#my family is always intrinsically linked to my life i hate it

[asbestieos]

shawty kinda feels like crying

[caorann8]

Grief in Dawntrail

Alrighty, here are my thoughts as a funeral director having finished Dawntrail. Obviously spoilers under the cut.

When someone says a game feels like work, that’s normally a bad thing. In this case it’s not. Two of Dawntrail’s themes are community/their different cultures and grief and while they’re explored more separately in the two halves of the story they are intrinsically linked. Funerals at their core are about remembering the person who’s died and coming together to support each other and remember the person. Even with the decline of “traditional” funerals, people who are just having a cremation and nothing else from the funeral home often say they’ll have something at home with their friends and family.

This is why Sphene pissed me off from the start. With the Yok Huy we see a beautiful funeral tradition. The body may return to the mountains but their legacy will always remain for their community to read and remember over and over again, even for future generations. Meanwhile Sphene echo’s the same message, “You will never die so long as you’re remembered” but then removes the memories as a misguided attempt to protect her people. They aren’t remembered, they’re actively forgotten by their entire community until those people die too.

Death and grief are complicated things. Something we learn in school is there are no stages as most people think. It’s a roller coaster that goes forward and back, has good days and bad days, and will sometimes crop up years later. What lessens it is allowing yourself to process it, and support from friends/family/community helps immensely. By denying them these memories, Sphene denies them growth and stronger bonds. A friend of mine said the people of Alexandria wouldn’t survive the Final Days and I agree. We even see this in the WoL! How many times are we able to quote Haurchefant or other characters who have died but made an impact on our journey? Even Emet-Selch asks us to remember them. The ancient’s love, their follies, the good and bad. While grief hurts in so many different ways, we often come out on the other side better, whether that be with new tools, new outlooks, or even just relief that the person isn’t suffering.

And this doesn’t just apply to people we care for. Look at the death of Zoraal Ja. Wuk Lamat hated him and he’d abandoned Gulool Ja. Regret or joy that it’s over are valid feelings . Both grieved in their own ways and had support to work through it. The fact that they were actively told to take a break to process everything, both after his death and after the attack on Tullioyal, was a beautiful touch. Grief is exhausting after all.

Finally, I want to talk about my experience going through Living Memory. That’s the part that truly felt like my work. Just sitting and listening to people say their final goodbyes to their loved ones. Some crying, some laughing at good memories, some angry, but all taking that moment. I didn’t cry really (except Cahcuia, that one got me), I got choked up and there was a heaviness for a lot of it, but there’s a joy in knowing nothing’s left unsaid. Even deleting the areas didn’t affect me much. They each got their last hurrah, like a eulogy at a service or stories shared over a meal. Plus the knowledge that reincarnation exists in FFXIV means they’ll be able to enjoy life again.

At the end of the day grief, in all its forms from the end of relationships, to what could’ve been, to death of a loved one, shouldn’t be swept under a rug. When people find out I’m a funeral director I often get asked if it’s “depressing with all the crying” and I always reply that I hear laughter coming from visitation rooms more often than tears.

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Ok so, I love all the shorts you post on here, you are building up a background of Competent Officer but Emotionally Stunted Price and Emotionally Intelligent and Badass Nik. Cool, fabulous.

But I've got to ask; what is Nik's sore spot?

With the extra decade it does make sense that he is more sure of himself and his relationships generally but you did touch on it with the body image/food one and mentioned it in passing with the how they met bit. Does the age gap get to him sometimes? All the loud machines (and guns) is he worried about his hearing going?

Or, his English is pretty good but does he sometimes get lost with fast speakers/strong accents?

What about something more silly? Is he fine with spiders but gets freaked out by daddy long legs (like me)? Is he wildly afraid of moths? Is he fine with big injuries but if he get a papercut is it the end of the world? Does he suffer terribly from Man Flu?

On a more domestic note, what irritates Price about him? I mean, no one is perfect right?

Does he always leave the bathroom in a state? Do all the broken noses mean he snores like a bear with a head cold (admittedly that might apply to Price as well)? Is he like my Dad and has very strong opinions on adverts and regularly go on rants about how the ad has nothing to do with the product? Does he like Marmite and Price hates it (or vice versa)?

Some excellent questions. I think Nik's weaknesses or vulnerabilities are tied up with his strengths, which I know sounds weird, but hear me out:

- This man is mad intelligent. He speaks eight languages, he canonically can fly pretty much anything (from what I've seen). He was significant enough in knowledge and skills for MI6 to go for him twice. Weakness: his intelligence can sometimes make him coldly logical. Look at how he didn't even blink twice at terrifying Butcher's family; I think that feeds well into Price's ruthlessness. He cares deeply about those he loves, but if you're not "his"? He won't even blink when pulling the trigger if it will help meet his goals.

- Linked to the above, he values his physical strength and his intellect. They make him worth something and he doesn't feel he has any intrinsic worth just as Nik. (Overbearing and demanding Soviet General father made it clear Nik needed to earn his place in the world.) If he feels they are declining or lessening, this is going to throw him through a loop. Big time. (Well noted from the food ficlet.)

- I think he was hugely, perhaps even suicidally, depressed when he turned informant. That conflict of loyalty and morality would have been difficult for his mind to process. I think that explains his apparently unflinching loyalty to Price and Laswell. In his eyes, they saved his life by giving him a purpose. (Nik you stupid fuck you literally set up Chimera and you're a hugely wealthy arms dealer off your own back wtf mate.) Nik never really had time to heal from that, he papered over it and got on with the job. I think as he settles down with Price, he will need to go to therapy. A lot of it.

- He is untidy (not unclean) at home. Laundry on the floor by the basket, never puts books away, gets fixated on a project at the expense of other things. It's like he left the military and his psyche rebelled against the bits he hated the most. Price can't compute how he can be so clinical at work and yet a complete clusterfuck at home. The garage is full of vehicles and appliances he disassembled and never put back together. Man's lucky he's dynamite in bed.

Nik is a "good" man in so far as he can be in a morally grey position. I write him with Price, through Price's lens, so we see "hero protagonist Nik" because that's who he is to/with Price. However, I do have a little ficlet tucked away when a jealous Ghost confronts him in Paris, and he tells Ghost, "If you take a shot, boy, you better not miss, because it will not happen again", and Ghost realises just why Price chose this man as his life partner. He's exactly the same level of ruthless.

[jyndor]

I know some have a hard time with the word hate (lmao including my phone which autocorrected it??? bro let me live my life) but I truly, unequivocally hate some things. this is personal and it is also political but it's mainly just me trying to put my feelings of non-community, isolation and disconnect into words. probably not well but I put it under a read more so frankly if you're not comfortable with me saying things in inarticulate ways about my own history, idk what to tell you lol

tw for imperialism, genocide, depression, and the existential agonies idk lmao

like britain. not the land, not the individual people lol but the power and empire and the idea, in the same way I hate the united states. idk if there is a more accurate word for the feeling I have that is based in deep, deep hurt. like bone deep. hurt for damage they've done to so many peoples, but also like... over the past year I've begun to identify this emptiness inside of me - I was always looking for community and connection and identity as a kid so far removed from my extended family. I've always joked about how much I resent my parents for moving away from new york because they took me to a place devoid of culture but like I mean my parents got to enjoy the richness of so many cultures growing up, and they also had community (I am not including my mom's mom because she is a person I do in fact hate).

like... so when friends of mine growing up would have their confirmations, for instance, I'd feel sort of left out because I had nothing. my parents ran from catholicism rightfully so imo lmao, and my mom was so good about trying to find me a church to go to when I asked even though I didn't believe in God, certainly not in the Christian belief in God. we ended up in a unitarian universalist church thankfully but I mean I didn't really value it because ~angsty teen shit.

when I say I hate my grandma I mean I am so deeply hurt by her actions towards my mom and also me, and it feels like the same feeling that I get when I think of Imperial powers and how they've harmed both my own family and also so many other people who've had way worse outcomes than just isolation and loneliness and lack of community or identity, or the feeling I have towards capitalism which ofc is intrinsically linked with colonialism and imperialism.

this is something I am coming to understand about myself in my thirties. that i have always been a very, very lonely person. I think that's why the found family trope always works so well for me. because I'm beginning to find mine, and they aren't the people who I desperately wanted to find commonality with as a child.

it's funny because I've always viewed my politics as fairly separate from my internal life - like I couldn't see any connection between why I was always fighting with bullies and bigots in school, why I always immediately understood power dynamics and supported marginalized groups even if they had nothing to do with me and even if I didn't like know the details - ofc my first time hearing about palestine I was like... ?? how are they wrong for wanting liberation? even if I didn't know the history like I do now or like I will in the future when I've learned even more of it.

I remember this english kid (my first love lmao barf) doing a presentation on the troubles in 10th grade and asking like... lmao idk anything about this but how can you say that the british were the good guys here???? then I learned later the personal connections I have to irish history and it was like... I never even knew. I had no stories, no family history, no connection to a culture that my family came from. so there's this guy telling me, a descendant of the people he's blaming for the troubles, history that I should have known.

it's funny how every time I tell one of my friends irl that I do not respect my elders, I have to explain why - they eschewed their own story in order to have the security and safety of whiteness in the US. they continue to protect that whiteness with their money and votes, and have shown an absolute lack of respect to their descendants when we've asked them to hear us out.

I don't hate them though. I know there's a difference in the way I feel towards them and the way I feel towards the things, the british empire, the united states, that made them react the way they did. idk if that makes sense.

at least they aren't cops lmao I would legitimately hate them if they were.

[theotheristhedoctor]

As a UK-trained doctor, I can say that SLS is very much a Thing, and is a bit more complicated than this description.

So, some background: the UK has the National Health Service (NHS). Sometimes described as the "State Religion," it is one of the things British people hold to be most important to their culture. Even people who hate it define themselves as such; having known and worked with many Americans it's actual closest equivalent is the US army in terms of general attitude to it.

Importantly, the NHS is "free at the point of delivery." That means that nobody pays to see their doctor, have surgery, or get medications prescribed*(1). Even in an increasingly privatised system, the NHS delivers about 90% of all medical and Surgical care in the UK. Importantly, most surgeons have a private & NHS workload; it's rare to have a surgeon ONLY practice privately and the evidence suggest's they're on average less good!

This also means that the NHS is the major trainer and employer of hospital doctors. Given that the NHS has a desperate need to serve the whole country, trainees get flung around the place. This theoretically ensures that the quality of doctors is pretty evenly spread*(2). Family doctors (GPs) have a slightly different system of employment, but in a small country this has led to traditionally good goegraphic spread of doctors*(2), as well as a similar access to surgeons and a fairly egalitarian approach to surgical prioity. Whilst many people do pay to have their knee replacement done slightly earlier, it's probably the same surgeon who would have done it, in the same hospital, with the same kit. More urgent surgery is even less likely to be done privately, because the ability to jump the queue is less; surgical lists are built based on urgency of care, not who's paying*(3).

Why is this important? Because despite all this I know which patients are going to get post-op complications, and it will always be the patient with SLS. The one who's aunt died a few years ago during an appendicectomy, who's got chronic pain and is overweight despite running 3 marathons two years ago (before they got their 1-in-a-million cancer).

I know which patients will get their cases cancelled on the day, and it will always be the ones who had to book annual leave three months in advance and who's wife has just been diagnosed with breast cancer after their third failed pregnancy.

And I know which patients careful opioid prescriptions will nevertheless result in them turning up in 6 months for a detox, because if I was living their life I took would accidentally take one extra codeine a day, except they happen to be supermetabolisers so they get full morphine blowback and it builds and builds and they can't get to their doctor cos the dog just died and the car broke down and now they're fixed on OTC doses, and then it's heroin because they can't get fuck all else ...

But if i don't prescribe the Opioids they'll get terrible chronic pain and lose their job and then their wife will leave them and then their kids will get cancer. Because. Because because because. SLS.

It's absolutely socioeconomically linked, but so frequently it's not just "you're poor so you get shit healthcare." Its also "you got unlucky with a health thing a family thing and a work thing all at once and now your life will simply spiral out of control." It's "you don't live in a good dessert but you might as well because your back pain and commute stop you doing a full shop every week and now you've eaten shit for 6 months you've got lifelong constipation". It's an endless humbling reminder that no matter how good my care is health is intrinsically linked to so much else, and that balance is more important than perfection.

It's also a reminder that the Tories can fuck off, because anything that drives up inequality WILL make healthy worse and nobody can fix it once it spirals.

*:

(1) you do pay for the pharmacist to make up your prescriptions, but this is also cost-controlled. Very few people in the UK pay the actual cost of their medications.

(2) This is getting worse due to changes in how doctors are recruited, employed and re-emberced. The destruction of Primary Care Practice in my lifetime is a sin that neither Labour nor the Tories can escape responsibility for.

(3) Mostly. Unfortunately if the only surgeon available is an ankle surgeon then your ovarian mass isn't going next.

[no-not-without-you-blog]

Ok. Going to go on a rant here for a moment.

I have seen some people (fans of Chris) posting recently about Chris and Alba and their disgust/downright hatred towards them. As someone who has more/different life experiences I wanted to provide some alternative viewpoints.

Someone being 25 doesn't mean that they are inexperienced or naive or being preyed upon. By the time i was 25 I had been married for a while, had a two year old, was pregnant with my daughter, had a mortgage, and a fully rounded life. I had my own opinions and desires and was fully capable of making my own choices on what style of life I wanted. While I agree that most young people are still figuring out what they want out of life at that point, that's not all of them. I had known what I had wanted out of life and the type of life I wanted for years by that point.

An age gap doesn't always mean a power imbalance. If two people meet as adults and share similar viewpoints and desires and interests, then them being interested in each other makes sense.

I saw a post about how she is molding her life to fit his and how disgusting that is and how it shows their power imbalance and how domineering he is. First off, I don't see the evidence of that being the case. Do we see some drastic shift in her personality or interests or desires in life? No. And the reason for that is because, shocker, we don't know them and have absolutely no idea what they are like in private. Second, as someone who has been in a wonderful marriage to my absolute best friend for over 10 years, it's not a bad thing when you chose to mold your life around your partner and vice versa. You are in the process of creating a partnership and family together, that doesn't work well when people refuse to change anything about themselves. I am intrinsically linked with my husband who is intrinsically linked with me. Could it be that all the molding is one sided? Of course, but again, we aren't a part of their private relationship and saying that she is the only one changing is just unknowable.

Lastly, is there an age gap? Yes. But an age gap isn't always that big of a deal. She is an accomplished actress who has been on film and tv for a decade. She speaks at least three languages. She has her own career and money. She was also a full grown adult when they met and began a relationship. From almost any metric that we as the public are privy to, she is there of her own volition and could leave at any time. She chooses to stay with him. She doesn't seem to flaunt their relationship for fame or career opportunities. She seems like a fairly private person as well and it seems like she found someone who interests her and she wants to spend her time with.

I just don't see the issue with two adults, both of whom are independent and able to support themselves, choosing to be together, problematic. And again, we are all outside looking in. We don't know the intimate details of their lives. We don't know the conversations they have had or life goals they share. Because it's their relationship, not ours. So, I'm choosing to be happy for them and hope that they last and can enjoy their time together. Without the hateful comments made by immature people who just look for any and every reason to tear people down because they cannot fathom their celebrity crush being with anyone other than themselves.

Ok. Stepping off my soapbox now. Hope you all have a great day!

[littlespoonevan]

Buddie AU Rec List 💙

Hello!! So back in the day in my older fandoms I used to live for aus but with buddie i - like many others, i know - can sometimes struggle with aus because they’re identities are so intrinsically linked to their jobs as firefighters that it’s hard to picture them Not being that??? Even in my own aus that I’ve written I always find a way to make them both firefighters in the end lmao. 

But I’ve read quite a few fics recently that reminded just how fucking delicious it can be to sink your teeth into a damn good au askjdkfh so with that in mind I decided to compile a little list of some of my favourite aus that I’ve come across in the past couple of months bc every single one of them made me lose it in the best way 💖:

a bleeding sun on a silver screen by rarakiplin

One day, Buck will tell an interviewer that he would be happy to make movies with Eddie Diaz until the day he dies.

But first, years before that, he sees Eddie for the first time on the set of Chimney’s fifth movie.

-

or, the actors au

Let My Ink Stain Your Pages by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

Having just killed off his popular character, bestselling author Evan Buckley needs some new inspiration and fast. Luckily for him, Det. Eddie Diaz is about to stroll into his life.

The last thing Eddie needs is a reckless mystery writer partnering with him and causing trouble. Or, rather, the last thing he needs is an inappropriate crush. Too bad he doesn't have a choice, because he's about to become the main character in Buck's new book series.

...everyone, place your bets.

dance, for all that we've been through by catchingpapermoons

The Los Angeles Ballet’s 2022-2023 season ends with a bang with their fresh take on a ballet staple, Swan Lake. Artistic Director Bobby Nash is in his eighth season with the Los Angeles Ballet, and it has flourished under his direction.

However, his associate, Eddie Diaz, is the one whose reimagining of the choreography has caught our attention...

(or, Eddie Diaz moves to L.A. to restart his dance career, and ends up choreographing a show, finding a family, and falling in love. Not necessarily in that order.)

like the petals in our pockets (may we remember who we are) by evcndiaz

His name is Evan Buckley. Alias: Captain America. The year is 2022. He is not on the battlefield. This is not World War II. He is alive. He is alive. He is alive. What a goddamn curse that is.

or; seventy years is a long time.

Don't Play Games (Come My Way) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

Buck hates Eddie Diaz.

Ever since his publishing company and Eddie's merged, the man has been nothing but a pain in Buck's ass. The way he nitpicks all of Buck's company emails, the way he spends half his day bickering with Buck, the way he makes Buck's stomach flip and the way he's started haunting Buck's dreams... yeah, it's one hundred percent hate. Definitely. Buck's sure of it.

Because what the hell else could it be?

keep me as your finish line by thatbuddie (talktothesky)

“Oh no, we’re not doing this.” Chimney pops a bubble with the gum he’s been chewing as he moves one of his fingers back and forth to point between The-Man-who-isn’t-Buck’s-man-he’s-just-The-Man and Buck. “You didn’t drag me to the gym just so you can ditch me to fuck some guy in the showers."

Buck lowers his voice, leaning forward as if trying to make the words’s journey shorter between him and Chimney so they can’t escape and reach anyone else’s ears,“I wouldn’t fuck him in the showers.”

Chimney’s response is wordless in the form of an eyebrow raise.

“Not anymore, okay?” Buck clarifies, rolling his eyes. “That’s not who I am now."

(spoiler alert: Buck does fuck the guy in the showers. but that comes after nicknaming him Big Beautiful Brown Eyes, finding out his name is actually Eddie, becoming his best friend, and falling madly in love with him.)

All I do is keep the beat in bad, bad company by HMSLusitania

It’s the last day of break when they grab lunch together and Buck calls him on it.

“You know, you look pretty beat, like…all the time,” he says. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, more or less,” Eddie says. “My neighbour is…”

And then he trails off because yeah, his neighbour is still loudly on the phone every night at three, then four, then back to two, then one, then three again, but from what little Eddie can hear, the calls he’s making have become entirely one sided. Like he’s leaving voicemails.

“Oh, that blows,” Buck says, taking an indecently large bite of his sandwich. “I either have really, really great insulation or the quietest neighbours ever.”

“Either way, be grateful,” Eddie recommends and Buck gives him a quick smile in response.

OR

A buddie college AU

all above, all your waiting coming home by probieravi

The route itself is pretty simple. From their apartment in Scarborough to Christopher’s school, it’s a bus ride and a trip on Line 2, and then from the school to SickKids, it’s just another few stops on the train and a transfer to Line 1. They’ve got it down to a routine, him and Chris; back home, Eddie could never quite figure out the transit system, but despite all its many, many flaws, the TTC seems to have their back.

It could have warned him about the guy, though.

or, eddie and chris meet buck on the train.

your dreary mondays by hammersmiths

“Wait, you need a sitter?” Chimney says. Eddie nods. “Maddie’s brother got back in town a few nights ago, he’s looking for work.”

Eddie frowns. He doesn’t know much about this mysterious brother of Maddie’s – doesn’t even really know much about Maddie, either, aside from being Chimney’s girlfriend – but he’s pretty sure every time he’s been brought up in conversation it’s not been particularly inspiring. “Is this the brother who flunked out of college because he spent all his tuition on a motorcycle?”

Chimney colours a little. “Um. No?”

or, Buck babysits Christopher and Eddie is—fine about it, actually.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words (But Love is Undefinable) by extasiswings & letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

Eddie Diaz is a professional.

It’s not like he didn’t know who he was going to shoot when he got the call. He’s good at his job, even if he’s a bit of a recluse by industry standards—he knows who Buck is. Knows the name, the pictures, the reputation.

A bit of a wild child. A bit of a party boy. Maybe more than a bit. Rumor has it that right before he made it big he almost got dropped by his agency for being a little too reckless.

But that's fine by him—Eddie can handle beautiful people, he's around them all the time.

Eddie doesn't sleep with models. And Buck doesn't sleep with photographers. They're professionals.

Until they aren't.

[collark]

wahoo! hello gorillaz fandom. i have finally reached my breaking point and decided to dedicate a blog to the unending unending thoughts i have about this silly little band! preepmtive thank you to @snobgoblin for letting me have my quick ramble about this in their askbox before i decided i needed to make a whole blog!

so. let’s talk about murdoc niccals.

one thing that’s always struck me as odd about murdoc, as someone whose family comes from stoke-on-trent, is how.. un-stokie he is. this is the place that defined his childhood after all, and considering just how distinct a potteries accent is, you’d think we’d see that at least a little in his portrayal.

now, obviously, the real life answer for this lies in his voice actor. phil cornwell is from leigh-on-sea, and with all the love and respect for his murdoc voice acting in the world, i am really quite happy not hearing someone from so far down south mimicking my accent.

but from a character perspective.. it opens up something really interesting. remember pirate radio? episode 2?

Oh, I went all Northern then. (bad Northern England accent) Oh, ‘ey, it's Murdoc from up North! Sounds funny, dun’t it? (laughs at himself, drops the accent)

murdoc’s accent slips, and he plays it off as a joke shortly afterward. he plays just for a moment at sounding northern. my proposal is this: murdoc has been intentionally masking his accent this entire time.

so why would he do this?

the first answer is the most immediately obvious. murdoc fucking hates the city he grew up in. of course he does! every single worst memory he’s had has been formed there. it’s the home of his drunkard father, it’s where he was bullied and abused. it makes sense that murdoc would want to distance himself from that as much as possible. and by teaching himself to speak in more southern, far less accented english, he severs his most obvious tie to the place without having to lift a finger.

the second is a little more complicated, if you’re not someone used to how classism works and is perpetuated in the uk. here, class status and accent are deeply, intrinsically linked. certain manners of speaking are incredibly localised to single towns and cities rather than states or counties. and thick accents, especially thick accents from areas in the north that face staggering rates of deprivation, are considered to be markers of the working class and unintelligent.  i personally mask my own accent when interacting with people in professional settings due to a fear of not being taken seriously if i speak freely; i’ve seen reviews of stores in poorer cities complaining that employees there “make no effort to disguise their working class accents”.

and murdoc, well, he’s a man that wants- needs to be taken seriously. he would not be able to stand anybody being able to tell his background from the way he speaks. when you want to be someone with power and control you don’t want to open your mouth and have everybody know you grew up in one of the poorest places in the country. murdoc would absolutely loathe to appear anything but high-class. he knows full well that people would take him less seriously if he spoke the way he was raised to.

(there’s a really good poem on this problem by the way!) 

and i think that the best example i can give of this actually is 2-d. in the early phases especially, 2-d having a typically working class accent is exaggerated for laughs, used to make him seem stupider in the eyes of their audience. 2-d and his unapologetic, unashamed use of his accent (which by the way is closer to a mockney accent than one from sussex, but i digress) perfectly embodies everything that murdoc would want to avoid about his own.

so it seems reasonable all in all to believe that the reason murdoc, despite coming from an area with an obvious and distinctive dialect, doesn’t use it.. is because he’s trained himself out of speaking that way.

i think in general with the gorillaz fandom there tends to be a lot of untapped potential when it comes to thinking about murdoc’s character in regards to his origin. and i can’t fault the fandom on that! a lot of gorillaz fans are american and probably only know stoke on trent exists because of murdoc. so if you’ve read this far (thank you! :D) let me provide you with a couple of fun ideas!!

accent/dialect slipping. maybe when he’s drunk and emotional (like pirate radio), or maybe just in moments where he has his guard down. noodle coming to sit with him and he greets her with “ayup, duck?” and refuses to ever acknowledge it left his mouth

having a habit of checking the trade marks on the bottoms of his ceramics, refusing to buy anything he doesn’t know is good bloody pottery.

oatcakes as a comfort food <3 this one is definitely just me projecting btw

i dunno! i just feel like with 2-d and murdoc especially their hometowns are treated as.. where they were born, and that’s that. i think it’s interesting to think about how these places would’ve actually shaped them, yaknow?

anyway this hereby concludes my essay on murdoc niccals, classism and how i excuse phil being southern <3

[auntbibby]

i just really Really hate the ideology that "good things should never be easy or free, and if they are, theyre fake". it's like people dont want anything to improve or get measurably better, or for old obstacles in life to be removed becuz progress is EEEEVILLLL.

people look down on ozempic & wegovy becuz it can make losing weight become easier and that pisses off the people who go to the gym 3 times a day and drink raw eggs. plastic surgery pisses off similar ppl for similar reasons. laws getting passed that improve working conditions & wages for minimum wage jobs pisses off older ppl who had a terrible time at work when they were a teenager becuz "if i had to do it u should have to do it too".

i understand what youre saying about fat liberation. that people are naturally different weights, and we shouldnt look down on ppl for being big. that fat can be sexy etc.

however, the antipsychotic i HAVE to take (or else i will become so irritable i will have multiple violent meltdowns daily) has "weight gain" as a side effect. for the first dozen years of my life i was very very thin. since then, being on various antipsychotics & other psychiatric medications, well..... im currently 260+ pounds.

i was actually 298 pounds a year and a half ago but i went for lots of walks and changed my diet and the weight hasnt come back much. and dont say "see? you worked hard!" becuz i first tried like 3 different exercise regimens and they were all too hard. it wasnt till i scaled it back to "taking a walk or 2 every day IF IM UP TO IT" that i finally started losing weight.

......

maybe for a lot of things, increasingly the farther back in history u go, painful hard work & being rewarded were intrinsically linked. but thats not always the case. sometimes good things can happen withOUT painful hard work. sometimes painful hard work leads to detriment.

as for risuchan's points....

i get waaaaay overstimulated if i have to play a hard videogame level over & over & over again and then finally beat it. it causes me to need to decompress or ill possibly have a violent meltdown. i MUCH prefer beating a level on the first try. i try not to play videogames very much.

i literally cannot remember a time i had a really bad day and then felt pleasure when a friend or family member reassured me. the closest ive come to that is venting to my longdistance girlfriend online and then she sends me heart emojis & hug emojis. usually when ive had a bad day i isolate myself becuz i know if somebody starts talking to me, espECIALLY trying to comfort me, im worried i might have a violent meltdown.

when somebody comes back into my life after being gone, i think "ohh.... nice!" for one second and then i immediatelly think "damn, now i have to re-plan my schedule so im set up properly for a visit with this person.... lets see.... this week in april i dont have an outing planned.... if i have a bath on wednesday night then i can skip the bath on thursday which means i can have a bath on friday night which sets me up for when mom comes over on saturday and then i can skip the bath on sunday and have a bath on monday night and.... hmmm i need to phone mom to see if my outings THAT week are on tuesday & thursday or monday wednesday & friday...." it's pretty stressfull actually. i have so much anxiety about planning events and being late and stuff like that, i had to tell my brother to "visit me less" once. he lives in a different province.

i will admit crying is a good way to end my violent meltdowns. but id much rather my violent meltdowns didnt occur becuz i end up injuring myself and breaking stuff.

anyways all i think is..... i dont wanna reject a free lunch becuz its "on a silver platter". good is good & bad is bad. nothing is "too good to be true". thats just a bad thing disguised as a good thing dont let it spoil your perception of true good things.

edit: im srry if im comin across as mean. im srry.

if u had 3 wishes, would 1 of ur wishes be "everybody gets transformed into The Closest Thing To Their Ideal Body That Isnt Inherently Harmful"?

I feel like handing someone their ideal self on a silver platter would kind of invalidate all of their struggles up to that point. There’s a story about this somewhere around here lemme go grab it

[n00dl3gal]

Like Old Times (Father-Son Bonding AU)

A direct sequel to the “Expiration Date” fic, which I’ll link in a reblog. I’ve also posted all my fics in this AU to AO3!! Thanks again to @thetriggeredhappy for their help and just generally being a cool dude, and the Scoutsune Discord server for indulging my brainrot

No warnings beyond family schmoop!

Less than an hour after the bread monster incident, the Administrator called for a ceasefire. “Only while your base is repaired,” she said over the TV screen. “BLU is quite disappointed in this negligence- as am I. Regardless, you may use these three days as you see fit. Go home, stay here- whatever you do, no more bread monsters.” The screen turned off with a click. 

Scout exhaled through his nose. He was thankful there was no mention of him or Miss Pauling’s woodchipper. 

Spy decloaked behind him. “Less time than I wanted, but c’est la vie.” Scout looked at him over his shoulder. “I’m meeting with an old contact during our break,” Spy said in Italian. “Would you like to come along? It’ll be like old times.” 

Scout’s brow furrowed, but he nodded. At least this way, he’d get out of helping Engie and Heavy with repairs. And possibly meeting Miss Pauling’s woodchipper. 

“Excellent. Our flight is at 7 AM tomorrow.” 

“We’re flying commercial?” Scout asked, also in (more hesitant) Italian. 

“Our destination is continental. We’ll leave the base by 5:30.” Scout groaned as Spy started to leave. But- wait, he hadn’t- 

“Oi, where are we going, anyway?” he called back in English. 

Spy paused to look at him and smile. “Boston.” 

“Why do we always get the ass-crack-of-dawn flights?” Jeremy asked groggily, reclining his seat.

“They are the ones with first-class seats available,” Raphael replied. He took a sip from his mimosa. 

“Yeah, cuz God forbid you fly coach for once.” Jeremy shifted, trying to get comfortable. “Hey. Have I ever been to Boston before?”

Raphael didn’t answer immediately. His lip sucked in, as if in thought. “Yes. When you were very, very young. You wouldn’t remember.” 

Jeremy nodded. He wanted to ask more, there was something Raphael wasn’t saying but… well, he was never a morning person. He fell asleep before the plane even took off. 

. . .

It was mid-afternoon by the time they landed in Boston. Jeremy was never fond of long flights; having his legs cramped like that for extended periods of time was murder. He was half tempted to take a jog around Logan International. Raphael, on the other hand, was ushering them both to the car rental. “Can’t even get a stretch in, huh?”

“Unfortunately, we are expected by 4, and I would hate to keep my contact waiting,” Raphael explained in French, accepting the keys from the girl at the counter. “She’s not a very patient woman, in some regards.” 

Jeremy huffed but didn’t argue. He just followed his father to the rental, tossing his suitcase in the backseat. “Y’know, the girl at the counter-” 

“We will not have time for you to go out on a date, Jeremy.” 

“No! No, it was- her accent’s kinda like mine, it’s weird,” Jeremy said. Raphael started the car. “Cuz I’ve only been here as a baby, and I got mine from TV and shit. It’s just… really strange, is all.” 

Raphael made a quiet noise of agreement. “Some of the shows you watched as a child were filmed here. It’s not as complex as you think it is.” 

“Yeah, probably not…” 

The pair lapsed into silence as Raphael drove. Storefronts and high rises morphed into houses. It had been a while since they were in a residential area. RED, for understandable reasons, kept away from civilians. 

Raphael took the roads with practiced experience. Sure, it had been implied he knew the area. If he had a contact here- one with a house, presumably- he must’ve spent time here. But this- this was far too familiar. A bit suspicious, actually. 

Eventually, Raphael slowed in front of a more rundown Brownstone. Still quite nice, just needed a little work. It felt… welcoming, in a way Jeremy couldn’t name.

“Lotta cars,” he observed as Raphael parallel parked. “Must be a party going on somewhere.” 

“Hmm, perhaps,” Raphael said, turning the car off. “Would you mind ringing the doorbell for me? I need to grab something from the trunk. Ask for Sara Jane.” 

OK, now Jeremy knew something was up. He was never the one to make the first contact, that was always Dad’s job. Jeremy might be a full-grown adult, but there were some things that didn’t change. This was one of them. 

Still, he nodded. He climbed up the front steps and ringed the doorbell. He heard- multiple voices from inside, predominantly male, but they quickly silenced themselves. A TV, perhaps? They really ought to get that flower box on the second story window fixed- 

The woman who opened the door was a bit shorter than him, though not by much. She was wearing a simple dress, hoop earrings, and flats. Her hair was dark, curved to her chin. But her nose and earlobes felt… achingly familiar. Like Jeremy saw them all the time. 

“Um, hi, I’m looking for Sara Jane? My name’s-” The rest of his speech was knocked out of him as the woman launched herself at him. Jeremy braced for an attack, but quickly realized she was… hugging him. 

She was hugging him, sobbing, and choked out the word “Jeremy.” 

Wait. He knew that voice. He had only heard it a few times in his life, few enough he could count them on one hand, but he knew it. “M-Ma?” he whispered. 

The woman- Sara Jane- Ma looked up at him, still crying. Her hands found his face as she observed him. “Y-yeah, sweetie, it’s me, it’s-it’s your ma,” she said. 

“Ma!” he laughed, tears of his own dancing down his cheeks. He hugged her back, practically lifting her off her feet. “Oh my God, Ma! I-I never thought I’d-” 

“Oh Jeremy, sweetie, look how tall you’ve gotten! Last I saw you, you fit in my arms! My baby, my handsome baby,” she spoke over him. She rubbed circles into his back as they embraced. It felt so, so right. 

Jeremy laughed even harder. “Are you kiddin’? I got it from you, you’re beautiful, Ma!” He stared at her, trying to commit every mole and wrinkle and perfect flaw to memory. “I can’t believe- oh my God, I’m actually meeting you!” 

“It was long overdue,” another voice said, as Raphael joined them on the front stoop. “I had put it off for safety reasons, but considering our current, ah, situation… I felt it was worth the risk.” 

Sara Jane squealed, pulling Raphael into the hug as well. “You’ve been taking good care of my boy, you promise me, Raphael?” 

“Don’t worry Ma, he’s the best dad I could ask for, considering,” Jeremy teased. 

“Oh, don’t I know it. Called me up last night and told me to get the whole motley crew together. Even managed to get Melvin to bring his twin daughters, bless his wife’s heart,” she explained. 

Jeremy blinked. “Uh- Melvin? Daughters?”

Sara Jane laughed. It sounded so much like Jeremy’s it practically hurt. This was his mother. Lord, he’s finally seeing her. “Melvin’s your older brother, sweetie. Eh, sixth oldest. Bobby’s the oldest.” 

“I have a brother?”

“Oh honey, you’re the youngest of eight,” Sara Jane said plainly. 

“...fuck,” Jeremy whispered. 

. . .

He didn’t just have seven brothers. He had seven brothers, four of which brought their wives, one who brought his boyfriend, and three who brought their kids. And the kids totaled to an additional six, counting the babies. 

It was… an admittedly tight squeeze in the living room. 

Sara Jane introduced Jeremy. Jeremy had been expecting to be treated like a stranger. He had vanished when he was a baby, after all, and his younger-older brothers probably wouldn’t remember him at all. 

And yet, it was like he knew them all his life. 

They teased him and punched him playfully and acted so friendly, so familial it nearly made Jeremy break down. He was still crying from meeting Ma, but being dogpiled with so much affection was suffocating. In a good way. He had seen on sitcoms the intrinsic bond between family, and while he felt it with Dad, they also risked their lives nearly daily. But it was real, it was here, and it was wrapping him in a warm blanket. 

Despite the chaos and the sheer number of people, Jeremy didn’t feel overwhelmed. He laughed and played along with their jokes, cracking some back when he could get a word in. Scott ragged on his dog tags, he countered by pointing out the hole in his pants. Michael told him he was still a shortass, he replied with “it takes one to know one.” Elliot and Ricky were the closest to actually getting hurt, and that was only because Jeremy elbowed them both so hard they nearly fell over. 

For the first time in 25 years, Jeremy understood what “home” meant. 

The kids were especially curious, eager to meet their uncle and step-grandfather. Within seconds, young Rebecca- only four years old- was challenging Jeremy to a race around the house. “I’m the fastest kid in the world,” she bragged, puffing out her chest. 

“Oh yeah?” Jeremy asked. “That a fact?”

“You wanna test me? I beat Johnny Three-Legs at running, and he’s got three legs!” Jeremy laughed and stood from the couch, letting her lead him outside. “On the count of three, OK?”

“You’re on, pipsqueak,” Jeremy teased.

“Onetwothree GO!” Rebecca yelled, taking off in a sprint. Jeremy knew that, by all accounts, he should beat her. His legs were longer, she didn’t have the proper running stance, and it was his job to be fast. That’s what he got paid to do. But some small voice was telling him to let her win, so he did. “Ha! I told ya!” 

“Ya sure did,” he replied, mock panting. “Look at you, a freaking blur on the green. You’re goin’ to the Olympics, kid.” 

Rebecca beamed and hugged his leg. “Promise, Uncle Jeremy?” He nodded because, after that display, there was no way he could speak without squeaking like a chew toy. 

Rebecca skipped back inside, past Raphael, who was watching on the stoop. “You’re a natural with children,” he observed. “I used to do the same thing when you were that age.” 

“Wait- wait, really? You sure fooled me,” Jeremy said. 

Raphael rolled his eyes. “What’s my job again, mon lapin?”

“Yeah, yeah…” Jeremy leaned against the railing, watching Raphael’s cigarette smoke in the wind. “Hey. Uh… thanks for arranging all of this. You really didn’t need to.”

“But I did. I meant it when I said this was overdue. I’ve been wanting to introduce you to the rest of the family for a while, but have been unable. Then that whole ordeal with the supposed tumors, and-” Raphael exhaled slowly. “It wouldn’t have been fair to you if you died without knowing them. I would’ve never forgiven myself.” 

Jeremy punched his shoulder lightly. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, pops. It all worked out, we’re still kicking, and that roast chicken Ma’s making smells incredible. Everything’s perfect.” 

Raphael finished his cigarette and smiled. “Oui. It is.” 

. . .

While Sara Jane had been able to get the rest of the family here, it was a school night. Kids needed to be tucked in by 9:30, so most of Jeremy’s brothers were gone by 8. Elliot was staying overnight, as was his boyfriend. Otherwise, the house quickly went from bustling to barren. 

It gave Jeremy a chance to explore his would-be childhood home.

He made his way upstairs, pushing open one of the doors. It led- to little surprise- to a bedroom. It was set up like a nursery, with a crib in one corner and a toddler bed in the other. Toys were scattered about across the floor. 

He heard Sara Jane sigh behind him. “This was your room, you know.” Jeremy turned to look at her as she flipped the light switch. “That crib… I had put you to bed the night your father planned to fake his death. I was in on the whole plan, naturally. He wanted to hold you one last time, so I said OK. When I woke up the next morning… you were both gone.” She exhaled slowly, grabbing onto his shoulder. “I wrote both of you off as dead, but I knew what had happened. Honestly, should’ve figured it out before then. You hadn’t woken me up crying,” she joked. Her eyes were watering. 

Jeremy hugged her, pulling her close. “You never took the crib down?” 

“By the time I was ready, Bobby’s wife was pregnant, so I kept it up for my grandbabies. I knew- I knew you were out there, sweetie. Both of you.” She kissed his cheek, squeezing him.

“I-I never got to be a normal kid, really,” he confessed. “I mean, Dad did his best, gave me comic books and board games and stuff, but-but I never went to school or made friends or anything like that. I-I didn’t even know I had a family. It took me forever to even realize I had a Ma. An-and everything I did-” The tears were flowing again, more freely than earlier. “Ya missed me losing my first tooth, and potty trainin’, and all that stuff parents should know about. I-I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Sara Jane wiped his cheek dry. “Don’t apologize for what your father did, Jeremy. And definitely don’t apologize for me not potty training another kid. Besides… hold on, I’ll be right back.” She made her way down the hallway. Jeremy didn’t follow, instead deciding to examine the crib. This was where he grew up. It was a simple crib, obviously well-used. Not worn-down, mind, just… used. It had a history. A history that Jeremy wanted to decode, but unlike his dad’s ciphers, he didn’t have the key. 

“Took me a second to find it,” Sara Jane said. She handed him what appeared to be a scrapbook. “Raphael- he wrote when he can. Taught me some basic codes, would send out letters whenever you’d leave a town. Never left a return address, but…” Jeremy flipped through the pages, moving to sit on the small bed. The letters were all coded but appeared to be about how much Raphael missed Sara Jane. Updates on Jeremy’s growth. Letters from a father to his lover and son’s mother. 

One page jumped out to him, though. “I remember this,” he said, running his fingers against the paper. It was a simple drawing of a young boy, holding a catcher’s mitt, and a taller man next to him. “I drew this after Dad took me to my first baseball game, for my eighth birthday. I thought I lost the drawing after we skipped town, but- he sent them to you?”

Sara Jane nodded. “And I kept them all. Oh, honey, the day I first heard your voice on the phone- Mikey can tell you, I damn near fell over. You sounded so happy, and even if I couldn’t see you, that’s all a mother wants.” Jeremy leaned against her and she shut the book. “That’s all a mother wants, sweetie. To see her kids be safe and happy.” 

“I am, Ma,” he assured her. “I promise.” 

They sat like that for a while, with Sara Jane commenting on various letters and drawings in the scrapbook. Apparently, Raphael sent her money when he could- more frequently now that Mann Co. paid so well. She also had a rough idea of their current occupations. “I figure, if you and your father are working for the same company- with his skills, there’s gotta be a whole lot of nonsense going on out in that desert.” Jeremy laughed at that because she wasn’t wrong. “But I also figure since he raised you right, he’ll keep the both of you safe.” 

“I keep him safe too, don’t worry,” Jeremy added. “Uh- listen, it’s touching and all you kept the crib, but I don’t have to sleep in it, right?” 

They both had a good chuckle over that. Their laughs were in perfect harmony. 

. . .

The next two days were a mix of learning the family history and exploring Boston. It was the offseason, so there weren’t any games going on at Fenway, but Jeremy still got a picture in front of the park. Sara Jane took the pair to a restaurant that served “the best damn clam chowder in the contiguous United States.” Which, incidentally, led them to discover Jeremy was allergic to clams. Thankfully they didn’t have to go to the hospital- he just sort of immediately got sick before it passed- but it did suck.

It was damn good chowder, though. 

They went down to the harbor where the Boston Tea Party happened. It was crowded with people, resulting in them not staying long. Jeremy was a bit better with crowds than Raphael, but neither was great with them. Came with the job. Getting overpriced memorabilia from a nearby gift shop, though, went over much more smoothly. 

When not out on the town, Sara Jane dug out more scrapbooks and photo albums, catching Raphael up on what his stepsons had been up to. She showed Jeremy pictures from Ricky’s first school play to Scott opening up his butcher shop. Graduation pictures, wedding pictures, baby pictures- it was all there, and Jeremy devoured it. He wanted to know these people. He wanted to know his family. And he did. He learned about Michael’s stint in the Navy, Melvin meeting his wife, how Bobby’s son could dribble a basketball for twenty minutes straight. He learned about how his parents met. How Raphael loved each of Sara Jane’s children, even if they weren’t biologically his. How Jeremy wasn’t planned- few of the kids were - but they were both so, so happy to realize he was coming. 

He also learned that, while diner food would remain the undisputed king, homemade meatloaf came pretty close. 

. . .

The only problem came when it was time to leave. It wasn’t that Jeremy didn’t want to return to work, or leave his Ma behind. Sara Jane wasn’t even torn up over losing her son and lover again. It just felt like there was so much left to say, to do. There was uncertainty as to when they’d be able to return. “We get time off for Smissmas, I know that’s months away but I’ll be here, I promise,” Jeremy swore, hugging Sara Jane for the eighth time. 

“You better,” she said, squeezing him tightly. “You have 25 years worth of gifts to catch up on, not to mention birthday gifts-”

“Ma, you don’t have to go that far,” he whined. He was touched, sure, but the thought of that much luggage was truly frightening. Oh God, he was going to have to get gifts for everybody, wasn’t he? What do kids even want for Smissmas? 

��Hush, let me spoil my baby,” Sara Jane told him, kissing his cheek. “Oh, Jeremy…” 

Jeremy nodded. “I know, but I’ll call. I’ll write, too. Send pictures if I can.” 

“I’ll make sure he does,” Raphael assured her. Sara Jane stood to kiss his lips, with Jeremy looking away pointedly. “You have my word, ma petite chou-fleur.” 

“Alright, alright- now get going, I don’t want you two missing your flight. That boss of yours sounds like she’ll tear you both a new one if you’re late,” Sara Jane said, shooing them away. “Love you boys!” 

“I love you too, Ma!” Jeremy shouted back, for the very first time. 

The drive back to the airport was quiet. Jeremy stared out the window, watching his hometown- he had a hometown- pass by. “Hey, dad?” he asked, still looking outside. Raphael grunted to acknowledge he was listening. “One of these days, our contracts with Mann Co. are gonna expire. We’re gonna have to find new jobs.” 

“Yes, that’s correct,” Raphael said. He tapped a rhythm against the steering wheel. 

“And-and I was thinking when that time comes… maybe we could come back to Boston. Find some gigs out here,” Jeremy suggested. 

Raphael sighed. “Unfortunately, being a spy means that you don’t have the option of retiring, Jeremy. Not until you’re unable to complete your job. At that point, though, you’ve probably died a dozen times over,” he explained. “Even if I could retire, settling down somewhere so close to people I care about- I would still have enemies.” 

“Right. ‘Course,” Jeremy said. “It’s OK.” 

“That being said,” Raphael continued, “you have the luxury of youth and not being tied down to such a career. If you want to find a job in Boston after we finish with RED, there’s nothing stopping you.” 

“But people will still be after me, since I’m your son. And you wouldn’t be around.”

“Every child leaves their parents someday. And you’re strong, Jeremy. You can protect yourself and your family.” Raphael smiled. “I don’t believe Sara Jane needs much protecting, but I do worry.” 

Jeremy laughed. “I mean, did ya see the muscles on Scott and Michael? Guys can probably bench press a tractor!” 

They both chuckled before settling into quietude. Eventually, though, Jeremy had to break the silence. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I love you.” 

“I love you too, mon lapin.”

“...so your nickname for Ma is fucking ‘little cauliflower?’ What the hell, Dad?” 

[mewhiphand]

Drake analysis for his birthday!

Long post, part 1 of 2! Feel free to share your thoughts!

Drake analysis;

*WARNING : MAJOR spoilers for the Gone series and Monster series, discussions of child abuse, misogynistic mindsets, victim blaming, discussion of torture, sexual assault and rape*

This is a general analysis of Drake's character, focusing mostly on scenes from GONE and HUNGER (where he, arguably, has the most autonomy). If there any specific scenes or books you'd like me to take a look at, please let me know! :)

1| Pre-Coates Drake (overview)

Drake was already showing worrying signs, even before the FAYZ (and before he got sent to Coates); it's mentioned that he found enjoyment in microwaving a puppy and burning frogs. Either this was done covertly until the Holden incident, was done at Coates, or was ignored by his family (likely the former).

This tells us a couple of things:

A. His family may neglect or ignore him (or he ignores them)

Torturing these animals, a strange hobby as it is, does require time and commitment. This distance from his parents during his formative years could create antisocial tendencies and isolation from his 'loved ones'.

B. His sadistic tendencies developed before the death of his father and his mother's remarriage (more on that later).

However, Drake didn't start hurting people until he shot the "neighbour's kid, Holden" who "liked to come over and annoy him".

This short description gives us an insight into Drake's short leash on himself: his temper and impulses are hard to control, and he's aggravated to the point of almost committing murder at a young age (he was 14 in Gone, so this could have been at any age before then) - the book tells us that despite only being shot in the leg by Drake with a .22, "even then, he'd nearly died".

This was the incident that got Drake sent to Coates (a boarding school for mostly "rich", messed-up kids) - this could also clue us into how Drake didn't appear to be legally punished for shooting Holden, as his family might have been well-off (implying they'd rather just buy the victim's silence and ship Drake away rather than deal with his issues on their own, or get a private therapist - or perhaps they believe it's out of their hands?).

However, this is based on assumptions and not solid ground.

2 | Drake and his father.

Drake was taught to shoot by his father, a Highway Patrol lieutenant, using his service pistol. This formed an integral part of who he became, and they now had something in common -

"Don't shoot a person," his father had said. But then he relented, relieved no doubt to find something he could share with his disturbing son."

Despite his father being wary of Drake's early sadistic tendencies, he seemed to be the person that Drake was closest to, and his death affected him majorly. As perhaps the only person who even slightly understood him or sought to find something to do with him, his father's death appeared to be a pivotal moment for Drake - it signalled the end of any sense of a positive male role model in Drake's life, as his mother's next husband was abusive. This would cause him to seek out "strong", violent, dominant men when he was older.

The most likely timeline in my opinion is :

•Drake develops sadistic tendencies

•Drake's father dies

•Drake's mother remarries

•Drake shoots Holden and is sent to Coates

3 | Drake and his stepfather and mother

There is subtextual information that Drake is abused by his stepfather: "the beatings he'd suffered, and the much more numerous beating he had delivered, the pleasure he had found in burning frogs and microwaving a puppy and drawing all those endless loving pictures of weapons, spears, knives, torture devices, all of it, all the hatreds, all the burning lust, all the madness and rage.."

"But he was always a troubled boy. Especially after my son died. The stepfather...young Drake’s stepfather..." - Drake Merwin Sr to Connie temple

To digress :

This small passage in Plague and Sr's speech in Light gives us leagues of information.

Drake is drawn to things that cause pain, he's sickly fascinated with all kinds of weapons, "torture devices" (cleverly hinted at in Hunger, when he's watching Saw II), and the true depth of his emotions are revealed - along with a great deal of self-awareness.

Drake doesn't lack emotion - he's incredibly emotional. The things he does feel (rage, lust, joy) seem to be felt deeper, as if his lack of empathy amplifies the rest of his spectrum of emotions. Drake is also aware of what he feels - the "burning lust" mentioned is especially important to understanding Drake - the misogynistic hatred of Astrid and Diana stems from his apparent inability to distinguish between sexual attraction and causing pain (again, his sadistic desires)

The two are one, in Drake's mind.

[More on that later*]

But where did the misogynist mindset come from in the first place?

The answer lies in Drake's home life following the death of his father.

Drake's mother remarried - but his stepfather was an abusive man, leading to an incredibly toxic relationship. Drake, in his youth, already having the urge to hurt and kill, was exposed to that kind of extreme violence. Drake's stepfather beat his mother in front of him, and because his mother seemingly took actions to antagonise him enough to beat her, Drake (with the mindset of a child, who may have already seen it as a betrayal by his mother to remarry after his father's death)

concluded that she did it deliberately because she liked it.

This misconstruction and victim-blaming set in place a cycle of violence that would form Drake's victim-perpetrator mindset. [*]

It could also imply that Drake's mother's actions of irritating his stepfather directly impacted Drake himself: his stepfather took out his anger on his stepson, and beat Drake too.

This could stand to reason as another explanation why Drake's hatred of women developed - lacking positive female role models and maternal figures in his life led to distance from women, and led him to think that all women were intrinsically weak, irritating and masochistic in their desires.

(This would establish a sadistic-masochistic dynamic that Drake believed all woman [for some, like Astrid, secretly] wanted / partook in, and fuel the idea that women were weak and cowardly as his mother failed to protect him from her husband's violence.)

With a stunted, childish psyche, Drake lost sight of the real issue - the fact that his stepfather was abusive - and directed his anger at someone "safe" and "easy" to hate- his mother, whom he victim-blamed.

We can infer that Drake's childhood was filled with uncertainty and violence, and therefore he sought out control as a way to find a sense of stability in his life, and linked violence with strength and power - therefore, he won't recognise any authority that doesn't use violence as the main way to achieve its aims (hence why he's so gleeful when Caine "is lowered to his level" by using violence, and Drake himself only exercises power through shows of violence and using fear as a means of control - he has no sense of loyalty)

The build-up of resentment at his mother would explode, but not at its original target - at Drake's two known objects of sexual attraction in the FAYZ, Astrid and Diana [who will be addressed separately, as their treatments differ in some aspects. In this post I believe I'll only be addressing Diana, but if you want the full Astrid post comment I guess!]

4| Drake and Diana

A.

Drake fears humiliation - mainly, from the female population. In Gone, Drake comments on this :

"He felt a moment of panic then...He would look like a fool if he didn't get [Astrid]."

"Drake cursed and, again, for just a moment, felt the almost desperate fear of failing Caine. He wasn't worried what Caine would do to him - after all, Caine needed him- but he knew if he failed to carry out Caine's orders, Diana would laugh."

What Drake hates about Diana here is her ability to make him feel humiliated, weak, powerless, a failure - everything he's bound to have felt in his childhood when he couldn't protect his mother or himself against his stepfather. He craves the feeling of power over others, and loathes the feeling of helplessness. We can see that he's aware that Caine uses him and needs him to act as a threat, and he accepts this for now, with the ultimate goal of overthrowing him, but his real fear is being publicly seen as weak and being laughed at, which drives him to do anything to succeed in Caine's eyes and, in his own words, "wipe the smirk off Diana's face"

B.

"Drake had made time to check out Diana's psych file the day after the FAYZ came. But her file had been missing by then. In its place she had left Drake's file lying open on the doc's desk and drawn a little smiley face beside the word "sadist".

Drake had already hated her. But after that, hating Diana had become a full-time occupation."

Diana humiliates Drake, and gains power over him by knowing information about his mental state. Drake, who had the same idea to gain power over Diana, is infuriated and his hatred of her, once a burning ember, is now a raging volcano. We can see that Drake doesn't fear that Diana will hurt him psychically, but emotionally by provoking and humiliating him.

C.

"To Drake's disgust, Caine accepted Diana's back-talk."

Diana has power over Caine that Drake can't hope to accomplish, due to the fact that Caine is attracted to her. Caine's desire of Diana outweighs any loyalty or comradeship he has with Drake. Diana also uses Caine's want for her as a failsafe protection against Drake.

Drake's misogyny shines through here: he sees the fact that Diana is manipulating Caine, and sees how he tolerates it. Drake realises that Diana can get away with much more than Drake himself can - she has more power over Caine than Drake does. And this power, in Drake's eyes, isn't "earned" as it wasn't gained through violence.

Drake disregards any kind of power that isn't earned through pain - this also shows in his hatred of freaks, who he sees as not having "earned" the right to be powerful, and explains his glee at, yes,suffering the pain of his arm being burnt off, but it being replaced by something that enables him to cause pain to others - like a reward for enduring the pain. Drake wants his suffering to mean something, and to gain something from it. Drake wants to be important.

"Go ahead, raise a hand against me, Drake," Diana taunted. "Caine would kill you."

We see another example where Diana uses the threat of Caine to keep Drake in line.

Diana is described as attractive throughout the books by varying characters, and so we infer that Drake finds her attractive, but in his twisted, misognyistic mindset, this is translated to violence. Additionally, he already disliked her so his hatred for Diana is stronger than for any other girl in the FAYZ (even Astrid).

5| Drake and Caine

The foreshadowing of Drake's betrayal

We've established that Drake lacks any sense of loyalty and trust due to a lack of these in his own childhood. Drake also only sees respect as being earned by shows of violence and dominance.

Drake, lacking positive male role models, appears to latch on to Caine, the "most ruthless" of all the boys at Coates, and the most powerful (in a literal sense, with his telekinesis). Caine is mentioned to do small favours for Drake (but, crucially, plays Drake and Diana off against each other [*]), and seemingly gains Drake's initial respect.

Drake, however, seeks to usurp Caine (due to his hatred of freaks, and needing to have a sense of superiority. He also sees Caine as weak and below him for bowing to Diana's demands due to Caine being attracted to her.)

When the Coates trio is first introduced together, in Gone, - "Drake Merwin stood smirking, arms across his chest, on Caine's left, and Diana Ladris watched the crowd from Caine's right"

I'm perhaps guilty of looking too much into this initial description, but I find it interesting - despite being Caine's "right-hand man" and even Drake taunts Diana that he and Caine are "like brothers" (Hunger), Drake stands on his left and Diana on his right.

While this also serves to cement (haha) Caine's role as the 'Fearless Leader', it could also foreshadow Drake's betrayal later in Hunger, and his need to "run the show".

Drake, the Judas figure to Caine's christ [maybe a post on this at some point?*], stands on his left. It also marks Diana as the loyal follower, the one to stay with Caine until the end.

The decimation of Drake and Caine's relations ship culminates in the final events of HUNGER, when Drake almost kills Diana and Caine throws Drake down the mineshaft in revenge and anger.

This marks a shift to Drake's character - he's no longer under Caine's control - but emphasises that his loyalty is now fully to the Gaiaphage, whom he worships for giving him power over others [!!] (the whip hand, which grants him the ability to hurt and kill others, and in LIES, immorality)

We can see that what Drake actually craves is, in GONE: to run things himself, a personal anarchist dream where he can hurt anyone he wants, (and yet he needs a strong male figure behind the scenes to give him motivation), or the illusion of control, found in causing others pain, as he lacks the mental stability and leadership needed to be in control, and he lacks long-term goals beyond revenge and fulfilling his sadistic desires, and is rudderless without a leader (as seen in Monster, where he is "mindlessly killing, torturing and raping anyone he comes across" until he is sought out by Tom Peaks, who gives him motivation)

This is supported by Peaks' comment on this in VILLAIN -

"But along with the sneers, he sensed that Drake was looking for leadership. Drake had no plan, never would have any plan, beyond his next murder."

Drake and his hatred of freaks, and how this impacts his relationship with Caine -

"Drake hated the power. There was only one reason why Caine and not Drake was running the show: Caine's powers."

"But Caine understood that the kids with powers had to be controlled. And once Caine and Diana had all the freaks under control, what was to stop Drake from using his own nine millimetres of magic to take it all for himself?"

Drake always planned to usurp Caine, as he thinks he's too influenced by Diana and due to his hatred of freaks. Drake hates anyone having power over him, and Caine's abilities give him a unique advantage, which Drake loathes.

Caine and Drake - altercations before the betrayal and what they show

"She was your mother and she gave you up and kept Sam?" Drake said, laughing in his enjoyment of Caine's humiliation.

Drake's sadism shines through and he turns entirely reckless in tormenting Caine, his desire to see Caine humiliated outweighing any fear he has of him. For Drake, fulfilling these sadistic urges take precedence over everything - even fear, pain, rage. We can see that he seems to not know when to stop, or chooses to push people past their limits anyways.

Caine responds in physical violence, the language Drake seems to understand - "Something slammed Drake's chest. It was like being hit by a truck. He was lifted off his feet and thrown against the wall."

Drake refuses to be humiliated (in front of Diana, curiously) - "He made himself shake it off. He wanted to jump up and go for Caine, finish him quick before the freak could hit him again. But Caine was there, looming over him, face red, teeth bared, looking like a mad dog."

"Remember who's the boss, Drake," Caine said, his voice low, guttural, like it was coming from an animal."

"Drake nodded, beaten. For now."

This small passage gives us a lot of messages about Drake. He wants to appear strong and vicious, but plays it smart and backs down to avoid the risk of Caine actually killing him. Drake and Caine's dynamic is, crucially, a power struggle at its heart.

However, Drake doesn't give up - he's admirably resilient and persistent in chasing his goals of revenge, and "winning" the power struggle against Caine. He does, at least in GONE, possess a good amount of intelligence and foresight.

Caine (and Diana) being aware of Drake's psychopathy

Caine :

"Drake is a violent, disturbed boy." - Caine to Sam, the gym scene in GONE.

Caine knows of Drake's afflictions, but keeps him around as a lackey to do his dirty work. He also considers himself morally superior to Drake - he remarks that at least he doesn't "get off" on what he does.

Hypocritically, Caine does not see his own actions as being just as damaging, but this is due to his overinflated ego and delusions of grandeur - he believes the ends he wants justifies the means he uses.

Diana :

"Drake is sick in the head. I'm not saying that just to scare you, I'm saying it because it's true...Drake is flat out sick in the head. He could kill her, Sam" - Diana to Sam, the gym scene in GONE.

"Well, that's why we keep Drake around. He enjoys hurting people." - Diana to Astrid, classroom scene in GONE.

Diana shares a similar opinion to Caine - he's mentally unhinged, but Diana recognises the threat he poses to both her and to Caine, and wants him gone.

6| Drake and dominance & submission

A.

"Drake moved past Diana and kicked Sam onto his back, legs twisted beneath him. Drake stood over him and pushed the end of his hat against Sam's Adam's apple. The same move he had used on Orc the night before."

We see that Drake is physically strong, despite his unassuming stature - he's described as "lean". He has been in enough fights and has enough experience to take down people at least "fifty pounds" heavier than him (Orc). He also puts these people into humiliating, submissive positions where they have no choice but to capitulate to his demands.

B.

He speaks to Astrid in LIGHT about this -

"Are you as clueless as the rest of them, Astrid? It’s simple. Here it is, here’s the answer, Astrid the Genius: it’s fun to hurt people. It’s such…it’s such joy, Astrid. Such joy realizing that all the power is yours, and all the fear and pain is right there, in your victim. Come on, smart girl, you know what it’s called. You know the word for it. Come on, say it.’ He cupped his hand to his ear, waiting for the word.

'Evil,’ Astrid said.

Drake laughed, threw up his hand wide, and nodded his head. 'Evil! There you go. Good for you. Evil. It’s in all of us. You know that, too. It was in you. I saw it in your eyes as you looked down on me in that cooler. Evil, hah. We all want to have someone powerless beneath us while we stand over them.’ His voice had grown husky. 'We all want that. We all want that.’

One thing that stands out about Drake's character is that he likes to believe that everyone, at some level, has the same desires he does: Drake is just "strong" enough to act on them.

Drake likes to antagonise people to 'bring them down to his level'.

In this speech, Drake reveals a lot about himself.

"it's fun to hurt people" ,in particular, keys us in to the fact that Drake is self-aware, and making Astrid call him "evil" is part of this: Drake knows what he's doing is morally wrong. Drake wants people to think that he is evil, that he's ruthless, that he's nothing but a sadistic murderer, because he doesn't want to reveal his true vulnerability and helplessness.

He calls out the hypocrisy of Astrid for seemingly reveling in his pain and still condemning him for the desires over which he has no control. [This is not to say that I believe he is right for acting on them; the urges he can't control, but he can control his actions]. This is Drake's make me your villain speech. His final cry for help, in a way.

He wants everyone to be like him. He wants to not be judged, he aches for the confirmation that he is not alone in wanting power and vengeance and pain.

"We all want to have someone powerless beneath us while we stand over them." - Drake's experience of the roles being reversed, and the victim-perpetrator cycle show through here. Drake seeks power because he was denied it.

It is paradoxical in that, arguably, he wouldn't be like this if people hadn't punished him for things he couldn't control (involuntary sadistic impulses), and it is sad that we realise he could have been so much more, had circumstances been different.

Drake is a dark mirror of every dark thought we ever have. He, horrifyingly so, reflects the human urge to inflict pain as revenge. Drake's story is a cautionary tale. Many can relate to his harsh childhood, and Drake reminds us that no matter how much pain is inflicted on us, we bear the weight of not continuing that cycle onto others. That is the curse of being good. That is the curse of being human. That is the curse of empathy.

C.

Crucifixion - in MONSTER, it is revealed that Drake has been 'alive' for years, and we find out in VILLAIN that he resides in a cave in the desert along with 3 bodies - 2 female, one male, people he recently tortured. He crucified them with "railroad spikes" and left them to hang from the bones of their wrists. We can see that Drake leaves them in humiliating positions deliberately - "The only thing better would be to have Sam nailed to the opposite wall, forced to watch it all. To see Astrid degraded as Sam watched? He could not imagine anything better."

This is an example of his psychosexual development being warped - he associates sex with violence and power. He tortures and degrades his victims as a way to fulfil his sexual and sadistic urges.

7| Drake and Orc as foils

Drake and Orc first oppose each other in the early chapters of GONE - Drake is given power over Orc by Caine - "Drake and his people, including Captain Orc.."

This establishes a hierarchy within the "sherrifs". Drake leads them, but ultimately defers to Caine - (and, he is given power over others at Caine's will.)

Orc, like Drake, had a traumatic childhood and was abused by his father, and his "dumb dishrag" mother does nothing to stop it (she herself is abused by her husband, and rebukes Charles for wanting to kill his father.)

Both Orc and Drake blame their mothers for failing to stop the abuse of their husbands (and their father and step-father in Drake's case).

This is an interesting comparison, as it cements (haha) both Orc and Drake as bullies with short tempers who need to have control, each with a shrewd, conniving friend who effectively "leads" them.

Also, for the most part in the books, they're the only characters with physical mutations (both resulting from physical injury!) and turn their backs on the shrewd friend at some point (Drake and Caine becoming enemies, Orc finding faith and becoming distanced from Howard's crimes).

The fight between them at the start of GONE is a clever foreshadow to their battle at the end of GONE (and, of course, their long-lasting rivalry) and provides a comparison between the two.

They butt heads when Orc is ordered to defer to Drake when Caine is giving out roles, and Caine handles it by crushing a boy with a cross - but no physical altercation happens until Orc punishes Bette for "doing magic tricks".

The anti-freak agenda (ironic, considering they both end up gaining mutations, at similar points too!) of both Drake and Orc is pointed out, but Orc is almost painted as a "lesser evil" - as if Orc may be a garden-variety bully, but Drake is pure, distilled essence of evil.

"Orc...went for Drake like a linebacker. Drake stepped aside, nimble as a matador."

"Drake hit Orc in the ribs with a short, sharp forward thrust of the bat. Then again in the kidneys and again in the side of the head. Each blow was measured, accurate, effective."

Drake is the quick and nimble to Orc's sluggishness, the playfulness to Orc's sullen demeanour. He is "lean" where Orc is "wide" - their battle at the end is described as "their quick-and-slow, nimble-and-heavy, sharp-and-dull battle".

This is a perfectly well written description in my opinion - succinct, and perfectly accurate of them.

The main differences, however, are their personal views on their mutations, and their arcs.

Orc thinks he's a monster - he knows he is physically repulsive, and detests himself. He feels immense guilt over the pain he caused, and seeks to redeem himself through finding faith and asking for forgiveness from God.

Drake, in contrast, adores the power that his mutation gives him. He even describes himself as "Jesus with a whip". His mutation, in Drake's eyes, gives him control over others and he relishes in this.

Drake feels no remorse over the pain he causes, and doesn't desire redemption.

His God-figure is the Gaiaphage, whom he eventually betrays as he desires personal revenge on Astrid and Diana and cannot cope with Gaia being female due to his misogynistic views.

However, Drake and Orc share an interesting scene in Plague with Astrid - Orc seeks out Astrid with the intent to hurt her (it is implied to be sexual violence) and is interrupted by Drake arriving at Coates with his army of bugs. Drake picks up on Orc's intentions.

Drake confesses to Orc that he had the same idea.

"You think she'll give you a big, wet kiss on your gravel face?" He peered closer at Orc as if looking inside him. "Nah, Orc, the only way you get Astrid is the same way I get her. And that's what you were thinking, isn't it?"

[waywardfacegarden]

burning embers

Modern Au: Zuko centric + The Gaang + Zukka + Friendship/Family feels + Angst and Fluff.

Summary: Zuko learns the meaning of love.

Read on Ao3 here.

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There’s something so tragically painful about falling in love, they say.

But Zuko wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know what falling in love with someone is, he doesn’t know what it feels like. Love is a concept so alien to him; he can’t even grasp the root of it. He just knows a broken home, the remaining ashes of a devastating, blazing fire that was supposed to be his father’s love.

He doesn’t know what love is. And yet, he understands: the underlying and heart-wrenching agony that comes with loving. The sorrow that comes with it; it is just there, intrinsically linked. It’s something that the small kid—full of unknown love and golden warmth, but also deep, bitter pain—comprehends at the tender age of 11.

It’s just common knowledge for him, the same way he knows the sky is blue and the sun hides at night.

Family. Love. Father.

Those words don’t have meaning, Zuko thinks, lying on his bed one night, still hearing the disappointment in his father’s voice echoing in his ears in the quiet darkness of his room. They’re there, of course. And he knows them. He can say them. But they feel far away, slipping through the space between his fingers, becoming dust that blows away with the chilly wind of an autumn midnight, escaping him before he can place what was there in the first place.

They don’t hold weight. They don’t mean anything. They’re shallow; they just exist, like a couple of letters strewn together, like when you say your name so many times in a row it doesn’t even feel right anymore; but, he supposes only a few people are blessed with their significance, with tasting them in their mouth with something not akin to hate or bitterness or emptiness.

Loneliness. Despair. Dishonor.

Those have meaning. Those have weight, despite being such empty words.

(But they very much taste like something akin to hate, too—and that’s the thing.

Maybe Zuko just doesn’t know anything aside from [self-]hate.)

.

.

Family, love, father. They are concepts that come alive to him the same way a phoenix is born.

They rise, awakening from the ashes that the fire within themselves has burned to death; so beautiful, so mystical, so mesmeric and so incredibly fragile and precious and wondrous, like a mythological creature coming back to life after having known its own death.

He learns the words and their meaning the same way his brain starts learning new things and concepts by reading a book; but he doesn’t learn with his mind—even though a part of him knows that this is where knowledge is stored—Zuko learns with his heart (he has always learned things best with his heart; after all, Zuko wears it on his sleeve; he’s emotional, visceral, volatile—his feelings are way too intense, too much that they burn his chest open; he’s always aflame), with his eyes, with his hands. He learns it in every little gesture that’s given to him, in every little crack (that keeps filling and filling and filling) of the time that goes on, in every little drop of ink that is spilled on the parchment where his life is being written.

He learns the words in the way he begins learning his uncle's tea recipes, in the satisfaction and pride he feels when his uncle congratulates him for a job well-done on a warm, quiet Saturday afternoon as he finishes helping cleaning and serving the tables around the teashop, in the way his favorite cup sits next to his uncle's on the kitchen counter in the mornings, full of Zuko’s favorite bubble tea; he learns them in the ugly, endearing, oversized sweater hanging at the back of his closet, the one his uncle gave him in his last birthday; he learns about love in the gentle smiles of weekends, in the singing of the birds outside his room’s window, in the blanket that rests around his shoulders when he is sitting on the comfy couch on a calm Thursday night, dozing off while trying to study for an English test, in the way the nightmares that used to haunt him are tormenting him less and less every time; he learns the meaning of father in his uncle's ridiculous pajamas, full of tiny drawings of cherry blossoms and tea leaves, in his uncle’s obsession with Pai Sho, and in the wise phrases he keeps throwing at Zuko even when he cannot fully understand them.

He learns, little by little, step by step, like a slow fire burning inside his guts.

And it's a weird, strange thing. Zuko learned that fire hurts you, the same way he learned that love does, but somehow, after years of building his new life, it doesn't feel that way anymore.

His uncle is patient with him. Patient as someone who would teach someone else origami or as someone who’s slowly writing a book. He teaches him, sees him fall, stumble and trip over his feet (both, metaphorically and literally speaking) and he’s there when Zuko gets up again.

It’s a nice feeling. Knowing that someone is going to be there, even if you fall. Even when you fail.

His uncle teaches him, the same way he creates a new tea receipt for the menu; carefully, gently, ever so softly. He takes Zuko, the broken child who looks at him through his pain and hatred, and makes him open his eyes. He points out, over and over and over again, that failing is not a bad thing, that love exists and that it doesn't have to hurt, and that if it does, you can heal from it; he teaches him that Zuko is full of it, full of love, he says that he’s always been.

Somehow, it feels a bit like healing. Of course, Zuko is still broken. Probably, a part of him always will be; but, somehow, he doesn't think that being a bit broken is so wrong now.

.

.

Friendship was a foreign concept to him, too. Or maybe not, but Zuko never wanted to get involved with it.

Too much trouble.

(Or maybe fear—fear of what it carries, what it holds in its nature; fear of failing, of not being enough, of being left out, of getting too attached.)

But just as Zuko was wrong about so many things in his life, this is not the exception.

He comes to learn that, too.

It’s a different process than with his uncle. Maybe because it’s slower, or maybe because it’s, rather, faster. Maybe because he wasn’t aware he was learning at all.

Zuko doesn’t know exactly when it starts. Can’t pinpoint the exact moment he started getting involved. Not that he cares much about that at this point, but he would like to know.

They kind of adopt him in their group (or, er, gang, as they call it), without Zuko noticing. But to be fair, Zuko doesn’t notice a lot of things.

Toph is a friend of his Uncle, and she lives near the teashop, so she’s around more time than she’s not; she’s loud and kinda rude, and always calls Zuko a dork or a nerd or an idiot, but Zuko realizes he likes when she’s there. Aang comes along sometimes, with his scarily bright smile. There’s also Katara and her big brother, Sokka.

He likes all of them, to his extreme surprise. They’re all good people. Aang is way too kind, Katara may be scary but she’s pretty cool, and Sokka is just a combination of a very, weirdly endearing, smart dumbass, which is, uh, new.

He honestly doesn’t know how it happened, or when it happened, but suddenly he’s tucked under a soft fuzzy blanket in winter, sandwiched in the middle of the three-spot sofa, with Aang almost laying over his lap. He’s almost sitting on Sokka’s right leg, pressing him against the arm sofa, his side overlapping with Sokka’s. He doesn’t seem to mind, though. He’s sitting there, cross-legged, with his right arm fully extended on the back of the sofa, almost like he’s hugging Zuko’s shoulders; he’s practically leaning on Zuko.

His arm and his side are really warm, though. Not as much as Zuko generally is, but it’s… kind of nice.

“Katara, Titanic is a classic, dude. What the hell.”

Zuko takes a sip from his hot chocolate, blowing off the clouds of steam gathering over the cup—the warmth of it is pretty welcomed in his throat, to be honest, while Katara rolls her eyes at her brother.

“I’m not watching that for the fifth time in a month and seeing you and Aang both cry for an hour later after the already three long hours of the movie.”

Sokka looks pretty indignant about Katara’s attitude towards his (probably) favorite movie, which is pretty amusing.

“You’re just a monster,” Sokka says, dramatically, “that’s why you don’t cry.”

Katara rolls her eyes again.

“I don’t know,” Toph says, from the couch closer to the TV, sprawled all comfortably over it. “It’s actually a really funny movie,” she points out, and then draws out her voice. “‘Jack, draw me like one of your French girls’.”

Aang laughs pretty loud, and Zuko smiles at the bad impersonation despite himself.

“Well, My Heart Will Go On is my anthem.” Sokka says, puffing out his chest.

Zuko actually snorts into his cup and Sokka shoots him a look. He remembers the time Aang and Sokka recreated that iconic scene, with Toph singing at the top of her lungs in a ridiculously obnoxious voice. He actually laughed at that.

Sokka seems to read his mind, because after a few moments of staring at Zuko’s face, his entire expression lights up. He grins, eyes sparkling, and starts singing really loud and purposely out of tune. Aang starts laughing and Toph doesn’t waste time on joining Sokka in singing. Even Katara smiles.

A few minutes later of terrible singing, they’re all laughing. Toph is cackling so hard she’s on the floor, and Sokka keeps leaning over him, laughing in his ear. He believes it should be annoying, but instead of that, it’s actually infectious and Zuko laughs a bit harder.

After they calm down, Toph is clutching at her sides and Sokka is wiping tears out of his eyes.

Aang smiles, then, softly and content, and raises a hand in the air, like asking for permission to talk.

“I have an idea.” He says, and turns around to look at him. “Why don’t we just let Zuko decide? He hasn’t chosen anything yet for our Friday movie nights.” 

All eyes turn to look at him at that. He stops his movements, mouth hanging open, hot cup halfway to his lips.

“Uh,” he frowns. “Thank you, but, um. Why would I choose? It’s your thing.”

Everyone stares at him like he has two heads, which, okay fair but why.

“What?”

Aang gives him a soft smile, all kind eyes and gentle features, like he’s about to talk to a baby, but before he can say anything, Sokka is putting an arm around his shoulders and leaning all his weight on him, as if they weren’t already close enough.

“This is your thing as much as it is ours, dude.” He says, grinning, “You’re one of us.” He vaunts, proudly, and ruffles Zuko’s hair.

Katara nods, at the same time Toph goes:

“Yup, you’re already in, loser.”

Aang chuckles. “Yes, you’re our friend, Zuko.”

Zuko blinks, stunned.

That’s… 

There’s… 

That’s… the F-word.

Friend.

Friend.

Huh? What? How? When did that happen? Huh? Did he miss something in the past few months?

Sokka, completely oblivious to his emotional turmoil, insistently points to the TV while squeezing him. "So, buddy? Don't you think we should watch Titanic to cry and share a couple of very male tears?"

"You only want to watch it because you have a crush on both Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio." Katara accuses.

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yes, you do! You even still keep that poster of them behind your…"

"Katara!!!!"

.

.

Friend.

It’s a nice word.

It tastes like hot chocolate in his mouth on a cold night, it sounds like Sokka’s laugh and Toph’s jokes, and it looks like Aang’s kind eyes and Katara’s nice smile.

It feels like something. It holds meaning. It’s not an empty word. At all.

Sokka’s hand ruffling his hair or over his shoulders, Toph’s nicknames for him, Aang’s offer of help in times he feels like Zuko needs it, Katara’s help with homework and advice on his recipes doesn’t let him forget that. ‘Friend’ is never going to be an empty word.

Friend tastes like hope, like warm food and bear-hugs.

Friend is such a nice word.

.

.

The thing with Zuko being generally—and strangely—warm all the time is that summer is a complete nightmare for him.

He's sitting directly in front of the fan at full power, barefoot in just jeans and a light T-shirt, and yet he still feels like he's going to explode. The weather forecast in the morning heralded a heat wave in midsummer, and it's exactly the worst thing in the world that could happen to Zuko's already overheated body. Toph groans beside him, lying with her arms and legs spread like a starfish on the cold ground. It is no comfort to her, however, and Zuko can understand that well.

Katara is looking at something on her phone, fanning herself with a magazine, and Aang remains practically unaffected, just as energetic as ever as he eats the remaining watermelon slices from the bowl they recently filled.

Zuko is wondering if he should go, or if he should fall asleep on the freezing ground that doesn't seem to be freezing at all, when Sokka walks into the living room in his baseball uniform. He has just returned from his morning summer practice; sweat is running down the side of his face, and his shirt is partly sticking to his body from the moisture. He smiles at everyone in greeting before gulping down all that's left of the water on the bottle of his hand. Zuko stares at his Adam's apple bob while he's drinking, and then his eyes trail the trickle of water that slides down his jaw over his desperation to drink all the water so fast. The drop goes down, down, down, dripping over his collarbone and sinking into his neck until it eventually gets lost somewhere inside his shirt. Sokka throws the bottle over the trash can and uses his shirt collar to wipe the water and some of his sweat off his face. Zuko's eyes unconsciously move downward; he can see a line of skin on Sokka's abdomen and stomach.

He swallows. Uh. His mouth is suddenly very dry. He's probably dehydrated. Is he dehydrated? He's starting to feel a little dizzy.

"So? Beloved friends, beloved little sister? Did you miss me? Obviously, you did."

Katara rolls her eyes, but still asks, "How was practice, dumbass?"

"It was cool! I hit twelve curve-balls in a row and sixteen of that weird fastball Suki pitches. Oh! And I'm finally getting the thing about that forkball. Also... woah, Zuko, are you okay?!"

Zuko blinks from where he was staring at Sokka's hair. It's kind of wet. Is that sweat? Shouldn't that be gross? Why is Zuko staring? Does he find it gross? He doesn't think so, but he also can't quite explain why...

"Woah, bud," Sokka says, kneeling in front of him and getting dangerously close to his face. "You're so red, are you having heatstroke or something? Do you feel dizzy?" He leans on his knees and presses a hand to his forehead, pulling up the bangs hanging over it. It feels nice, actually. Sokka's soft hand on his boiling skin feels like fresh water. He kind of wants to lean into it.

He probably does, because Sokka frowns. "Maybe you have a fever..." His mouth presses into a thin line. "Don't you want to take a shower to cool off? I can lend you some clothes, we're about the same height, they'll fit."

Zuko blinks. Huh?

"Here, let me help you." Sokka says, helping him up.

Around an hour later, Zuko feels a lot better, laying with his back on the floor in Sokka's baggy shorts and blue T-shirt with a cartoonish drawing of The Pink Panther. Zuko smiles involuntarily when he looks at it. It smells a bit like Sokka, or at least the detergent he uses. That makes his stomach do weird flips. He's not feeling that hot anymore, but maybe he is getting sick...

"Hey," Sokka tells him, looking at him from above, standing just behind Zuko's head. His toes are barely avoiding touching Zuko's sprawled hair on the floor.

"Hey," Zuko answers back, looking up at Sokka's soft face. His hair is down and still wet from the shower, and a few drops fall on the bridge of Zuko's nose when Sokka hovers over him. Zuko's face scrunches up, more out of involuntary reaction than out of bother, but Sokka chuckles.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. He uses the towel around his neck to messily dry his hair. "You look a lot better, now."

"Yes," Zuko muses, still a bit mesmerized by Sokka's wet hair. And Sokka's face. "Thanks."

Sokka grins brightly at him. "Sure."

He looks like he's about to say something else, but before he can say anything, Toph groans just a few feet away, sitting now on the couch. "Stop flirting and get a room already; it’s gross. We're here, too."

"What? We weren’t—"

Katara agrees, quietly.

"Hey! I was just worried!" Sokka excuses himself. "Weren't you all? His face was as red as a tomato."

Katara looks up from her magazine and gives him a pointed look, with one elegantly arched brow. Apparently, she doesn't even need to say anything else, because it's enough to make Sokka blush.

Oh.

He's cute, Zuko thinks. And then, oh, I think Sokka is cute. And then Sokka stomps over the kitchen muttering unintelligible things, still a faint blush over his cheeks.

Zuko smiles to himself watching his childish behavior. He is, though. He is cute.

.

.

.

It's raining heavily outside, drops pouring loudly against the asphalt of the sidewalk.

Zuko side-glances at Sokka. Maybe it's because after the course of a year, Zuko has learned to recognize many of Sokka's little gestures, or maybe it's the fact that the boy has been so much into his own mind lately, but Zuko recognizes that way he scrunches up his nose, that wrinkle between his eyebrows, that way his eyes twitch.

“Are you okay?” 

He’s asking mostly just to be polite, to be honest; he already knows he’s not. He knows something’s up.

Sokka turns to look at him, and then stares at the rain hitting the glass window of the lonely teashop.

“I’m…” He says, and looks at his hand. Then he presses his mouth into a thin line.

“You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Zuko says, awkwardly, because as much as he cares, he’s still a mess when it comes to social cues. He’s never going to stop being a mess. And terrible at comforting people.

Sokka sees right through him, though, like he always does, and smiles softly at him. His whole face mellows. It kind of makes Zuko’s heart flutter in his chest, like a butterfly flapping its wings.

“I’m…” Sokka tries again, looking at Zuko’s face. At his eyes, at his scar, at his neck. He feels weirdly exposed, but at the same time… He doesn’t. It’s just Sokka. Which means it’s okay. “Scared, I guess.”

Zuko blinks and tilts his head to the side. He’s not sure if he should ask, but…

“Of?”

Sokka gives him a wry smile.

“Of failing? Of disappointing my dad? Of not being enough? I don’t know, I can’t quite pick a single one.”

Sokka’s voice is not quite bitter, but it feels like that, in the air around them. Zuko knows the feeling pretty well.

“You are enough.” Zuko affirms, without a single trace of hesitation in his voice. Because Sokka is enough, in every single aspect, and he shouldn’t feel like any less than that. Zuko’s also aware of what he’s worrying about, and for Zuko, it’s just absurd—Sokka is one the very few people that shouldn’t worry about passing the entrance exam of college at all, he’s crazy smart. He should know that. But, to be fair, Zuko can’t judge him nor scold him for self-doubt when it used to be all that he was, along with his self-hate. So he says it out loud, looking into Sokka’s wide, surprised eyes. “You’re also really smart, Sokka, I’m sure you’re going to ace the entrance exam. You shouldn’t worry.”

Sokka rolls his eyes, but he also adopts that playful-kinda-flirty side of him. It’s painful because Zuko can see the sadness underlying in his voice and body language so clearly. Can see the lack of confidence in every single motion.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“I am,” he agrees, “but it doesn’t mean it isn’t true. I really believe so. You’re the smartest person I know. You’re very capable of doing whatever you want, so have faith in yourself just like I have faith in you.”

Once he says it, and Sokka blinks once, twice, thrice at him, Zuko feels painfully aware (and painfully embarrassed) of what he just said.

Oh Lord, what did he actually…

“Ah,” Sokka says, and makes a face that Zuko can’t name. “You’re blushing.”

Zuko covers his cheeks with both hands. Sokka is probably right, they’re so warm, but still.

“I’m not.” Still.

Sokka laughs, and raises both eyebrows. “You sure?” He asks, staring pointedly at his face, which only makes him blush harder.

Stupid Sokka.

He must know the effect he’s having on him, because he laughs again, lightheartedly. Well, at least he’s not upset anymore…

“I’m not,” he uselessly and pathetically insists, even when it’s tragically obvious he is. But he has some pride, okay.

Sokka grins, but it’s all devilish. It makes Zuko’s hair stand on end. A chill runs down his spine.

“It’s just hot.”

Sokka smirks. “Sure, you’re always hot.”

“Shut up,” Zuko complains and groans, facing away from him so that he can’t see his blatant embarrassment. Sokka’s natural flirty personality wasn’t that much of a problem back then, but it’s only gotten worse, and Zuko just can’t handle it sometimes. It feels like way too much.

“Ah, but you blush when you’re embarrassed. That’s cute.” Sokka points out, a wide grin on his face. “Imagine being both cute and hot, what a crime.” 

He sighs theatrically, and Zuko is very tempted to answer, “shut up, look who’s talking,” but he knows he will just get more embarrassed after saying that. He needs to calm down. So he just grumbles while Sokka laughs.

Then, when Sokka has already calmed down and Zuko can feel his face like normal again, they look quietly at the rain, steadily keeping its pace.

“Zuko,” Sokka says, after some time, and Zuko quirks an eyebrow in reply. 

Sokka smiles. “Thank you. For believing me. It means a lot.”

Zuko smiles back. “Of course.”

.

.

Zuko notices it one night. (Though, looking back, it’s weird he didn’t notice it before.)

Well, more like, Aang notices and points it out, and then Zuko realizes that what he said is pathetically true, lying in bed at night because he still mulls things over sometimes before going to sleep.

“You know,” Aang had casually said, holding a can of orange juice, sitting next to Zuko on the bleachers at one of Sokka’s practice games. “You stare at Sokka a lot.”

Zuko frowned. “It’s his game, after all. We’re here to watch him,” he had retorted, like it was obvious.

“Well, yes, but I don’t mean only now. You stare at him all the time.”

Zuko didn’t feel like he liked where this conversation was going. Something about his expression must had given him away, or maybe Aang was just too good at reading him now, because he said:

“Wait.” He actually had sounded surprised. “You mean you’re not aware you have a crush on him?”

Zuko’s eyes went wide. “What? I don’t have a crush on him.”

Aang quirked up an eyebrow. Sure, he didn’t need to say.

“I don’t,” he had pressed on.

Aang hadn’t looked any more convinced of what he had said. If anything, he looked more convinced on what he himself had said. Aang had looked at him for a very long period of 1 minute before lightly chuckling and nudging him in the arm with his elbow, smiling brightly at him.

It was weird, but Zuko has gotten better at reading them, maybe just as much as Aang has with him. Maybe that’s why he knows what Aang means with all of that. Admit it when you’re ready.

It’s not like he was trying to deny or hide it. It’s not like he was trying to lie. He just didn’t think Aang was actually right.

But he is. Zuko can’t stop looking at Sokka, all the time. Thinking about him. About the way he smiles, with his hair up, with his hair down, with that denim jacket that fits him in all the right angles, with his baseball cap, ecstatic after he scored a run in the 8th inning. 

Sokka, practicing on the field. Grinning widely and openly and hugging him tightly when he aced the entrance exam. Leaning in to taste Zuko’s ice-cream into his own mouth. Ruffling his own messy hair. Wearing those silly cartoon t-shirts. Serenading Zuko with Electric Love and the most ridiculous voice ever on his birthday as a joke. Messy eating. Scrunching up his nose while drinking green tea. Reciting 80% of the Star Wars dialogues by heart. Being obsessed with boomerangs and swords (though not as much as Zuko is with that last one). Biting into the end of his pencil when he’s focused on writing an English essay.

Ahhhhh.

Oh, holy honor.

He has a crush. A crush. Feelings.

When did that happen? Why did that happen? He doesn’t know. Was it because of his warm eyes? His pretty smile? His pretty lips? Was it because he opened up to Zuko, let himself be vulnerable around him, bled his heart out so Zuko could piece it back together? Was it because he’s funny? Charming? Cool? Smart? Astonishingly cute? Was it because he made Zuko feel made out of thin air, sometimes, so raw and exposed but yet so safe, so comfortable in his own skin? ...That is, the others don’t necessarily make him feel unsafe, or uncomfortable. He just feels like he can be all open and vulnerable with Sokka better. Maybe because he opened up to him first, about something so personal like his mom (and Zuko knew about losing a mom, too).

Well, whatever the reason, it doesn’t exactly matter, does it? He’s already in deep.

Zuko rolls over his stomach and sighs, groaning loud into his pillow. Why, why, why, why. It’s not like he even has a chance, so why did he have to…

Ugh.

Feelings are stupid. His heart is stupid.

And the way he falls asleep thinking about Sokka’s laugh is even stupider.

.

.

The thing is, because Zuko notices all the little details in Sokka’s gestures and behavior, he also notices the way he acts differently towards… Certain people.

“Me and Yue?” Sokka laughs, and Zuko blinks. He didn’t even mean to ask it out loud. Now, he would just hear the confirmation of what he already knew from Sokka’s lips. How is that any better? Good job, Zuko. 

“Nah, man, Suki would kill me if she sees me wooing her girlfriend. Or at least kick me pretty damn hard.” Huh? Zuko blinks again. Huh? So they’re… Sokka and Yue… They’re not… 

“And believe me, she’s super strong. She kicked me once and I’ve always regretted eating that last cupcake on the fridge.” Sokka makes a face and shudders, like the mere flashback is enough to make him fear. But then he smiles, in that soft way of his that makes Zuko’s knees go really weak. “And I’m pretty sure Yue is immensely happy with her, too.”

Zuko doesn’t know what to say, so he just oh-so-eloquently utters:

“Ah.”

Sokka seems amused.

“Didn’t you know they were a thing? The PDA is so strong when they’re together, you have to have seen it.”

Well, that was… Zuko just thought they were touchy with each other? Sokka is pretty much touchy with him all the time, but that doesn’t mean they’re a thing.

Well.

“That’s rough, buddy.”

Sokka blinks. “Why?”

Zuko frowns. He tilts his head in confusion. “Because you are… Romantically attracted to her? It must be rough.”

Sokka blinks once, twice, three times. Stares. Then, he throws his head back and cackles, clutching his stomach.

“Dude, what the hell.” He wheezes. “Just say the word crush like normal people.” 

“Hmm.”

Then, when he calms down, Sokka eyes Zuko.

“Wait, what?” He says, serious all of a sudden. Or at least, surprised. “Do you really think that?” At Zuko’s lack of response, Sokka looks at him, then at his hands, then at the TV, where the video game they were playing is still on pause. Then, back at Zuko’s face. “No, I don’t have a crush on her. Or on Suki, for that matter.”

Zuko frowns. Sokka must know he doesn’t believe him, because he continues.

“I mean, I did.” He admits. “Back when I met her, when I was, like, 14. But I’m over it, now—Not that she’s not great; she’s awesome and I love her, just… Not in that way. It was just a silly teen-crush, anyway. And Suki is my best friend. We had a thing for a few months like two years ago, but we hit it off so much better as friends. She’s my bi icon, though. And bestest friend.”

“Oh.”

“Besides,” Sokka adds, and eyes him pointedly, “I’m interested in someone else right now.”

Zuko stares. Blinks.

What.

So he does have someone he’s interested in anyway. God, Zuko really doesn’t stand a chance. Why even bothering trying? And it’s not like he knows how to try something, anyway…

From the other corner of the room, Aang shoots him a very cryptic look. Zuko can’t describe what he’s thinking, but he guesses he’s taking pity on him. After all, he knows.

Ah. He really doesn’t like having feelings.

.

.

His mind is a cruel thing. It’s what keeps him up at night, what reminds him of all his insecurities, what makes him feel undeserving of love, what keeps throwing image after image into his head of his broken childhood on bad days. It’s what, as much as his heart, knows about his deepest desires, his longing, his yearning and thinks it’s amusing to play with Zuko for a bit.

“Zuko,” Sokka says, with a fragile smile on his face, his voice going ridiculously soft, his eyes warming up, and Zuko’s heart pounds on his chest like big waves crashing on the shore of a lonely beach. “Zuko, I love you.”

It’s kind of—very—criminal the way Sokka makes him feel. The way he makes Zuko’s heart seem like it’s going to burst out of his chest with how fast it beats after hearing just those three words, the way he makes Zuko’s entire soul ache and want, the way he makes him feel so grounded, so him, yet so tiny and delicate, like he’s made out of thin sheets of ice.

Is this how love feels?

Is this how it should feel like?

He wouldn’t know. He doesn’t know what falling in love is. He just knows a broken home, the destructive, neon-like, toxic obsession with power his dad had, instead of any tender form of anything else that can be called love that his dad should have had for his mom, but never did.

Falling in love is made to hurt. Falling in love is destined to make you feel sad, and alone, and unsafe.

Falling in love is a cruel thing. It’s not cut out for weak people, and Zuko is weak. He’s destined to break. He has always been made out of fragile, easy-to-destroy things.

That’s why his mind plays with him all the time.

He wakes up in his bed, opens his eyes to the dark quiet of his room, feels the way his heart beats so hard that he can almost feel it on his throat. And he feels lost. And sad.

He doesn’t even scream. He just lies there, feeling the world becoming smaller, feeling himself becoming smaller.

Lord, he’s royally fucked. Screwed. He knows. He’s destined to break.

There’s something so tragically painful about falling in love, they say.

.

.

He’s sitting with Toph leaning back on his right side, on the fluffy couch in Katara and Sokka’s living room, cutting up squares out of colorful paper.

They are both terrible in the kitchen. Something coming from being rich kids, Sokka playfully teased earlier. And he guesses it’s true. Either way, they are terrible—Zuko even burned his own kitchen once while making scrambled eggs (and that was. Not a very good day). Sure, he has tried to help Uncle Iroh a couple of times, and he knows a bit of the basics, but besides preparing tea, he’s lost. He can’t cook to save his life. So when Zuko almost lights a fire to bake cookies and mixes up the recipe for the second time, Katara kicks them out and bans them from the kitchen for the next 4 hours. Toph protests just to be annoying—she doesn’t like cooking at all, she has told him, but she loves annoying Katara, it’s her favorite idle activity. Zuko would be offended, but it’s the smartest choice if they want to finish baking Aang’s birthday cake without setting the kitchen on fire, so it’s fine.

Besides, this way he can steal a few glances at Sokka, as he hangs up the decorations he and Toph are making. The muscles under his shirt flex when he raises his arms above his head, his messy hair down from its ponytail, falling over his face when he moves a bit to the left, a line of the smooth skin of his back making its way to Zuko's curious, avid eyes.

Zuko swallows.

Toph sighs heavily and throws her head back. “So, are you planning to make a move any time this century or are you a loser?”

Zuko eyes her, coming out of his stupor, confused. “What?”

Toph smirks. “Right, you’re always a loser, my bad.”

Zuko blinks. Not because of Toph calling him a loser, but because, for a second, he really doesn’t get what she means.

Then, when he does, he buries his face into his hands and groans.

“Even you know?”

Toph laughs. "Yes, idiot, it's stupidly obvious.” She pats his arm. “I can see it and I'm blind, you know." 

Zuko groans again. He’s in physical pain right now. "How?"

She shrugs. "I don’t know. Maybe the way you say his name. Or talk about him."

Zuko feels a bit of panic. 

What? Is he that obvious? How does he say Sokka’s name?

"His name?"

"Yeah,” Toph confirms, nodding exaggeratedly, “stupidly sappy. It's gross."

"Oh my god."

She laughs again, loudly, because his suffering is apparently amusing. "You also talk about him a lot," she chuckles, "and sigh every time you see him. At least that’s what I assume, given that he’s in the room and you keep sighing like a 12-year-old girl in love. Pinning all the way.”

Zuko wants to die. He seriously wants to die. Maybe he should just tell Sokka he likes him, so when he rejects him, Zuko can just die a quick, albeit painful, death.

Toph nudges at his arm, with her typical abnormal strength for someone her age, but she doesn’t mean any harm. “So?” She asks, again. “Are you planning to make a move or not?"

Zuko sighs, "I can't do anything, he likes someone else."

Toph kind of stops where she’s fumbling with a couple of paper sheets. She then turns around and makes this face, where she’s scrunching up her nose and frowning like she just smelled something sour, or like when she’s deeply confused. "Did he say that?"

"Yes."

"Did Sokka seriously tell you that?"

Zuko’s confused at Toph’s relentless insistence. "...Yes?"

Toph’s face goes back to normal, but there’s something about the way she continues to hum that makes it seem like she still thinks Zuko is an alien, or something.

"You must have misunderstood him—which wouldn’t be a surprise, to be honest." She says the last part in a whisper, but he still hears her. That’s probably what she wanted anyway, but it’s not like he gets it. What does that mean? Zuko gets Sokka. That’s one of the few things he’s really proud of. Did he just think that he got Sokka while, all this time, he actually didn’t?

No. He understands Sokka. Sokka himself has told him that.

"No, I didn't. And I don't have a chance if he likes someone else, so I might as well not even try."

Toph looks mad. "You're super pessimistic, dumbass."

"Hmm."

She sighs, looking deeply tired and frustrated, like Zuko has completely worn her out. Then, she raises her fist and punches him. Hard.

Ouch.

Zuko yelps, and rubs at his sore arm. “What was that for?” he grumbles.

She frowns. “To punch some sense into you, big oblivious idiot!" Toph hums a low, guttural sound in the back of her throat, like she’s a feral dog trying to threaten a pedestrian. “Just try, at least. Everyone is kind of getting tired of your pinning, too."

"Ah." Everyone?

"Full offence."

"Ah."

“Even Katara. The only reason she hasn’t intervened yet is because she says it’s not her business to push you, but I don’t think her reasoning is gonna last long.”

Katara too!? Oh, no.

Zuko seriously wants to die.

.

.

Eventually, things go on. 

Zuko’s “crush” doesn’t go away. If anything, it just grows and grows and grows until it becomes almost unbearable. But he still can’t say anything.

“Zuko.”

“Hmm?”

“You know,” Sokka says, looking at him with feign innocence, sitting with his hands upwards behind him in Zuko’s room, “that looks heavy, want me to hold it for you?”

Zuko frowns. He looks up from his work to give Sokka a confused look. “What is, my pen?”

Sokka gives him that little, playful smile—the one that is so incredibly hot for some reason Zuko can’t understand. His eyes gleam, even more than they do all the time.

“Nope,” he says, and his smile grows an inch, “your hand.”

Zuko blinks. Sokka flirting with him is nothing new, that’s why he manages to hold back his blush a bit and remain calm, even when he’s a bit dying inside.

He is just trapped between telling him, “god, I wish you were flirting with me for real,” and, “please stop doing it, it’s not good for my heart,” and, “If only you knew how much I really want to hold your hand”, but neither of those options are actually. Something viable.

“Are you flirting with me?” He asks instead, knowing the answer already.

Sokka would laugh, brush it off, and say something like, “ah, but you didn’t blush this time,” and let it go.

He doesn’t, though.

What he does, instead, is shrug and look at Zuko’s textbook, like he’s completely uninterested in the conversation.

Huh.

But then he speaks up again.

“Have been for the past year and a half or so, but thanks for noticing.” He answers.

Zuko blinks. He’s tempted to answer, “yeah, I know, which is a cruel, cruel thing to do, by the way, given how my heart just wants to escape out of my chest and go with you every time you do it,” or something equally playful to play it down like they always tend to do, but… for some reason, this time it feels… Real.

Maybe he should just laugh.

He doesn’t, though, and, “What?” is what comes out of his mouth.

Sokka looks up. “I said that I’ve been doing it for a year and a half or so, thank you for finally noticing.”

Zuko doesn’t understand. He’s not following the conversation at all. “Wait.”

“Ahh,” Sokka sighs, “honestly, if you didn’t notice by the end of the month, I would have felt deeply embarrassed. I was starting to think I lost my charm and I didn’t know how to flirt.”

“Well, that was a terrible pick-up line,” Zuko can’t help but retort, and like he wasn’t mildly-insulted, Sokka grins at him.

“But it worked for you, didn’t it?” He teases, leaning on Zuko’s personal space, “it made you feel something.”

Zuko frowns. “How would you know?”

Sokka stares. “Your face.”

“My face?”

“I can see it. In your face.”

Zuko covers his mouth, frowning. He can feel his own heart race.

Sokka is still way too close.

“You can…?”

“Yup.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Zuko says, blinking. “That means—are you—are you flirting with me? For real?”

Sokka quirks both eyebrows. “Yes...?”

“But you—you…”

“Zuko, I don’t know where you got the idea, but I don’t flirt with anyone aside from you—at least, I haven’t done it in a long time. So yes, I am actually flirting with you.”

Zuko feels like he just got hit in the head. “Why?”

Sokka blinks. “Because I want to?”

“But why do you want to?”

Sokka shoots him a look. “Zuko,” he says, slowly, “I like you. I thought that was obvious already.”

Zuko blinks. “You have… romantic feelings for me?”

Sokka laughs, amused. “Yeah, Zuko, I have ‘romantic feelings’ for you.”

Zuko blinks again. He’s blinking too much. “So all this time… it was real… when you said… and that time you also said… and… oh.”

Sokka smiles, softly, and ruffles Zuko’s hair. It makes him blush. His heart might also not even work at this point, if it wasn’t for the fact that he can clearly hear it thundering in his ears.

Why is Sokka so calm? Zuko’s about to pass out.

“Katara is right, I’m dumb.”

Sokka grins. “Toph thinks so, too.”

“Toph thinks everyone is dumb.”

“Fair,” Sokka answers; he’s still grinning so wide. God, Sokka is so pretty. “Though I think she only calls us dumb, not that she means it.”

“Mmm.”

He’s so unfairly distracting, too. Zuko can’t stop looking at him.

“Wait,” He says, suddenly realizing something, “so you knew that I—that I—had feelings for you, too?”

Sokka looks at his lips when he talks, and Zuko has to concentrate hard to not straight up pass out from shock and his heart racing so fast it might give him an attack. Has he done that before? He would have noticed, right? Sure, Zuko looks at Sokka’s lips a lot instead than at his eyes, but he would have noticed if Sokka did it, too.

… Right?

He’s starting to feel dizzy. Is he dreaming? Is any of this real at all?

“Noticed it a while ago, yeah. That’s why I’m not freaking out that you noticed my flirting 100 years later.”

For a moment, Zuko is able to set aside  his internal emotional turmoil and state of panic, if only to complain.

“Hey!” He frowns. “Wait—”

“You have said that a lot.”

“Wait,” Zuko repeats, just to be annoying, “if you… liked me, and knew that I liked you back, why didn’t you… make a move?”

“Like asking you out? I tried to, but you’re too oblivious.”

“Huh?” Zuko utters. What does that even mean? He’s not—well, he is, maybe, just a bit, but. “Well, if you knew that, you could have been more straightforward, you know!”

Sokka smiles, then shrugs.

“I guess we’re both dumb.”

Zuko feels his lips curling up, not able to contain all his happiness anymore, his brain catching up with the last 20 minutes of his life.

Holy shit, Sokka likes him. Sokka likes him. Him. Zuko. As in, romantically speaking.

Oh.

Oh.

“I like you, Zuko.” Sokka says, as if Zuko’s brain didn’t shut down already. He reaches out and slides his hand on the table Zuko was previously working, the tip of his fingers touching Zuko’s. “So can I finally, please hold your hand?”

Zuko might pass out for real, but before that, he finally, finally, finally takes Sokka’s hand into his own.

It feels even better than in his dreams.

He feels like burning up, like all of his body is setting itself on fire.

Sokka’s hand is warm, so warm, and soft, so soft, and makes Zuko’s heart flutter like delicate flower’s petals in the wind.

Sokka’s thumb brushes over his knuckles; Sokka’s lips turn into a bright smile, like he’s been wanting to do that since forever.

It feels like home.

.

.

When they tell their friends they’re dating, Yue is the first one to say something.

“You mean you weren’t dating before?”

“Shocking, right,” Katara deadpans, but then she smiles, genuine. “I’m happy for both of you.” 

(Although remembering that minutes later doesn’t make her any less scary, when she decides to corner him out of the bathroom and put a steady hand on his shoulder, feign-sweet smile on her face, and say with a weirdly off-calm voice that, if he ever dared to hurt Sokka on purpose, she was going to break all the 206 bones on his body.)

Toph grins brightly and kicks him enthusiastically on the side with a loud “Well-done, loser!” while Aang jumps on Zuko’s back and clings to him like a koala.

“That’s awesome, guys! Be happy!”

Zuko smiles.

“Finally, I won’t have to hear Sokka’s pinning all the time,” Suki quips, like she’s tired and utterly uninterested, but even the happiness is evident in her voice.

Sokka still complains. “Hey! I had to hear you be head-over-heels for Yue for months, too.”

“It wasn’t months for you, though.” Suki deadpans, but then her face goes all soft, “I’m kidding, So, I’m really happy for you two.”

Sokka smiles, and she gets up from where she’s cuddling Yue on the sofa to hug Sokka tightly, grinning wide, and then look at Zuko (stumbling with a happily laughing Aang on his back and Toph annoyingly ruffling his hair like a proud little sister) and whispers something in Sokka’s ear.

Zuko is glad that he’s still looking at Sokka from the corner of his eye, because he catches him blushing after that.

He’s cute.

Suki laughs. Sokka frowns, still blushing, and when he catches Zuko watching, he blushes harder.

He’s really cute.

Zuko smiles softly, and Sokka blinks, once, twice, before smiling back.

The cutest.

.

.

“Zuko.”

Zuko hums, but doesn’t look up from his work.

“Zukoooo, darling, love of my life.”

Zuko is used to it by now. To Sokka calling him pet-names like those. Of hearing Sokka say he’s cute, or hot, or smart, or witty, or pretty. It still makes his heart flutter, though. Just as Sokka’s laugh does. It still makes him blush sometimes.

(It’s funny because Sokka is the same way—or mostly the same. Zuko said he looked really hot after a baseball game once and Sokka almost died on the spot. He blushed like mad, but after he calmed down, he couldn’t stop bragging about Zuko calling him ‘hot’.

“Look at you, flirting shamelessly with me! You’re all grown up!” and, “I shouldn’t be near Zuko if I’m wearing my baseball uniform, he’ll get a boner,” and a lot of more phrases.)

“Hm?”

“You are—” Sokka sing-songs, and crosses his arms over Zuko’s textbook. He puts his chin over his forearms and looks up at Zuko’s face, grinning, and Zuko would probably be a bit annoyed that he’s not letting him finish his essay if it weren’t for the fact that he’s Sokka. His, ahem, boyfriend. 

“I am…?”

“You are,” he repeats, and his smile grows bigger. Zuko thinks about kissing him; Zuko thinks about kissing him all the time. But, to be fair, he used to dream about that, just as much as he used to dream about them holding hands. And just as if he read Zuko’s mind, Sokka reaches out and holds his right hand; gently, like all of Sokka’s touches. It feels so nice, Zuko never wants to let go. “You are pulchritudinous.”

Eh?

Zuko tries to smile, but Sokka looks at him like he’s looking at a cute baby and throws his head back, still close and still holding his hand.

“You’re adorable.”

“What…?” Zuko is sure he looks as puzzled as he feels; he once caught his reflection in the mirror while playing Scrabble with Sokka and therefore knows how he must look. For some reason, Sokka finds it extremely cute. “What does that mean?”

Sokka laughs again.

Zuko narrows his eyes into slits. Or, maybe Sokka’s just making fun of him. (Not in a bad way, of course, Zuko knows. Sokka never means any harm, but he sure as hell loves teasing Zuko all the time.)

“Are you insulting me?”

Sokka wipes tears from his eyes and looks at Zuko with such a sweet face that it kinda makes Zuko stumble, even when he’s sitting.

His heart flutters alive, his face grows warm. He wants to kiss Sokka.

Sokka does, though, pulling gently at his hand and softly pressing his lips into Zuko’s wrist. He grins up at him.

“You’re adorable.”

(Later, when he’s waiting for a toast on Uncle Iroh’s kitchen, still barefoot, decked out in his pajamas and half-asleep, he finally finds what he thinks is the correct word using the search function of his phone—after 20 lame attempts of trying and failing at remembering—and pronouncing correctly—the right word.

He clicks on the dictionary tab, reads over the meaning, stumbles over, slips and falls flat on his ass.

He almost sets his kitchen on fire for the second time.)

.

.

Zuko is bad at flirting. He knows. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try, hard, and sometimes, sometimes, he succeeds (conscious and unconsciously).

Or maybe Sokka is just too easy to fluster (even when Sokka says it’s the other way around; even when that’s actually, probably, just a bit, true.)

Either way, Zuko basks happily in seeing Sokka get all flustered. It makes him even cuter than he already is.

(Whipped, Toph would draw out, mockingly sing-song.

And, well, maybe he is.)

.

.

Kissing Sokka is like setting himself on fire. Like burning up alive, but not in the bad sense. Not in the way he was burned as a little kid.

Kissing Sokka is like sitting near a campfire when you’re feeling cold; like standing on the edge of a cliff, feeling your chest contract; like tucking yourself in a warm blanket, with fuzzy socks and drinking your favorite drink, while hearing your favorite song. It’s like waking up on a good day, like basking in the sun at twilight, like taking a warm shower after a long day.

He feels too much, way too overwhelmed, even with just a brush of lips.

Kissing Sokka is a blessed thing.

There’s something that comes alive in his chest at the same time their lips touch. It blossoms under his ribcage, spreads over his chest, warms up all the way up to his throat. Beating, growing, marveling in every fiber of his being. Maybe that’s what love is—maybe that’s what Zuko has been searching for all this time; this connection, this overwhelming feeling, this deep, raw, unfiltered emotion, coming off him through waves of desperation for more.

He can’t be sure. But even if it wasn’t something he has looked out for, the discovery of it still feels like a sacred thing.

It’s like watching cherry blossoms falling on the street for the first time, like falling asleep on the comfortable side of your bed after a tiring day, it’s coming back home—or to what home should feel like.

It’s something delicate, at first. Zuko doesn’t have any experience, so he just lets himself feel as Sokka presses his lips softly into his own, carding his long fingers into Zuko’s hair.

Zuko feels an electric chill run down his spine, where Sokka’s fingertips—from the hand that’s not on his hair—make a slow path down. He can feel them burning, even through his clothes, even when Sokka’s hand is not that warm.

But it feels like that.

Zuko breathes shakily, moves his lips experimentally, feeling Sokka’s smile against his mouth.

He wants to do something, so he leans in, feeling Sokka’s eyelashes tickling his cheekbones, feeling Sokka’s thumb under his jaw, angling his head in a better position, feeling himself become aflame. He wants to touch Sokka. He really wants to touch Sokka.

So he does.

He uses one hand to gently touch Sokka’s wrist—the one Sokka’s using to keep Zuko’s head up—and, carefully, tentatively, he wraps his fingers around it, caresses the skin like he wants to print a topographic map of it into his mind.

Sokka makes a low, appreciative sound, and Zuko feels so happy it should be embarrassing.

Sokka has his hair down, and Zuko wants to touch it so much because he loves Sokka’s hair. Sokka’s hair is so pretty—Sokka is so pretty—so he goes for it. He brushes his fingers on Sokka’s shoulder, touches the strands of brown hair that lie there, moves his fingers to the nape of his neck. Zuko does this slowly, he wants to feel everything and he’s not going to rush, not after how long he’s wanted this.

He cradles his head with his hand, touches and touches and touches. He pulls at his hair, lightly, and his hand goes down just a bit; the skin of Sokka’s neck under his fingertips is warm, and so soft. He can feel the gentle echo of his heartbeat thundering in the tender curve of his jaw.

Just then, Sokka’s thumb brushes on his bare clavicle, and Zuko hisses, feeling like he’s on fire. Feeling like he’s become burning embers.

It’s just—too much, and at the same time, not enough—he wants more.

He has always been sensitive, but it’s different now. It’s like all his senses are turned on—he’s hyper-aware of everything around him—of Sokka’s hands, of Sokka’s steady, fast heartbeat under his open palm, of Sokka’s smell, of Sokka’s warm mouth, of Sokka’s soft skin, of the way Sokka keeps mumbling his name, softly against his lips or when he breaks apart to breath. He touches Sokka’s face, Sokka’s arms, Sokka’s neck; breathes his name into his own mouth, makes sure Sokka knows how much he wants this, how much he’s dreamed of this: of kissing him, of him kissing him back.

It feels too good to be even real—just as Sokka always makes him feel, even when they’re not kissing.

He might as well die there.

It wouldn’t be a bad way to go, though.

Linked, bare soul to bare soul, with the prettiest, smartest, kindest boy he’s ever met.

.

.

There’s something so tragically painful about falling in love, they say. But as he sees Sokka laughing in front of him because of some ridiculous joke Toph made, holding Zuko’s hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world, he can’t help but think that falling in love is anything but painful.

Sokka turns around, catches him staring and grins, playfully wiggling his eyebrows.

Zuko smiles, thinking just how much he loves Sokka, how much he loves his life, how much he loves his uncle, how much he loves his friends, how much he loves being alive, being there, curled up with Sokka on his couch, watching a stupid rom-com movie on Sokka’s cell-phone screen, sharing earphones with his boyfriend. Being there, in the house that he shares with his uncle—his real dad—in the house that he has come to call home. Being there, feeling safe in Sokka’s arms, with Toph hearing music on the TV, while Aang and Katara and Suki and Yue sleep, sprawled there and there all over his living-room.

“I love you,” Zuko tells Sokka, like he just revealed the biggest secret of the universe.

Love.

He feels the word on his tongue, and it tastes sweet. It tastes like the color of Sokka’s eyes, like the tone of Sokka’s laugh, like all of Sokka’s smiles—the gentle one, the soft one, the playful and flirty one, the wide one—all of them. Love tastes like Sokka holding his hand while they go for a walk, like Sokka’s voice when he talks about what he likes, like Sokka’s proud eyes after scoring a run, after Zuko shows him his grades. It tastes like a lot of things he can’t name, like the way Sokka says his name, like the way Sokka makes him feel, like that little mole under Sokka’s jaw, like the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles with the setting sun of the beach, like the way his fingertips feel against Zuko’s neck. Like the way he looks at Zuko like he’s not broken, like he’s the best thing that ever existed, like his scar is beautiful and all of Zuko’s failures don’t matter to him because he’s him, and that is enough. Like Zuko is more than enough, and how he loves that he’s more than enough to Zuko, too.  

“I love you,” Zuko says again, in a low voice, and it feels real. It has meaning. It’s not an empty word at all.

For some reason, he feels like tearing up a bit.

Sokka’s face mellows, softens; he brushes his thumb under Zuko’s left eye, just at the edge of his scar, and his eyes become impossibly warm. Zuko wants to kiss all of his face; he wants to taste all of Sokka’s softness on his own lips.

There, in the quiet of Zuko’s living-room, Sokka smiles, and Zuko thinks he’s the most bewitching, stunning, ineffably beautiful being.

It feels like something ethereal. Sokka smiles and Zuko feels blessed to exist.

“I love you, too,” Sokka answers, like he’s sharing one of the secrets of the universe, too, like he’s never told anyone anything more true, and ever so gentle.

Zuko smiles and kisses him.

Falling in love is a blessed thing.

[amydancepants-peralta]

89, 91 or 98 please if you're taking prompts!! i can't decide !!!🥵🕊🕊

Me neither haha!  So ... here’s all three. 😅👶🏻💖

(89: “Mondays are your diaper days”, 91: “Oooh... someone’s got a tummy ache and 98: “I think we should have another.”)

i think our story needs more pages

There’s an unmissable smile of contentment on Jake Peralta’s face as he wipes down the last section of the kitchen bench, softly humming the theme song to Transformers while he rinses the washcloth under the tap.  (The original, of course - the remakes all have their merits but when it comes to theme songs, nothing beats the classic version, and that is the hill he will die on.)  

Not so long ago, a perfect day for him would have undoubtedly involved some sort of high-speed chase (or diffusing a hostage situation … or jumping from an exploding chopper with a knife between his teeth … he’s not fussy when it comes to the details, really) - but after spending the majority of today at their nephew Aaron’s third birthday party, he finds himself completely unable to hide the sheer joy that is thrumming through his veins.

He knows that he could attribute a certain portion of his great mood to the lasting effect of that second slice of ice-cream cake he’d had mere hours ago (or the light-up keyring he won during pass the parcel), but it all really came down all of the sweet moments in-between: standing in the shaded sun, surrounded by family, and watching as his son played with all of his cousins.  

It’s the kind of life that once upon a time would have seemed totally implausible, but now was absolutely his reality, and just the mere thought of a thousand more days like it put Jake on an all-time natural high.  

It has been fifteen months since the birth of their son, a child born of liquid fire that went by the name of Mac.  Fifteen months of diaper changes, screaming fits and mashed food everywhere.  And also; fifteen months of the softest of cuddles, impossibly tiny hands wrapping themselves around his fingers, and the deepest of brown eyes that took in everything imaginable.  He misses sleep (oh, how he misses real, uninterrupted SLEEP), but if that was the tradeoff for having a miniature version of him and Amy taking wobbly steps around their apartment, Jake would do it all again in a nanosecond.  

He had no idea how powerful the sound Dada would be, but the first time he heard it on his son’s lips, he straight-up cried.  And … maybe again when Mama followed shortly after.  Now, Mac’s vocabulary has expanded to five whole words (including Wowo, which both he and Amy are 90% certain stands for Aunty RoRo, and have agreed that it’s best for everyone if Charles just simply doesn’t know), and both parents couldn’t be prouder if they tried. 

There’s been an idea in the back of his mind for a few months now, one that has grown all the more after today’s festivities, and after pouring both he and his wife a half glass of wine each Jake makes his way over to the living room, still unable to wipe the smile off of his face when he takes in the scene in front of him.

Mac lay stretched out on the couch, his tiny duck printed pyjama shirt riding high and exposing his belly button as he rests his head on Amy’s lap.  Fast asleep, his eyes remain closed as Amy’s fingers run gently through his hair, his tiny chest rising and up down in even breaths.  It’s a sight Jake’s seen a hundred times before, but one that he never truly gets enough of, and after quietly placing the wine glasses on a nearby table he reaches out to tug Mac’s shirt a little lower.  

“I think someone’s got a tummy ache,” Amy whispers, mirroring Jake’s responding pout as he settles down on the couch, their sleeping son in between them.  “He only had the smallest taste of the cake .. but I guess when combined with the excitement of the day and all the dancing he did, the poor little guy is just completely wiped.”

(Mac’s ‘dancing’ was really just an unsteady yet adorable bouncing in place, both feet planted to the floor as his arms flail about to whatever music just happens to be playing, and the similarities between that and some of Amy’s dance moves have not gone unnoticed.)

Jake furrows his brow in response, instinctively reaching out to run a soothing hand over his son’s stomach.  “He’s all Mac’d out.”  He’d watched from the rear view mirror on the drive home as the gentle bumps of the road lulled Mac to sleep, his tiny curls squished along the edges of the carseat he was buckled into.  His (at times, endless) energy had been renewed by the time Amy had carried him up the stairs, the sneakers that Uncle Charles had given him making high-pitched squeaks as he’d run with tiny toddler steps around their apartment (the contents of which by now were entirely child-proof) for the rest of the afternoon.  

It was exhausting chasing after a toddler, but also strangely exhilarating, and watching Amy settle onto Mac’s play mat and help him with his building blocks as Jake had began to prepare dinner had just felt so right, it was hard to imagine what their afternoons used to be like pre-child.  

With his fingertip gently tracing the outline of one of the ducks on his son’s pyjama set, Jake watches as Amy uses her free hand to take a sip from her wine glass before speaking.

“I think we should have another.”  

His eyes squeeze shut as soon as he’s blurted it out, twisting his mouth into a wince.  There were a thousand different ways he could have phrased it (and lord knows he’s practised a few versions in the past few weeks), but nooo.  Great work as always, Peralta.

Amy’s head is cocked slightly to the side when he opens his eyes again, and she gestures vaguely at the glass.  “Another wine?  I’ve only just started this one.”

“Oh.  Ahh, no - sorry.  Ugh.  That was my terribly unsubtle way of saying that I’ve been thinking that maybe … we should try and have another baby.”

Raising her eyebrows, Amy’s hand stills amongst their son’s curly hair, and after a (thankfully brief) pause, she replies.  “You do?”

Jake can feel a soft smile begin to grow on his face, and he nods.  “Yeah, I do.”  Lifting his hand so that he can run his fingers ever so lightly along the bridge of Mac’s nose, he gives Amy a half shrug.  “I mean … I’ve watched you with your brothers over the years, and it’s just amazing the kind of bond all of you have.”  Mac’s eyelids begin to flutter, and Jake pulls his hand away before he accidentally wakes him.  “Even when you hate them with a passion, you still love them, and there’s just some things that you intrinsically know about each other without any prompting.  It’s the kind of closeness that can’t ever be replicated, and I would just really love to give Mac that kind of childhood.”

Amy smiles at the thought, giving Jake a tiny nod of encouragement to continue.

“I know that I had Gina a lot of the time, but at some point she would go home to her family, and then it was just me and my mom … and don’t get me wrong, that was great, but there were definitely times when I had wished that I could have had somebody to hang out with.  Especially when my mom started working two jobs and I saw her less and less.  TV and cake did an okay job raising me, but I do sometimes wonder … what if.”

With her nods growing bigger, Amy glances down at Mac.  “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking the same thing.”

Jake’s heart skips a beat, and he leans forward slightly.  As much as he might want to try and expand their family, it all really came to do Amy, and how she felt about it.  He’s never pressured her into anything, and he certainly wasn’t about to start now.  “You have?”

“Yeah.  Been thinking about it a lot, actually.  My family was loud growing up, but it was also kind of great.”

They grin at each other over their son’s sleeping form.  Maybe, this was actually going to happen.  

Mac wriggles in his sleep, his sock-covered feet stretching out slightly and nudging against Jake’s thigh, and Jake lifts them up to rest on his lap as he shuffles a little closer to Amy.  “This morning, when I picked him up out of his crib, he just had the biggest, gummiest smile on his face, and then he hugged me like there was no tomorrow and I just … it’s only the best feeling and … well, you know.”

“I do.  That little Mama! that I heard this morning?  I wish I had recorded it, it sounded so sweet.  He’s just the cutest.”

“Exactly!”  Jake reaches his left hand out, resting it on the portion of Amy’s leg that hasn’t been occupied by their sleeping son.  “And honestly, I just keep getting this image in my head of a mini Amy walking around; with tiny little binders tucked under her arm and the same gorgeous eyes as her mother, learning so quickly whenever her big brother shows her how to do something.  Can’t you see it, Ames?”

Laughing, Amy shakes her head.  “She wouldn’t have binders, Jake” and he nods because obviously a toddler wouldn’t have a binder, but then she continues.  “She’d have a notepad.  Binders are serious business.  You gotta work your way up to them.”

“Right, of course.  My mistake, babe.”

Covering his hand with her own, Amy links slides her fingers in between Jake’s and rests them there.  “It does scare me a little, though.”

Picking up on the sudden softness of his wife’s voice, Jake looks over carefully.  “Having another baby?”

She nods, a tentative smile lifting the edges of her lips for a mere second before falling.  “Yeah.  I mean … it wasn’t exactly easy last time.  What if next time, it’s even harder?  Or it just … doesn’t work?”

Jake’s eyes fall back down to their son, this miniature version of both of them had wished so hard for.  Amy was right - it hadn’t been easy last time, and there honestly weren’t any guarantees that it was going to be any better the second time around.  It’s one of the main reasons why it had taken him so long to talk to her about it.  But as he feels her fingers gently shift against his own, Jake realises the most simplest of truths, and looks back up at his wife.

“I know that this is probably going to go against all of your instincts, but when it comes to this I think we just kind of need to let fate play it’s hand.  We can only try, you know?  If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work.”  Shifting his weight, he rests his shoulder against hers.  “We’re a family, no matter what.  Whether there’s three of us, or four, or five.  We can get through anything, Ames.  If there is anything the past ten years have taught us, it’s that.”

The side of Amy’s head rests against his, and he feels her nod.  “I love you, Jake Peralta.”

Squeezing their fingers, Jake cranes his neck marginally to the left to leave a kiss against Amy’s hairline.  “I love you too, Ames.”

From below them, Mac rolls onto his side; one hand curling into Amy’s sweater, and both of them seperate slightly to watch him sleep.

Taking another tiny sip from her glass, Amy sighs happily.  “You know … if we do this, we’d really need to look into moving somewhere bigger.”  Her eyes wander over the room, eventually landing on a framed photo of the three of them that had been taken five months ago.  “Maybe even buying something, if we were really careful with our finances.”

Jake’s smile grows impossibly bigger, and briefly he wonders if he’s going to have sore cheeks tomorrow from all of it.  “Honestly?  That sounds kinda amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  I mean …” Jake pauses, sliding his right hand along the back of his neck in a move that his wife has long since called ‘The Dropping of Peralta’s Guard’, feeling one side of his mouth slide up ever so slightly as he turns his attention back to Amy.  “I love this apartment, and living in the city, but … the only thing I’ve ever really owned is your heart.  And that beat up Mustang I had for a while there, but money-wise that was mainly on loan, so … yeah.  Just you.”  His hands raise quickly, showing his palms in surrender.  “Not that I own you or anything, because that’s ridiculous, I just meant that you totally own mine and that’s - mmff” the rest of his sentence is muffled, the press of Amy’s lips against his stealing the last fragments of thought, and by instinct his arms wrap tightly around her waist, as best as he can with Mac still resting on their laps.    

Amy’s smiling as she pulls away, her hand sliding down his cheek until she’s resting her thumb in the tiny dimple at the bottom that he’d always hated until the love of his life made it a favourite, and honestly, how she makes his heart flutter even after all this time is just pure magic.

“I know what you meant, babe, and I love you for saying it.  You absolutely own my heart … well, you and Mister Mac do, anyway.  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”  

Sliding his right hand further up his wife’s back, Jake pulls in her for another kiss.  He would happily share the space with Mac, and any other children that they might end up having, for the rest of his life (and maybe a hundred or so more years after that).  Toying with the ends of her hair as they part, Jake’s shoulders rise in a tiny shrug.  “Honestly, falling in love with you is the best investment I’ve ever made.  But the thought of actually buying a house with you, and turning it into a home that our kids will grow up in?  A backyard filled with toys and swing sets and maybe even a cat or two?  It sounds like the greatest idea ever.”

“And maybe a park nearby, where we can teach our kids to ride a bike?”

“Plus a basketball hoop over the garage door - because their Dad can dunk, and he’s totally going to show them how.  Not to mention a study lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all of them filled to the brim.”

Amy’s eyes begin to glisten slightly, and she leans in to rest both of her hands on Jake’s forearm.  “Don’t forget the front porch for us to sit on when we’re older, rocking in our chairs and stealing all of the other kid’s frisbees when they land on our lawn.”

“Of course!  We’re going to be the COOLEST house in the neighbourhood, with the dopest Halloween decorations.  Acting purely as a distraction, naturally, while we carry out whatever version of the heist we’re up to by then.”

Raising her chin slightly, Amy’s eyes turn suddenly serious.  “Your mind is going to be blown when you realise what I already have planned for then, Peralta.”

“Yet another reason to have a second baby!  One on each team!”

One of Amy’s eyebrows raises coyly, and she whispers “That’s what you think” as she leans in for another kiss, shortened by the soft laughter that falls from Jake’s mouth.  

“I really do love you, Ames.  Pre-emptive plotting for my children to heist against me and all.”

She giggles, and Mac lets out a tiny grumble as he begins to wake.  Scooting his butt to the edge of the couch, Jake slides his hand along his son’s back, holding him warm against his chest and tightening his grip as Mac nuzzles into his neck, still half asleep.  “Okay, time to take this party animal to bed.  Say goodnight, mommy!”

Raising herself up until she’s kneeling into the couch cushions, Amy leans in to press a kiss against Mac’s cheek, replicating the action on Jake’s as she pulls away.  “Goodnight, my sweet prince.  And babe, I think a diaper change might be in order.”

Wrinkling his nose, Jake nods.  “Yeah, I agree.”

“Want me to do it?”

“Nah.  Mondays are your diaper days, Sundays are mine.  I’ve got this.  You sit back and relax, and have a look at our schedules for when we can book a babysitter so that we can … practice.”

Resting her weight back down on her heels, Amy sinks her teeth into her lower lip.  “You know I’m a big believer in practice makes perfect, Peralta.”

“Indeed I do, Santiago.”  Lifting up one of Mac’s arms to mimic a tiny wave, Jake heads slowly towards Mac’s bedroom, intent on getting him changed and into bed with minimal disruption.  

(There ends up only being one tiny meltdown, but it’s nothing that a combined goodnight hug from both Mommy and Daddy can’t fix.)

*

In fifteen years time, there will be a house in Brooklyn - just outside the city centre, so close enough for the daily commute - that has contained so much love within its four walls that it has long since seeped into its foundation.

There will be a doorframe near the kitchen, marked with a variety of ascending lines drawn in marker, catalogued by both name and year as they rise.  A myriad of photos and commendations will line the walls (in no particular order, a fact that is made very clear), and the memories of each captured moment will last long after the images have faded.  

It will be their home - the Peralta-Santiago fortress against the rest of the world - and although life will forever throw curve balls their way, if there’s anything their children know for sure it’s that as a family, they’re always going to be there for each other.  No matter what. 

(Also, that Wario cheats.) 

[katsidhe]

Hey! For your past episode reviews, what are your thoughts on 2x21 (All Hell Breaks Loose Part 1)?

2.21-2.22 Final Thoughts

Well, two people asked me for All Hell Breaks Loose, so I figured I’d do both parts. (Also feel free to send me more episodes to review, I’m in the mood!)

OK starting off with my rant: Ava should have killed Sam instead of Jake. WHY WASN’T AVA THE MVP.

I don’t care about Jake. At all. We’ve barely met him, he’s in the military, he seems like a pragmatic type who’d kill to save his own life; okay, fine. He’s willing to kill Sam, a guy he barely knows, when his own life and possibly his family is under threat; big surprise. As a wise man once said, “Oh, my. I'm shocked at this unforeseen turn of events.”

But Ava knows Sam! She reached out to him to save his life! He’s been carrying around her missing poster for most of a year! She makes herself out to be innocent and hysterical and kind-hearted, and we believe her because we’ve met her before. Her newfound power and dark resolve are a gut-punch. Her betrayal is compelling because it’s, you know, an actual betrayal. And she’s sympathetic even so: it’s gutting to consider that she’s been in the demonic hunger games ALL SEASON, and the things that must have happened to her to mold her this way. She’s iconic.

Sam spends his time in Cold Oak giving off serious Protag Energy in a way that’s not altogether common for him—trying to get everyone to stick together against an ill-defined foe. Relatedly, whyyyyy the fuck do all these people think they’d be better off on their own, even disregarding horror tropes and ignoring the fact that there’s definitely demons around?

I always manage to forget how many incredibly corny ghost tropes early seasons SPN manages to intermingle with legitimately terrifying imagery. ‘I will not kill’ on a blackboard a hundred times, pfffahaha why.

As always, Azazel is charismatic and everything, but I get confused by what exactly his bigger plan was here? Like, he was clearly in communication with Lucifer, but also doesn’t seem to know that Sam’s his vessel, and his demon war doesn’t seem to be intrinsically linked with the bigger apocalypse plan (unless he was aiming to knock out a bunch of seals, maybe). I choose to believe that he was simply pregaming. Good for him.

It always makes me a little sad whenever Sam in early seasons mentions something about ‘the size of what’s coming.’ Oh baby. you have no idea.

And Sam dies. And Dean speaks over his body, cries over it as it lies there inanimate, statuesque. What comes next, and what Dean decides to do, will shape their lives, and Sam lies there, unable to speak or intervene.

It’s terrifying, it’s gutting, the claustrophobia of it. The impossibility of Dean moving forward. Despite his knowledge, the terrible knowledge of John’s deal. The lesson Dean’s learned, the fact that he’d never let someone else do the same—but he has this costly knowledge and he’ll do it just the same. I’ve paid enough, Dean says.

When the deal is done, Dean feels SO GOOD about it. It’s amazingly concrete.

The survivor’s guilt involved here is unimaginable for everyone, from every angle. The inherent consent issues start out gradual. And it’s better this way, if not quite as compelling to me as, say, s8-9. They’ll work up to it.

The climax of 2.22 is… honestly staged in a pretty silly way. Lotta “why don’t  you just shoot him or move or close the damn gate” etc. Or hell, is there a reason Jake couldn’t just break a portion of the railroad trap? None of these people have their brains on.

I hate John’s brief reappearance with the fury of a thousand suns. It’s such a dumb, cheap, saccharine way to deal with him.

There are also a couple of “is Sam going EVIL???” seeds planted: him shooting Jake multiple times, and Azazel speculating to Dean about whether he’s “100% pure Sam.” Neither of these gets brought up again: it’s just more fun fuel on the fire that will be s4. (As is Sam’s discovery that he’s got demon blood, which he keeps to himself.)

Most of what is really good about these episodes is good in  a foundational sense, I think: providing the legwork and the concrete ground for pushing and twisting the ante further and further in later seasons. It’s the start of what SPN is capable of, and a tease at the depths to which it will go.

[edendaphne]

“Discordant Sonata” Ch. 11

(Feat. beautiful artwork I commissioned from the amazing @corgi-likes-chat!) **Edit: I moved the image above the cut so it could be admired by everyone who scrolls by 😍

Time for some Ladynoir! :D

>Read it here on Ao3<

>Read it here on Wattpad<

CHAPTER 11: CAMBIARE

Music glossary:   Cambiare: a musical instruction indicating some kind of orchestral change, such as using a new instrument.

(Mood music: Love Like You (Piano cover) - Steven Universe)

Ladybug squirmed nervously on her own family room sofa, sitting face to face across from her very own parents. Her skin felt prickly and uncomfortable, and if she didn’t know better, she would’ve suspected Tikki of lacing her suit with itching powder as a prank.

The aforementioned husband and wife were none the wiser about her substantial anxiety, for they were far too shocked (as well as star-struck) about the sudden appearance of Paris’ beloved hero at their doorstep that morning. Their eyes were glued to her, following her hand as she raised a glass of orange juice to her mouth, as if it had never occurred to them that Ladybug would ever have to eat or drink. She would have found it hilarious if she wasn’t so utterly terrified about asking them to let Chat stay at their house until he was fully healed.

She’d shown up at their house an hour before the bakery opened, claiming that she’d seen Chat Noir’s signal on her communicator and had become worried; and that she was looking for him. They ushered her in and explained what had happened, and had quickly agreed when she asked them if they’d be willing to house him for a little while longer.

The superheroine took a long gulp to calm her nerves, then continued in her most professional voice, “Thank you for understanding. I’m ever so grateful that you’re willing to help us in these difficult times. If I were able to take Chat Noir into my own home, I most definitely would. But as it stands, our identities remaining a secret, even from each other, is of utmost importance.”

“Of course, Ladybug, we understand!” Sabine chirped emphatically. “We’re happy to help! Especially after all you do every day for our city; it’s the least we can do. Chat Noir is welcome to stay for as long as he’d like.”

“Thank you for entrusting us with this information,” Tom chimed in. “It’s good to know that he’s not under Hawkmoth’s control anymore.” He crossed his arms with a frown. “I just can’t believe that evil man would try to kill his own ally!”

“You and I both,” Ladybug replied, unable to conceal the sadness in her voice. “It seems Chat Noir was attempting to mediate peace between both sides; but as you can see, it backfired terribly.” She added sadly, “If only I’d known, I could have fought alongside him against Hawkmoth.”

The girl couldn’t suppress the heavy sigh that escaped her lips. She’d always tried to maintain an assertive, optimistic air about her while in the company of other people. But these weren’t just “other people”; they were her parents . Somehow, here, at this moment, with the people she was the most comfortable being vulnerable around, maintaining that composure was remarkably difficult. The emotional wounds were too fresh, the fear too overwhelming.

“Don’t blame yourself, Ladybug,” Sabine replied comfortingly, reaching forward and squeezing the hand on her lap. “You’re doing the best you can, but you can’t do everything . That’s why we want to help however we can.”

“Yes, you can count on us!” Tom exclaimed. “So, do you have a phone number or…? Is there a way for us to keep in touch with you?”

Ladybug brought out her yo-yo, opening it to show them her communicator. “Chat Noir and I can call each other from our weapons. They also serve as tracking devices between us. It’s how I found you today; I can follow his signal when he’s transformed.”

“Tracking signal?” Tom asked curiously. “Couldn’t you use it to find Hawkmoth?”

She shook her head. “It only works for miraculous holders who are allies. That’s why it works between me and Chat now… and why Hawkmoth can’t trace him anymore. He won’t be able to find him here.”

“I see,” Tom answered, pursing his lips into a thin line, brows furrowed in consternation.

Ladybug could tell that her father still seemed ill at ease about something, adding a bit of tension into the air. She brought the glass back to her lips and took her time sipping the juice, filling the silence until he could sort out what he wanted to say. The question hovered on his tongue, as if he was worried he’d offend her, but ultimately he couldn’t ignore his concern.

He rubbed the back of his head nervously when he finally spoke, “I’m sorry to ask this, but… Are you absolutely positive that Chat Noir is a good guy now? Do you truly, honestly know that he won’t betray you?”

A sliver of doubt briefly flashed inside Ladybug, its sharp thorns trying to worm their way inside her heart.

She mercilessly squashed that knot of apprehension in her chest, utterly furious at herself for allowing it to form in the first place. After all, Chat Noir was literally in the next room, recovering from his brush with death.

She chased the hated feeling away with all her memories of him, thinking about the way he made her feel; how protective she felt of him. During her daily life, her thoughts often drifted back to him, wondering if he was safe, wondering if he was happy. She thought back to how he had confided to her as Marinette just a few hours prior. She couldn’t allow any hesitation whatsoever to take hold; not after all they’d been through together so far. Despite their history, or maybe because of it, Chat had absolute faith in her; and she had to have the same amount of faith in him. She needed to believe that he was strong enough to overcome his past. That he wouldn’t allow himself to be manipulated by Hawkmoth once again.

Tom’s question was a reasonable one. Her father loved his family fiercely and would do absolutely anything to keep them safe. Last night had been evidence enough of that. However, she wasn’t sure if she could explain to her parents just how important Chat was to her, or how they were so intrinsically linked by fate. She yearned to be able to tell them more. After all, how could she possibly express that she was, and forever would be, connected to him?

She fixed Tom with a piercing gaze, voice laden with sincerity. “I trust Chat Noir with my life.”

Tom and Sabine looked at each other with matching smiles.

“Well, that’s good enough for me. Like my wife said, he can stay for as long as he wants.”

“We’re so happy that you finally have a partner,” Sabine said, reaching over and squeezing her hands again.

Ladybug smiled and squeezed back, letting out a small sigh of relief. “You’re both extremely generous. I really can’t thank you enough. I don’t think he has anywhere else to go. Not anywhere that would be safe for him, anyway. I’ll talk to him and see what he says. If he agrees to stay, I’ll be sure to visit from time to time to see how you’re all doing.”

“Sounds great,” Tom replied. “Let us know if there’s anything else you need.”

Ladybug eyed the guest bedroom door, pointing to it. “Actually, do you mind if I–”

Sabine nodded. “Please, go right ahead. We need to start getting everything ready for opening hours anyhow.”

“Thank you.”

They all rose and shook hands, with Sabine offering a motherly hug afterwards. The familiar, loving arms encircling Ladybug offered her more comfort than Sabine could possibly know. Making a mental note of doing something extra nice for them this week (she owed them big time), she made her way to the guest bedroom.

She had scarcely turned the door handle when she was knocked to the ground as the door swung open, a stupefied, rather ruffled (yet thankfully, fully clothed) Chat Noir inelegantly tumbling on top of her with a deadpan “OW.” He propped himself up on his arms, hovering above her, both of them wearing matching bewildered expressions, complete with dropped jaws.

“L-LADYBUG!! W-what a pleasant surprise!” he stuttered, face red, looking quite like a cat who’d been caught in the act of unfurling an entire toilet paper roll.

Her face paled. “Chat! Are you okay? Did that hurt?!”

He cracked an impish smile and replied with a playful chuckle, “You mean, when I fell from heaven?”

Quickly recovering from the abrupt non-greeting, Ladybug’s wide eyes narrowed and she quirked a teasing grin. “Why, Monsieur Noir, you couldn’t possibly have been eavesdropping, could you?” she teased.

“N-no, mademoiselle! Not me, not at all! Why would I do such a thing?” he forced an innocent laugh, which only succeeded in making him sound even more guilty.

“Sooo, you were just leaning on the door for no reason whatsoever?”

“T-that’s right, Milady! Nothing suspicious about that, of course!”

She made a brief hum, trying to conceal her amusement. “I must say, I’m not entirely convinced, Chaton.”

Chat pouted his lips. “You wound me, Bugaboo! I just happened to overhear that my favorite superhero had dropped by.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I believe I’m the only superhero you know, silly.”

“Well… you’re still my favorite,” he winked at her with a roguish look that caused her breath to catch, a rush of heat and color flooding to her cheeks.

A brief wheezing noise jolted them from their banter, and their heads whipped around to meet the Dupains’ flabbergasted stares, mouths hanging open like oven doors.

For a few awkward moments, the ticking of a wall clock was the only sound that resonated across the room, louder than Ladybug had ever heard it tick.

“UMMM, here,” Chat finally broke the silence, scrambling to stand up and offering his hand.

“Um… Thanks,” she replied.

A few more seconds ticked by, and Ladybug indistinctly wondered if this was what it felt like to be in a police lineup.

“SO! Uhh…” Tom began with a sputter.

“We’re just gonna–” Sabine muttered haltingly, pointing towards the living room exit.

“Yes!! Go right ahead! Please excuse us, THANKYOUFORYOURHOSPITALITY!!!” Ladybug cried, grabbing Chat by the bicep and practically dragging him into the guest bedroom, then closed the door behind them with a (louder than she intended) thunk.

(Mood music: I Was Lost Without You (piano version) - Mass Effect Soundtrack )

Ladybug leaned backwards onto the closed door with a mighty “PHEW!”, closing her eyes in thankful reprieve. The talk with her parents had gone much better than she’d anticipated, despite the ridiculous and abrupt parting. All that was left was to convince Chat to stay. Maybe he’d listen to Ladybug, since her words carried more authority than Marinette’s due to her status as a protector of the city.

“So, you found me,” Chat’s lilting voice brought her back into the moment. She opened her eyes and saw him across the room, arms crossed and leaning against the far wall. He wore his usual carefree smirk, but she noted his tensed shoulders and the position of the cape, purposely positioned to hide the bandages and bruises on his arm. Trying to downplay the severity of his injuries, she realized.

Ladybug put her hands behind her back and pursed her lips, replying impassively, “I did.”

Nervous butterflies filled her insides. Chat had told her as Marinette that he didn’t want Ladybug to find out he’d been hurt. Would he be upset that she’d shown up out of the blue? The thought of him not wanting to see her sent a cold, uncomfortable trickle down her spine. This wasn’t how she wanted their partnership to kick off. Instead of a joyous flurry of excitement and camaraderie, it had all turned somber and ominous, with the added burden of having to be even more cautious and alert than ever from now on.

UGH , this was so hard!! She hated that she couldn’t tell him her identity, or know his. It would make things so much simpler if there didn’t have to be any more secrets between them. Fu had explained why he shouldn’t know her identity; the risk of akumatization was still too great. But why shouldn’t she know his? Wouldn’t knowing who he was in real life make it easier for her to be able to look out for him? She made a mental note to visit Fu as soon as Chat recovered so they could discuss the matter further, along with the myriad of other questions about their current situation.

Putting those concerns on hold for a later date, Ladybug asked Chat hesitantly. “How are you feeling?”

Smiling wide, he replied, “Great! Fit as a fiddle, Bugaboo! Don’t you worry your gorgeous little head; I’m always ready and at your service.” As if to demonstrate, he stepped away from the wall, and bowed with a flourish.

“Is that right?” she asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Of course! See for yourself.” He shifted his stance, suppressing a wince that she might’ve missed had she not been looking closely; and he stood hand on hip in the trademark cocky pose she’d seen countless times before, almost imperceptibly bearing most of his weight on one leg.

“Uh-huh…” she replied skeptically, eyeing him up and down. “So why are you walking with a limp?”

Chat’s face scrunched up like he’d sucked on a lemon. Shrugging, he fumbled out, “I– uh… stubbed my toe on the bedpost?” He pointed back towards the bed and gave her the phoniest, most ridiculous cheshire grin; and had it been any other occasion, she would’ve busted out laughing at his antics.

Instead, she frowned. “Chat…” she said with a disapproving tone and he winced in response.

She walked slowly towards him, stopping just past arm’s length.

“You know you can tell me anything. The most important part of being partners–of being friends – is trust and honesty.” She lifted her hand, placing it gently on top of his hidden arm. Her voice got softer, more solemn; she continued, “I’m sure you’ve had to hide a lot of things from Hawkmoth; out of fear. But you have nothing to fear from me. I promise.”

He looked away, expression changing completely, becoming downcast. Looking almost ashamed somehow, which made Ladybug’s heart ache. Chat slowly removed his cloak, revealing the heavily bandaged arm underneath, and set the garment down on the bed.

He bit his lower lip, absentmindedly rubbing his wounded arm. “How did you find out that I was… th-that I wasn’t okay?”

“I–” Ladybug’s gaze dropped, staring intently at the floor. “I don’t really know how to explain it, but… I could feel that something was wrong. Like an intuition, or a sixth sense. You and I are linked, and that connection is stronger now that we’re officially a team,” she explained. “I just couldn’t shake off that vibe, that feeling of wrongness. I had to look for you and see for myself. Your signal drew me here, and the Dupains explained everything.”

“I had no idea…” Chat said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m really worried about Pl... my kwami. Plagg. He’s…” He cleared his throat; his hands fidgeted restlessly with the belt around his midsection. “I-I can’t detransform. I have no idea how long I’m gonna stay like this. Th-that’s never happened to me before. Keeping up the transformation is... i-it must really be taking its toll on Plagg and his powers.” He looked at her with eyes full of concern and fear. “I just… I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.” His eyebrows quirked upwards, as if daring to hope for answers. “Has… the Guardian ever mentioned something like this happening in the past? With other miraculous holders?”

She nodded. “I’m told that it’s a failsafe to protect the wielder. You’ll remain transformed until you’re fully healed.” She disliked having to omit so many of the details, like Fu’s involvement in this case and the special potion that he prepared for Plagg, but there was no way to share that without revealing her identity.

He breathed out a sigh of relief. “That’s really good to know. Thank you,” he uttered with a tiny smile.

Ladybug smiled back tenderly, noticing the way some of the tension left his shoulders, his posture relaxing somewhat. Chat’s concern for his kwami touched her, reminding her of her own relationship with Tikki. It made her feel better that they’d had each other throughout these horrible past few years.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t contact you. I didn’t want you to worry. You’ve already been through so much because of us– because of me. Yesterday I promised that I’d never give you any more trouble again.” He swallowed thickly, looking away, blinking rapidly as if trying to fend off tears that were threatening to form. “But I guess I can’t even do that right. I’m sorry.”

Chat’s entire person radiated shame and self-loathing. It was obvious that he placed her well-being above his own, both physical and emotional, as if his own was irrelevant or unimportant.

But how could he possibly be upset at himself for almost dying? Why in the world would he be apologizing and thinking that he was an inconvenience to her?! Was this something he had to do often back at home with his father?

Her mind stopped in its tracks. Her brows furrowed, realization dawning upon her like freezing rain.

She understood.

This was all he knew.

Apologizing was second nature to him. Apologizing for any actions that were perceived as mistakes. Apologizing for having opinions. Apologizing for having feelings. Years upon years of having to hide his inner self for fear of repercussion.

Chat having an opinion was of no matter to Hawkmoth. As far as he was concerned, Chat’s emotions were inconsequential, trivial at best.

And the worst part was: Chat had believed him. He’d had to ignore his thoughts and beliefs since who knows when, convinced that his feelings truly did not matter. She realized this now, and it hurt. The fact that he’d managed to avoid becoming a cold, cruel person in spite of this was astounding, to say the least.

When was the last time his emotional needs were met? Did he even know, or remember, what that was like?

Ladybug’s skin felt icy, yet her insides were scorching with fiery indignation. Towards Hawkmoth. Towards herself. Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest and she couldn’t contain herself anymore.

She cried, practically yelling, “NO, don’t you be sorry!!” She surged forward, crossing the remaining distance, her own eyes quickly becoming wet.

Chat’s confused gaze shot up to meet hers, eyes still glossy.

“This was all my fault! I shouldn’t have left you all alone after the akuma attack! It was.. UGH!! I was so stupid!!”

Ladybug crossed her arms tightly, curling in on herself, as if she was trying to become as small as she felt inside.

“I got so distracted by everything that had happened and didn’t even consider that you’d be in such danger. I should’ve met up with you later and figured something out, helped work out an escape plan, or something! I should have known!! I should’ve– AUGH!!” She covered her face with her hands with a choked sob, tears finally falling freely. “It was my fault that you got hurt! I’m the one who needs to apologize!!”

Chat paled, stiff as a board as he watched her crying, shaking form.

Hands shooting up to grasp her shoulders, he exclaimed in distress, “My Lady, no!! No, please don’t think that! There’s nothing for me to forgive! You had no way of knowing! Oh, please don’t cry, Bugaboo… Not for my sake. It wasn’t your fault. Never!”

He pulled her into his arms, both of them trembling slightly. He gingerly stroked the back of her head as she lay against him, sobbing quietly.

“Hawkmoth is to blame here, not you,” he cooed. “You’ve already done so much for me.”

“But I could have prevented this! I almost lost you!” she insisted, sniffling and hiccuping uncontrollably.

He squeezed her tightly. “Hey, I’m still here. It’s okay. It was a close call, but I’m alright now, I promise,” he reassured her. “There’s nothing you could’ve done to prevent it, believe me. He would have found me sooner or later; of that I’m sure.”

“I should’ve at least been there with you when you faced him,” she retorted.

She felt him shake his head. “I’m glad you weren’t. I couldn’t live with myself if anything had happened to you, too.”

“You… you don’t think we could have defeated him, together?” she asked hesitantly, looking up at him through a blurry lens of damp eyelashes.

“It’s hard to say.” Chat frowned, his view distant. “I found out that he’s done... something to augment the strength of his miraculous. Something risky and unnatural. I don’t know what or how. But it’s affecting him; him and his miraculous. He’s immensely powerful, but also incredibly unpredictable. Volatile. I think he’s losing control, not just of his powers, but of his own mind.”

Ladybug wasn’t sure how to respond to this revelation. An intense chill gripped her, clawing insistently from the back of her neck, and she couldn’t help but nuzzle closer against Chat’s warm chest, careful not to irritate the deep gash on his torso.

What could Hawkmoth have done to achieve such a feat? And why? A storm of questions inundated her brain, the sheer amount almost dizzying. There was so much uncertainty and danger in their future, and, truth be told, she wasn’t just scared; she was absolutely terrified. What could two not-quite-adults possibly do against this kind of a threat? She hadn’t felt this unsuited to bear the title of Ladybug since the day she first accepted the earrings.

As her tears slowed and her sight became less obscured, she froze as she caught sight of what was poking out from under Chat’s collar. Deep purple, almost black bruises around his neck, the passage of time having darkened them to their current sickly hue. She hadn’t noticed them last night, as he was so covered with blood, dirt, and scratches that one could scarcely tell one wound from another. And they certainly weren’t this color.

Her stomach twisted and her eyes widened in horror as she realized the implication of such an injury. How could that monster do such a thing to his own son?!?

She whimpered softly, trying to choke back another sob.

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair!!

Why should he have to suffer so much more than she ever had?? Or more than anyone else she knew, for that matter? How could the universe be so unjust, so incredibly cruel?!

Her eyes conjured up a new flood of tears, and she didn’t even register that she’d reached up to stroke the bruises on his neck, pulling down on his collar slightly so she could examine them; caressing them as though she could make them disappear if she only wished for it hard enough.

Chat gasped slightly at the contact, cheeks reddening at the intimacy of her touch. She could feel his chest rise and fall, his breathing shifting into a new rhythm.

She spoke, voice soft and airy, almost a whisper, her breath ghosting against his neck, “I wish I’d known it sooner; known what you’ve had to go through all these years.”

Chat smiled sadly, letting out a short, thoughtful noise. “To be honest, I’m not sure if I would’ve been ready to accept your help back then. I think I had to figure out for myself just how far my father had fallen. That we were chasing after something that wasn’t meant to be.”

Ladybug made a mental note to ask him about said objective some other time, when he wasn’t under such physical and mental stress. Surely the goal was something extremely significant for Chat to have blindly obeyed Hawkmoth for all these years. But what was it?

Ladybug pressed her lips together into a thin line. “I just… Hawkmoth needs to be stopped. I won’t let him hurt you again. I need to be better. I need to do more .”

“You’re already doing plenty, Buginette. And you’ve managed it all by yourself all these years; don’t sell yourself short,” he replied earnestly. “You’ve helped me so much already. Way more than I deserve.”

A sharp pang of sorrow struck her heart upon hearing him speak this way yet again. Before the night of their ballroom dance, she’d thought that Chat’s ostentatious bravado and cockiness were merely due to arrogance and egotism. It had made it easier to fight when she believed her enemy was just a rotten smart aleck.

But now she knew better; it had all been for show.

Did he have any other loved ones in his personal life? She really hoped so. Although, she suspected that if he did, his past actions would make him feel like that love was ill-deserved.

If only there was a way that she could help him realize how genuinely amazing he was. Just… how wonderful and unique and precious. This desire, this need to make him understand this, took root inside her heart, almost like a tangible weight that would refuse to go away until appeased.

Ladybug gently cupped Chat’s jaw and turned his head down to face hers. “Kitty… That isn’t true. You deserve so much more. You’re kind, selfless, and brave. I’ve never met anyone like you. Or anyone who’s overcome as much as you have. The only thing you don’t deserve is the horrific treatment you’ve suffered at the hands of that monster. Your worth is immeasurable, whether you realize it or not.” She paused, her eyes bored fiercely into his. “But I know it.”

Chat gaped at her, his face full of emotion. “Ladybug…” he murmured, voice rough and strained, as if he were trying to hold something back.

Ladybug stared into Chat’s impossibly green eyes, which were currently looking at her as if she was the dearest treasure he’d ever held. The chill down her spine changed into an almost overwhelming heat, and yet she couldn’t help but immerse herself in the fire of his gaze.

She stroked his cheek with her thumb, her brows turning upwards sorrowfully. “If only there was a way I could help make up for what you’ve lost. Some way to help the other ‘you’. The one behind the mask.” She sighed and whispered, “I wish I could tell you who I really am...”

Chat’s face reddened further and she felt him stiffen a bit. “I-I…” he trailed off, unsure of how to reply.

He swallowed thickly, and seeing the movement of his Adam’s apple was enough to make Ladybug become hyper-aware of how far she’d gotten into his personal space. She jolted upright, apprehension drenching her like a bucket of water, and her hand jerked back as if shocked by electricity. She winced, internally freaking out that her words and actions were unwelcome or too forward.

Why did I even bring up our identities?? God, I must be making him so uncomfortable!! Why do I always blurt out stuff like a total idiot when I’m with him?!

“S-sorry, I shouldn’t have–” she stuttered, looking away and wiping furiously at her tears. She started to step away from him, immediately missing the comfort of his broad, warm chest.

“Wait!” Chat interjected. He stopped her from pulling away fully, holding her hand and keeping her close, almost touching. He gently lifted her chin with his other hand, so she would meet his eyes again. She left out a soft gasp, her cheeks heating up under his intense gaze.

“My Lady…” he uttered longingly, voice low and thick with emotion.

Piercing emerald eyes held hers captive, so mesmerizing and beautiful that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to look away even if she desired to. It felt as though he was staring past the mask and straight through into her soul, able to understand it. Able to understand her.

He continued fervently, “I swear to you that as soon as you feel it’s safe to do so, I’ll be the first to reveal my identity to you. Just say the word. I trust you, one hundred percent.”

A pleasant wave of goosebumps covered her entire body, and she could only reply with a timid smile, a bright blush creeping on her cheeks yet again.

This wasn’t how she’d planned for their reunion to go. There’d been a lot more tears and a lot less professionalism than she’d expected. Regardless, they’d cleared the air and paved the way to move forward. Together.

Ladybug squeezed his forearm lightly, trying to blink away her remaining tears. “I’m sorry… I’m supposed to be the one comforting you, not the other way around.”

“Let me,” he replied, stroking her cheek softly and wiping the wet streaks. “And let yourself accept it. You’re incredibly strong, Buginette. Both physically and mentally. But you’re not invulnerable. And you’re overworking yourself. You didn’t get any time to recover from everything that happened to you yesterday. I want to take care of you, too. Just tell me what you need and I’ll do it, without question. Anything at all.”

The girl couldn’t help but blush at his honesty and forthrightness, almost too flustered to realize that he’d given her the perfect opportunity to ask for the thing that most heavily weighed on her mind at the moment. Almost.

Well… here goes.

Ladybug squeezed his hand tightly. “Chat… Will you stay? Here, with the Dupains?” she asked hopefully. “I just… I need to know you’ll be alright. Please?”

Upon hearing this, Chat visibly shrunk into himself a bit, brows turning upwards in concern. He replied nervously, “I-if that’s what you want. A-and as long as they’re really okay with it. Yes, I’ll do it. I can stay.”

She smiled broadly at him, elated to hear him agree. He was staying! He was going to be okay!! A healing wave of relief washed away the immense worry about his safety, and she felt significantly lighter. Practically throwing herself at him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave his cheek a long, loud smooch, eliciting a small gasp from him.

“That’s great!!” she cried happily, pulling him into a tight hug. “The Dupains will take good care of you, I promise! I’ve already talked to them about it. They’re willing to let you stay for as long as you need.”

He hugged back, albeit a bit flustered. “A-are you sure it’s alright? I’m just... scared of anything happening to them because of me.”

Ladybug pulled away enough to be able to look into his eyes. “I understand why you’d be worried, but believe me, everything will be fine. Hawkmoth would never think to look for you here. Taking care of your wellbeing is the priority, and they want to help us. They’re good people. It’ll be good for you to be around them. And…” She reached for his hand, squeezing it. “You’ll be safe. That’s what’s most important to me right now. You deserve to be able to sleep at night without being afraid.”

He looked upon her tenderly, gaze full of wonder and affection. He sighed and uttered, voice laden with awe, “You’re incredible… ” He cleared his throat, face turning bright pink, and stammered, “Th-that is… You’re all amazing. I’ll make sure to be the best houseguest ever.”

Ladybug giggled, her own cheeks flushed. “I don’t doubt it, Chaton,” she replied fondly, squeezing him back into the biggest hug she could manage. Chat’s arms wrapped around her waist in response, clinging onto her like a lifeline.

Ladybug sighed happily, and she heard, as well as felt, that same low, throaty purr she’d come to recognize immediately. She loved it.

It felt great to be able to rest easy knowing exactly where Chat was and that his life wasn’t in constant peril. Knowing that he was being cared for instead of being abused, or being forced to do something he didn’t want.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, just reveling in each others’ companionship. They’d earned this short reprieve.

But of course, as much as they’d both wanted it to, this moment couldn’t last forever.

Ladybug exhaled through her nose wearily, giving him one last squeeze. “I should go.”

Chat pulled away but still kept her close, standing almost chest to chest against each other. He gazed at her with eyes full of yearning and fascination.

“When can I see you again?” he asked softly. “I’d love to spend more time with you.”

Fire spread through Ladybug’s chest, quickly rushing to her face, and she had to fight the bout of speechlessness that threatened to overcome her. Her eyes dropped from his own like stones, only to land on his toned abdominals, which caused the burning to intensify. Again they fled, darting around, searching for something else to focus on, anything, until they finally settled on the hardwood floor.

Why was she reacting this way to what he said?! He just wanted to spend time together! That’s what friends do, right?! So why was she getting so hot and bothered over it??

Despite her brain temporarily short-circuiting, she miraculously managed to remember that Chat Noir was supposed to remain beside Tikki for the next two days, and should stay here at home.

She skittishly twiddled with the ends of her hair, stammering, “Oh! I- umm! My schedule? I-I have to– I need... school shopping! For school! ‘Cuz it starts next week! A-and, uh... You need to get in my bed. UM, I-I mean... I need to get in your bed. Wait, NO!!” she squawked, waving her hands around like a madwoman. “THAT IS, YOU NEED TO GET BACK IN BED!! T-to get some rest!!! S-so how about… Saturday?”

She facepalmed audibly. WOW, Marinette, just wow. Real smooth. First you amaze him with your incoherent blubbering and bawling, and get his shirt all wet. And now you astound him with your sterling display of eloquence. Great job making a good impression of a person who’s got all their crap together! UGH!

Was there any chance he wouldn’t notice if she spontaneously combusted? Why couldn’t one of her powers be for the earth to swallow her whole?! And why in the world was she acting this way with Chat Noir?! He was her partner! There was absolutely no reason for her to get so flustered!

Despite her less than sophisticated demeanor, Chat chuckled affectionately, bringing her out of her mental freakout. Smiling widely, he tilted her head upwards by the chin so their eyes would meet yet again. “Saturday sounds wonderful. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Y-yeah… Cool…” Ladybug breathed out dopily, struggling to remain upright despite her legs having suddenly turned to gelatin.

He gently tucked some stray hair behind her ear. “Thank you, by the way,” he murmured, “For looking out for me. For being so nice, for going out of your way to make sure I’ll be alright. Just… thank you. For everything.”

Chat’s eyes were soft and kind, yet intense and bold; they twinkled with a look she’d never received from anyone else before. It was new and exciting. Thrilling. Tempting. They captured her, like a snake charmer, drawing her near, and she couldn’t look away. And yet, here she was, wholeheartedly willing to become ensnared by them, inextricably drawn to his melody.

“Anytime,” she whispered breathlessly.

His hand made his way up from her jaw to cup her cheek, sending an intoxicating shiver down her entire body.

Faintly, she noticed the proximity of their faces… When she gotten so close? Her gaze flitted to his mouth all on its own, and everything else went out of focus. Chat seemed to notice her action, and he bit his lip slightly with a blush. Her hands trailed idly up to settle on his chest of their own accord, and she wondered if he could hear her own heart pounding. It didn’t seem to matter much right now. Nothing really did. Her whole world was the sound of his breathing, the curve of his smile, the feel of his hand on her skin.

Chat’s other hand settled on the small of her back, and he drew her towards him. He let out a shaky sigh, placing his forehead against hers, eyes squeezed shut, and swallowed hard.

He was hesitating. Was he afraid? Or… was he waiting for permission?

Her brain screamed at her to stop everything and analyze her thoughts before proceeding or making any decisions, while her heart urged her to stop overthinking everything and just do what felt right.

But was there even a “right” choice? Nothing about this moment felt wrong. In fact, she felt completely at ease. Although, to be fair, it was difficult to feel or discern anything outside of the whirlwind of butterflies currently swarming in her stomach.

Even though nothing had come of it, or might ever come of it, she was still in love with Adrien; of that, there was no doubt. So then, what was it that she was feeling right now, with Chat? She felt like she was being tugged in opposite directions, a cacophony of voices arguing and shouting, their words indecipherable.

While her heart and her mind were busy battling, however, her body moved on its own as if possessed, inching closer and closer towards the subject of the aforementioned internal conflict.

Her own arms snaked around Chat’s waist and his eyes flew open, accompanied by a deep blush that quickly colored his face and extended to the tips of his ears. His breath was shaky and a bit shallow, and she realized that he was having an internal debate of his own.

Did he want this? Did she want this? What even was “this”, anyway?? This whole situation was entirely new to her, and, so it appeared, seemed entirely new to him as well.

A thought occurred to her. It was so simple, but of course, it was anything but.

Why not just ask him?

After all, she had absolutely no clue what she was doing, and apparently he didn’t either, so neither had an advantage over the other. What did she have to lose?

Before she had a chance to ask, however, it was Chat who spoke first.

“My Lady… d-do you–”

A rattling door handle startled them apart, and just like that, the trance broke.

Sabine entered the room holding a small tray, but froze in her tracks upon seeing them. She let out a brief croak, but nothing else, as if her vocal chords had run away and left her behind. The couple stood there staring back, beet red with an exceedingly guilty look on their faces.

“MAMA–MA– MADAME!!” Ladybug yelped. “How nice to see you!”

“Oh, I-I’m so sorry!!” Sabine finally managed to stammer. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything! We’ve got fresh baked cookies and they’re still warm, so I thought I’d–”

“COOKIES!! I love cookies!” Ladybug interrupted, clasping her hands together. She stood stiff like a telephone pole, as if anchoring her feet heavily onto the ground would prevent her from floating away due to the embarrassment of having been caught in such an intimate position with her formal mortal enemy. She squeaked, “What a great idea! We should go to the kissing– I MEAN, TO THE KITCHEN!!”

Chat fared no better at his attempt to appear innocent. His mouth was pursed into a crooked pout; his eyes darted around like a kid attempting to hide stolen candy behind his back.

Sabine quirked an eyebrow inquisitively, eyes darting between them both. She replied, “Alright. I’ll let you wrap up in here and meet you at the, ahem – the kitchen.”

(Mood music: La Veillée - Yann Tiersen)

Sabine closed the door behind her and Ladybug let out a long, pitiful whine, hiding her face behind her hands, hoping that somehow she’d find a portal to another dimension within.

Chat wrapped his arm around her shoulders and remarked with a snicker, “Don’t be so nervous, Bugaboo! You’re starting to sound a lot like my friend, Marinette.”

Ladybug’s head whipped up like a spring and she let out a shaky chortle, a too-wide smile plastered on her face. “HAH! That’s funny! HAHAAA!! The Dupains’ daughter!! Cute, isn’t she?”

GOD, WHY DID I SAY THAT?! WHAT IN THE WORLD IS WRONG WITH ME?!!

Chat chuckled in amusement. “She sure is. She’s a big sweetheart, but she can be a bit excitable.”

Ladybug groaned internally, feeling her eye twitch. Understatement of the century.

She cleared her throat in an effort to snap herself out of her stuttering stupor and get the thumping in her chest under control, before she did something stupid.

Not trusting her traitorous mouth to not embarrass her further, she simply took Chat’s hand and made her way out of the bedroom and towards the sweet embrace of crumbly, sugary, chocolatey goodness. The one thing that always stayed the same in her life, no matter how confusing everything else got.

“I wonder where she is, anyway,” Chat mused aloud. “I’d love for you to meet her. I think you two would get along really well!”

Ladybug almost tripped on thin air, but managed to continue her speed-walk to the kitchen while internally screaming.

From the living area, Tom overheard what Chat had said and replied, “Oh, that’s a great idea! I’ll go fetch her so she can say hello! Maybe we can even get a picture of you two!”

Ladybug suppressed a shriek and dropped Chat’s arm like a sack of potatoes and whipped around to respond. “OHHH, you know what?? I just realized that I’m late for a, uh– dentist appointment!! I’d better go! Sorry I won’t get to meet your daughter! Next time, definitely!”

She rushed over to quickly shake hands with Tom and Sabine, thanking them yet again, then ran back to where Chat stood perplexed.

“Feel free to call or message me anytime,” she said to him. “My kwami will let me know if you’re trying to get in contact with me.”

He grinned back widely and replied with a wink, “Can do. Goodbye for now, My Lady.” He took her hand and, with a slight bow, gave it a soft kiss. He gazed at her with the same look as before, back in the bedroom. A look full of fondness. Respect. And… something else; that other emotion she couldn’t quite identify. Could it be…?

No… There was no way. She was just flattering herself by even entertaining the thought. Chat was just… a very affectionate friend. Someone who didn’t receive a lot of physical closeness in his daily life. It shouldn’t be a surprise that he’d be so touchy-feely with her. There might be some mutual attraction, sure (something that she still needed to sort her feelings about). But to imagine anything more would be delusional.

Regardless, his boldness always managed to knock the air out of her lungs, and she couldn’t help but be rendered speechless.

All at once, however, Ladybug could feel her parents’ stares from the back of her head, which Chat most certainly had not noticed (or if he did, he didn’t seem to care).

Pretty certain that her body had abruptly burst into flames, Ladybug stepped away with an awkward giggle and a small wave. “See you Saturday! We’ll have fun and make out–I mean HANG OUT!! SORRY, I’MJUSTGONNAGONOW, BYE!!!” she screeched, practically running into the door in her haste.

“Wait! What about your cookies?” Sabine called.

Ladybug skidded to a halt, throwing her hands in the air. “R-right!!! ‘Cause I love cookies!” She sprinted back to the countertop to grab a small handful, then bolted back towards the door. Squawking one last garbled goodbye, she swung the door closed, albeit unsuccessfully, the latter bouncing off the doorframe from the excessive force. The remaining three listened to Ladybug clamber down the stairs and exit the building in a span of time that would ordinarily be considered impossible.

About sixty seconds later, a pajama-clad Marinette descended the stairs from her bedroom with a loud, theatrical yawn, stretching her arms above her head. She called out, “Good morning, everyone!”

Tom replied, “Hey sleepyhead! You won’t believe who just stopped by!”

Maintaining her ruse, she answered innocently, “Hmm? Was it Alya? It seems a bit too early for her.”

Sabine chimed in, “Oh sweetie, this was definitely the worst morning for you to sleep in! Ladybug was here! At our house! She left a minute ago; you just barely missed each other!”

Marinette gave out a dramatic gasp, bringing her hand to her mouth, accompanied by a loud groan. “Oh noooo~! I missed Ladybug?? Darn my luck! Oh well, maybe next time!” She promptly changed the subject, plucking a cookie from the tray on the kitchen counter. “Oh, yum! You made cookies!”

Tom scrunched his eyebrows. “Uh... Marinette, we always have cookies.”

She giggled nervously. “O-oh yeah! Definitely one of the best perks of living in a bakery, that’s for sure!” She shoved most of the cookie into her mouth, thus preventing herself from blurting out any further absurdities. If anyone happened to notice how shaky her fingers were as she munched on her pastry, nobody commented on it.

They sat around the table, eventually settling into comfortable chatter, and enjoyed a proper breakfast accompanied by a wide assortment of teas. Afterwards, it was time for Sabine and Tom to say their goodbyes and officially open the bakery for the day. Chat made good on his promise to Ladybug and cleaned up after the meal, tidying up the kitchen and doing the dishes, with Marinette offering a helping hand to keep him company.

Afterwards, Marinette moved to the sofa and motioned for Chat to follow. He grinned widely and eagerly complied. The couple made themselves comfortable and resumed their friendly conversation.

“So, Ladybug stopped by to see you, huh?” Marinette asked, immediately noticing the way Chat’s cheekbones turned pink upon mentioning her alter ego. “What did she say? Other than asking my parents to let you stay here for a while.”

“I– she, uh... She just wanted to say hi and see how I was doing, and, um…” he stammered. “Like you said, she asked your parents if it would be okay for me to lay low at your house for a little bit. Then she mentioned she had an appointment and had to leave.”

“And… that’s it?” she asked.

Chat turned bright red at this point, his eyes wide and hands tightly gripping his knees. “P-pretty much.”

Marinette laboriously suppressed a wry smile, but decided to let him off the hook and stop making him wriggle nervously with her secret teasing. “I’m glad you guys got to see each other. And I’m relieved that you decided to stay.”

He smiled shyly. “I’m a bit shocked at how generous you all are, to be honest. N-not that it surprises me that you guys are so nice, of course; I already knew that,” he clarified. “But it’s just… it’s a huge favor to ask from anybody. Especially for nothing in return. I’d still like to pay you back somehow, but I’m not entirely sure how to do that.”

Marinette reached over and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “It’s okay, Chat! You don’t have to do anything. Really! It’s just like a sleepover. Friends do sleepovers all the time!”

Chat twiddled his fingers nervously. “I, uh… I’ve actually never slept over at someone else’s house before. Not even Chlo– uh… not even my closest friends.”

Marinette made a small, thoughtful hum. “Well, thankfully we’ve got all day to prepare for the biggest, most amazing sleepover you could ever imagine! Starting with me kicking your butt in ‘Ultimate Mecha Strike 3’!”

Chat’s face lit up with an excited twinkle in his eyes and a mischievous smile that she couldn’t help but find utterly adorable. “Oh, we’ll see about that!”

They laughed freely and began setting up their game on the television.

As Marinette got the controllers out, Chat asked bashfully, “Umm, before we begin... do you happen to have any Camembert? For some reason, I’ve been craving it like crazy.”

Marinette raised an eyebrow. Camembert? That was… kind of an odd and rather specific request. Why Camembert, of all things?

Just then, a thought occurred to her. Since she was fairly certain that it wasn’t a pregnancy-related craving, she realized that that must be his kwami’s preferred food. Since Chat couldn’t detransform to feed him, the need for that extra energy must be manifesting itself through cravings.

Poor little guy is working so hard... He must be exhausted!

Making a mental note to stock up on all kinds of cheeses, she grinned at Chat with a cheeky wink.

“One cheese-fest, coming right up!”

[shmisolo]

I wanted to post the things I’ve made this year in one place.  I haven’t posted most of them over here—largely because I’m not tumblring a lot these days.  But I made a lot this year—both visual and written—that I’m proud of and wanted to share it out.  You can find this post also in tweet form here!

Happy 2020, Reylo friends!  It’s been a wild ride of a year, and mine couldn’t have been what it has been without you.

Visual

Alternate TROS Ending Gifset | World Between Worlds Graphic | Padmé quote gifset | Hadestown AU |  Alfa Gifset | ManDADlorian Video | Rey & Dark Rey Gifset 1 | Rey & Dark Rey Gifset 2 | Rey & Padmé Gifset | Rey Gifset 1 | Rey Gifset 2 | Rey Gifset 3 | Rey Gifset 4 | Rey Gif | Trailer Gifset 1| Trailer Gifset 2 | Trailer Gifset 3 | Kylo’s Karaoke Night Playlist | Graphic for lwaboc for @kylorenvevo | Graphic for Heart’s Flight | Graphic for YTCShepard | Gifs for Sugar, Honey, Honey for YTCShepard | Gifs for @sciosophia | Game of Thrones AU Graphic | Luke Gifset

Oneshots

Investiture for @misscoppelia

In which Ben goes to daven for his father’s yahrtzeit and manages to prove to himself once again that he is both a terrible person and a terrible Jew.

Oh and he sort of falls in love.

baby you can drive my car for @talltig

They call them “soulmates.” Probably because it leaves less of a sting in their mouths.

The Kitchen for flypaper_brain

Rey and Ben, hunting for their first house.

alone with a heart meant for you for @nuanceismyjam

Ben orders Grubhub; Rey's car breaks down.

myosotis for @rissanox

Ben picked the flowers for their wedding.

and beyond for @lilithsaur

“Please?”

For a moment, he thinks it will be like the first time, him begging, her crying and saying no and him not knowing how to protect his crushed heart.

But she doesn’t cry, she doesn’t say, “Please don’t go this way,” she doesn’t look horrified or disgusted. She just grabs him by the front of his shirt and tugs his lips down to hers before reaching down to cup his cock.

You, Me, and He for @rissanox, @persimonne, and @misscoppelia

When they say that Kylo's brain is in his groin, they're not far from the truth.

Alternatively,

In which Kylo Ren is his own penis.

Bliss, Balance and Birth for @selunchen​

Ben teaches their daughter to read.

💦💦💦💦

In which Ben accidentally implies that he gets his cardio from having sex on national television.

Favorites for @lilithsaur

In which Matt is preoccupied in getting Daisy the perfect token of his love on this, the two month anniversary of her agreeing to be his girlfriend.

A Trash Triplets AU.

Gotta Get Up, Gotta Get Out | Moodboard

“Listen asshole,” Rey says as she steps through the door of Poe’s deli. “You have exactly as long as it takes me to buy these cigarettes.”

Ben doesn’t waste a second breathing. “Metaphysically speaking, you and I are intrinsically and inexplicably linked,” he starts because there’s no time for beating around the bush and besides, Rey can sniff out a lie like no one else. “And I'm convinced our true purpose is to to connect with each other, if not help save each other's lives.” She’s opening her wallet and handing Poe a ten. “In another world, hopefully you are doing the same for me.”

The Other Thing for @persimonne

That’s what they don’t warn you about, he thinks idly. In his DesEd class, they’d warned him about knots, and heats, and ruts, and nesting. But they’d never warned him that her home would smell so much like her, like everything he’s ever wanted, that he would be unable to extricate himself.

“Can you make it a little more interesting in like...thirty minutes?” he asks her.

She pulls away and he immediately regrets saying a damn word.

“I could make that work,” she replies dryly. “I’ll pencil you in.”

A for... for @loveofescapism

Rey’s seeing double by the time there’s food on her plate. Oh. There’s food on her plate. That’s good. That’s unexpected at this point. “Eat,” Ben tells her.

So she does. It tastes good. Very good. She likes this food a lot.

“I’ll make sure she knows,” Ben says.

Oh she’s at that point of drunk where she’s just saying things out loud instead of keeping them in her internal monologue.

“You are,” Ben says, looking very amused.

She hopes she doesn’t say anything embarrassing.

“I promise, you haven’t yet, but oh boy, I’m looking forward to this.”

She shoves food into her mouth to keep herself from thinking out loud about his dick in her ass at his mother’s Passover seder.

do or do not (do the do)

In which Ben, in an effort to improve his stamina (look he's making progress, ok?) after reading some articles that he'll never be able to unread, receives some coaching (that he very much did not ask for).

(Very much did not ask for.)

(Not) Interested for @thewayofthetrashcompactor, @monsterleadmehome, @destiniesfic, yuktipatipriya

We're bringing Speed Dating back to Space Battles Bonanza! Register online for one of our special Bonanza sessions of 15 three-minute dates so you’ll no longer have to look for love in a galaxy far far away. Choose from one of seven speed dating sessions, two of which are queer focused. If the Insurgents can blow up the Doom Moon in 11 minutes, let’s see if you can make a love connection in only three.

There’s a history of successful Speed Dating at Space Battles Bonanzas, with long-term couples, engagements and marriages now among the alumni.

--

In which Rey & Kylo meet at their fancon's speed dating.

Never Die for @avamarga

Did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise? I thought not. It’s not a story the Jedi would tell you.

Forged for @reyloner

There are several reasons that Ben would never have dreamed he’d ever receive this text. The first is that he’d be invited to a Halloween party. The second is that he’d never in his life expected to be in a serious relationship, much less the sort of serious relationship where his partner would suggest matching Halloween costumes. And the last is that he is dating someone who’s show only and they’ve only almost murdered one another twice. Because he’s an A Song of Ice and Fire fan. He hates Game of Thrones.

and getting caught in the rain for @kylorenvevo

What's the point of going to a family wedding if you're not going to hook up with your newly rediscovered brother's baseball coach?

A Picture's Worth for @selunchen

reyjay: hiya your art is amazing

reyjay: it’s a big ask but could you draw me for my art final tomorrow? i’m shit at drawing people and i can’t fail this. can you help?

He stares.

And stares.

And stares.

kyloren: is this some kind of a joke?

reyjay: no?? why??

kyloren: you’re asking me to help you cheat your exam, but you’re not even offering me money?

Bang for your Buck

“We ready?” he asks her, sounding huffy.

“Nice to meet you Ben, I’m just familiarizing myself with your training,” she replies.

“Ok, well I don’t have all day.”

“No, you have,” she checks her watch, “another hour.” Because of course he’d booked an extra long session. Bless that sweet, sweet overtime pay.

“And you’re sure you know what you’re doing?” he asks her and she glances up at him, sure that her eyes are flashing because that’s fucking rude. She’s a professional. Amilyn wouldn’t have hired her if she didn’t know what she’s doing, and just because he apparently thinks he’s the center of the universe doesn’t change that fact.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get your bang for your buck,” she tells him icily.

Two to Tango

Rey: I need to ask you something awkward. Ben: What’s up? Rey: Can I give you a blowjob? Please?

atlanta > all atlanta > community > missed connections for @sand-its-everywhere

In which Rey meets a cosplayer at DragonCon.

Sonsick (I'll fall for you soon enough) for @jeenonamit & YTCShepard

Sheev and Snoke share a moment at the country club.

A Thousand Words for @monsterleadmehome | Moodboard

In which, some years later, Ben encounters someone he drew for nudes.

Truth and Death written for this year’s @reylofanfictionanthology

Ben opens the box. Inside, he sees the charred remains of a helmet.

------------

She is made of sand-turned-clay, where other moving creatures are made of flesh and blood. Their skin cracks in the dry Jakku sun just like hers, but they are alive in their organs.

Rey is alive in a different way.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year written with @jeenonamit | Moodboard

Rey convinces Ben--and his sentient penis--to go with her to a Halloween party.

What could go wrong?

(Working title: "Dicklo 2: Electric BOO-galoo")

Shalom Rav! for @jeenonamit | Moodboard

In which Rey comes to terms realizing that she is attracted to the rabbi.

when the stars and moon align just so for @capaldisrighteyebrow

Songs spoke of red stars on nights that blood was shed. Stars bled too when the great fell. There were no red stars tonight. The stars did not bleed for Snoke.

Would they bleed for Ben?

She swallowed.

Because despite his own words—that he served his master (master, as though he were a draft horse to be yoked and plow the fields of men), that he would give everything to his master, she had seen doubt in his eyes that night, three years ago, when the stars and moon had aligned just so.

oh, my love, don't forsake me (take what the water gave me) for @reyloner and @loveofescapism

Their sabers clashed, humming in the spray, and Rey's heart was in her throat the entire time.

it’s you and me (i know it’s our destiny) | Moodboard

It’s just a kid’s game, he thinks when jealousy pangs in his heart. But it’s more than just a kid’s game.

It’s Pokémon.

It’s the only good thing in his life.

will you come when i call you (i’ll come when you call me) | Moodboard

Surely when Snoke had connected them, he hadn’t connected them like this.  

—

@reylo_prompts: “Due to the Force bond Rey and Ben always come simultaneously. Now they need to figure out how not to do that since it can result in awkward situations.”

The Sweater Curse for @jeenonamit & @commandercrouton

She’s never made a sweater before, but she saw the pattern on Ravelry and who cares if she’s only made (lumpy) hats before—she has to try it.  She has to make it. She has to make it for Ben.

“You realize that Hannukah isn’t an important holiday, right?” Ben asks as she makes eye contact with him.  His eyes are big and brown and—at this moment—mildly annoyed.

“Really?  Is it a giant conspiracy theory?  Part of the war on Christmas?”

“More than you realize,” Ben says and for the life of her she can’t tell if he’s joking.  He does this thing sometimes that’s confusing—where he’ll say something that sounds mopey but is actually snarky and it disarms her every damn time.  “In any event, ugly Hanukkah sweaters definitely aren’t a thing the way ugly Christmas sweaters are.”

“Well, they are now,” Rey says firmly.  “I’m making you an ugly Hanukkah sweater.  Deal with it. And stop moving.”

Ours Is The Fury for @reyloner & @commandercrouton

Rey was tasked with taking Storm's End for her king. She defeated the Storm King Snoke in the Rainwood, but when she proceeded to the castle itself, preparing for a long siege, things did not go to plan.

Seen ✔️✔️ for @ever-so-reylo | Graphic

His lock screen has three texts from Rey on it:

Rey Wife: Babe I know you’re probably busy right now, but you sent that pic to the wrong chat. Rey Wife: Bennnnnnn Rey Wife: Call me when you’re done processing your trauma.

And then about ninety chats from the Skywalker Ranch WhatsApp thread.

--

In which Ben sends a picture to the wrong chat.

With you, Always for @jeenonamit, @nuanceismyjam, and YTCShepard 

Rey's boyfriend is now a Force ghost but they're sure as fuck gonna try fucking anyway.

Chaptered Fics

we decided not to kill the wolves (we wanted to be wolves) for @nerdherderette | Complete | Moodboard

A pack of wolves lives in the woods to the north of Raddus and as winter looms, they have their eyes set on Leia Organa’s stronghold. Rey may be new to Raddus, but she’s not about to do nothing while it may be in danger. And besides, Poe must be exaggerating about wolves the size of bears. She’s not afraid of monsters.

Carry In My Core (That Voice I Adore) | Complete | Moodboards

Starring in her first opera would be stressful as is, but Rey, always one to outdo herself, just had to go and make things even more complicated with Kylo Ren. It’s hard enough looking him in the eye, much less pretending to be in love with him. She can make it through this. She has made it through worse. She can make it through this.

shadow boxes | Complete

Just because they aren’t together, doesn’t mean they’re not in love.

anyway you want to (anyway you've got to) | Complete

But you know she's getting something other Than the love from her mother

A Porn Challenge in which your author makes Rey and Ben bone their way through the month of February.

words like tomorrow (or future, or fate) for @haloren1st​ & @staticcatfish​ | Complete

One day, Rey wakes in a body that's not her own in a town she's never been to before. Who is Ben, whose body she seems to be possessing, and who woke up in her body? Why are they connected this way?

---

A Your name. AU.

Above us, stars. Beneath us, constellations. for @valsansretour​ | Complete | Moodboard

Ben woke, but Luke’s saber wasn’t ignited. Instead, he saw a master who had shattered his trust, who thought he was a monster, and—worse—he was probably right.

So he fled Yavin IV, to Skywalker’s dismay, and no one heard from him since.

Years later, on a wasteland planet, a girl and a fugitive stormtrooper board a Corellian YT-1300 light freighter in desperation to find they are not the only ones trying to steal it.

Why Don’t You And I Combine for @ever-so-reylo | Complete | Moodboard

Rey’s phone rings while she’s at the farmer’s market. She lets it ring. They have a line and it’s only a few hours, and the girls are at school and it’s just her today, so she doesn’t have enough hands. Rose and Finn and Poe are helping Ben move furniture out of his apartment and into the house. They’re probably calling about something silly, or Ben’s calling to say he’s fully moved in and he’s lying in their bed—possibly with his hand on his cock—and that he’s thinking of her.

— 

In which life continues, grows, and Rey and Ben continue to rebuild their relationship.

A sequel to Let’s Get Together.

The Love Committee for @jeenonamit | Complete | Moodboard

In which Rey, tired of her bad luck with dating apps and failed relationships, enlists her friends' help in determining who she should date next.

They take it a little too seriously.

A Year of Me and You for autonomee | Complete

“After you move in with one another, give yourself six months to like one another again,” Maz says, looking at Rey seriously through her bottlecap glasses.

“I’m not going to fall out of love with—”

“No, no. Not love. Love’s not got anything to do with it, child. Like.”

--

Non-linear vignettes of various length, set during the first year Rey and Ben live together.

Hanging by a Moment for pillar-of-salt | Complete | Mix

There are many things that Ben could have tolerated about his parents’ divorce. That his mother had finally had it with his father’s borderline illegal—or rather, as he liked to put it, borderline legal—company, the shady activities it covered that would doubtlessly end her political career if a reporter got hold of them; that his father had finally had it with the way his mother nags, because sure, he’d thought it was hot twenty years ago, but he is in fact an adult who can actually keep his shit together—all that he would have gotten. He’d have been wrecked, but he’d have gotten it.

His dad leaving his mom for a nineteen-year-old gold-digger though, and his mother not even putting up a fight—that had caught him by surprise.

That had hurt.

Be nice to her, Ben, his mother had said on the phone when he’d spoken to her for the first time in five years. She just lost your father.

Yeah. So did I.

Cupcake Wars | Complete | Fingerpainting + Playlist

Entirely by accident, Rey ends up fucking someone who works for Snoke's Cupcakery. She's just blowing off steam. It doesn't mean anything at all. It certainly won't come back to bite her in the ass.

in nobody's eyes but mine for @ever-so-reylo | Complete | Moodboard

Rey had spent too much of her life feeling as though permanence could only be transient so why bother with it. What was long-term? What was mating? What was home?

the water won’t have ya if the devil’s too blind for @thekesselrun | Complete | Moodboard

That water’s too dirty to wash away your sins.

“They’re not sins. I didn’t commit them against god. There is no such thing as god.”

Then whatever you want to call them. Crimes don’t get washed away by a river.

“It’s a cursed river,” Ben points out.

No, it’s a polluted river. Curses aren’t real. Not like that, anyway.

“Are you really well-actually-ing me?”

Yes, I am. Because you’re an idiot. Some extremely oily and not remotely potable water is not going to be able to remove the guilt you feel about killing your father, turning your back on your mother, murdering hundreds of innocents, and helping the First Order destroy the world. Especially when you knew I wasn’t going to let you die.

–

In which Ben Solo washes up on shore, very still alive and unsure of what to do next until a passing scavenger offers him a lift on her boat. Who is he now? Who does he want to be?

Apples & Honey for @peaceblessingspeyton | Complete | Moodboard

When Ben catches wind that his mother is planning to foist a potential girlfriend on him when he comes home for Rosh Hashanah, he takes matters into his own hands: specifically, he runs to Rey and asks her to pretend to be his girlfriend.

There Is Another for @kylorenvevo | Complete | Moodboards: Ch 1 | Ch 3 | Ch 7 | Ch 9 | Ch 11 | Ch14

“Mission success?”

“You will be interested in this.”

“Oh?”

Kylo glances back over his shoulder. The girl he had found on Takodana is still deeply unconscious, and will remain so for a long while. He had knocked her out as deeply as he could. She had fired at him the moment she’d seen him, resisted him tooth and nail. He does not want her waking up until he has her properly restrained, and he had not come to Takodana prepared to take any prisoners.

A shiver runs up his spine as he tries to shove away how it had felt, carrying her through that forest.

“Yes.”

“How so?”

The trouble with helmets is he can’t look Kira dead in the eye anymore. He can’t watch her face closely to see what will happen when he tells her,

“She’s you.”

Dear Mr. President | WIP | Moodboards: Ch13

Dr. Dameron shifts and slides a manilla folder across the desk to her. “Under ordinary circumstances, I’d let you keep the folder. I hope you’ll understand why I can’t do that this time around.”

She opens it and stares.

She stares and stares and stares.

Dr. Dameron has to be kidding. There have to be hidden cameras here, this has to be some elaborate prank. That’s why it’s him here and not Dr. Wexley—that was his name. Dr. Wexley.

But instead of getting to her feet and tossing her hair and saying he was cruel for playing with her heart like this, all she does is ask, blankly, “So...Ben Solo is my soulmate? Our new president is my…”

She swallows.

And Dr. Dameron nods.

so long lives this and this gives life to thee | WIP | Moodboard

His smile fades and he falls to the ground, his head hitting the ground with a sharp crack.

“Ben!” The yell echoes around them in the darkness and Rey lurches forward, her hands scrabbling over his face, his neck, trying to find a pulse.

She bursts into tears when she finds it. She doesn’t know why she’s crying. He’s alive.

———

In which Ben's Force Sensitivity—and not his life—was given to save Rey.

a little death (goes a long way) for @talltig | WIP | Moodboard

“That’s good of you,” he replies. “Especially with the O-Negative.”

“It’s a good deal,” she says and he glances up. Yeah, because Omega blood is harder to find. A taste of life, because they almost never survive the turn.