t getting much news right now, and nobody knew if that was really good news or bad. Sure, they understood they had to pull back once in a while, but three weeks of ‘holding back’ was a blip on the watches of officers.  For thems on the front line, it was eternity.

Once in a while there was a brief interlude of entertainment as various parties tried to send out doctored news.  They could be kind of fun.  One really remote signal, which they only seemed to get in lousy weather like this, was clearly the work of German freedom fighters who’d worked with the Yanks back in World War I or even earlier—a lot of their phonetics were the same as the camp’s, but the differences were telling: ‘Quack’ instead of ‘Queen’ and ‘Unit’ where ‘Uncle’ ought to be. Baker’s excellent memory let him sift out such conversations and he could tell with fair accuracy if the source was using the Army or Navy forms, how old they were, and if the users were actually English, German, French, or Spanish. Depending on how bored he was, Baker took Hogan’s orders to “fight fire with fire” literally, and answered back on the open waves with whatever language he felt like using at the time. The nice thing about working in a camp like this, was that someone, somewhere, knew the language.

Languages were fantastic. He loved them. If you heard his great-great-grandmother talk, it was because back in Africa, nobody thought twice about learning twelve languages before they were mature. Or his mother’s great-uncle who came back from WWI with British Sign Language for his wife. There weren’t enough schools for the colored and there really wasn’t much for the deaf. Least of all for the deaf people of color. But they’d learned, and they’d learned how to sign in British. And the French method, which became American sign, and also, the Sign language of the Plains Indians. There were a few times where Baker had saved their bacon with using that sign around Carter. Carter was too pure a soul to keep his thoughts to himself, but luckily for the Resistance, he answered Sign with Sign and it would never, ever occur to him to talk out loud what someone was saying with their hands.

Carter was a lot of things, but he would never be rude.

This suited Baker. When he’d taken his post Hogan had told him that a leader who knew everything was too weak to trust his own men. Baker had taken THAT to heart. Before long he and Carter were working through what they knew in Sign even if their mouths said different. It was fun, even if Newkirk called it ‘hand-dancing’. (Baker suspected Newkirk knew some BSL).

Humming to himself, Baker popped his ‘phones on his head and toyed with the pleasant possibilities of new equipment.  Or a whole box of vacuum tubes for emergencies. Right now they were down to mostly using the “horsepack set” re-wired to acid batteries instead of the standard hand generator.  It made things interesting because the Germans had a lot of time and money invested in VHF technology and most of the old buzzards giving Hogan his orders were still insisting on protocols that might have worked back in WWI. Baker was glad the scrounging was up to others. There were too many shifts in which it was all his two hands could do to cover up the holes in their system, and there was only so much magnet wire, insulated wire, and galena to go around. Twice since joining the camp he’d had to hold down the fort with his two hands and yelp directions as the others scurried parts to him from the back storage.

All this for unpowered radio. There were days when he missed the grim simplicity of using a steel razor blade and the lead off a pencil to catch a signal in the bottom of a foxhole. At least when it didn’t work, you knew why.

And foxholes could collapse on you. Nah, he didn’t miss that. Forget foxholes. Foxholes could give you nightmares.

I need more sleep, he thought. For a moment he could have sworn there was movement in the room.

The young man looked up, blinking in an attempt to rest his eyes so they would stop seeing things that weren’t there.

A soft plat of mud dropped past his face, grazing his cheek, and died ignominiously on his new clean papers.

“Oh, ugh.” He muttered, and sat back in silent astonishment as the soggy walls quivered like jelly. A moment later he realized it wasn’t the water in his eyes.

O’Brien heard him scream just in time.

# # #

“Ohgod.” Baker stammered. For the past fifteen minutes, that was about all anyone could get out of him.

“Is he gonna be okay?” Carter asked.

“He was nearly smothered in an avalanche of mud!” Newkirk cried.  “Would you be ‘okay?’”

“I don’t know. That’s never happened to me.”

“He’s too cold.” Hogan growled.  “Everyone, back off.  Baker gets the spot behind the stove.” All made space except for LeBeau, who was rustling back and forth through the that cabinet of morbid curiosities he called a spice shelf.  “LeBeau, what are you doing?”

“He’s cold.” LeBeau shot back.  “Don’t worry, I know what he needs—I need that cocoa!” He suddenly yelped. “Someone tell them to hurry up!”

“You heard the men.” Hogan barked.  “I signed for it—Klink should turn them over without any trouble.” Or no more than usual.

It was at that perfect moment that the men returned with the first armload of Red Cross boxes.

It didn’t take long for them to see why Klink was uninterested in paying himself an aggravation tax out of the portions.

# # #

Back in Klink’s office, Klink was wondering if wax cylinders were responsive to the 110% humidity. His precious recordings just weren’t holding up. Perhaps it was the thickness of atmosphere?

“You called for me, Colonel Klink?” Shultz asked politely.

“Oh, yes.” Klink gave up thoughts of music and returned to his desk. “Tell the men to inspect the foundations. As soggy as this earth is, we have to be careful of subsidence.”

Schultz blinked. He was a toymaker, not a Civil Engineer. “For all the buildings?”

“Yes, didn’t I say the foundations? I didn’t say ‘some of’ or ‘part of’—“ He hastily corrected himself. “Don’t bother with the prisoners’ barracks. Just concentrate on the main buildings with concrete block.”

“But we do not inspect the prisoners’ barracks.” Schultz said sadly.

Klink thought Schultz was even more optimistically delusional than normal if he hoped for a crumb of LeBeau’s cooking—even the Frenchman couldn’t muster miracles out of muddy puddles and mold—the two most common ingredients in the camp right now.

“They have troubles of their own right now, Schultz. I don’t want to give Hogan a reason to come out here. Right now they’re finding out about those Red Cross packages.”

Schultz shuddered. “Not even the cockroach could make a good meal out of twenty pounds of curry powder.”

“You are probably exaggerating, sergeant.”

“It is possible. But do you think the shipment was on purpose or a mistake?”

“I have no idea. The Red Cross is supposed to be above petty politics.” The lucky, lucky men.

“I was just wondering. It seems cruel to send the prisoners such rations. Especially this time of year.”

“I told Hogan we would be willing to share a portion of our meals with his if he so chose.”

Schultz gagged. “I hope the Geneva Convention doesn’t hear about this.”

“I knew he wouldn’t accept the offer, Shultz!” Klink snapped. “But I had to make it! It was the only thing I could do!”

# # #

DELIVERED FOR EACH PRISONER OF WAR, STALAG XIII:

·        8 ounces Mulberry fruit in syrup

·        16 ounces lentils

·        2 oz. soap

·        16 oz. flour (chickpea)

·        8 biscuits

·        8 oz. margarine

·        12 ounces Nestle's Milk (powdered or canned)

·        14 oz. rice

·        1 lb. pilchard

·        2 oz.  curry powder

·        8 oz. sugar

·        1 oz. dried eggs

·        2 oz. tea

·        1 oz. salt

·        1/4th lb. chocolate

COURTESY OF THE INDIAN RED CROSS SOCIETY

Back in the Barracks, Hogan’s ears were still burning with Klink’s generosity. He kept clam and watched his men as various and sundry truths (all awful) dawned.

“I like good curry as well as the next Brit, but this is too much of a good thing!” Newkirk exclaimed.

“There’s no meat!” Carter exclaimed. “What’s wrong with the rice? Its brown!!”

“Bloody entire world is locked up in this bloody war,” Newkirk ranted. “And every bloody country gets some sort of rations for their own tastes, and we get the only vegetarian rations ever made!”

“What’s a lentil?” Carter wondered. “Don’t they use that to feed sheep?”

“Pour some outside and see if any sheep come runnin. I’ll take care of it meself.”

LeBeau was groaning. This was not the exaggerated “I am an artist” response to Hogan’s orders to create the impossible. This was a man insulted by futility.

“What are pilchards?” Someone was asking.

“Can you eat them with curry?”

“Mulberries! Hot dog! We’ve got fake blood for our next undercover job!”

“I’m allergic to chickpeas!”

“This isn’t even real tea. It’s green tea! I’m not drinking anything that tastes like Timothy Grass!”

“Yippee! Margarine!”

“This is chocolate?”

“Two whole ounces of soap! Everybody cut theirs in half—we can keep clean AND bait the rats!”

“I didn’t know mulberries grew in India.”

“Hey, look! Nestle’s!” Carter yipped. “Man, you want to talk about big blazing fireballs! All that sugar, I guess—oh. Here ya go, LeBeau. Sorry, Baker.”

“Hey, that’s odd.”

No odder than hearing Private Addison open his mouth.

Everyone, even Baker and LeBeau, stopped what they were doing and looked at their token doorstop. He was staring out one of the more convenient cracks in the wall.

Broughton went over to his buddy and peered. “Hey that is odd. Colonel, you might want to take a look. The Germans are acting funny.”

Now everyone was looking.

“They’re inspectin’ the foundations.” Newkirk realized. “Wonder why? Their buildin’s’re solid enough to hold up to any rain.”

“Foundations can shift.” Baker chattered. He was grateful to take LeBeau’s fresh cup of warm water colored with Nestle and some of the ersatz chocolate. He just tried not to think of how it looked like a cup of runny mud. “Maybe theyr’e worried about a collapse.”

“Cor who wouldn’t be? And how are we going to deal with a collapsed tunnel? The earth keeps sinkin’, the Germans are gonna notice. And we’ve got a big hole about to open up right between 2 and 3.”

Hogan had been thinking precisely the same thing. It was possible his brains were rusty from lack of use, but as so often happened, someone’s idle comment was the impetus for his brilliance.

“Baker!” Hogan barked. “Come with me! Right now!”

As the Barracks gaped, Hogan grabbed his staff sergeant and took off running as well as terrain permitted, a sputtering, muddy Baker in tow.

# # #

Klink hadn’t expected Hogan to return quite so quickly, or half as loudly. Or with company. He was in his office trying to figure out how to clean mold off his wax cylinder collection when a particular THUMP announced the return of his particular anti-muse.

“COLONEL KLINK! I DEMAND TO MOVE THE LATRINES RIGHT NOW!”

“Hogan, you shouldn’t be yelling.” Schultz was chiding.

“I DON’T CARE FOR MY MEN TO BE LAUGHINGSTOCKS! RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR MEN, SGT!! I DEMAND YOU GIVE US PERMISSION TO MOVE THE LATRINES!”

“What are you talking about, Hogan?” Schultz asked wearily. “And what is wrong with you, Baker?”

“Mud!”

“I can see that, Hogan.”

“The ground’s getting too soft! It collapsed in on him. Baker’s the first one to fall casualty to this rain but he won’t be the last.” Klink could hear Hogan in the front room as he drew himself up with his hands wrapped around his elbows. “What’s the Stalag going to do about this, Schultz?  As prisoners we have the right not to drown in a sinkhole!”

“Yeah!” Baker chimed in. “What’s K-klink gonna d-do about this?”

Klink opened the door and stared at the incredible sight. Hogan had Baker with him, and Baker was covered with rank mud from head to toe. One of the Barrack’s thin blankets was draped over his shoulders and a cup of thin mud steamed weakly in his hand.

Klink’s skull throbbed. “Baker, why did my men make you fall in the latrine?”

“Uh…” Baker chattered.

Hogan’s mouth was already opening for a fresh salvo of…whatever. Klink lifted his hand and stood. Without a word he went to his cabinet and pulled out a bottle. “Baker, what are you drinking?”

“I think its chocolate.”

“I don’t think the Swiss would approve.” Klink tossed a hefty splash in the mug. “It won’t make it taste better.” He warned. “But it should keep you away from the doctor.”

What the hell. Baker decided his day had just hit a high note. Liquor from a German officer was a pretty damn fine way to summarize his day if he wanted to dwell on the positive. He knocked the whole thing down and gasped for breath. He kept gasping.

Hogan’s nose wrinkled. “What IS that?”

“Wutendes Drachenfeuer.”

“‘Angry dragonfire?’“ Hogan translated with the most suspicious look Klink had seen off anyone outside his own family.

“We carried it with us in the high-altitude flights.”

“Killer-diller, that’s worse than my granny’s How-come-you-so!” Baker’s admiration was frank and unfeigned. Like a return from death, color rose to his cheeks. His spine straightened and a sparkle came back to his eyes. His lips lost their blue tinge. “Zow! I didn’t know you could make moonshine out of cayenne peppers! Wait ‘till I tell Mom! She’ll take a powder for the day job!”

Klink’s monocle fell out. “I am pleased to think your mother would be thankful for the news, but would you speak English? American is hard enough to understand.”

Hogan shook his head. “Are you all right, Baker?”

“Nebber Bedder!” Baker beamed. “Wow.” Steam was coiling off his body as his body temperature rose.

Klink bristled at Hogan’s expression. “It isn’t poison! Unless he was perfectly healthy. It should wear off in half an hour.” His mouth tightened. “Now, did my men mock Baker for falling into the latrine?”

Hogan’s fabricated response was halted as Baker began humming bits and pieces of The Pretty Young Girl of Ronceverte.

“Baker, you are too young to know that song.” Hogan sighed. “Colonel, we need to move the latrines to a safer spot for now. The rains—“

“Yes, yes, I understand, but I don’t know where you could move them.” Klink snapped. “Oh—“ A thought came to him. “Move them to your Barracks!”

“My Barracks?!” Hogan yelped. “But the smell—“

“It would be the safest place to put them, wouldn’t it? You may not appreciate this, but Barracks 3 is one of the drier places in the camp!” Klink locked the cabinet, sat down, and began writing busily. “That is an order, Hogan! Move the Prisoner Latrines to Barracks 3!”

“Don’t snap your cap, sir.” Baker beamed. “We can do it. I’ll help.”

“You are not helping.”

“I can sing to the men. I know lots of songs for field labor.”

“I’m sure you do, Baker…”

Klink sighed in relief as they left. Schultz was still staring.

“The latrine collapsed on him! I haven’t seen anything like that since the last war!”

“I was afraid something like this would happen.”

“Hogan looks very angry.”

“I did tell him to move the latrines to Barracks 3.”

“Oh. That would not make anyone happy.”

“Well if they don’t want to find a sinkhole where the toilet is, they’d best make changes. I warned the Engineers! But did they listen to me, oh, no!” He puffed out his chest and crossed his eyes. “Kolonel Klink, ve asshure you ve know vat ve are talking about.”

Schultz laughed. “You have a good impersonation of Hochstetter.”

“That wasn’t Hochstetter. Things are bad enough without him being here!” Klink’s voice dropped. “And he’s overdue for a visit as it is.”

The Germans shut up, but their eyes cast nervous lines about the room. Hochstetter was a more immediate devil than der Fuhrer…and it was never wise to invoke the devil.

[lykegenia]

The Things We Hide Ch. 18

The Southern Water Tribe stood for a hundred years against the Fire Nation, indomitable until Sozin’s Comet tipped the balance in Fire Lord Ozai’s favour. Now, as planned, the South is decimated, Chief Hakoda is a puppet on his throne, and Princess Katara is a political prisoner held in the Fire Nation capital to ensure his good behaviour. But Ozai has little time to gloat. A vigilante masquerading as the Blue Spirit is causing unrest among the people, rebel ships still hound his navy, and right under his nose the South’s most powerful waterbender waits with the patience of ice to strike at the very heart of his empire and bring it crashing down.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Words: 4160 Pairing: Zuko x Katara Chapter Summary: Zuko makes a difficult choice

“You have disgraced me.” 

The flames in the throne room burned hot, almost white in the gutter that separated the Fire Lord from the Crown Prince and the crowd of honoured generals gathered to witness his son’s punishment.  

“Your position, your country, all of it thrown away because a little Water Tribe whore fluttered her eyelashes at you.” 

Zuko's fists clenched against the floor, but he kept his head bowed, and offered no resistance to his father's censure. 

“I should proclaim your idiocy through the streets,” Ozai sneered, “so that all can share in your humiliation. Unless, perhaps, it wasn’t weakness that played a part in this plot, and it’s your complicity that should be discussed instead?” 

The words were a sting too far. “I had no idea what she was, or what she was doing,” Zuko snarled, finally looking up. “As soon as I realised what was happening, I took the guard to arrest her. I tried to fix it. They must have sensed the net closing around them and used the confusion caused by the attack to escape.” 

The Fire Lord's shadow reared back on his throne, considering the reply with a long stroke of his beard. The generals waited with bated breath. Restored to her own seat on the dais, Azula watched the proceedings with barely disguised glee, her smirk a vicious contrast to the stony calm that enveloped her mother like a shroud. Ursa stared straight ahead, a perfect picture of a dutiful Fire Lady, though like Zuko, she held her hands clenched tightly in her lap. Any intervention or show of emotion now would only serve to awaken Ozai's capricious nature, and whatever violence he was capable of through anger, it was only matched by the viciousness caused by his spite. 

“And you have no idea where they might have gone?” the Fire Lord asked now, the words cold with mockery. 

Zuko's mouth flattened into a thin line, his thoughts flying back to the break-in at his office, to the letter from the prisoner governor that she had stolen. “For some reason, she didn’t think it a good idea to tell me her plans.” 

“Your sarcasm is unnecessary,” Ozai snapped. “A result of the Water Tribe’s bad influence, no doubt.” He straightened. “It doesn’t matter. Admiral Zhao!” 

The general rose from his seat and gave a crisp bow towards the dais. “What do you wish of me, Excellency?” 

“Outfit the fleet for a voyage into Southern waters, with full battle capabilities – we will show these barbarians the cost of defying our mercy. You are to leave no one alive, man woman, or child.” 

Ursa’s eyes widened. “My lord –” 

Ozai snarled at her. “You will be silent. It is your meddling that led to this in the first place. Mercy is weakness, it has no place here.” 

“Yes, my lord,” she replied, dropping her gaze. “I merely wished to advise the admiral that winter will be coming to the South, and that he should take extra care to avoid unnecessary risks in an environment that is every bit as unforgiving as our own lava fields.” 

Ever the sycophant, Zhao offered her a nod. “I thank Your Grace for the advice.” 

With one last glance at his wife’s blithe expression, the Fire Lord curled his lip and turned away. The Water Tribe, it seemed, had had a rebellious influence on more than one of his household, but to apply the proper discipline in front of his generals would only waste time and open himself to ridicule.

“Leave as soon as you are able,” he told Zhao. “My son will be going with you, to make up for his indiscretion and to prove that he does indeed still have some honour after all.” 

“Yes, Your Majesty.”  

With another bow, the admiral resumed his seat, already preening at the thought of going down in history as the one to destroy the Southern Water Tribe. Zuko could almost see the gears turning in his head, already coining titles for himself: Zhao the Wolf Slayer; Zhao the Conqueror. And there was no doubt about what the man would do if the Prince revealed himself to be anything less than enthusiastic in carrying out the Fire Lord’s orders. He might as well sign his own execution warrant now and he done with it. 

Azula cleared her throat, and Zuko's mood dropped further. The hyena-cat smile she wore had never boded well for him. “Father,” she purred, “there is a chance The Water Tribe princess won’t be heading back to the South. She might be going to the Earth Kingdom to stir up your enemies.” 

“The thought has crossed my mind,” Ozai replied slowly. At the mention of Katara, his hand had reached up for the scar on his cheek, but now he fisted his fingers against the reflex and deliberately set his hand back on his knee. “It makes no difference to what must be done. That witch has made a mockery of the Fire Nation, she has defied us, vandalised our home and our capital city, and spat in the face of the generosity shown her.” His expression grew into a lazy smile as he turned towards his daughter.  “Azula, here is your chance to prove your competence. Track down Katara of the Water Tribe and bring her back to me.” 

“Yes, Father.” 

The smile faded as he glanced once more at the figure koutou’ing in abject humility on the throne room floor. “Zuko,” the Fire Lord sneered. “Get out of my sight.” 

Even hours later, Zuko felt the contempt in his father’s voice ringing in his ears, but no less so than the indecision. He had four days before Zhao would expect him on the flagship bound for Southern waters, and nothing to do in the meantime but pace in his confinement like a caged moose-lion. They expected his frustration, so he gave in to it, first with three hours of firebending training and then with a long douse under the cooling springwater that was channelled directly to his rooms, but now, his energy was spent. He had shut himself in his office, and sat at his desk with his head cradled in his hands. Even here, in his solitude, his sister's singsong, gloating false sympathy made him grind his teeth. 

“Aww, poor Zu-Zu,” she had simpered as they left the throne room. “It seems as if you really are unlucky aren’t you? All that time, and it was all a lie. But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to say hello for you once I have her in chains.” 

“She’ll rip you to pieces first,” he had snarled back. 

“You think so? When we fought outside Keijo, she only escaped because the Blue Spirit knocked her out of the way.” 

“The Blue Spirit?” It was fortunate she was so taken up with making him miserable, or she might have guessed the real reason for his sudden guardedness. 

“No doubt one of those hulking guards that was always tagging along after her. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was her lover into the bargain, he seemed so worried for her safety...” She sensed a weakness, but not the right one, and she grinned. “Have I hit a nerve?” 

“Just leave me alone.” 

At the time, the barb in Azula's words had buzzed at him like a whole swarm of mosquitoes, but now in the quiet of his office, they took on a new, more practical meaning: his identity as the Blue Spirit was still safe. 

With his heartbeat rising, he rose and crossed to the bureau in the corner, the one Katara had broken into on the night she raided his office. The royal locksmith had had to completely replace the mechanism in the door, but the damage done meant it stuck when it opened, and Zuko yanked it a little harder than he probably should have to get at the contents within. After a moment or two of rummaging, he found the small stack of letters he had stashed for safe keeping, all signed with her name in flowing, elegant script. Katara. 

A scrap of paper dropped out of the bureau as he picked up the letters. It was his sketch of her, an absent doodle painted as he imagined her in Fire Nation red, feeding turtleducks with the sun caught in the copper sheen of her hair. She had lied to him, betrayed him – but could it really be called a betrayal? He knew what it was to hide his true self for the sake of survival, to wrap his misgivings around in a blanket of cold aloofness so they could not be used against him. The only difference between them was that she had acted, she had envisioned change and reached out for it with her own hands, while he was left playing a hero to justify his own inaction. After everything she had seen, everything done to her people, she could have ignored the plight of the common folk in the wards and been forgiven for her indifference. Yet she had healed them, and stolen rice for them, even saved them from an inferno, and despite this generosity he still couldn’t reconcile his anger with the ache of never seeing her again, except across a battlefield. 

He smelled smoke; the sketch in his hands was burning. With a curse, he dropped her letters and smothered the eager flames with his sleeve. How many years had it been since he lost control of his bending like that?   

“Zuko.” 

He turned at the sound of his mother's voice to find her standing in the doorway, serene as ever, though her eyes were grave. He looked away. 

“What are you going to do?” she asked. 

His mind whirled with the question. What even could he do? He might sneak away, try to reach Katara before Azula found her, but what would be the point? Would he arrest her? Bring her back in irons to face his father's justice? He could imagine the fairness of a trial for someone accused of being an enemy of the state, who had dared made the Fire Lord into a fool. 

Zuko frowned down at the paper still smouldering between his fingers. “She stood up for Haku when they arrested him,” he ground out. “That boy Azula accused of being the Blue Spirit. And if even half the stories about her are true, she's done so much, helped so many people.” An image flashed in his mind of Katara, dwarfed by a towering wall of flame, not caring who saw as she threw up a barrier of ice to protect the very people who had made the munitions that destroyed her home. 

 “But she lied to you,” his mother surmised. “And you don’t know what you’ll do if you face her again.” There was no disapproval in the words, no accusation of cowardice, but Zuko felt the bite nonetheless.  

His shoulders slumped. “I know where she’s going. If I can trace her route... maybe I can get to her before Azula does.” She had saved him from the soldiers in the square, and before that when the royal guard surrounded them in his office; he would be truly without honour if such a debt went unrepaid.

Seeing the final dregs of his hesitation, Ursa glided forward in a rustle of silk and pulled him down into a hug so quickly that for a moment he stood there, cold, mind too numbed with shock to react. Then, like the first halting drops of a thunderstorm, the careful barriers of protocol built up over years gave way to the childish, tempestuous need to be held, and Zuko dropped his head against his mother’s shoulder and clung to the silk of her robes, so tightly it warped the fabric.

“I know you’ll do the right thing,” she murmured into his hair. “You’ve come so far, and I am so, so proud of you.”

“I haven’t done anything,” he protested. “I used to think –” A shudder wracked through his body. What had he thought? What was the Blue Spirit really, but some kind of petty rebellion turned into a symbol to spite his father? All the nights running around playing a hero never meant anything until she swept into his life like a new tide and opened his eyes to how things could change. He swallowed. “What would I do if I found her?”

With one last squeeze, Ursa stepped back and framed his face between her hands. “I think only you can answer that.” 

He planned for the rest of the day. Maps and charts of the Fire Nation archipelago scattered about his desk, beneath sheets of notes and calculations riddled with crossings-out and second guesses about how much the Water Tribe knew of the Navy’s movements. Katara, for her part, was a harder piece to predict. She had a day’s head start on him, but she was travelling weighed down with an entourage, and given the furore that had been raised at her disappearance she might not dare to travel during daylight hours. A servant came with a tray of food around mid-afternoon and he scoffed the portion of rice and meat with only the barest decorum before going back to his task, desperate now to speed the sun in its slow arc across the sky.

As soon as possible without rousing suspicion, he burned the papers he had spent the afternoon poring over and retreated to his rooms. The Blue Spirit mask and his liangdao were still stashed under the gable of the teahouse in the lower city, but he took the black silk from its hiding place at the bottom of his private trunk and put them on and stuffed a few extras into the hidden lining, before settling his daytime clothes back over the top. His father would be watching him too closely to safely get out of the palace by stealth, but there were other, more brazen methods to get where he wanted.

He rang the bell that called his valet to him.

“Tell the stable master to get an eel-hound ready for an excursion into the city,” he commanded, pretending to read through a report that had been left on his dresser.

The valet wrung his hands. “Your Highness, I’m afraid His Majesty ordered that you were not to –”

“Why doesn’t my father just put me on a leash and be done with it?” The outburst was delivered in an irritated snap, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about the servant’s flinch, not when what he was about to do might be interpreted as treason. “If you must, have the guards alerted to provide an escort, and if you won’t do that, then I will find someone who will.”

The valet stuttered an apology and hurried away with the overbearing humility that had been trained into him, and within half an hour Zuko was riding down into the wards, his hands sweaty on the reins, with two of the royal guard flanking him on their own mounts so that people hurried out of the way. Every moment took Katara further and further away, but he held himself back, played the aloof prince as his escort ordered some hapless passerby to give them directions to the site of the Painted Lady’s last appearance.

The square had been cleared of people, but the debris remained. The torn paper dragon glared at Zuko as he dismounted, but his glance slid past it to the rooftop where he and Katara had fought Jet only the night before.

Did she have any idea it was me under the mask? Would she have cared?

Next to him, the guards stood close together, darting nervous glances into the shadows that told him they hadn’t been this far down into the city in their lives. They had been sent out to watch him, but they were in unfamiliar terrain, at night, following rumours about spirits, and all would be advantagous in helping him enact his plan.

“Well?” he barked. They jumped. “Are you going to just stand there like a pair of hippo-cows or are you going to make yourselves useful?”

The pair glanced at each other. “Uh… how can we help, Your Highness?”

“Something doesn’t sit right with me about the reports from this incident. We’re here to look for evidence about what really happened.”

“Evidence, Highness?”

Zuko made an impatient noise and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Anything to prove the blast origin and nature of the explosion. I trust I don’t have to spell it out for you?”

Wary of his tone, the two guards nodded.

“Check over there.”

He watched them out of the corner of his eye. They were a diligent pair, and dutiful, and as time passed their nervousness faded, and they became so engrossed in their examination of scorch marks on a wall that they didn’t see him edging further away. With the steps of his plan firmly in his mind, Zuko slipped a pair of smoke bombs out from the lining of his coat.

“Did you see that?” he asked the guards.

“See what?”

“Up there.” He pointed. “It looked like a figure. It was just for a second, I saw it against the lantern lights.”

“On the roof?”

“Could be the Blue Spirit.”

The pair raised their weapons, the faint jingle of their spear-rings a counterpoint to the sudden stillness in the square as they advanced, intent.

Zuko backed further away, measured his distance to the end of the alley where he could climb up to the roof and escape. Just one more step…

He threw the first of the smoke bombs. Where it struck the wall, a cloud of noxious gas bloomed and engulfed the guards, making them cough. The spluttered, stumbling, but before they could get their bearings Zuko hurled a spark over to the crumpled dragon, which caught in an instant and ignited in a roar of air.

“What the –”

The second smoke bomb flew from his hands. It landed in the middle of the square and exploded.

“Prince Zuko!”

He let loose a blast of fire, in an arc, like he was defending against an enemy. “The Blue Spirit! Don’t just stand there, he’s –”

“Prince Zuko!”

He sprinted down the alley and up the wall at the end, taking to the roof just in time to glance back and see his escort clear the bank of smoke, coughing but determined to find him. Crouching down out of the glare from the flaming dragon, he eased off one of his boots and dropped it on the ground. The guards would come to their own conclusions about what had happened, but he doubted they would willingly consider the idea that he had abducted himself. They advanced down the alley, calling for him, but he didn’t linger. His gear was hidden three streets away, and from there it would take him a good hour to get down to the base of the crater and find a boat. There were small fishing vessels moored on the southern rim, perfect for coastal travel, and he could hide his clothes in one of the shacks nearby.

When he reached the shore, he stripped off his outer layer and tore it at the seams, before taking one of the liangdao to his bare arm and making a light cut so blood spattered over the fabric. Part of him wondered why he was going to such lengths when he meant to bring Katara back as a prisoner, but the other, wiser side of his mind that spoke with his uncle’s voice reminded him that preparedness is never truly wasted.

It took him hours more to find the Water Tribe. They had harboured in a sheltered bay almost at the southernmost tip of the main island, overlooked on three sides by steep mountains and by shallow, treacherous shoals on the fourth. It was a risky strategy, as the vessels’ deep keels meant they were trapped until high tide, but the reefs that kept them in had treacherous currents that kept smaller boats away – Zuko himself had had to come ashore at an inlet further north and trek around the headland to find them.

Certain of his hiding place, he lifted the Blue Spirit mask away from his face and waited. Moonlight glanced off sails and a small gathering of people on a white-sand beach. Some – the ones descending from the moored ships – were clad in the bone scale mail the Water Tribe guards had been wearing in the throne room all those months ago, and they came forward eagerly to greet Katara’s people where they waited just shy of the tree line. She stood at the front, her long hair blown about by the night wind, and Zuko heard her voice as she recognised someone from among the group that had come to greet her.

A young man stepped forward, gangly even at a distance, but at his first halting approach, Katara let out an impatient cry and leapt towards him, and suddenly the pair were laughing, spinning each other in an embrace that was looked on with fondness by the rest of their people.

So she does have a lover then. Zuko’s hand balled into a fist on his knee, so tightly the surrounding plants wilted away from the heat. And I was a fool.

Rage churned in his stomach as Katara and the stranger parted, arms still around each other, then bent their foreheads close enough to touch, in a gesture so full of casual affection it felt like a rock-punch to the gut. She had never been so open with him.

And yet he couldn’t turn his gaze away. With a few muttered words between them, the stranger pulled something out of a pouch on his hip and handed it to her. From her posture, Zuko could tell the gift was unexpected, and she was hesitant to take it, but after an instant her whole stance changed and she held the item – a necklace – up to the moonlight to better examine it. She said something and the man laughed, and the rest seemed to take that as the signal to depart. Within moments the soldiers gathered the baggage packed on the shore and hauled it up the gangplanks, with Katara’s retinue following close behind. The decks were a hive of activity, but with still hours left to go until high tide, they were stuck.

But Zuko knew where they were going. He could feel the first pull of the sun on the edge of the horizon as he slipped back along the shore to where his boat lay hidden, and it stoked the anger still lashing at his insides. As he climbed in and cranked the motor into life, his mind narrowed to a single focus: he would get to the waterbender prison first and warn the governor that the Southern Water Tribe was coming.

On the deck of the flagship, Katara heard the whir of a distant engine, but it sounded like a small craft and it was still too dark to see. Although worry gnawed at her for exposing the fleet in such an obvious manner, there had been little choice after the fire and then the explosion that had revealed her as a waterbender. She had to believe the sacrifices were worth it.

“What about Dad?” she had asked on the beach. “Our people?”

“We got word to them – they attacked the Southern Raiders before the hotheads even realised what was happening, just as we planned.”

They would vanish into the tundra now, scatter like wind-blown snow to evade the vengeful force Ozai would no doubt send, and they would survive the winter. The plan now had changed. With her cover blown, she was no longer in a place to strike at the heart of the Fire Nation’s empire, but they had allies in the Earth Kingdom and beyond, and hope still lay in that direction.

A pair of dawn gulls wheeled overhead. Katara’s thoughts turned to Zuko, and what he must think of her now. She had lied to him, and used him as a shield, and then left without a word of explanation. The sea-wolf teeth still cradled in her hands dug into her palms, the bite grounding her after so long so far away from home. They were new, a replacement for the ceremonial band that was lost in the fall of the South, and she clung to the new path it represented. She was tired of having to hide who she was.

“Hey, sis,” a voice called from the other side of the deck. “You alright?”

She turned away from her view of the shore and tucked the sea-wolf teeth into an inner fold of her cloak. “That depends, Sokka – do we have any sea prunes?”

[propertyhold]

Small Projects: Huge Fabulous Antique Armoire Edition

You know what I have to learn and then re-learn and re-learn over and over again? The joy of a small project. That’s what.

Quick. Immediately satisfying. Simple. Cheap. Those kinds of projects. I love them! Specifically, I love to over-think them, then get quickly overwhelmed by them, and then abandon them before I’ve even begun because I haven’t mentally worked out all the kinks. See? What’s not to enjoy?

This used to be easier before I bought my house. The whole house is one enormous project, composed of many different big, expensive, time-consuming, difficult projects. This will continue to be the case for the foreseeable future, which is OK. I bought the thing. I asked for it! I even had some notion of what I was getting into, and I did it anyway. But that doesn’t mean it’s not at times exhausting and frustrating, I think in part because you end up spending so much time and money and energy on things that at least feel much more in service to the house than to yourself living in the house. Something like that?

To illustrate, let’s consider my windows. As with the rest of the house, they are very old. All of them need work, and the work is time-consuming and a pain in the ass, and when it’s all over…there’s a window. The same window that there once was, just in better condition and hopefully better prepared to stay in one piece for the next century. It still goes up and down as before, and still provides light as before. Congrats, house! You have a restored window. Boy do I feel…like I just spent a ton of effort on something that has not made a notable difference in how I live in this house. Awesome, let’s do it 36 more times, and we’ll spread it out over many years to prolong the fun!

My house has a lot of windows, literally and figuratively. It’s part of what I love about it. It’s part of what I hate about it.

SO ANYWAY, as much as I love my home, sometimes part of me might just long for the days when I lived in places owned by other people. Then, my projects were so much more about making myself more comfy and satisfied in my living space—which is, actually, fun and exciting and ultimately the goal of this whole entire endeavor, I recognize. But for me, those smaller projects will never feel like a priority when compared to the mountain of house-things I should be working on at any given time, so I have to be extra-conscious to make time for them every now and then. Turns out enjoying living in your house instead of just working on it all the time can, actually, make the work feel more worthwhile. Huh. It’s almost like…enjoyment…feels good? And…working on something you enjoy is…fun? Big revelations here today, folks.

So let’s think back to the summer, when I bought this big armoire and then we never spoke of it again.

Here’s what I did. I bought the big thing. Then I brought it home. Then I moved all my clothes out of the chest of drawers that had been occupying that wall, put them in a smaller set of drawers, and crammed that smaller set of drawers into my closet and moved the other one to another room to collect dust. Then I moved the big thing into place, wiped it off, took a couple pictures of it for my internet friends, and…

There is no “and” because that’s the whole story. It sat empty for the next six months while I occasionally thought about all these elaborate things I would do to build out the interior without compromising the integrity of the piece (it is, after all, an antique and I don’t want to fuck it up!). I wanted it to hold a TV, but also have storage for…something…which might involve drawers and cubbies and shelves and maybe some fancy twee labels. I’d have to construct a thing out of plywood to the exact dimensions of the interior so that it could nestle right inside, which obviously I’d have to plan, build, dry fit, remove, patch, paint, install, secure…it would have to be attractive and sturdy and hold all the things I needed it to, once I figured out what those things were, which really was the first project…

Enough. End the madness. The goal was not to have an enormous empty armoire in my room indefinitely, no matter how good-looking it is. The goal was to bring this thing into my life and, in turn, see my life improved by its presence. Sometimes (all the time) I need to stop and really think about how to simplify something, because my impulse is often to over-complicate it to the point that it becomes some big thing when all I really wanted was a goddamn TV in my bedroom because TV is my favorite thing and bed is my favorite place and the two in combination just feels so right.

Here is what I did. Try to keep up.

I went to Lowe’s and bought four of these little super-simple shelving verticals. Next to them, there are little packs of shelving clips, so I bought one of those. Then I went to a different aisle and picked up 3 pine stair treads, because they were long enough, a full inch thick, and had a nice bullnose edge.

You’ve seen this kind of shelving, btw. I didn’t, like, discover anything. They’re in every old person’s house in America. For a long time I’ve considered them kind of flimsy and crappy and, I don’t know, something everyone in the 1960s decided was a good idea, like cigarettes.

You know what? IT WAS A GOOD IDEA. Not cigarettes, the other thing. I submit that this shelving is actually rather beautifully designed in its simplicity of use and install, and clearly stands the test of time given how many I have un-installed from closets and stuff over the years. Ain’t a damn thing wrong with it.

(I could have probably scrounged up the wood for the shelves from the basement or the garage, but then again maybe I couldn’t have, and I’d have to break out the router for the bullnose edge, and there is something nice about the shelves all matching and not being some weird cobbled-together solution to save myself $30, and omg why am I even still thinking about this IT DOES NOT MATTER.)

Then I went home and I did something else. I installed all that shit. It took maybe an hour. I wiped down the inside of the armoire. I took out the existing clothing rod. I screwed in the verticals, like three screws per strip because the side panels are thin and flimsy so you can only screw into the thicker stiles and rails. I snapped in the clips. I cut my shelves to size (which, FYI, they would have done at the store for me if I asked/had the patience to find an employee). I drilled a hole in the back for cords to come through because we can only be so precious about stuff and nobody will ever see it.

Want to know something kind of funny? When I went to install the shelving tracks, there were already little holes on the inside of the cabinet that lined up perfectly with my screw holes! Because somebody ALREADY FIGURED THIS OUT. And screwed into the armoire, and not only did I buy it despite its compromised-by-modern-conveniences condition, it took me 6 months to notice and I don’t care even a little bit about it and anyone who’s worth a damn in the future won’t either, because it so doesn’t matter.

I’m getting worked up.

I put the shelves in. They fit.

Then I put the TV in. It’s a 40″ Insignia. It came from Best Buy. It was $200. It’s not the most amazing TV but it’s 100% sufficient and fuck if I’m gonna repack it and take it back to the store because it’s not amazing. It’s FINE and that is the attitude I’m trying to insert more into my life. IT’S. FINE. A great many things are fine being just fine. My mediocre TV is one of those things.

After the TV went in, I put in linens. I love linens. I do. I love sheets and blankets and duvet covers and seeing them neatly stacked in here makes me feel all kinds of domestic and adult about my shit. It’s that subtle difference between hoarding and collecting. Collectors store their shit well. Put it on a t-shirt.

The next day, high on my victory, I felt motivated to make the few little repairs that this piece needed. There were a few little pieces of trim that had broken off but been thoughtfully stored away in that bottom drawer, so I broke out the wood glue and the brad nailer and put them back.

I replaced the knobs on the drawer—one had snapped off in transit, and I was holding out until I found the perfect set of replacements (the original style of knob isn’t especially hard to find, except of course when you’re looking for them), but decided on this day to just replace them with the next best thing I had around. Amazingly, now I can use the drawer AND the gorgeous-even-though-they-aren’t-really-correct knobs look cute and who cares if I never replace them.

Then I wiped down the whole thing with the dregs of a can of Restore-a-Finish, which ran out before I got to the least-visible side and this, too, does not matter.

Someday I’ll have a little more Restore-a-Finish, and a couple of hours to stain and poly the shelves, and maybe the right set of knobs or even a better TV. But I’m kind of not worried about it.

Otherwise, I guess some other things have changed since last time I took photos of the bedroom? Nothing major. I move stuff around a lot. But I finally got a queen mattress for my queen bed! After spending a ton of time researching and comparing all the newfangled mattress companies, I had a nice night’s sleep at an Airbnb and found the mattress they were using for $200 on Amazon. It’s cheap and it’s firm. You can fill in that joke.

The big black and white art used to hang in the house I grew up in! It’s actually 1/2 of a diptych, but I only have a couple of walls big enough to accommodate the whole thing so in the meantime I just hung up one side here. Some people love it and some people hate it and that makes me sort of happy. It’s signed “Reizner 1975.” This is the wall I’d like to eventually add a mantel back to, since it appears one was removed at some point.

I dunno, I moved my lounge chair to another room and moved in my cutie little rocker. Nobody sits in bedroom chairs; they exist exclusively to collect laundry and fill awkward corners.

Mekko is still the cutest. Naked man is still naked.

  Small Projects: Huge Fabulous Antique Armoire Edition syndicated from findqueenslandelectricians.wordpress.com

[wildwitch-artandmagick]

“It’s been a rough and traumatic few weeks, following a rough and traumatic year, following a rough and traumatic several decades, or hundreds of years.It all depends upon your perspective. *** You think it can be fixed. Amended. Reformed. It can’t. *** Rape. Harassment. Assault. Murder. Degradation. Trauma. Shame. *** There is nothing about our current systems that is not working exactly the way it is meant to.

These systems are meant to punish the poor.

These systems are meant to exploit women and female presenting people.

These systems are designed to shame non-alpha men and male presenting people.

These systems are designed to prey upon the weak and to reinforce their weakness at every turn.

These systems are designed to put psychopaths and abusers in positions where they have power over others.

These systems are designed to support constant predation, violence, and the reign of fear.

These systems are designed to kill.  [solutions in bold, below]

*** When a country’s economy is largely set up to serve the military and the ultra-wealthy, how can we not expect that it would filter down into mass shootings, the murder of women and femmes, the constant killing of Black, brown, and Native citizens by police, the torture of children, the rape of janitors working the night shift, and the crushing of the working class?

Predators run this world. We praise and reward them for it. Every single system is set up to show predators how much we care. About them.

These systems will not change. These systems cannot and will not be reformed.

These systems must be toppled to the ground by the very people whom they have preyed upon. These systems must be broken by our refusal to go along. To cover up. To feel ashamed. To wish that we were wealthy and powerful and gleaming with the sleekness only brought about by living off the suffering of others.

****** “Kevin Spacey and his brother were abused,” they said.

I have no doubt that this is true. And you know what else? I’ve also been abused. So have too many of my friends to begin counting, and we do our utmost best to not abuse others.

“Dylann Roof will get the death penalty,” it has been reported. He killed, so he should be killed?

I will never trust the state to do anything other than kill, and I will never trust that the state will mete out anything approaching justice.

“We demand justice,” others have said.

But what does justice look like within these systems? Does prison offer justice? Does economic ruin offer justice? Does public humiliation offer justice? Does death offer justice?

No. All these things offer is revenge, and revenge is not enough. Revenge does not bring balance. Revenge does not restore harmony. Revenge does not offer healing.

Revenge is empty, promising much, and delivering almost nothing.

We currently have no justice systems in place.

We have no systems in place that offer healing.

We have no systems that actually keep communities healthy, safe, and thriving.

All we have are ashes, flecked with gold.

***** We barely even have systems of accountability, let alone, justice.

The sickness we live with is so endemic and deeply rooted, it can be difficult to find a different way. It is difficult to even think on it, let alone imagine it.

But that different way already exists.

It is called Sankofa.

It is called Ho’o pono-pono.

It is called Tikkun Olam.

It is called Restorative Justice. Healing. Repair.

We see people banding together, enacting these restorative methods. These people try to feed one another, and help one another heal, and cultivate joy — all in the midst of the crushing systems that make all of these processes as difficult as possible.

And then we are surprised and saddened when these efforts “fail.”

But they do not fail. They are crushed. Temporarily.

Because the systems in place are designed to crush any opposition. And because, regardless, people always find a way to love again.

The dandelion will always find a way to crack the concrete smothering its roots.

**** The police cannot be reformed. Prisons cannot be reformed. The military will not keep us safe. These systems offer only more abuse, harm, and degradation. Prisons, courts, and policing will never offer justice. Big business? The rewarding of predators? That cannot be reformed, or fixed. The blows cannot be softened.

*** So what do we do?

We start over. Think about it. Imagine what is possible.

We free all but the most violent prisoners (we’ll deal with them later, once we have better systems in place). We offer a safety net. We offer housing, education, health care, and a basic income. We offer mental health resources. We offer a chance to heal and make amends.

We set up systems of restorative justice, where people are trained to not simply resolve conflicts, but heal the damages that conflict has caused.

We train ourselves toward different ways of power.

We train ourselves to value things other than money and fame.

We insist that caring for one another is important.

We muster our will and look to indigenous leadership and Black wisdom, and to other sources that offer real solutions.

We say, “We’ve fucked up, badly. This whole society is a fucking mess.” And then we make what amends we can, and white and/or middle and/or upper-class people shut up and do what the poor, and the indigenous, and Black, and trans, and disabled people have been shouting at us to do for hundreds of years:

We build a society based on health and well-being instead of punishment and greed. We build a society based on restoration of harmony. We remember what it feels like to be whole.

We abolish — firmly — all of the systems that only serve to oppress and terrorize the most vulnerable among us.

We begin the very real work planning the society we want to build. Not as a utopia. Not as pie-in-the-sky. As the reality we aim to live in.

Prisons and courts and bombs and drones and the stockpiling money built on slave labor will not save us. Only love will.

*** Empire is already crumbling under its own weight.

You think it can be fixed. Amended. Reformed.

It can’t. Tear it down. Now is our chance.

Then, if we have the collective will…we can build something new.”  by T. Thorn Coyle

[autolovecraft]

The following spring, like that of the Hutchinson cipher.

The knowledge he displayed concerning long-dead could possibly have furnished some of the real Charles Dexter Ward at Dr. Waite's private hospital on Conanicut Island in the bay, and up the steep curved slope of Waterman Street to Prospect, where the vast gleaming dome and sunset-flushed Ionic columns of the Christian Science Church beckoned northward.

A crew would be turned loose in the town, he had had at his fingertips only a month or two before.

He whom I called up said it would be, and I owe him an apology for anything ill I have said of him. His conduct would have sent his interviewers away in bafflement had not the persistently archaic trend of his speech, when he wrote of preparing from even the most hopeless antiquarians do not make daily use of obsolete phraseology and gestures.The doctor was silent, for it brought him the Fenner letters with their terrible description of the Pawtuxet farm, and a frantic letter penned under agonizing and inexplicable conditions; after the Curwen raid. Certainly, there was something very obnoxious about a certain great stone outbuilding with only high narrow slits for windows.

Thomas Sabin's Boston coach was damned uncomfortable old letters may well have told; but what healthy antiquarian could recall how the creaking of Epenetus Olney's new signboard the gaudy crown he set up after he took to be some extravagant kind of symbolism, frankly baffled him; though he noted with a thrill of curiosity that the Biblical passage referred to—Job 14,14—was the familiar verse, 'If a man die, shall he live again? But after all, has alone kept the matter from a merciful oblivion. After a while he thought he detected a suspicion of a glow infinitely far away, and a frantic letter penned under agonizing and inexplicable conditions; after the Curwen portrait in his library; and Dr. Willett paused in utter chaos before this apparent bit of unrelieved insanity. Mrs. Tillinghast, as the receding coach clattered faintly over the Muddy Dock Bridge whence the sound had come.Was the ironic reply. Nameless reprisals might ensue, and even these are too wildly fantastic for general credence. Did not he himself see the noisome aperture in the roof of that cryptical stone building which had formerly received the negroes.

Joseph Wanton of Newport, before taking action. As Orne had said to the sprightly cleric, but that on the other hand, compromised on Collector Robinson's recommendation by freeing the ship but forbidding it a port in Rhode Island waters. Stones are all changed now in nine grounds out of ten. Letters soon told of his safe arrival, and of his securing good quarters in Great Russell Street, London; where he proposed to stay, shunning all family friends, till he had exhausted the resources of the British Museum in a certain direction. He saw with a thrill of curiosity that the Biblical passage referred to—Job 14,14—was the familiar verse, 'If a man die, shall he live again? Certain trips of his into the country were the objects of much local inquisitiveness, and were reassured less than they ought to have been in use, whilst the whole skin had a morbid chill and dryness, and the strange chemicals which came for him on ships from England, France, and Holland. 'Twas Number 118, and I owe him an apology for anything ill I have said of him. It was not wholesome to know so much about the way the fat sheriff's wig fell off as he leaned over at the play in Mr. Douglass's Histrionic Academy in King Street on the eleventh of February, 1762, which fell on a Thursday; or about how the actors cut the text of Steele's Conscious Lover so badly that one was almost glad the Baptist-ridden legislature closed the theater a fortnight later. By the time Dr. Waite called in person, Dr. Willett was thinking deeply and rapidly, and his age was so great as to be almost an identity—and that identity was with a man who had died full fifty years before. In the bright noon sunlight the bungalow was unchanged since the previous morning.

Ask of the lesser, lest the Greater shall not wish to Answer, and shall command more than you.

He had a curious expectancy, and was clearly heard by at least two voyages to the Orient; and his arrangements with the local distillers, the Narragansett dairymen and horse-breeders, and the explorer thrilled when he saw what they were he shrank away shuddering, and did not fear any upsetting or misunderstanding of signals. Peeling clear of the wood, curling tighter and tighter, and finally crumbling into small bits with what must have been with some branch of organic chemistry. Of the whereabouts of Dr. Allen. The doctor still insists that the youth meant to shew bravado to the last. In the evening he wrote a note to Mr. Ward as they sat in the rear of a stock farm, and a shriek of human origin was plainly distinguished. So haunting were these formulae, and so many clues to similar data elsewhere, that he was sane when he started, they believe that his conduct upon returning implies a disastrous change. But oddly enough, was what first gave Ward the exact location of Curwen's Providence home; for having gone this far, my place is here. Charles met them at the door her son at length answered faintly, and told of Ward's progress toward his destination.

The cargo consisted almost wholly of boxes and cases, of which both husband and wife had become communicants shortly after their marriage, in order to avail himself of certain sources of data not existing in America. One of those creatures wrote you once, do not pass me by. The guards were there, but said that the young man which nonplussed them, implying as it did a virtually total loss of memory concerning important monetary matters which he had surrounded his attic realm, save that he now appeared to have two sharers of his mysteries; a villainous-looking Portuguese half-caste from the South Main St. waterfront who acted as a servant, and a teacher worthy of his illustrious pupil Gilbert Stuart. Truly, the boy had drawn down nameless horrors from the skies. Finally the smoke that the wind beat down from the painted panel. Smuggling and evasion were the rule in Narragansett Bay, and nocturnal landings of illicit cargoes were continuous commonplaces. That Dr. Willett's purgation had been an excessively long time in appearing after the visitor had forced his way into the hall and sent the Portuguese away with an imperative demand; and in 1761 he replaced this with a larger one, on the eighteenth of February O.S. 1662-3; and that while Curwen was left to him to dispose of, the writer felt able to find and deal with Orne and Hutchinson at once; so when his consciousness seemed fully back the doctor told him that of those strange and resonant tones was seen to be no other than Charles Dexter Ward whose mind you watched from infancy—the real Charles with the olive-mark on his hip was gone, while on his chest was a great black mole or cicatrice which had never been there before. It was the most disturbed; but even he outgrew the darkest shadow, and smothered memories in prayers. For some time the nocturnal arrival and departure of motor trucks at the Pawtuxet farmhouse raid, and the arts by reason of the doors I have access to. Have confidence in what I do, so long as to antedate all common memory. Then he shuddered and screamed, crying out, 'That beard … those eyes … God, who are you? Much of his future work, he said, transmit the information separately to some ten or so of the most unplaceable quality, wholly unlike any before noted, hung at times around the door; and the watchers kept careful track of the river and the sweep of misty downlands beyond. Of that there could be no other than the bearded and spectacled stranger.

They paused, and looking through a window saw that he could even gather a few words belched in frenzy: Almighty, protect thy lamb!

From that frightful smell and that uncanny noise Willett's attention could no longer be a signal for hushed conversation, transparent excuses or errands elsewhere, and a repulse would mean only a full report of the matter a careful search was made. At the library it was easy to find good manuals of paleography, and over these Mr. Ward and Dr. Willett somehow attaches great significance to the change.

Dr. Willett set about collecting every scrap of data which the family had retired, the butler had gone to inquire what the trouble was, he insists, something later; and the phrase had read: 'There was no need to keep the Guards in shape and eating off their heads, and it made much to be found in case of trouble, as you too well know. Much of his future freedom.

Don't burn it. He had, it seems, been some truth in chimerical old Borellus when he wrote to discourage the plan of his mother in the night were not to be denied, yet what could one think of its writer's immediate violation of his own life and of the deliberating citizens there were present Dr. Bowen, to whom Mr. Ward and Dr. Willett somehow attaches great significance to the change.

It was noon now, but shadows as of coming night seemed to engulf the phantom-haunted mansion.