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[euphoriclusts]

closed starter for @whisperstemptations

she hadn't intended to erupt the way that she did, but scout had always been impulsive. perhaps one of the only traits that hadn't changed throughout the years. she was a lot more guarded, but the notion that her husband was cheating on her with his assistant, was enough to have every nerveending on edge. she needed to confront her. now. she had anticipated, when climbing into her car and being driven to the building her husband spent the majority of his time, that she would remain cool, calm and collected about it. however, once she sees the woman, once she gets an opportunity to talk to her alone. all of the mental work she'd put in, disintegrates. "are you fucking him!?" the words fall hurriedly, but the fury is still potent, still impossible to dismiss. "are you fucking my husband?"

[muffinlance]

Consider: Post-canon Zuko wakes up in the body of his childhood self, the morning of That War Meeting. Would he still speak against the plans, knowing his fate? What do you think he would do differently the second time around?

"Turned away at the doors, Zuzu?"

"Shut up, Azula," her brother sulked. But sulked weirdly, after staring at her too long and too wide-eyed, not like she'd surprised him but--

But like he hadn't expected her to be there. At all.

He turned away. ...He turned back. "Hey, Lala? Do you think you could help me practice that one set?"

He didn't meet her eyes.

She narrowed hers. "Which set?"

"The one I'm bad at."

She scoffed. Pushed away from the wall she'd been leaning against. "That's all of them, Dum-Dum."

He didn't shout or stomp or yell about the nickname. His lips twitched.

"It's okay," he said. "If you're afraid you won't be a better teacher that my instructor..."

It was the most obvious manipulation ever.

Perhaps if he proved an adequate firebending student, she'd work on his courtly survival skills next. Honestly, it was good that not even Uncle Gets-Cousins-Killed had been fool enough to take Zuko into that war meeting. She could only imagine how terribly that could have gone.

"Keep up," she said, and turned her steps towards the training grounds.

He did. There, and during the katas she ran him through.

Azula kept her eyes narrowed.

"Hey," he asked, "do you know how to bend lightning yet?"

As if he could have missed it, if she'd been able to get more than sparks. "I will soon," she said.

"You will," he agreed, and flowed through his next set. The one she'd only just mastered.

Father didn't notice how weird Zuzu was being. Uncle never noticed anything. Zuko ate dinner and asked a servant for seconds and didn't stutter or flinch or lose his appetite when father asked, coolly, what he'd done with his day. Azula's shoulders tensed, because one mention of how she'd squandered her own training time teaching him--

"Azula hogged the training grounds. For hours," Zuzu scowled, exactly like a petulant thirteen year old.

Exactly like he hadn't been acting all day.

By the time Father was looking her way, Azula had her usual smirk in place. "I'm sure there would be room for both of us," she said, "you're not afraid of a little friendly fire, are you, brother?"

Zuko sulked. And ate his seconds, like he was enjoying each bite. There was something in his eyes, like a joke no one else was getting.

---

Father died that night. A heart attack. There were the faintest of burns to either side of the treacherous organ; the royal physician hypothesized that he'd grabbed at his chest, fingers burning hot in his final moments; so hot they'd only exacerbated the problem.

The royal physician would never have been brought any victims of lighting strikes. Those that occurred in the capital did not generally require a doctor in the aftermath.

Zuzu ate a hearty breakfast.

He didn't order seconds. Azula gave him points, at least, for not being tacky.

---

The sages named Iroh as regent.

They named Zuko as Fire Lord.

"No," the tiny Fire Lord in his perfectly miniaturized Fire Lord robes said, sitting at the head of his war council. "We're not doing that. And I'll be reviewing all recent battle plans, as well. What's this I hear about a division of new recruits being deployed to the front?"

He did not mention how he'd heard of the 41st Division. No one asked.

"Prince Iroh, surely--" one of the generals tried to appeal.

The young Fire Lord's regent was looking as startled as the rest of them, for a moment. Then he sipped his tea, and smiled.

"Your Fire Lord is correct, of course. A change in our leadership--a change the other nations may mistakenly view as weakness--will necessitate a change in our strategy."

"Now," said their lord, "what, exactly, is our overall objective in this war?"

War, the new Fire Lord decreed, was not an end unto itself.

---

The new Fire Lord continued to have time, to pretend to be trained by her. Azula watched him. Adjusted her footwork. Did not tolerate, and was not offered, any commentary on who was teaching who.

"What did you do with my brother?" she asked, as they flowed from one set to the next. As her hands, poised to throw fire, just so happened to be pointed his way.

He missed a step. It didn't look like an act.

"I'm, uh. Right here?"

She didn't bother to dignify that.

He didn't bother to look worried about her hands, one movement off from a true attack.

He looked around, then grabbed her sleeve, and tugged her further from any walls that may hide ears. The royal family's private training grounds were wonderfully large, and wonderfully open.

"It's me," he said. "It's still me. Just. More of me? Longer of me?"

She narrowed her eyes. A familiar expression, by this point. "Explain."

"...I found the Avatar," he said. "And this is definitely his fault, but--but I guess it started at a war meeting, when I was thirteen."

Azula listened. It was a very Dum-Dum story.

[irate-iguana]

We need more weird historian rep in Doctor Who. The companions are too normal when faced with the prospect of time travel. I want a companion who makes a list of super specific historical destinations related to their dissertation. I want somebody whose first reaction to finding out that the Doctor is a time travelling alien is to create a Microsoft Word document and ask, “What caused the Late Bronze Age collapse?”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

hope you feel better soon!

I am riddled with ailments, but I stay silly!

[crescentfool]

orpheus and thanatos 💚

[dennisboobs]

standing in front of a firing squad would have been easier than reading this script i need to be shot

[magician-under-the-m00nlight]

aptx!kaito au in which Shinichi doesn't know aptx exists and feels insane that his leading theory is "a six year old is the mastermind behind Kaitou Kid"

[luck-of-the-drawings]

[<==PREV PAGES] [NEXT PAGE==>(not out yet.wait a year.or maybe more.imagine.]

saw alot of comments on prev pages; saying 'i HATE that mean teacher! im gonna FIGHT HIM!!' & i LOVE the energy!! it WOULD be nice. to have that catharsis. but the story of young tidestrider is Not one of catharsis. it is a story of being so small and so special and sucking so bad.

[krembruleed]

1/7

[read here]

[charlesemersonwinchesteriii]

Kept thinking about the decline in popularity of Christmas caroling from the 1800s to now and came to the following conclusions:

Would not go caroling in any time period:

Hickey

Gibson

Golding

Wall

Des Voeux

Fairholme

Crispe

Collins (would like to, but is too shy)

Would go caroling in the 1800s but not in a modern AU:

Goodsir

Hartnell Bros

Diggle

Morfin

Weekes

Hoar

Tozer

Dundy

Crozier (coerced into it by Fitzjames)

Jopson (moral support for Crozier)

Would go caroling no matter the time period:

The Franklins

Gore

Magnus

Lane

Fitzjames

MacDonald

Irving

Hodgson

Little (coerced into it by the former two)

(List not meant to be exhaustive. I left out anyone I was undecided on. Additions and edits welcome!)

[keeps-ache]

i'll survive, i'll survive

[infiniteseriesofhalfways]

also here's two terrible photos of what ive been knitting this week:

there's too many stitches so i cant stretch it out properly, and the construction makes it hard to really show it off. also im in bed so it's the best i can do right now.

anyhow this is clue 1 of Stephen West's Go Go Dynamo MKAL, which im two weeks behind on but it's fine. it's been fun so far, minus the 'bubbles', which are the bane of my existence.

[crescentfool]

ryomina for the splatoon plaza! they are listening to music ☺💗

[chimerahyperfix]

Run down your list. You are currently on your way to intercept the King, before he gets to the house. Whenever he gets there, it’s a bloodbath; metaphorically and physically. How many more times do you have to see everyone get frozen? See the King smash those who stand before him? You can’t see it again, you can’t you can’t you can’t, so you sneak out to face him instead. If he can’t get to the House, no one has to die, right? Simple as that. The endless night of his approach hangs right over Dormont, so you have to catch him, NOW.

You make a pit-stop at the Favor Tree anyway. It’s tradition at this point.

You did… something, here. Before you started looping. The hypothesis is that whatever you did at the Favor Tree caused the time loop you’re trapped in. You know you wished, a ton— at least ten times, or maybe twenty? All in as many different ways you could think of. Stretching outside the realm of how you know to wish. The desperation drove you to doing random things in hopes it would save you, and— well, it kinda has? You’ve doomed yourself for everyone else’s sakes.

That’s all well and fine enough, you rationalize. One person for many. Who knows what’ll happen if he actually takes the House; you don’t want to find that answer out.

The Favor Tree is huge. It’s a nice tree, lots of leaves, lots of shade. You could probably climb into its branches and never leave, get trapped in a web of tree bark and leaves like a cage, birds and squirrels and other such animals as your jailers. Maybe that wouldn’t be too bad. You could try that, next loop, if you failed here. You know you’ll fail, because nothing has worked so far. Your mind flashes with images of blood-stained floors, of screams both by and for many, many people. Hands reaching to you, hands reaching out.

Breathe. The memory fades away. Your hands curl into fists.

You depart, to fight the King. To stop the King.

———————

The King is very tall. A couple stories high, you’d reckon. He towers over you, the trees and everything else. The clearing you’ve stopped him in is very close to the House. Too close for comfort. Shouldn’t have stopped at the tree. Everything is swamped with the scent of burnt sugar.

He looks down at you— do you look like an ant to him? One singular ant? Wouldn’t that be interesting. A single blockade to the anthill, standing its ground. One mistake and he’ll turn you into a dark stain, or an icy statue. One mistake is all it’ll take for him to rip through the House like paper.

The Craft Bomb is heavy in your pocket. The backup potions, seven or eight of them, all in little tossable vials, toxic and burning and acidic, weigh down the other pocket of your lab coat. You remember drinking at least three of them. They all killed you. Painfully. Curse your desk for not being clean before you started looping. If you’d just taken a few minutes before you wished, so many deaths would’ve been avoided…

But that’s not important now. The fire in your throat, as imagined as it is now, still hurts. Your voice has taken an odd rasp to it now, the consequences of toxicity and blind reaching for water forever etched into your very being.

“How have you done it?” The King asks. You can’t see his eyes, past his endless, wild mane of hair and his gauntlets covering his face, but he sounds both confused and enraged.

You don’t answer, instead brandishing the bomb you worked so hard on. You made it in record pace, this loop. It too reeks of caramel.

The King simply moves a hand. You know what’s coming, and you move before he does. The curse of being so, so tall, is that you’re faster. The bomb goes flying, and you toss the potions all in one go for good measure before skittering out of the way. The King lunges for you as the bomb explodes, sending waves of fire and craft energy everywhere. Blinding, deafening. Its force knocks you to the ground.

He still moves, though. Not enough. Damn. Maybe you need two bombs… do you have the materials for a second one? You hope, as he swings his giant gauntlet down onto you to mash you like a bug, that he sees the weird shade your eyes have taken lately. A pair of blaring, dangerous warning signs.

You’re not scared anymore. This has happened many times.

You still scream.

His attack hits, and through the veil of absolute agony, there’s a tug on your stomach. Back to the drawing board.

[lockedtowers]

stop a/starion has a BRAND NEW SIM AVAILABLE ON MODTHESIMS FOR THE SI/MS 2

[sysig]

He was a human pirate, which you wouldn’t think you’d have to specify and yet (Patreon)