#jasmine green tea my most beloved

[evadingreallife]

(yes im coming for yall)

[writermai05]

Arsonist's Lullabye

Prologue: All you have is your fire

Summary: Zuko’s bad day gets a bit better after an encounter with an unfamiliar face. 

Pairing: zuko x fem! reader (Live Action or Animated) 

A/N: I am delusional, and when I had the idea for a zuko x reader modern AU where he works in Iroh’s boba tea shop, I had to follow through with said idea. Let’s see if this goes anywhere, and feel free to leave comments or suggestions on how the fic could play out maybe :) 

Word Count: 773

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Avatar: The Last Airbender, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot.  This is a modern AU that takes place in the avatar world. Bending still exists. Zuko and the gaang are in college in this series !!

TW!: Physical abuse, burns, Ozai in general, Zuko’s backstory is so sad. 

Zuko knew it was going to be a long day as soon as he opened the shop at 12pm. 

Within the first two hours, he had run out of tapioca pearls, dropped a container filled with matcha on the floor (which by the way, was a pain in the ass to clean up,) and slipped on the floors he had just mopped. Perhaps he was just born unlucky. Perhaps, most people in life didn’t have to struggle the way that he was, the way that he always had. It wasn’t all bad. He was lucky enough to be here, working in his uncle’s tea shop in the Earth Kingdom, rather than in his father’s company back in the Fire Nation. 

The Jasmine Dragon was beloved by many. People from all over the city came to have some of the shops' amazing teas and pastries. It wasn’t too busy, having only three people come in today.  perhaps because school at the University of Ba Sing Se hadn’t quite started up yet, outside of the students who had moved in early. The shop was particularly chilly today, but the atmosphere managed to maintain the same warm and cozy feeling, with the dim atmospheric lighting and the sage and emerald hued furniture. Zuko had a second to just relax in the stillness. 

 He appreciated these quiet moments the most.  The moments where he could stop worrying about the shop, and overthinking the worst things he had ever done in his life. Such as when he lashed out at his uncle, multiple times, or about the people he had bullied in high school. He was almost able to forget it all. Forget the fact that his younger sister, Azula, was still stuck in a house with his abusive father, or even forget the feeling of his father���s hand, burning the flesh of his face, leaving a scar in its wake, as well as a near complete blindness in his left eye. His demons may be restless, but boy did Zuko keep them on a tight leash. 

Zuko’s reverie was broken by the sound of the door’s bell chime. He immediately snapped out of his thoughts, waiting patiently for his assistance to be needed. 

“Um, excuse me,” 

A girl, who seemed to be around his age, was standing right in front of him. She wore a navy blue dress with a pale blue lining and detailing around the edges. A belt of the same color was around her waist, with a brown leather cord connecting a bag onto her hip. Her black jacket was cropped to about rib length, with brown leather cords fastening it closed, as well as matching black pants and brown boots. 

“This is my first time here…Is there anything that you’d recommend?” She asked politely. 

There was something about the way her kind eyes twinkled in the orange lighting that made Zuko fluster. He cleared his throat before opening his mouth to talk. 

“Well, Lychee juice is a customer favorite. But personally, my Uncle Iroh’s jasmine green tea is the best in Ba Sing Se.” 

“The best in Ba sing Se?” She raised her eyebrows inquisitively.

“The best.” he nodded. 

“I’ll take it.” She said, reaching to the tote bag slung over her shoulder. Zuko interrupted her actions with the wave of his hand. 

Zuko shook his head. “Don’t worry, It’s on me.” he said, as he began punching numbers, into the register. 

“Oh no! I can’t let you do that-” She protested. 

He shrugged, a blush beginning to warm his cheeks.  “For a first time customer.” 

“Thank you so much…” She trailed off, waiting for him to tell her his name.

“Zuko.”

“Zuko. I’ll be sure to come by again. And I fully intend on paying that time.” She said with a playful glare. 

The boy smiled slightly.

“Your tea will be ready shortly.” 

Zuko had Iroh bring the tea over to the girl. He wasn’t confident in his ability to steadily bring the tray of hot tea without causing more burns to cover his body. The older man made sure to give the girl a complimentary fruit tart to enjoy, but not before looking at his nephew with a teasing glint in his eyes. Zuko groaned. 

“Not a word, uncle.” He said as he walked through the staff doors into the shops’ kitchen. 

After about 20 minutes had passed, Iroh came into the kitchen, clutching what looked like a napkin and some paper Yuan bills. 

“Zuko! The girl left this on her table after she left!”

Zuko carefully took the napkin from his uncle’s hand, reading the message. 

“Thanks for the tea! - y/n.” 

[evilfloralfoolery]

The Great Ginger Retaliation

Just a short thing because I had a burning need to torture Indigo for a minute.

An offer to make Grimm his morning tea goes horribly awry. Grimm's Guardian instincts flip the fuck out. That's it. That's the plot.

_____________________________________

Indigo pads into the kitchen to find his beloved dismantling his crossbow atop the counter, the handle of a small wrench between his teeth as he mumbles a swear at the weapon.  It is not annoyance that rises within him, but amusement.  

Life with Grimm involved such things on a daily basis.

“Would you like some tea with your grumbling?”  Indigo leans against the counter with a bit of a smirk.  “Perhaps some honey to sweeten your disposition?”

Grimm sets the wrench beside the pile of nonsense that was once a crossbow.  “Smartass.”  He runs a hand through his hair and tosses Indigo a crooked smile.  “But yeah, tea sounds pretty damn good.” 

“You enjoyed that ginger and hibiscus, did you not?” Indigo reaches for one of the lighter tins neatly arranged upon the opposite end of the counter.

“Whatever you make, I’ll drink.”

An easy request.  

Indigo attempts to pop the lid free, but ends up prying it open via sheer force, barely managing to keep it from arcing through the kitchen like some sort of lethal frisbee. 

And clearly, disturbing the contents of the container had been a grave mistake.  The peppery spice of ginger assails him, his attempts at fanning it away proving futile. 

Well, tea had been in order, that is until said-tea had seen fit to assault him. Indigo pauses, practically slams the tin closed.

“EKSSSHuh! EKSSH! EKSSCH! EKKSSSHH!!” 

“Bless you,” Grimm says. “Don't think you're supposed to breathe it, Indy.”

“Oh, do shut uuhhh!” Indigo lays a hand on his chest with a desperate, almost gasping inhalation. “Hhhuuhhh. . . !! EKKSSSSCHu!  My gods.”

“Bless you,” Grimm says again with a bit of a chuckle. 

“Thank you,” Indigo says with a pointed sniffle before turning away to give his nose a short, polite blow. “Blasted ginger.” 

He pauses, expression wavering behind the cover of the handkerchief. Gods, really? 

“EKSSSH! EKKSSSCCH!”  He wipes at the corner of one eye and flinches into an uncovered “EKSSSHH!!”  Muffles another into the handkerchief. And another.

“Goddamn,” Grimm says. *You good?” 

He lays a hand on Indigo's shoulder just as he struggles through another sharp gasp that borders on something painful. 

“-ihhhEKSSSSHH–iiUHH!   My gods, do excuse me.” 

His partner blinks. Stares. 

Grimm's flabbergasted and obvious distress is not only amusing, but quite endearing. Indigo does not protest when he is gathered into Grimm's sudden, protective embrace.

“Fuck, Indy. Bless the shit out of you.”

Indigo laughs in a whole-hearted, if not mildly self-conscious manner. “Thank you, Grimm. That was. . . most unexpected.”  He pulls back enough to run the back of his hand along Grimm's cheek. “It was not my intention to alarm yo-iihh. . . !”

Where had he shoved that blasted handkerchief? Far too late to consider it now. 

Indigo pulls the collar of his robe over his face just enough to manage some semblance of decency.  “EKSSCH! EKSSSHuh!” 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Grimm says.

Indigo’s attempts to smother a rather undignified sort of snort-laugh are woefully unsuccessful. “Gods. My apologies, Grimm. It seems as if the ginger has gotten the best of me.” 

Grimm arches an eyebrow. “Ya think?” 

“Perhaps the jasmine green instead.”  Indigo untangles himself enough to reach for the tin beside the offending ginger, only to have Grimm slap a hand atop the thing before he can procure it.

“You know what? I’m good.” 

He slips an arm around Indigo’s waist and sweeps his feet from the ground with the other, hoisting him into a carrying embrace.  

“Ooh!” Indigo grabs the lapels of Grimm’s black robe to steady himself.  “Whatever are you doing?”

“Guardian shit,” Grimm says. 

“Removing me from the threat, are you?” Indigo slips his arms around Grimm’s neck and kisses his cheek.  “How very chivalrous.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  Grimm dutifully carts him out of the kitchen and into the living room where he makes himself comfortable on the couch, relocating Indigo to his lap.  “Goddamn, you’re a hot mess, Indy.” 

More laughter.  “Well, then.”  Indigo shakes out his wild mane of silver with one hand.  “Perhaps you should attend to that, hmm?”

Grimm’s voice dips into the abyss.  “Damn right.”  

[redrobin-detective]

Wait your a tea snob??? I've been getting into it to!!!! Do you have any favorites? I love any sort of vanilla tea, and most black teas tbh. (Also since you have so many, do you have any weird teas?)

Oh too many favorites to list and so little time to drink.

A lavender earl grey or earl grey creme are among my favorites. I don't care for earl grey alone but with a bit citrus/bergamont oil or some cream it can be divine. Harney's rose scented black tea is a mighty comfort to me, just anything with rose in general. I do love a good coconut black tea as well.

Other favorites are furmosa oolong, jasmine my beloved preferably the pearls but I have a lovely spearmint jasmine I'm fond of. I have a cherry blossom green which is rapidly becoming a favorite and just about any variety of roobois can soothe me. Lavender in general is very good but in moderation given how overpowering it can be.

For weird teas... I have a tisane that is just almonds and its delectable. A carrot cake roobois which Im almost out of to my devastation bc its so tasty. I recently got sakura leaf tea (as opposed to sakura flower) and its such a rich woody tasty. I blended it yesterday with a jade oolong and my word it was heavenly.

[the-midnight-cow]

1, 4, 5, 7, 13, 14, 16, 18, 25, 26?

1: 3 tacos (tho I wish they let you only order two) soft shell with carnitas, cheese, black beans, white rice, guacamole

4: phoenix!!! that shit def is more normal than some animals that do exist

5. ohhhhh god I cannot choose uhhhh probably mashed, as long as they're done well? potatoes are my favorite food ever I love them in all forms

7. the little guys that you can pet!!! the flat ones!!! idk what they're called!! also seals or sea lions or anything like that

13. stealing super expensive clothes from shops

14. sometimes? I try to drink enough water but I do fail sometimes (today was a prime example)

16. MY BELOVED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! favorite fr

18. matcha milk tea (almond milk bc lactose intolerance </3) with tapioca pearls!!! I will also settle for jasmine green milk tea, or any citrus fruit bubble tea!

25. no, for the most part, but I love my taste!!!!!!! (everyone go listen to Tommy Lefroy) my taste is mostly basic af and scattered but I love it fr

26. bitch. you know exactly what my spice tolerance is. (zero)

ask game

[genshinboys]

Modern AU headcanons - Zhongli as your History Professor

Warning: NSFW

Pairing: Zhongli x gn reader

Professor Zhongli is everyone’s most beloved history teacher. His lectures are interesting, full of trivia and funny stories. The man is a walking encyclopaedia of knowledge. He is also very good at maintaining friendly relationships with students - always helpful and willing to stay overtime to answer anyone’s questions.

„The tale about the bard of Mondstadt? Of course, just let me grab my cup of tea, and I shall satisfy your curiosity. Be warned, though, the man was of a disgraceful nature.”

Apart from his gift of the gab, Zhongli is simply too charming to be real. His godly features and finely sculptured body have earned him a loyal swarm of fans among the students as well as other teachers. The man appears to be oblivious to the whole ordeal, viewing it all as acts of friendliness. Although, the occasional smirk on his face might indicate the opposite.

When he strolls along the university corridor with a book in his hand, fully immersed in his musings, he is followed by longing eyes and sighs of admiration. From time to time, he happens to stop by and courtly greet his students, which leaves them weak in their knees.

Dress code? Immaculate. White shirts, black slacks, expensive leather shoes and jackets accentuating his surreal body proportions. Never too long though, it would be a shame to cover such a perfect waist to bottom ratio. He’s bound to carry a pair of reading glasses so that he can engage in his favourite activity whenever he finds a spare moment. Mostly, you could see him hunching over the documents and his students’ recent essays.

When it comes to break-time, the university most famous professor would be often seen in the library, gold eyes taking in the sight of green areas behind the window. Sometimes, even the most patient of people are at their limit, in which case, Zhongli tends to hide in his office with a freshly brewed tea cupped in his hands.

„Mr/Mrs Y/N, Can I ask you to stay after class for a brief moment?”

Once you’re left alone with him behind the closed door of the classroom, Zhongli’s brows furrow, and he crosses his arms on his chest.

„I’m afraid I can’t accept the quality of your paper, Mr/Mrs Y/N. There is still room for improvement. Would you by any chance need my help to work on it? I deem it necessary, otherwise, I’d be forced to lower your final grade. I’d feel awful in such dire circumstances.”

And so, it becomes a part of your routine to regularly visit Mr Zhongli in his office to devote yourselves to the tedious task of correcting your essay.

He is extremely attentive and supportive throughout the whole process. Makes sure to bring some sweet treats to boost your energy levels. He brews tea for both of you, and always asks if it was to your liking.

„Maybe the Jasmine Yin Cloud will be tastier? What do you think, Mr/Mrs Y/N?”

He circles around his office, calmly answering any of your questions in the soothing manner of his baritone voice.

He encourages you to sit at his desk. It happens that he will stand behind you and lean over your shoulder with his glasses resting on the tip of his nose. His hand is placed on the back of the chair, almost touching your skin. The heat radiating from his body floods your whole being, and your cheeks are as red as a cherry. You inhale in his musky scent, and there is nothing else you can focus on.

„Mr/Mrs Y/N, you’re flushed. Should I open the window? Forgive me my negligence. It won’t happen again.”

Zhongli opens the window and proceeds to sit next to you. At this point, you’re so nervous that your hands are shaking like jelly on a spoon. Your knees touch accidentally when he repositions himself on the chair. It makes you so flustered that your brain screams abort abort so you make this very clumsy attempt to stand up, but somehow in the process, the teacup gets knocked over, ending up on the professor’s pristine-white shirt. Luckily, the beverage has long cooled off due to the amount of time you’ve spent in his office. Both of you stand up, and the awkwardness of the situation makes you want to dig your own grave this instant.

„Oh fuu-, I mean, I’m so sorry professor Zhongli! I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?”

Your hands stiffly wander to the pocket of your jeans in search of tissues. You let out a sigh of relief when your fingers brush over some material. Immediately, you start furiously rubbing on Zhongli’s chest to get rid of the abominable stain that taints the luxurious piece of clothing. You’re barely inches away from the professor, hands flat on his torso.

„Hurt me? I assure you, Mr/Mrs Y/N, it would take more than a cup of tea to achieve that. I don’t think I’m in any physical pain now. It’s quite the opposite.”

„Excuse me?” Your brain short-circuits and hands go still. Somehow, your fingers end up gripping the shirt even tighter.

Zhongli lets out a small chuckle, delicately placing his hands on yours.

„It’s just a small spot, Mr/Mrs Y/N. How about we take a break and head outside for some fresh air? I find it very inspiring, wouldn’t you agree?”

Weeks pass and you can no longer ignore your absolutely disgustingly fat crush on professor Zhongli. It makes you cringe, and you hate your guts for staring at him as if he was some kind of a deity preaching to a mob. It takes a lot to remind yourself that it’s just his lecture, and you’re one of his students.

Student - you keep accentuating the word, repeating it over and over so that it can fully sink in and your brain will stop producing these horrendous scenarios when the professor casually explains the origins of Osmanthus wine to his audience. Or, better yet, when his long hair tickles the palm of your hand as he hovers over you in his office.

He’s always very gentlemanly towards you. Kindly asks about your day and listens to the answer with his eyes boring into your soul. Very often, it happens so that he catches you staring at him, and then he smiles, the kind of a smile that goes right into your crotch and makes your palms sweaty. You’re silently praying that none of the other students picks up on your juvenile reactions.

It’s eating you up alive. You can’t force yourself to stop fantasizing about your professor, and one evening you decide to go to the local bar to drown your sorrows in a cheap bottle of wine. This whole affair has cost you many sleepless nights, and your body and mind are exhausted. As a result, you end up falling asleep with your head resting on the table in the bar.

It happens so that Zhongli and his friend Childe also come to visit this place for a few drinks. It’s almost closing time when the bartender forcefully tugs at your shoulder to wake you up.

„I beg your pardon, but this person is a close acquaintance of mine. I’ll be handling the matters from now on. The gentleman over there will settle the bill.”

And so, the next day you would wake up in an unfamiliar place. Silky sheets are cosily wrapped around your body as you lay down in a king-size bed surrounded by this lovely earthy scent.

„Good morning, Mr/ Mrs Y/N. Hope my humble bedroom was comfortable enough and that you had a good night’s rest.”

The overwhelming sensation of fear causes your body to jump on the bed, and all your muscles tighten when the person standing before you is none other than professor Zhongli. Your heart starts thumping in your chest, and your stomach is in knots when you barely muster up enough courage to ask him about what exactly happened last night. As you anxiously observe, you’re even wearing something that resembles one of professor Zhongli’s shirts.

„Did we–? I mean, did you and me…? Professor Zhongli, I need to know if–?”

The words don’t seem to come out of your tight throat, and it gets even more difficult to breathe when Zhongli sits down on the bed, right beside you. Eyes scrutinizing your face and you push back, nervously pressing your body to the headboard, as you try to flee from his piercing gaze. He chuckles lightly, hand covering the smirk creeping over his majestic face.

„I stumbled upon you at the local bar. It seemed to me that you were too exhausted to manage on your own so, I found it necessary to help.”

He shows no intention of getting closer, and yet you feel trapped. You start hyperventilating when you realise that Zhongli must have dragged you out of the bar and carry you home, only to put some of his shirts on you and tuck you to bed. Your eyes widen when he tenderly squeezes your hand in his.

„Mr/Mrs Y/N, no need to fret. If indeed anything else happened here yesterday, I’m sure you wouldn’t have forgotten that easily.”

Then, Zhongli casually announces that he will go to the kitchen to fix breakfast for both of you. Fully panicked and ashamed, you take it as a chance to sneakily tip-toe out of his apartment. In the following days, professor Zhongli can’t hide his disappointment when you stop attending his classes as well as bail out of the office meetings with him. You’re so thoroughly embarrassed that you can’t bring yourself to face him after what happened.

On a Friday evening, you make up your mind to go to the university’s library to continue working on your paper. The long corridors with shelves full of books are devoid of any guests, which warms the cockles of your heart. The silence soothes your ragged nerves as you wander around the library, looking for one of the books that professor Zhongli recommended for you to read and use in your essay. You’re about to reach for the book, but suddenly somebody touches your shoulder. It’s almost a feather-like touch, but it sends shivers down your spine. Alarmed, you turn around, and your mouth falls open. It’s professor Zhongli again, yet this time there is no sign of a warm smile on his handsome face.

„Good evening, Mr/Mrs Y/N. I suppose you don’t realise how late it is. I must remind you that it’s strictly forbidden to saunter around the library after its closing time.”

He makes a step forward, and you press back against the wall, breathless. You can’t decide if it’s scary or thrilling when Zhongli’s eyes narrow.

„And it so happens that I volunteered to look after the library today. What a coincidence, isn’t it, Mr/Mrs Y/N?”

„I’m so sorry, professor Zhongli, I didn’t kn-,”

Unfortunately, he doesn’t let you finish your sentence as he places his hand on the side of your head. You gulp audibly, eyes darting around in a weak attempt to avoid Zhongli’s cold stare.

„Mr/Mrs Y/N, I don’t reckon you to be as clueless and naive as you make yourself out to be. Do you think me a fool?”

With the other hand he snatches up your chin, and you can no longer escape his eyes. Your lip starts twitching nervously as he takes another step forward, ultimately sealing the tiny space between you. His body feels hard against you, ribbed and toned in all the right places.

„If there is anything I can’t stand, it shall be disobedience. I thought we had a very straightforward agreement, Mr/Mrs Y/N.”

Your knees feel weak, and the ticklish whisper right against your cheek sends shivers through all of your nerves. The type of shivers that make you tremble in front of your professor. His thumb slowly slides along your jaw and his fingers dip into the skin of your neck. If he pressed any harder, he would surely cut out the flow of air going to your lungs.

„Professor Zhongli, I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I would nev-,”

The next thing that you manage to register are professor Zhongli’s lips brushing over yours, like a wave of warmth spreading throughout your whole being. The lovely scent invades your nostrils, and your body reacts to him instinctively. With shaky fingers, you let yourself feel Zhongli’s perfectly defined torso, and he only deepens the kiss, humming lowly in approval of your reaction. It’s open-mouth kissing, his tongue fully delving into your mouth with his forehead pressed to yours. The shelf behind you hurts the back of your head when Zhongli forcefully works his tongue against your reddened lips. It must be the last working brain cell in your otherwise bewitched mind that reminds you how risky it is to make out with your professor in the university library. A sound of protest escapes your lips, but even to you, it doesn’t seem convincing enough. Nevertheless, Zhongli withdraws, forehead still resting against yours, but he intimately puts his hand on the back of your head. Zhongli’s long fingers begin reassuringly stroking your hair, and somehow the sensations of fear and nervousness slowly fade away.

„I don’t think it’s wise to do it here, professor Zhongli.”

You’re panting, his soft caresses melt you on the spot. Zhongli’s eyes turn even more feral, and he exhales with a whiff of air. He grips you by your hair and immobilizes your head, golden orbs zeroing in on your face.

„You think I’m not aware of the consequences, Mr/Mrs Y/N? You think I haven–,” he trails off for a few agonising seconds looking for the right way to express his emotions, „I know all of that and yet I can’t bring myself to stop.”

The distance between your eyes narrows yet again, Zhongli presses himself a little harder against you. There is a desperate look in his eyes when he asks for your permission.

„Would you like me to stop, Mr/Mrs Y/N?”

With an urgency that you’ve never thought you could experience, you trap Zhongli’s lips between yours. The kiss, so passionate, knocks the air out of Zhongli’s lungs, and he growls when your hips rub against his lower region. Encouraged, you keep circling your pelvis against his shaft, loving the way he bucks his hips each time you press onto him. You can’t control the flutter inside your groin, setting your body on fire and driving you to continue. Abruptly, the professor’s hands clutch onto your writhing hips. He breaks the kiss and looks like a vicious animal about to devour its prey. You stand there, heart thumping in your chest akin to a herd of galloping horses.

„I’ll need to teach you a lesson, Mr/Mrs Y/N. You won’t be getting away from me ever again. Is that clear?” He presses his open hand to your clothed arousal, and your head lolls back, hitting the shelf with a hollow sound.

„Yes!” It’s all that your hazy mind can produce with his hand so teasingly sliding up and down your sex. Hearing you moan out like that, Zhongli thinks he might shoot his load right into his elegant slacks.

Having no time to waste, the professor sinks to his knees, hands impatiently getting your clothes out of the way. You think your brain is fooling you. It must be. It’s like a scene taken from one of your shameless wet dreams. However, the cold fingers going up the inner side of your thighs feel much too real. Goosebumps explode all over your skin when his hot breath tickles your exposed core. Zhongli firmly grips your thigh and places it over his shoulder, knee bent and leg resting on his muscular back.

„Keep steady for me, Little one. I don’t like to be interrupted.”

The pet name he decides to use to address you sends impulses down to your sex. Your walls contract around nothing. It’s frustrating, and you moan out his name with your nails digging into his shoulders to maintain some stability. Keeping his watchful eyes on you, Zhongli coats his index finger with saliva and gently dips it into your entrance. He’s very gentle with you. He stretches you out, lightly probing his finger against the sensitive muscles. It slides in deeper and deeper with each careful push of his digit. His breath fanning over your arousal, teasing you to no end. There is no discomfort, just mind-numbing pleasure. You’re adjusting to his rhythm, hips jerking forward in perfect harmony with the steady plunge of his finger into you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, hypnotic beyond reason. A choked sob after a choked sob continuously falls from your lips when Zhongli fully covers your sex with his mouth. He sucks on the bundle of nerves never stopping to sink his finger into your core. Your slick keeps gathering in the corner of his mouth, and when he pulls out his chin is glistening with your arousal.

„How indecent. Do you want me so badly that you’re already dripping down your thighs?“ He mocks, his tongue thoroughly licking off the sticky mess from the surface of his swollen lips.

„Says the one who goes down on his student.” You bite back, shoving his head back to your pulsating hole. Zhongli moans against your core, the sweet vibrations ripple through your heat. It’s insane, and you feel half-mad for allowing this to happen.

Pure pleasure washes over you in uncontrollable waves, one stronger than the other. The way he glides his tongue all over you with his golden orbs gazing up to observe your flushed face must be the most obscene view you’ve ever seen in your life. Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere. Muscles turn rigid as the world around goes to a standstill. Needy cries and Zhongli’s name coming out of your parched throat are the only sounds echoing in the empty library. You come all over his mouth, and Zhongli earnestly swallows everything your wrecked by pleasure body gives him with a satisfied groan.

He takes you home after that. He prepares you a warm bath and feeds you a delicious meal. Once you’re tucked in bed, with his body hugging you from behind, he props on his elbow and lovingly whispers into your ear.

„I expect to see you tomorrow in my office after class, Mr/Mrs Y/N.”

„You’ve made me spill into your mouth. How about we drop the pleasantries, professor Zhongli?”

He chuckles and nudges his nose against your cheek, making your heart skip a beat.

„I really have to do something about that obscene language of yours, Little one.”

Other boys:

Kazuha as your gardener

Diluc - wine industry tycoon

Childe as your swimming instructor

Other series:

Thigh job with Genshin boys

Going out on a date with Genshin boys

[tastesoftamriel]

As someone who loves sweets, what fine desserts exist across Tamriel? I’ll bet the bosmer get super creative! And the Khajiit are sure winners.

Aside from candies and sweets, desserts across Tamriel reflect local tastes and vary in complexity, flavour, and texture.

Altmer

Dessert in Summerset is always served cool or chilled, and is bound to be just the right amount of flavourful and refreshing. Take, for example, the famous sorbet cups served everywhere from street corners in Alinor to posh dining tables. Some of my favourite flavours are candied cherry blossom, jasmine with dark chocolate chips, and mint with lime zest.

Argonians

Nothing beats the popping "onde-onde" balls beloved by Black Marsh residents. These sticky "cakes" are made of glutinous rice, and have a liquid coconut or palm sugar centre, and are liberally coated in shredded coconut. While small and easy to eat in a bite, the glutinous rice does get quite filling, so four is usually enough for dessert!

Bosmer

Custard, in its most perfect, creamy, glorious, silky form, is one of the staples of Valenwood desserts. Made with sugar mammoth cream and eggs, these lightly sweet custards are served as is, chilled, or topped with bacon bits for some crunch. My personal favourite is the non-Green Pact version of a creme brulee, where custard is drizzled with moon sugar and blasted with a flame spell until caramelised and crisp on top.

Bretons

The humble chocolate pastry is probably every Breton's favourite everyday treat, and for good reason. Sweet dark chocolate enveloped by buttery puff pastry is oh so simple yet oh so decadent. Best served with a cup of tea or coffee.

Dunmer

A traditional Dark Elf dessert loved by all from Mournhold to Windhelm is a deliciously weird "cake" made from a layer of sweetened glutinous saltrice, and topped with an equally-sized firm layer of marshmerrow custard. Served chilled, these "kueh salat" are enormously addictive and satisfying. One of my favourite desserts.

Imperials

Every Imperial dessert is enjoyable in my book, especially those containing a drop or two of something boozy. Take, for example, the humble tiramisu of Bruma. Almond and coffee and all things flavourful make up this rich, mascarpone-based cake, made traditionally with almond biscuits soaked in amaretto as a base. Topped with a mound of glorious cocoa powder, it's a sumptuous delight of a dessert.

Khajiit

Miso...caramel? Umami fermented soy bean paste meets rich moon sugar caramel for the ultimate flavour fusion that I certainly wasn't prepared for! Big batches of Miso caramel are always on hand in any confectioner's kitchen. It goes in everything from ice cream and cheesecake to being mixed with dulce de leche for an outrageously decadent pudding. On that note, I'll have one miso caramel pudding with a miso caramel cream coffee, thanks.

Nords

Steamed treacle pudding gets my vote as one of Skyrim's best desserts. Dense and gooey, and sometimes even drenched in mead, these puddings are served hot at every tavern (rivalling Breton sticky toffee pudding). Topped with whipped cream, the rich treacle is a real treat when poured over and infused into the rich butter pudding!

Orcs

Sweet potato pudding is a set custard infused with lots and lots of roasted sweet potatoes! Mashed and mixed into a plain creme patissiere, then swirled through with a spiced caramel swirl, these ganache-like treats are simply to die for (and you just might, if you try nick this off an Orc).

Redguards

Cardamom and saffron are ubiquitous in Redguard cooking, and this includes desserts. "Rasmalai", a dish made from fried, spongy patties of cottage cheese soaked in cardamon syrup, floating in a thick and sweet saffron and cardamom milk sauce. While it sounds a bit odd, rasmalai is a true treat for the senses, and is a rich and flavourful end to any meal.

[melzula]

Refined Taste

pairing: Zuko x Princess!reader

notes: an anon requested some more Iroh and Princess content so I delivered hehe

~ part of the fire lilies series ~

The soft whistle of the boiling tea pot is a welcomed sound that brings you a great sense of peace and comfort as you work in the kitchen of the Jasmine Dragon. Few customers occupy the shop as they sit and chat over cups of tea and mini cakes— a limited time only delicacy curtesy of the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe— and with a lull in the crowd after a very busy day at work, you’re happy to spend your free time chatting away with Iroh.

Today marked the fourth day of Zuko’s much needed slumber, so while you waited for him to wake you spent your time revisiting old friends and places in Ba Sing Se. You said hello to Miss Tai and bought three new dresses to help support her small business, you went out for a pleasant lunch date with Jin, and, something you were admittedly embarrassed about doing, you spent your evenings wistfully gazing out your window in hopes of spotting the Blue Spirit. It was odd being back in the place that held some of your happiest and some of your darkest memories, but you loved it all the same. During the day you made sure to check on Zuko as he slept, and when your presence was no longer needed you made yourself useful by helping Iroh run the Jasmine Dragon.

The events that had occurred in Yu Dao had almost been disastrous, but with the help of Katara and the residents of the colony Aang was finally able to see that Zuko had been right all along. You stayed on the sidelines just as you had told Zuko you would, it wasn’t your place to interfere, but now that things had settled and King Kue was willing to negotiate you would be attending the meeting as a representative for the South and to offer any aid you could. However, such a council could not take place until Zuko awoke, and so you found yourself in the company of Uncle Iroh.

“I don’t even want to imagine what my nephew’s life would be like without your courage and support,” Iroh says over the boiling water. “Thank you again for bringing him to me, y/n. Spirits know he wouldn’t have come on his own, he’s too stubborn.”

“Well, I did have some help from Aang,” you admit with a quiet laugh, “but you don’t need to thank me. I love Zuko, and I’ll always look out for his best interests.”

“So you’ve proven time and time again. He is lucky to have you, you know. Very lucky.”

“Thank you, Uncle,” you smile, gazing down bashfully at the sleeves of your dress. “But Zuko’s also lucky to have you.”

“He is lucky to have both of us. I mean, we are an excellent team,” Iroh says with a wink. Your shared laughter quiets at the sound of careful footsteps making their way into the room, and you feel your heart swell with love and adoration at the sight of a sleepy Zuko standing in the kitchen doorway.

“Well, look who finally decided to wake up!”

“Hi sleepyhead,” you say with a smile, rising from your seat to meet him halfway. Zuko is grateful for your touch as you rest a hand upon his cheek and press your lips against his own in a delicate kiss. You taste of honey and ginger, your intoxicating scent of fire lilies invading his senses, and though Zuko wishes he could kiss you with fervency, he settles for one last lingering kiss before finally parting from you; making out in front of his Uncle is something he’d rather not do, so he composes himself.

“How are you feeling?” Iroh asks, watching with an amused smile on his face as you and Zuko immediately cling to each other. Your arms wind around one another and hold each other close, and the love you share is enough to warm the old man’s heart. Yes, Zuko is in very good hands.

“Better,” Zuko notes faintly, “but tired.”

“I’ll make you a nice cup of green tea to wake you up a bit,” the man says as he immediately gets to work.

“Let’s go sit down,” you suggest, taking Zuko’s hand and guiding him towards one of the empty tables in the shop. He seats himself with a yawn and smiles gratefully as you take off your warm shawl and drape it over his shoulders before pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek. “Hungry? There’s still some mini cakes left over.”

“Are there any strawberry cakes?” He asks with a meek smile.

“But of course! What kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t make my boyfriend his favorite kind of mini cakes? I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you,” Zuko calls after your retreating form, hearts in his eyes as he watches you disappear behind the curtains. Would it be selfish of him to ask you to be his Fire Lady right now?

Iroh leaves the kitchen with a pot of tea just as you walk in to fetch Zuko his cake. You make sure to grab the one with the most strawberries and extra frosting, the way he likes it, and set it neatly onto a plate before returning to your beloved. Aang is now seated across from him, and so you say nothing as you place his food before him and sit down beside Zuko.

“—Since Roku’s my past life, in a way you’re my family, Zuko. And no matter how hard I’ve tried, I’ve never been able to detach myself from those sorts of bonds,” Aang laments. “It’s a flaw, I know, but it’s one I’ve decided to accept, for this life at least.”

“You’re not the one who’s flawed, Aang,” Zuko sighs. “Why can’t the struggle get easier for me? Even just a little? Sometimes I wonder how long I’ll last.”

He doesn’t meet your gaze when the confession leave his lips, but the way in which Zuko reaches over and tightly grabs hold of your hand is enough. Your heart breaks at his words and you desperately wish you could ease his pain and worries, but you know that being here by his side is enough for now. And you’ll be by his side whenever he needs you to be.

“You know, in that dream, a woman stood with us on that mountaintop watching from the shadows. I think she was my mother...”

“Sometimes, dreams are the way a person’s spirit reveals the answer to his own problems,” Iroh notes wisely. Then, with a humorous smile on his face, “but, then again, sometimes they are just the result of eating spicy food before going to bed.”

“Maybe finding my mother would connect me to a part of my heritage that isn’t so murky and confusing,” Zuko notes thoughtfully. “Maybe then I’d finally find peace. I’ve never told anyone this, but right after I became Fire Lord I sent out search party after search party looking for her. I even hired June and her shirshu. They all came back empty handed. What can I do now that I haven already tried?”

“It’s a new world, Zuko. You need to take some new risks,” Aang says wisely.

“We all do,” you agree, your mind already beginning to drift elsewhere as you calculate how long you can stay away from home without being missed too much.

“Speaking of risks,” Iroh cuts in with a smile as he presents three glass of odd looking to your trio, “why don’t you all try this brand-new beverage I invented?”

“What is it?” You ask curiously, taking the glass Zuko hands to you and swirling the odd looking balls at the bottom of it with your straw.

“Well first, I cook tapioca balls until they’re soft and tender. Then I put them in the tea, where they sit like little pearl-sized snacks at the bottom of each cup! Add a little milk and— ta-da!— a revolution in tea is born!”

Zuko and Aang share uneasy glances with each other before slowly taking sips from their glasses only to immediately cringe the moment the tapioca balls hit their their tongues.

“What is that trying to sneak into my mouth?!” Zuko exclaims after promptly spitting out the pearls.

“Wow,” Aang chuckles nervously, “I’ve never had tea that’s quite so... chewy.”

“It seems I am a man ahead of my time,” Iroh says sadly, his eyes casted downward to the floor. However, the noisy sound of a straw directs all attention towards the smiling Princess and interrupts his bout of sadness. Oblivious to the gazes of your friends set upon you, you happily suck the last of your tea from the glass until it’s completely empty. It’s only once your drink is gone do you finally notice the strange looks sent your way by Zuko and Aang.

“What?” You retort with furrowed brows. “It’s really good.”

“Finally, someone with taste!” Iroh exclaims happily at your praise. “It appears I am a revolutionary after all.”

“You actually like that stuff?” Zuko says flabbergasted.

“It’s just tea, but different,” you shrug, grinning when Zuko hands you his leftover drink to finish for him. “However, the only thing I would add is some ice. It tastes better cold.”

“Genius!” The tea maker compliments, watching in awe as you bend ice cubes of your own to plop into the glass. “Y/n, you must come to the Jasmine Dragon more often, I could use your refined taste.”

“‘Refined’ is a strong word,” Zuko murmurs only for you to elbow his side. “Ow! What did I say?”

“I’d be happy to, Uncle,” you say with a sweet smile.

“I think I know who the new favorite is,” Aang jokes only for Zuko to roll his eyes. However, he can’t help the smile that grows on his face as he watches you and his Uncle interact together. It was safe to say you hadn’t made a good impression on his sister or his father, but the only thing Zuko really cared about was his Uncle, and from what he could see the two of you were like peas in a pod. Faintly, Zuko wondered if you would be the same way with his mother.

“What are you thinking about?” You whisper to the Fire Lord, immediately taking notice of his far off look.

“About you,” Zuko admits to your surprise, “and how much I love you. And how I’m really glad you’re here.”

Heat spreads its way across your face and you smile bashfully at his profession, resting your head upon his shoulder as you converse with Aang. Though Zuko hates to keep you away from home longer than you need to be, he knows he’ll need your help with something else. But before he can ask you, there’s one person he still needs to see before he can begin his next journey.

He needs to talk to Azula.

| tags: @rainteslerrrr @simpinforsukka @sirkekselord @protect-remus @oddment-niwit-blubber-tweak @thebluelcdy @royahllty @the-firebender-girl @coldlilheart @ilovespideyyy @yiyibetch @eridanuswave @lammello @a-monsters-love @knaite-solo @draqondance @taeeemin @user12345321 @just--artemis--with--ghost @titaniafire @dekahg @emberislandplayers @kikaninchen-2 @lozzybowe @izzieserra @melacholy @music-geek19 @thia-aep @thyunnamed @haylaansmi @nataliahaslosthershit @idkdude776 @aangsupremacy @thirstyforsometea @ihaveaproblem98 @brown-eyed-thang @djskfkdkkf @xapham @yeetletzgetitjae @misnmatchedsox @chewymoustachio @that-bucket-hat-gal @chilifrylizard2 @kyomihann @kaylove12 @kiwihoee @freggietale @neighborhoodpansexualdisaster @noodlesfluffy @moon-spirit-yue @bubblegum-bee-otch

[evadingreallife]

Since the Best Tea poll is doing so well i thought i'd add to it with this poll on the great divide: loose leaves vs tea bags. Who will win?

[honeymeh]

tagged by @reineyday @roronoazooro @tsukasa-shishio @p13ck @gojosattoru @rorronoa @dazais-osamu @agathokakological-writer @quanxui @iyinsomnia @stfudabi @uchihha @itadorii-yuuji @bimarcille @izukatsukiis oh god thank you so so much!!! 🥺💖

favorite color- green 💚

last song- the day sound vanished from our life by kurei yuki’s & dazbee

last movie- josee, the tiger and the fish

last show- gintama

sweet, sour or savoury- savoury

craving- strawberry lolipop 🍓

tea or coffee- coffee!!

zodiac sign- libra <3

a city/country you’d visit if you could leave right now- hmm somewhere in india ig

languages you know- honestly the ones ik are the languages spoken in india and im learning marwari from my mom!!

favorite hot beverage- tea

favorite cold beverage- cold coffee

favorite sweet food- agar agar

favorite candy- pulse and alpenliebe

favorite flower(s)- arabian jasmine

otp(s)- hualian, wangxian, kai x uka, sasaki x miyano, xu sheng x zhao zhan! idk their ship name but they're some of my faves <33

why did you choose your url? well it was just on my mood jdgdj

any side blogs? hmm i have another blog @lovedsoup <3

how long have you been on tumblr? if it's about on this blog, then since last year ig

do you have a queue tag? no bc they're a pain in the ass lol im too lazy

why did you start your blog in the first place? it was bc i needed a seperate blog for animanga stuff <3

why did you choose your icon/pfp? bc he was adorable in that panel shdgj and a mood

why did you choose your header? i really adoreeee them

what's your post with the most notes? it's my kagehina coloring <3

how many people do you follow? 395

have you ever made a shitpost? who doesn't?

how often do you use tumblr? im here everyday lmao ive got no life </3

did you have a fight/argument with a blog once? nope not yet.

how do you feel about 'you need to reblog this post'? sometimes they're annoying

do you like tag games? i do!! it makes me really happy that they thought of me <3

do you like ask games? yepp!

which of your mutuals do you think is tumblr famous? ive many of them and they're so amazing!

do you have a crush on a mutual? nope

do you prefer to write fanfic, read fanfic, create fanart, make video edits or none of the above? i prefer making video edits.

nails painted? nope

would you prefer to live in an extremely hot or cold climate? hot climate, im used to it + i have ac and fan and i can always take off my clothes if needed and have cold shower but in cold climate im just stuck with a blanket, too annoying 😭

favorite flavor of chapstick or do you not wear any? i wear them sometimes. it's aloe and yk that original ones?? those.

enemies to lovers or friends to lovers? enemies to lovers!!! let's beat the shit out of each other and kiss 🤺❣️

favorite type of weather? rain my beloved!!

do you use :), :], or :D? all.

favorite manga/anime- i have way too many!!! but hmm gintama and cotw!!!

favorite comfort characters- gintoki

favorite bands/singers? again, i have too many lmao 😭

favorite animal? peacock, pups, monkeys

do you have any fears/phobias? acrophobia

what food you don't like? lmao that would a long list but i hate sweets and most gujarati dishes </3

does pineapple belongs on pizza? idk i haven't tried and im not gonna bc pineapples are a no for me ❌

what song are you listening to rn? one last kiss by hikaru utada

if you've read it all my love then im giving you a kiss on your cheeks ily 😭💕 hope you've a wonderful day!! and im tagging you <3 mwah!

[tev-the-random]

What it Ursa took her children with her? - Pt.2

As we were saying:

Little over year has passed since the family arrived in Hira’a, and fateful news gets to them: Ozai remarried. His new wife is someone who is honoured to marry the Firelord and doesn’t mind the fact that his head is so deep up his own arse- anyway, and they are expecting a child, who is to be the Firelord’s legitimate heir.

Azula’s hopes and dreams are shattered. At age ten, she is quite literally being replaced in her beloved father’s life. It’s like she’s never even existed, and she can’t help but wonder what she did wrong.

Zuko is also upset, of course. All those years when Ozai told him he was unfit and worthless come flooding back. But somehow, he already expected things to turn out like this. Unlike Azula, he wasn’t so deeply feeding on hopes that things would go back to normal. He sees it more as a situation that was out of everyone’s control.

He convinces Azula it’s not her fault, and these kids will still be trying to understand and defend their father later down the road. There must be a reason for all of this, right? They start thinking of a reasonable scenario…

Ursa just feels sorry for the poor woman who has to deal with Ozai now.

So we get a timeskip: about three years came and went. Zuko and Azula – treated as kids and not as weapons – lead a peaceful and happy life whenever they’re not thinking of their father and everything they could be doing out there.

They have become known local troublemakers in their spare time. Kids know better than to challenge them, people know not to leave flammable goods out in the open – a strict policy regarding fireworks has been established after a chaotic incident – and failure to keep an eye on them this one time led to… well, let’s just say that the town is still unsure of whether or not they’re is being haunted by evil spirits.

They aren’t allowed anywhere near Forgetful Valley, but bold of you to assume they never tried. In-jokes arise.

‘No, I’m serious: that tree’s face looked exactly like yours, Zuzu. You really should befriend it,’ Azula mocks, remembering a particularly ugly tree they encountered in their adventure.

‘Sorry, I wasn’t looking at it. I was busy looking for whoever it was that asked you,’ Zuko retorts. ‘Since Forgetful Valley has all the kinds of crazy stuff.’

‘Maybe we should go back and look for your impulse control, then.’

‘None of you are going back in there,’ Ursa reprehends. ‘It was very irresponsible of you. Forgetful Valley is a dangerous place, you could have gotten hurt!’

‘Your mother is right, you know?’ Noren comments. ‘I’ve been to that jungle before, and it’s definitely not a playground. But I swear…’ He makes a dramatic pause. ‘I once saw Ursa’s sense of humour in there.’

The kids burst out laughing while Ursa sighs. ‘Since you can find such amazing things in the valley, dear, why don’t you go back there and find yourself actual funny jokes? I’m sure my sense of humour will be around the same corner.’

*More laughter*

(IDK, I write crappy comedy, ok?)

They still have a bit of a hard time making friends. I wouldn’t say they are shy, but they definitely have a talent to say the wrong things at the wrong times, and it’s hard to make deep connections. Sure, they would play with other kids from time to time, but in the end, Zuko and Azula are each other’s best friend.

They’ve cleared an area by the beach that any Hira’a resident knows to stay away from when they’re training.

Azula discovered a great passion for theatre. Not only are her acting skills fantastic, she also seems to be naturally aware of what makes a good scene. People say she’s Noren’s Little Assistant.

She hates being called Noren’s Little Assistant. She would much rather be called Ursa’s Little Star, because goddamn is she a good actress and she needs everyone to know that.

Zuko is more of a plant-lover guy. Unfortunately, he hasn’t inherited his grandmother’s green thumb, and despite Ursa’s best efforts to teach him, it seems like everything he touches dies.

He has grown to show a way with animals, however. Any variety of frogs and toads love him; lizards of all kinds are attracted to him like he’s a magnet; furry animals big and small adore him and any type of bird-like creature seems to think he is the best human being in existence. But his favourite animals are still the turtleducks.

Back in the palace, Iroh eventually learns of Ozai’s bullshit and how he got the throne in the first place. And you know what? The time has come for Iroh to draw a line in the sand. He confronts his little brother, who confronts him back by telling him that, should he try to tell anyone in the Fire Nation the truth – that Ozai was a top-grade traitor who actually had no right to the throne –, no one would believe him. Since his brother won’t be sensible, Iroh decides that’s it: he’s fucking out.

Now a fugitive from the Fire Nation, he somehow winds up owning a lovely traveling tea shop called the Jasmin Dragon. Most people don’t even suspect he is the fearful Dragon of the West, because he’s just so nice?

You can bet he serves blends of tea from all across the nations.

The tea shop is also a good cover up for his exchanges with the Order of the White Lotus. He gives and receives information, and does his best to help villages to either defend themselves or evacuate during Fire Nation attacks.

One day a member of the White Lotus travels to Hira’a for one reason or another and finds Zuko and Azula. This person then sends a letter to Iroh.

Iroh comes to Hira’a to visit the family. He’s glad to see they’re ok, even if he can’t stay for too long. But long enough for some Quality Time – these kids have grown so much!

Iroh doesn’t know of Ursa’s part in Azulon’s assassination, and only assumes she knew of Ozai’s plan. But now, it’s time that her children learned a couple of things, and he is willing to teach them, so that when the time arrives for them to meet their destiny, they should be able to choose wisely and face whatever comes their way. So he asks the children to accompany him in his travels.

Ursa doesn’t want to let them go. They’re children, they should be here living a peaceful life, not meeting some grand, dangerous destiny! What if something horrible happened to them?

Iroh understands the pain of losing a child. He doesn’t want to make Ursa spend her time worrying about losing two, so he respects her decision and soon leaves the town.

But the siblings are not about to just sit here when they know they’re destined for something greater. What incredible knowledge did their uncle hold? Did their father have something to do with this? They always knew there was more to their fate than just living in Hira’a for the rest of their lives, and this is their chance; it’s now or never.

Zuko and Azula are about to sneak out and follow Iroh when Noren spots them. But instead of trying to stop them – he is well aware that he can’t – he gives them two masks and some advice about never forgetting who they were.

Why yes, I am saying that they eventually take the masks and become partners in crime, Zuko as the Blue Spirit and Azula as the Red Spirit, because parallels.

They catch up with their uncle and adventures and shenanigans issue as Zuko, Azula and Iroh cross the Earth Kingdom.

Now imagine this trio: two of the most awkward firebending teenagers travelling with their old tea-loving uncle, who spits proverbs like he’s made of them. The possibilities for both hilarious and heart-warming moments are endless.

Iroh thinks himself a matchmaker. Whenever he thinks he sees some romance going on, he encourages his nephew or niece to make a move. His flaming cupid arrows do more damage than good, yet he only has good intentions at heart. Teens all around the kingdom encourage you to stop, sir.

Their new life is even more humbling than in Hira’a, since they are constantly travelling. But they manage, and they know their uncle is nothing but wise… even if Azula is still quite arrogant and manipulative, and Zuko is impatient and hot-headed, which can lead to a lot of conflict.

Iroh teaches them both how to create and redirect lightning. Zuko is better at redirecting than Azula. Creating it, on the other hand, is a bit more complicated, and both of them get their fair share of explosions while learning. Neither of them really gets a hang of it – although Azula is better at it than Zuko, that’s not saying much – for they still have a lot of identity-related turmoil inside them that won’t let them grasp the energy.

Guess who else teaches them? Other members of the White Lotus. Both Zuko and Azula get some swordsmanship Skills™ from Piandao, some different (and somewhat unwillingly taught) firebending technics from Jeong-Jeong and a lot of things from Bumi, including but not limited to: creative thinking, the art of patience, strategic planning, dealing with pirates and a surprising amount of rocks-related knowledge.

Bumi adopted Zuko and Azula and gave himself the role of Second Uncle. You cannot convince me otherwise.

So one day, little over a year after the siblings joined Iroh, they wind up in a city where this big circus is performing. Uncle Iroh decides to take his niece and nephew to see it. And oh, aren’t they surprised by who they see performing?

Even though Ty Lee was essentially the only one between her sisters to befriend Azula – and consequentially, the only one to periodically spend time in the palace with her –, Zuko and Iroh still have a hard time distinguishing her from the six other girls who look exactly like her, uncertainly calling her all different names before Azula snaps ‘you idiots, that’s Ty Lee!’.

The acrobat is so glad to see her friend again, because damn: it’s been nearly four years since they last saw or even heard from each other! And Zuko, I thought you were dead? This is such a neat reunion, there’s so much for them to talk about! And sure, the circus has to leave soon and so do the siblings, but Ty Lee reassures them that, if they ever needed her, she wasn’t hard to find. This isn’t the last we’ll see of Ty Lee.

Azula doesn’t let it show, but she resents Ty Lee a little bit for choosing to abandon her noble life. She really wishes she could have had a choice.

Uncle Iroh tells the siblings stories about the war that would have some day mesmerized them. But now, his opinions about those events and what he did as a prince general have changed; that, along with what the family sees in their journey – all the horrors brought to innocent people – gives Zuko and Azula a new perspective on what they used to think was a greater good. It will still take a while for Azula to understand that no, these people are no lesser than her and for Zuko to understand why any of that matters.

Iroh eventually tells them the truth about Azulon’s death. Or at least, what he knows of it: their father killed Azulon, banished them, took the throne by force and planned to gain more power at the expense of everyone. This is a lot to take in, and the siblings don’t quite believe it.

After four years thinking about it, Zuko and Azula decided to take their mother’s early words – they went to Hira’a to be safe – and formulate what for them was a reasonable scenario. They believe that Ozai never actually wanted any of this to happen. The whole family had to have been in danger, be it due to some political, social or personal threat, and Ozai wanted to take it all by himself to protect them. So he sent his wife and children away, concocted a plan with Azulon to cover for them and, once Azulon died and left him the throne, remarried to keep appearances. To Zuko and Azula, this makes perfect sense. And they thoroughly convince themselves of that.

They initiate an argument, thinking that Iroh is jealous of Ozai.

Their uncle sees these children are starting to stray from their path, but he knows this is a necessary journey for them. They will never be able to deal with reality unless they face it.

The siblings leave Iroh, planning to head straight to the Fire Nation capital and find out what really happened. Maybe now that they are older, it would be a perfect time to come back home; they surely could defend themselves from any threats.

Of course, they’ll be very disappointed to know that Ozai was just a bitch and never actually cared for any of them.

I don’t have a full formed idea about how their reencounter with their father would go down, but I say Ozai would officially banish both his children from the Fire Nation for trying to cause a commotion – which could easily be perceived as a threat. Not only that, but Zuko and Azula are the children of a traitor; cue for Ozai revealing what happened that night four years ago, confirming that he was the one to kill Azulon with Ursa’s help.

I also think that, after that day, the Firelord would have discreetly helped spread rumours about Ursa that would drag her name through the mud in the Capital – was she cheating on Ozai? Was she selling Fire Nation information to the Earth Kingdom? Was she planning a coup against the Firelord? Her crimes change from mouth to mouth. In the end, no one would take Zuko or Azula back unless Ozai wanted it. But he doesn’t. Not now, at least…

But Ozai also decides to play with his options: he plants a seed of doubt in his children’s minds; should they prove themselves useful later on, it would only take pulling a few strings for them to come crawling back to him. So he tells them that they needed to prove themselves for everyone to see that they weren’t traitors like their mother. They needed to prove their worth so that he could accept them.

Ozai goes a step further with Azula and tells her that, before his demise, Firelord Azulon had a plan. A plan to bring her back and put her in the leading, prestigious role she was always meant to get. But they needed to wait for the right time. There is a right time, Princess Azula. Your hopes were right all along, they will come for you eventually if you prove yourself.

The siblings have a lot to think about while they’re leaving the Fire Nation. They idolized Ozai so much all these years. But the undeniable truth came crashing down on their heads, spoken by the man himself. What would they do now? They didn’t think it possible, but their harsh actions made things so much worse: they couldn’t come back to their mother, they didn’t have many hopes of running into Iroh again, they can’t even set foot in their homeland anymore; Zuko and Azula are all on their own.

Maybe it’s time to turn a new leaf. It starts with them being fairly neutral, not completely loyal to either the Fire Nation or to the rest of the world. During this period, they would argue a lot about what to do or where to go next, getting separated and going their own ways before destiny makes them stick together again, over and over.

They manage to get a few deals and own a few favours here and there, become known thieves as the Spirits, and maybe meet up with Ty Lee’s circus every now and again. Life is hard.

But there is one thing that is about to be a beacon in their darkness…

Time to catch up to the show. Oh, you thought I wouldn’t go there?

Part 3 coming right up!

(I know I said this would be a two-parter, but it got ridiculously long, so I split it again. Three-parter now.)

[queenofeden]

my contributions to @lovelikeyoursfest for the first prompt, “the start of something new”. these are technically both excerpts from longer in-progress fics featuring my apprentice, laurel, but they happened to fit the theme so well i thought at least part of them deserved to see the light of day. consider this a teaser for my future works if u find urself interested~

chronologically, nadia comes first, julian can be found under the cut

Nadia & Laurel

January, 5 years ago

The whole of Vesuvia thrums with the energy of the masquerade, like one large body set to motion at last after a long winter. The lights, the reeling crowds, they pulse and pump as they make their way along the arterial canals, upwards, always upwards, to the highest reach of the city -- to the beating heart of it all -- the palace. Laurel catches Asra’s hand in her own, dragging him along, or he her, or perhaps they simply get swept away together by the throng, laughter bubbling on her lips for what feels like the first time in months.

Try as one might, it is easy to get separated once the party truly takes hold of the palace. The hoi polloi of Vesuvia clamor towards the offered food and drink, while the elite swan about and entertain themselves with chatter and gossip. It is not with intent that she loses track of Asra somewhere past the room full of enchanted, talking statuary. One moment he is there, and the next he is not, the space he once occupied at her side now taken up by three bustling women in matching silver gowns and masks done up like swans, all vying for entry into the room. It matters little to Laurel. Asra will find her eventually, when he cares to be found himself. He always does, somehow, whether she cares for him to or not.

There is little intent to where she wanders, keen to let herself be drawn wherever the whims of the party may take her. She knows there is something surrounding her -- a pall of grief, though it seems too melodramatic a sentiment. It is a palpable, invisible thing about her nonetheless. People walk around her, unsure of why, rowdy drunkards don't dare to jostle or bump her. Her own personal never-mind-me spell, cast without intent simply by virtue of existing. Their disinterest rankles, but she shoves the ill-feeling down deep. It's not them she's here for, anyway. A tall glass of fizzing wine makes its way into her hand, plucked deftly from a passing servant’s platter, and she carries it along in her gloved hand, sipping occasionally, leaving a smear of bright red along the rim of the glass from her painted lips.

The heavy press of the party lessens as she finds herself on the veranda, the roar in her ears fading, carried away on the cool evening breeze. It chills her overheated skin, bare beneath only a few thin layers of chiffon and satin, and she relishes the prickle of gooseflesh it leaves in its wake like a kiss. She takes her glass and drains the last of the golden wine too quickly, and trades it for another -- something pink and dangerously sugared this time. This too she finishes in a few deep gulps, setting the empty glass back onto the bemused servant's tray and taking another before they have time to even move away. Alone, save for the alcohol that burns in her too empty stomach, she wanders the less crowded gardens, full of others who have little interest in being found. She hums along to a familiar tune as she passes through a faint cloud of sound, drifting over the tops of the immaculately trimmed hedge walls.

She feels sweet with wine and song, the lightest she has felt all year. Here, the sounds and smells, the anonymous, whirling multitude of bodies-- they keep out what Laurel would rather forget. Here there is no responsibility, no pitying glances from familiar patrons, none of Asra's well-intentioned saccharine condolences. No one knows her here, not behind the gilt painted mask. She is hardly herself, if she wants not to be, and oh how desperately she craves the chance to not be herself, if only for just a little while. That is the true magic of the Count’s masquerade, something far more powerful than what she could throw together in a mortar at home and call such. She is only the swell of the music. It lifts her slippered feet, carrying her in some semblance of dance as she walks the cobbled path, eyes closed in what would feel almost like joy, if she could remember the feeling.

There is no one on the path with her, no one to see her dizzy, stumbling attempt at a coranto, so when her body meets something else -- someone else, the slide of a silk gown against her bare arms -- her eyes snap open, and she stumbles backward with an embarrassed curse.

"Shit! Sorry, so sorry."

Laurel lifts her gaze, expecting to see the heated glare of whomever she'd been unlucky enough to plow into. What she does not expect is the countess -- The Countess -- blinking back at her with equal amounts of surprise. 

With a choked sort of squeak, Laurel drops immediately into her best, lowest curtsy, knees creaking and head bowed so low her mask threatens to slip straight off her nose.

"O-oh, My Lady Countess, forgive me! Please forgive me!"

Her heart hammers in her chest. The Countess! Of all people to drunkenly stumble into! The count would likely have her head for daring lay a hand, however accidental, on his beloved wife. Or perhaps the countess herself would ask him to cut off her wicked, clumsy feet instead as a mercy. 

Less likely was the countess's voice -- rich and deep and rolling over her like sweet molasses -- saying softly, "It’s quite alright. Please stand."

Laurel blinks, straightening her spine in fractions, giving ample time should the countess deign to change her mind and command her to sprawl, prostrate in the dirt, at her feet instead. She doesn't. Eventually, Laurel is able to lift her chin and look the -- only slightly -- taller woman in the eye for the first time.

She had known the countess was beautiful, much in the way that people knew the sky was blue, the grass grew green, and the south was a frigid waste, an immutable fact. People spoke often of her features in the market, lauding the beauty of her violet hair, her striking, crimson eyes, her high, royal brow. More so, she knew it to be true by the simple truth that vain Count Lucio would never settle for less. What few memories she has -- a parade, swirling streamers in the air; the profile of a distant woman, nestled like an idol on a float of white roses and purple hyacinth -- are clouded by time and distance. She had pieced her together that first year, vague impressions and gossip and distant glances in the town square where she deigned to appear. Vesuvia's very own princess had crossed her mind very little after that.

This close, close enough to smell her sweet jasmine of her perfume, to count the faint few freckles on her bare shoulders, Countess Nadia is more lovely than Laurel could have ever imagined.

Laurel's gaping leaves her uncharacteristically silent, but the countess seems to recover first. Likely she's used to filling stunned silence.

"How is that you found me here?" she asks, a faint tinge of pink across her nose, though whether it is from embarrassment or anger Laurel cannot gauge.

Laurel glances around, taking in the tall topiaries that surround them. “I-- where is here, exactly?”

Julian & Laurel

Late September, 5 years ago

1.

The first time she arrives at his clinic, Julian doesn’t yet know that he should turn the woman he would come to know as Laurel Lobban away. She comes to his clinic like most regular patients, in a hurried flurry of skirts, eyes bright — not red, thankfully, the sclera a clear, healthy white with irises of sky blue — sharp with an edge of desperation. Perhaps a family member was sick, a spouse, or sister. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had dragged him from his clinic in the misty, early hours of pre-dawn with their pleas.

He lets the woman in — his first mistake — and leads her to the small table in the corner where he offers her a perfunctory cup of poorly brewed coffee or tea, though she doesn’t look to be in any particular need of it. There is a tension to her body, ratcheted tight as a halyard line. If plucked she might sing, high and sweet like the E string of his vielle, but that could also be his third cup of coffee before sunrise talking. From over her nose and mouth, she pulls down her paisley patterned scarf to reveal full but drawn lips, chewed raw and near bleeding. She stretches and bunches the fabric in her hands, twisting it into knots.

“You’re the doctor, then, yes?” she asks, squinting up at him. “Doctor Devorak? The one everyone talks about?”

A grin, black and bitter as the lingering taste of coffee in his throat, spreads his lips thin at that. “Well, now, that depends. What do the people say?”

The woman watches him, eyes canny as a hawk, flitting between his features, sizing him up. “They say you help people, that you don’t overcharge like the hacks in the heart district do.” She sniffs with derision then, nose crinkling up, though whether at the thought of his colleagues uptown or the smell of something in the room, he cannot tell. Astringent probably, he had just cleaned his tools for the day. Often he forgets how strong the smell can be to those far less nose blind than he. She coughs delicately, like she’s trying to suppress a gag. “They say you’re a good man.”

Ah, well, hm. Julian can’t say he’s heard that one before. ‘Foul, beaked harbinger of misery’ yes, ‘heartless bastard’ sure, ‘utter fool’ sometimes, but good man? Compliments were not something many of his patients or their families had on their minds once he was around. Her words settle like a heavy stone in his near empty stomach. This close, with her looking at him just so, her eyes are less so the color of summer. Darker, near navy, paling into a grey to match his own with a flash of almost-barely-there yellow at the center, like a brewing sky at sea -- one set to storm and tear him to pieces any moment, the look of them setting his sailor’s intuition on edge. He ignores them, words and eyes both. 

“And are you in need of my help then?” he asks, stepping away to rifle through his curio cabinet, stuffed to bursting with jars of tinctures and salves. “You don’t look beplagued, perhaps some other malady? Allergies? A fungus?”

A loud, nearly surprised, scoff. “I don’t have a fungus,” she asserts with umbrage.

He feels his cheeks heat, grateful that his head is buried in the cabinet and not on view of her no doubt scrutinizing gaze. “Of course not, of course not, so sorry. I didn’t intend any offense miss-- ah, I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Laurel, Laurel Lobban.”

She’s right behind him again. He jumps, knocking the shelves with a wayward elbow as he turns. Her hand is held out to shake, and he takes it with mild surprise. Her grip is firm, no nonsense, but she squeezes a little too hard just before she lets go in a way that lets him know how intentional, how controlled those reads he took of her were. He would see nothing of her that she didn’t want him to, that much he could tell. 

“Laurel Lobban,” he repeats, rolling the matching consonants on his tongue. “Laurel, laurus nobilis, lauraceae, like the plant,” he rambles, finishing rather dumbly. She snorts.

“Yes... like the plant. Are you all right, doctor?”

Was he all right? Maybe that third coffee had been a bad idea. “Fine, fine. Though I would be more fine if I knew what I could help you with, Miss Lobban. Hard to diagnose if I don’t know what ails you.”

“I don’t — ” she sighs, frustration warring across her features. “I’m not sick. I’m not here for some tincture. I — I want to work with you.”

He laughs. It was the wrong thing to do, by the telling darkening of her expression, the subtle shift in her jaw as she clearly clenches her teeth. He can’t help it though. It trails off, nervously, his stance shifting from one leg to the other. Whatever you do next, proceed with caution, Ilya.

“Work? Work here?” Nailed it.

“Do you work elsewhere?”

“I — no. This is it,” he replies, gesturing weakly at the single, cramped room, with it’s tiny storage closet and its rickety loft where he keeps his private office which is little more than a second closet. Why would anyone want to work here? With him?

“Then yes, here. With you.”

That he didn’t like.

“And do you ah — do you have any medical expertise then?”

She frowns. There’s a knot of lines between her brows that would be cute, almost endearing, in any other situation than this. Her cheeks flush pink. “Well, no. I mean I’ve read a few books, but… I had hoped you would take me on as an apprentice.”

His mouth falls open, spluttering. He weaves around her so that he’s no longer pinned, like a bug to a board, between her expectant gaze and the cabinet. “Unfortunately Miss Lobban, I’m not equipped to take on apprentices at this time. You see, I’m — well, the fact of the matter is — ”

Stop it. Stop talking.

“There are plenty of other doctors who would take you on, I’m certain.” Who? It doesn’t matter. Doctors who aren’t me. Why would anyone want to learn from a failure who couldn’t even cure his patients, anyway? What could he possibly have to offer an apprentice?

“I don’t want those doctors. They say you’re the best in the city, I want to work with the best.”

The best. Julian bites back another fit of laughter. Grinning — baring his teeth really — instead. “Now now, flattery won’t change my mind.”

She’s followed him again, standing as close behind him as she dares while he flits about the room, restless with nervous energy.

“If I was flattering you, doctor, you would know.”

Had he been this insistent when he’d come to Nazali the first time? Almost certainly, if the stories he’d heard oft repeated are true. How had they put up with him, and not thrown him out on his ear? The simple answer is that they are a much better doctor, a better person, than he. Nazali had discovered the plague, had made the greatest strides in its classification, its treatment, yet. And what had he done with their teachings? Squandered it all. Sat by and watched as patient after patient came to him for help, had plied them with false comforts, and in the end had done nothing, save for ease them into their inevitable deaths. He should tell her that. Should count out his many failures for her like he does for himself every night in place of sheep. Certainly that would frighten her away.

What he says instead is this: “Have you ever watched someone die?”

Her mouth goes slack, obviously taken aback by his question. For a moment he sees the fear flash across her eyes, but quick as it came it's replaced by something else. Something harder. She licks her lips and smiles, lips wobbling at the edges. "Do you ask all the girls that, or am I just special?"

He keeps his gaze hard, until the slight upturn of her lips collapses into a frown.

“Surely that can’t be a prerequisite for the job.”

“On the contrary,” Julian replies, nerves solidifying. “Humor me.”

Laurel’s eyes slide sideways. “No,” she says carefully, chewing over her words. “Though death and I are no strangers.”

Julian takes a deep breath, a brief flare of pain in his chest for having been the cause of the dark shadows that crossed over her features at that admission. He rakes a hand through his curls, shoving them away from his face, where they stay for a moment, before flopping back into his eyes. 

“So you have lost someone?” he asks, though it is less question and more statement of fact.

Her gaze flicks back to him, sharp and pointed as the tip of a blade. “Hasn’t everyone in Vesuvia by now?” she asks him cooly. 

Julian at least has the grace to look chagrined, feeling the heat of one of his telltale flushes burning under his collar. “I suppose you have a point there.”

“I don’t relish the thought of death, Doctor Devorak, if that’s your concern.” Laurel grips the strap of her bag tightly, staring up at him, imploring. “And I’ve no agenda, I assure you. I simply want to find some way to help.”

It is that moment that the door of the clinic swings open, the sharp RANG-CLANG-CLANG of the bell startling the both of them. A barrel-chested man heaves in the doorway, face shining, slick with sweat as he gasps, hands on his knees.

“Doctor! Doctor please, my husband he — “

Immediately, something shifts in Julian. One moment he is himself, good old Ilya Devorak. The next he is simply Doctor, parts within himself shuttering closed as others open, the whole of him changing as instinct takes over, just as it had every instant before a battle when the quiet set in and he and Nazali knew the first wave of bodies would soon hit; the calm before the storm, captured entirely within himself like a model ship trapped in a bottle.

“On it!” he barks, grabbing his overcoat and mask from their hooks with practiced ease, already making long strides towards the door before Laurel’s voice cuts through the quiet roar of his thoughts.

“Doctor please!” she all but hisses, chasing after him with stubborn steps. “I need — let me do something, anything!”

With a sigh, Julian reaches out and fixes the scarf about her neck back over her nose and mouth before placing his own mask over his face. Safe behind red glass, he cannot see the piercing blue of her eyes anymore, no longer at risk of being swept away by the violent current of her.

He takes her by the arm, and gently but firmly leads her to the door, past the panicked man who dumbly, silently, follows them out onto the street at Julian’s other hand. The rosy tendrils of pre-dawn light are barely making their way across the sky, the cobbles beneath their feet still heavy with morning fog yet to be burned away by the heat of the day. With a deft flick of his wrist, Julian switches the crude sign on the door front from ‘IN’ to ‘OUT’. When he turns back, Laurel still lingers under the halo of lantern light, hem of her skirts dancing around her ankles as she shifts anxiously from foot to foot. 

“I — ” 

“Go home, Miss Lobban,” he says, voice half muffled, mouth filling with the cloying scents of camphor and dried roses. “Truly, the best you can do for anyone is to not find yourself here again.”

With that Julian turns and follows the snuffling man where he leads, leaving Laurel behind him, disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom.

[v01d-ch1ld]

The Hardest of Hearts

This is my first one shot I am making this a RobRae with Damian Wayne and Raven from Justice League vs. Teen Titans. Inspired by The Hardest of Hearts by Florence + the Machine

 There is love in your body, but you can't hold it in It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts.

            Damian Wayne was known for many things, being the grandson of Ra’s Al Ghul, being the son of Batman, being difficult and spoiled, being noble, being kind to animals, his cleverness, his looks, his ruthlessness. He was known most of all for having the hardest heart in the family, besides Bruce. When he was first put with the Teen Titans, he was sullen and angry that his father just shipped him away. He was volatile and brusque with everyone until he met her.

           Raven was something he did not expect. She was aloof and brusque, but she was clever like him and quick-witted. She was dark and quiet and mysterious, and he longed to know more about her because she was the hardest to read. The feel of her in her mind was something that at first was unwelcome, however over time he came to long for that same gentle touch. Her scent was dark and warm like the incense he would burn in his room on stressful nights. She passed through a room like a shadow that encompassed all the crevices of his mind.

           Raven was known for many things magic, being the daughter of Trigon, being a demon, being creepy, a witch, and a Satan worshipper (which was far from the truth), she was known for being introverted, cruel, mean, apathetic, and for being negative. She was known most of all for being the conscience of the team and having the hardest heart in the tower. When she first came to the Titans with the prophecy still over her head, scared, and alone, she was volatile and brusque with everyone, until she realized that she needed friends. Friends that would help her overcome her struggles and that she could love in place of the family she never had.

Robin was known for advanced weapons tactics, masterful command of missions, strategy, and his willingness to put others before themselves. As vicious as he was there were still signs of greatness within him that she admired. And, as much as she would never admit it, seeing him in all of his glory while he was fighting was quite the sight to see. He was graceful and stealthy and a force to be reckoned with. When she met him, he was mean to her, but she recognized that he was hiding behind his sarcasm. Damian was hiding behind Robin, the son of Bruce Wayne, and the grandson of Ra’s Al Ghul.

When she met Damian for the first time at the carnival, she was surprised to find someone much like herself. He was funny and smart and a fantastic dancer. Watching him dance was almost as entertaining as watching him fight. His grace and his balance were always perfect, never missing a beat. He even won her a prize.

They found themselves quite some time later, after the battle, after he convinced her to come home with the rest of the team, after she had met all of his brothers, and after she had come to know everything he hated about himself, together. Together alone in the tower, it was quiet, a rarity, and Damian was in his room practicing tai chi, while Raven was meditating in her own. She was keeping a sliver of her consciousness on him. The emotions he was radiating earlier screamed rage and hurt. She knew he would come to her when he wanted to.

She didn’t have to wait long. He came into her room about four hours later, his aura less angry red and slightly more of a calmer, though darker than what she would have liked, shade of green. He was carrying a tray of tea, jasmine by the scent, with lemon and sugar and shortbread cookies and raspberry jam, some of her favorites and some of his. She nodded her head at him, and he walked inside, placing the tray on her bed and sitting on it. She came down from where she was floating and sat beside him. Immediately his shoulders relaxed, moving closer to her and sitting by her side. He doctors the tea to her liking and passes her the cup. Thanking him with a small smile she takes the cup and takes a long drink. He makes his cup and leans against the pillows.

“Why is it that I can never seem to impress him?” He says quietly like he is scared she would push him away.

“You do, constantly. He has pride in you, but he has a hard time showing his emotions, you know that.” She responds calmly.

“Would it kill him to say something though?” he pouts, rare for him, “he says it to Grayson and Drake all the time. I’m the blood son but I get sent off here while they get taken on all the important missions.”

Raven laughed. If only he knew how much Bruce actually cared about him.

“What’s so funny, witch girl?” he snapped.

“He wants you to be happy and safe, Damian. That’s all he wants. He wants you to have friends and to be happy. He knows that that is an impossibility at school so he thinks you will find friends here.”

“Tch, I would make friends if I wanted them.” He groused. She saw right through him. He already thought of her as a friend and Jaime and even Garfield, when he wasn’t playing with Damian’s knives.

“You already have friends Damian. He is happy you have the team. He expects you to lead the Justice League one day.”

“Really? Well, I would expect nothing less from him.” Damian smirked. There he was. The love in his eyes that shone only for her and the cockiness that drew her further in. He leans into her side and she positions them that he is lying with his head on her stomach. She quickly works her hands into his thick black hair. He closes his eyes as she runs her hands softly through the locks humming a song that she heard once.

“What are you humming, habibti?” He asks. She blushes and the candles on her vanity ignite.

“A song by Florence + the Machine. I just started listening to her and I like her music, it’s very dark.”

“Sing to me, beloved. I love to hear your voice.” A declaration, something to treasure. So rarely do they openly declare their mutual feelings and established relationship in the open air, preferring instead to use gentle and subtle touches and looks and the shadow of night to show their love. She laughs.

              “There is love in your body but you can't hold it in It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts”

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply enjoying the sound of her voice. She was a good singer, though most don’t know she has the talent. Something about music being invented by demons and that’s why it is an inherent thing for demons to be able to dance and sing well.  

“The hardest of hearts The hardest of hearts The hardest of hearts

There is love in your body but you can't get it out It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth Sticks to your tongue and shows on your face That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste”

The music may well have been speaking of them, two souls one and the same with the hardest of hearts that love has begun to soften and tame. Their nondescript shows of affection have prevented all but perhaps his father from knowing of their relationship.

“Darling heart, I loved you from the start But you'll never know what a fool I've been Darling heart, I loved you from the start But that's no excuse for the state I'm in

The hardest of hearts The hardest of hearts The hardest of hearts

There is love in our bodies and it holds us together But pulls us apart when we're holding each other We all want something to hold in the night We don't care if it hurts or we're holding too tight

There is love in your body but you can't get it out It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth Sticks to your tongue and it shows on your face That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste”

Neither one of them, despite their cleverness, had much of a way with loving words, a product of how they grew up he supposed. Though it never mattered to either one of them. He loved her despite the fact that there would be no drawn-out love declarations or public shows of affection. It made them both uncomfortable. He preferred this, sitting in her room with her as she sung or read. Together they were at peace and that meant more to him than any flashy show of shallow affection.

“Darling heart, I loved you from the start But you'll never know what a fool I've been Darling heart, I loved you from the start But that's no excuse for the state I'm in

The hardest of hearts The hardest of hearts The hardest of hearts

My heart swells like a water at work Can't stop myself before it's too late Hold on to your heart 'Cause I'm coming to take it Hold on to your heart 'Cause I'm coming to break it

Hold on hold on hold on hold on hold on Hold on hold on hold on hold on hold on The hardest of hearts (hold on, hold on) The hardest of hearts (hold on, hold on) The hardest of hearts (hold on)”

 There was one thing the song got wrong though, he was never going to break her heart.

@nxttime @batfam-imagines@dcuniversefanatic @dcdweeb @dc-hoe @justbatfamheadcannons

[thekhanalovers]

CHAI AND BAJI, the best companions.

Food : 5/5

Cost: 5/5

Ambience: 5/5

Location:5/5

Staff: 5/5

Service: 5/5

Cleanliness: 5/5

Chai Galli for the best Jasmine tea, cutting chai, masala chai, Tulsi chai goes on and on. 

Chai is an anytime drink for us. We love chai and we have it twice a day. A good Authentic cup of chai, those you find in any Indian street corners is a perfect balance between tea and milk. @chai galli brews tea in such a way that perfectly combines the strength of black tea with sweetness of hot milk, made amazing with adding sugar. Chai lovers must visit @chai galli for the perfect Authentic tea with Parle-G biscuits. 

Chai is India's most popular and beloved beverage. Chai lovers are in every book and corner of the country. Chai has always been and excellent conversion builder. We love going for tea parties and chai galli is the perfect place as the ambience is set for the perfect cup. 

Cutting chai is my favorite, it is all time classic and with less milk more water. The taste completes when u dip the Parle-G biscuits into it and take a bite. No words to explain this perfect combination. Jasmine tea is nothing but the best I like to have when I don't feel like having tea with milk and sugar. Not always you have green tea, jasmine tea is also a choice for people who do not want to have milk in tea. 

Tea is not complete without a snack with it. The perfect snack is the baji or Bun maska. I also love the combination of maggi and tea. Aloo samosa loved by all Indians and vada pav is the best at chai galli. They have the complete list of snacks that will be best combined with a cup of chai. The onion baji is the best. Most of us love to have Pastas with tea. @chai galli has anything that goes with tea. Tea is nothing but an emotion for India and we love to have it with the best combination of snacks not just a cup of it. 

For any further questions drop in: thekhanalovers@gmail.com 

#thekhanalovers 

[kanghuteh]

the loneliness of the way

In many ways the beginning of 茶道, the way of tea, for me was in Manila. Living in Mabuhay Temple, the Chinese auntie who came in with her crystals and gold, silk shirts, antique yixing tea ware and delicate porcelains sat us down with 肉餅/hopia and proceeded to brew a Tie Guan Yin oolong for all 15 or so of us retreat members. She had her Filipino helpers set up a driftwood table with a built-in drain, her kettles, and a set of smelling cups and drinking cups. She told us about the story of the oolong, an Iron Guan Yin statue blessing a devotee with the tea leaves, as green as jade. Her yixing cups coated with glaze on the inside smelled fragrant as she showed us how to hold the cup gently, like the hand of a beloved, warming the walls of the clay to help the scent rise up into the air. She told us to take a bite of the hopia made of mung bean, and as we drank said to see if we could see how the flavor changed, how every brew was different, bringing out more and more notes. Could we be mindful of this?

Almost everyone didn’t seem to care much, the troublemakers making noise, the rest just grateful to be eating. It was later in the day and we were all starving from Kung Fu drills, cleaning the temple, and learning about Ch’an meditation and Mahayana Buddhist theory. But the way she returned again and again to show us how to hold the lid of the pot, how to hold the gaiwan, trying her best to stay calm in the face of students refusing to listen to her—it told me something about how the way of tea supported her Buddhist practice. She reminded us of the Guan Yin outside, holding her vase of holy water out into the world, blessing us with compassion over and over again, how the taste of oolong spread in our mouths much like this benediction.

The first person I drank tea in this way with again was a man I met in Kaohsiung, the last month of my stay with Fo Guang Shan. It was a budding romance as I balanced the decision to continue with this path or to return to the world. One day, he invited me to walk down from our mountaintop monastery to the visiting hall at the foot of the mountain to drink tea. We walked around and decided to try some tea. The lady offered us some oolong and we drank together, savoring the flavor, my heart turning towards the world again. He asked the tea host to snap a photo of us as we drank the tea, thanked her for her time, and left.

After that, tea was mostly a lonely affair for me. After having married him and moving to San Francisco, when I picked up the way of the tea, it was not something we would do much together, as I thought we would. The strain of our issues, our diverging paths slowly becoming evident. Once I cooked a Lunar New Year’s meal for us and prepared some tea and he refused to join, citing a moon day, wearing all white. I sat and finished the dumplings myself, brewed myself some tea for the night, the celadon cup clinking on the glass pitcher as I poured the tea, clear and hued. What was love like, I asked myself, what was partnership like. The tea splashed and looked, for a second like a quiet river being pooled into a vessel.

Of course, it wasn’t like we didn’t have tea together, but the times I sat down for tea and invited him to join were spurned too many times, in such violent ways, that perhaps it was wise that I acknowledged the beginning separation for what it was instead of hoping it would go away.

We shared many meals with tea together, but these times are always coupled with a memory of his impatience, his dislike of something or the other. I think in our marriage, he only sat down for tea with me alone twice. Near the end of our marriage, I took out jasmine mung bean cakes, some pastries, made some dumplings, brewed some jasmine pearls a Mandarin teacher gave us and invited him to sit. He grabbed a few dumplings and left the room.

Of course, other times he joined in when his friends or our friends would come, happily chatting. Those were good nights filled with soft music, small clouds of incense, and tea, late into the night.

After he announced he was leaving for an attempt at being a monk, I didn’t drink tea with anyone for a long time. I often brewed tea for myself in my room, at first meditating so hard at his urging, him asking me to follow him into his path. At night I would brew a bitter mix of chrysanthemum, chamomile, and valerian root in my gaiwan and gulp it down, praying for sleep to take over sooner so I would no longer have to cry. The first month of that separation, I would wake up and sit intently, brew a cup, praying for the same sense of renunciation to appear within me again. I wanted to follow him because I still loved him. And one day I found that I had to stop. It became clear: it was not my path now. I would brew tea for myself to wake up at first, and eventually stopped. It didn’t feel right to brew tea now, something I had hoped to keep doing with this man for the rest of my life. The way of tea, the way of Buddha Dharma felt so utterly lonely now. There was no one in the Bay I could sit with to explain my sadness to, no one in the Bay who could say: this was unfair but your acceptance of it is also virtuous, also good, also strong. Instead I dismantled my shrine, put away my gold statues, returned further into the world.

One of the last things we did together was to have tea. He insisted upon it and at the time I only obliged because I missed drinking tea with someone. I began brewing occasionally for myself at our NYC apartment, the one I asked him to join me in for my immigration’s sake and for his sake—he was falling in love with an ex and had hoped to pursue a life with him. I told him if he wanted to truly be a monk he should leave this man behind and begin pursuing his intention of renunciation more definitely.

This night that we drank tea, he was on his way to a meditation group that I had always wanted to attend, that I’d stayed with prior to our move to the city. I stayed away for his whole time here because I didn’t want for us to be associated together then, I wanted him to build his own way into the path. It didn’t feel right to stand by him as a companion in this way when he had stopped being mine, even as a friend. This night we drank together, I enjoyed the teas and for an hour we were back to being old friends. As we left the distance grew larger and larger. He asked me to join him for a sit, but it was much too painful. After all, how could I return to the faith that brought me this much pain?

Only when I look back now do I see the importance of this moment. He was asking me to relive the things we did together as a farewell. Tea was one of the things we did. But at that point, I didn’t need a farewell from him. I just needed him to be kind.

Our time together in New York has been perhaps one of the most painful ones in my life. After this tea session, he would call me an enemy who was forcing him to stay in the world. He was quite selfish in his method of renouncing. I couldn’t say it then, but now I can. I can acknowledge it now and begin to heal. Even though New York has opened many old scars, created dark times in my heart, it also reminded me of friends I could have outside of this, good friends who still stuck around after our marriage and friends I knew from back then, and friends I was about to make.

I slowly began to pick up the way of tea again. An old friend from our time in Kaohsiung, who knew us from the beginning of our relationship visited New York. She invited me to come try out tea houses with her, places I didn’t think I would ever go to. She sat down in a tea house and listened to my story, held space for me, and acknowledged the pain I had endured in that relationship: the racism, the privilege, the harshness of it all. For once, I was allowed to acknowledge the wholesome and the unwholesome in how he treated me. It felt that all our other Buddhist friends during our marriage had never once let me do that. The loneliness eased a little bit. I could begin to heal then. I didn’t have to revere him as a saint just because his actions now are purer: I could still say that in the past, he was unwholesome and he hurt me in many ways. I didn’t have to deny that that had happened just because he was a holy man now.

So now the way of tea has taught me, much as it did earlier on, that it was a way to hold space for myself and others. It could bring me peace again, much like how my return to the Dharma on my own terms, not one manipulated by my feelings for someone, brought me ease. So I begin opening my space, holding space for those who need this same healing. My friends in dharma and tea taught me these same things, reminding me that I am able to hold space for others to express their griefs and that I can trust others to hold space for me in this way. I’m always grateful for this lesson. The way of tea taught me that. There is still camaraderie and companionship in this world. Living and the way to enlightenment of any sort, for being useful to the world is inherently lonely, but what tea has shown me is that it can occasionally be a little less lonely.

Nowadays I begin picking up the gaiwan, pour tea in my own tea room, invite people to come. I want to be open again. I want to share grief and joy to those who want to. To acknowledge our hearts and to always, always be able to say hello anyway. A tea tray I have says that the fragrance of tea fills the room. I want to say: the fragrance of a listened heart also fills the room, and tea helps that happen.

[thesweetblossoms]

Floating Marigolds

🌵Today we hiked Tom Thumb trail, which is a beautiful and intoxicating walk on the McDowell Mountains, a half hour away from our apartment in Scottsdale. My memories of the walk are raw and ethereal, steeped in natural wonder and energy, as potent as the fresh snowy white, shimmering morsels of quartz stone, I found on the trail and as delicate as the many clementine orange, tiny, charming butterflies I saw flitting, gliding, rising and falling in gentle waves along the pink sandy earth, the butterflies, appearing like floating marigolds, twirling through jojobas, acacias, teddy bear chollas, prickly pear cactus and the gatherings of many dried scarlet, amethyst, bleached gold and chocolate tinted grasses. We walked along an uncultivated and wild desert with the shadows and sparkles dancing off the ridge of steely gray mountains, the light catapulting from wiry, needle embedded, hardy succulents and feathery clumps of grasses, trailing cautiously over the stumps of dried ocotillos, as the rushed breezes joined nature as it conducted the nimbus clouds, early October sunlight, far off late summer hurricane winds, nectar gathering bees and palpable dust into a beguiling symphony. Rattlesnakes, tarantulas, javelinas, scorpions and other desert dwellers are spotted on this trail. While, I was curious to see the natural inhabitants of such a cosmically and scenically charged terrain, I was grateful not to encounter any lethal fauna. While hiking along, I felt a slightly sinister energy, a nuance and awareness that the groves of chollas, slumbering mesquite trees, the serpentine and the web weaving habitué of the land, did not appreciate, humans ascending to their territory. Yet, being in uninimitable and unhindered natural manifestations, away from man made structures, traffic lights and manicured landscapes, in an open area, has a consciousness altering quality of change, or shifting borders between reality and illusions, of time moving and shaping the physical world, of the future cascading closer and of sudden insights and visions. As my husband trotted ahead, always a few stretches before me, yet close enough so we do not lose each other, I called out as he entreated me to hurry along. “I’m only a few steps behind.”, the words echoing through mystical, mysterious and impenetrable time and space.

Heretofore, my style has been predictable, often veering into the realm of slightly boring, thus, I am attempting to define it, such that it might inspire novel ways to translate my emotions, personality and subtle consciousness, into the way I present my self, with attire and jewelry. As I was born on the seventh of July, the number seven holds immense luck and possibility, and I consider it a charm and constant reminder of the magical nature of reality. The seven elements of my style would include romantic, feminine, mysterious, bohemian, poetic, classic and simple.

I tend to reach timelessly for white, nude or pale pink shirts, blouses and tops with skinny blue/black jeans, or black or navy shorts, I possess a cast of navy, emerald, white, camel, misty gray, mustard yellow, varied hues of pink and a few royal purple tinted dresses, I vary these, by sprinkling in a few petite floral patterned or striped pieces. My jewelry, consists of pearl, emerald or diamond studs or a pair of very thin gold hoops, I wear my engagement ring every day, with a combinations of a simple pearl ring I inherited from my grandmother, a minimal rose quartz band, or a ring with seven, small Zambian emeralds, I also wear my black Hermès watch, with pearl or brass bracelets. I tend to wear either nude high-heel sandals or pink, navy blue or leopard print ballet flats. In the mornings, dressing myself is a cherished ritual, I enjoy the unplanned nature and the momentous act of going through my collection of apparel, scarfs, shoes, belts and purses to help me gauge both the mood of the day and my own particular sensibility. I remind myself often, to look more carefully at the contents of my closet, rather then to miss details that might highlight a look, idea, or expression more powerfully and clearly, perhaps noting how one of my pink cardigans may be worn with thin spaghetti strapped dresses for work, or how a black piece with pearls would be both appealing and require scant thought on the days I am running late.

Here are a few insights into the elements of my style:

Romantic ambiances include, slowly opening cosmos petals, smoky Egyptian musk incense, a slow whirling fan and a window open with white curtains flapping softly, carrying notes of honeysuckle and jasmine. On days that I skew particularly romantic, I might leave my hair in loose waves, wear a pink dress as pale as a flushed cream rose and eat an almond croissant with dark vanilla coffee.

While, the feminine energies permeate my experience of reality, with attenuating garden blossoms, of noticing the golden light on miniature ivory roses, or of creating a handmade avocado toast with extra squeezes of lime and pink salt drifting like dawn mist on the pale green sea crowned with freshly torn basil, or of a tying a pleasingly floral patterned black and white silk scarf around a high ponytail.

The elements of mystery, heighten the charm and increase curiosity, such as when I deliberately button up my white cotton shirt, over a peach pink bralette, or when I move to reveal, the glimmering sparkles of minimal pearl or brass bracelets, under the long sleeves of a nude toned chiffon dress. The nuances of mystery linger especially poignantly, in the study of contrasts, of wearing a tight bun with a free, flowing, unrestricted dress or styling long, loose, tresses with a tight, caramel lacy blouse and charcoal skinny jeans. In evoking mystery, I try to imagine a poetess in a summer garden, listening to the songs of the pastel nectarine, dawn pink and blood orange stained dahlias that only she can hear, or of the perfume of blossoming foamy white roses, drifting quietly from the garden, on a night of a charged secret, rendezvous by a rollicking, capricious and lighthearted sea.

My bohemian temperament stems from my desire to grow wildflowers, to cut a few for a tiny vintage vase, to wear vibrant coral, burnt sienna, incanted jade green and white cotton dresses with gold hoops, to spray rose and jasmine mist, to burn palo santo, to light a few tea light candles to saturate darkened rooms with pools of starlight, to dwell among old books, houseplants and fairy lights, to read French literature, to dance on a frayed lilac and silver Persian carpet, write about light, memories, emotions and flowers, drink chamomile tea, remain awake dangerously late to read, do yoga, to traipse into reveries, of Paris in the rain, of picnics with artists in a field of poppies and of carelessly swimming in a painterly vanilla and frangipani grove by the sea.

A poetic nature stems from an inclination to glimpse at the heart rendering pain and beauty in any moment, of the perfume of the tuberose strung canopy on a wedding night on a lush hill overlooking a misty winter bay, of an accidental snapping on a beloved string of pearls on the road to California, of ink stained hands and gardeners nails, of rubbing coconut, jasmine and ylang ylang oil over freshly lavender soaped skin, of never having too many lace, silk or chiffon dresses, or of enthusiastically wearing scarfs and wraps during pumpkin spice latte season in the desert.

Classic elements evoke a timeless sensibility and appeal, it appears in my life when I choose objects and pieces that occur whimsically and beguilingly in nature, such as by wearing pearls, turquoise, or rose quartz, from wearing natural fabrics such as silk or cotton, or choosing the cuts of cloth that have yet to be rendered dated, such as shift dresses, pea coats, white button down shirts, shirt dresses accompanied with brightly hued ballet slippers or nude wedges. It translates into the style of my home in the faint whispers from my collection of old English literature books by M. Somerset Maugham, Oscar Wilde, Daphne Du Maurier and more, or in my curated blue and white china collections, or a massive hoard of natural linen napkins, in piles of soft, cashmere, kanthas or Turkish blankets, in botanical and seaside art and paintings, in natural, raw wood furniture, lambs wool rugs, hand made ceramics and more.

The charm of simplicity is noticing the details, so that one may curate and disregard extraneous elements that diminish the purest forms and shapes. Nature is often my muse when I attempt to simplify my thoughts, ideas, design, fashion or lifestyle; for nature reminds us that most beautiful things are generally free, indelible in our memories, is measured in joy rather than in time, yet often taken for granted, such as the unadorned blue and white of the sky, or the emerald light in a green forest, or the rows or ivory roses, mixed with pots of lavender and faded pink geraniums lining a driveway, or of the dual purposes of perfume and glow inherent in a single bottle of coconut oil, in pearl earrings and a blush pink silk dress, or of the wondrous ecstasy of a storm halfway between midnight and the first light, with the windows open, the hurried gales, intense strikes of lightning, lashing rain and felonious thunder, carrying us though the night like a ship in a tempest ridden sea, the earth rollicking and dancing through myriad reveries, while our souls are set adamantly free in way that only occurs while we sleep, the unexplainable darkness of reality, temporarily stayed, by the poetic grace and shimmering excitement of the desert during a rainstorm many hours before the sunrise. Very often, I try to renegotiate my desire for variety, complexity and maximalism with an equally painful inclination for those entities that exult in plainness, such as crisp toast with butter, or a French braid with red lips, or of seashell, poetry book and rose quartz collections, or of rosewater mist and candle lit yoga, or the tantalizing pairing of a cup of green tea and a blanket.

The most salient concern in armoring myself for date nights, errands, visiting garden stores, bookstores, coffee shops or to the law firm, is how a garment makes me feel; how a vivid peach dress with a lilac cardigan may help ameliorate anxiety on Monday, or how a midnight blue shirt dress might assist me on days, I need to refocus my energies on my ongoing projects or how a white peasant blouse, dangling earrings and faintly pink jeans, anoints a lighter mood and gypsy vibes to a mellow Wednesday. Yet, another lens to view my style is through the experiences I hope to have, so I might collect a scandalous amount of pale pink chiffon dresses, for dancing as the clock strikes midnight in a lantern scattered garden in Marrakech, dewy with the perfume of orange blossoms, thick groves of tuberose, calla lilies, cypresses and palms, or a camel sheath with pearls for investor meetings in steely fortresses, or a emerald silk mini dress for an afternoon of visiting art galleries and antique stores while visiting by husbands family home in Connecticut. But the truest way we adorn ourselves are through the little pinpricks of gathered light, accumulated fires and entrapped breezes that we patiently fasten, insert or slide on as final, lingering touches, maybe it is the the diamond tear shaped earrings given by your mothers best friend for your engagement, a delicate lavender rice pearl bracelet found on a trip to Sedona, opal stud earrings reminding you of the ones your parents gave you as a gift on your 12th birthday, the original opals likely in safe in a bank deposit box in Toronto or Dhaka, or the vintage emerald ring you brought for yourself to break the webs of ennui in those mind numbingly plebeian routines annotated by the music of tiny silver anklet bells. For, there is yet explained magic and deeply alchemical poetry impressed upon the gems, stones and minerals that we find along our journey, some inherited, others gifted and a few collected on our own, these are mesmerizing and solid reminders that we linger among stars, that we are as fragile as plum blossoms in the path of an impatient may gale, that the light entrances even the most sleeping entities, that the cracks make the gem even more beautiful, that strength arises from beauty and vice versa and that there are memories, whispers, passionate entreaties, unanswered prayers, surreptitious reveries, twinkling laughter and bespoke tears embedded in the earthly realm, translated so bewilderingly and delightfully into our bracelets and other charms.

I noticed that when a pillar candle burns down so that the wick dances incandescently in a hollow grove, flickering hypnotically in a cave of melted wax with the tower edged and traced by times retreat, the color of the candle is revealed through the fire, as it jumps, scales and tongues the darkened room, it pulses like heartbeats from another realm, it rhymes, riddles and casts the space with a forgotten memory, a distant wish, or an unknown song, it heightens the emotion, of the bitterness of our dwindling lease on time and of the sweetness of its term. The glow reminds us to notice the light impressions whenever we have a chance, for even when the moonlight hits the blossoming Texas sage it reveals further regarding beauty, magic, fragility, impermanence and joy. The candle flame is starlight lingering in our midst, intoxicating in its danger, eviscerating in its power and captivating as it burns the dust, the unheard music and the reality veiling air to offer us its light.

I realize that perhaps the small butterflies I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, written a week ago, may have already travelled along their wild desert mountain paths, imbibing honey from the prickliest-flowering succulents, seeping in the orchestra of sun light chased by the moon, having ecstatically ridden the autumnal breezes, on their way to appearing again far away as earthly marigolds. The same way every tear turns into a leaf and every joy into a flower. 🦋