#old writing crap

[starrysharks]

google "how to write a character who is known within her universe for having no filter and swearing a lot (especially in the face of authority) without having it read like i graduated from vivziepop school of writing"

[bitchy-peachy]

Learn what actual "proship" means before coming at me with stuff that just tells me that you don't know what proship is.

[fcthots]

since Gus and Jason constantly seem like they're fighting (its how Gus shows his affection) I can't stop thinking abt like one of the Waynes at the manor one day after seeing Jason and Gus Go At It Again be like "if he's such a bother why don't you find him another home? maybe he's just not that fond of you?" in a way to HELP and

Jason gets so fucking offended he doesn't set foot in the manor or see any of the Bats for 3 months.

Basically "do not talk to me, or my obsese greatly demanding ginger cat ever again".

he'd actually be SO HORRIFIED.

EXACTLY AHAHAH

Jason tried to bring Gus to dinner at Wayne manor. It did not go as intended. During dinner Gus sat in Jason’s lap trying to eat his food. After, while everyone was watching a movie, Gus continuously ran up to Jason to bite the sit out of him and run away (Jason wasn’t giving him enough attention). Jason calls the cat “a fucking traitorous ass stuck up bitch” and Dick, who has only ever had dogs goes “if he’s such a bother why don’t you find him another home? maybe he’s just not that fond of you?”

Jason looks at Dick like he just called him a slur and told him he should die again. He wordlessly picks up Gus (with effort) and leaves. Gus nibbles his hand on the way out. Dick tries to call after him but Jason is on his bike and headed home.

Later Jason sobs into your tits ab “what if Gus actually doesn’t love him” while you run your fingers through his hair, and Gus sits on his back and licks his neck. You reassure Jason that, yes, Gus loves him; Gus is just a big cat. It’s how he shows his affection.

Jason doesn’t talk to Dick for two weeks and Dick walks in crying promising the never say anything mean about Gus ever again. Gus immediately charges him and Dick just has to let him chew on his leg.

[iwanttobepersephone]

Thinking about homeless Halt

[mspoodle1]

[bitchfitch]

I've started playing Potion Permit, and so far it's one of my favorite games I've messed around with, but the most big brained move the devs made was giving you a dog on day 1, and then making that dog able to track NPCs and lead you directly to them no matter where they are in the town.

[nathandrakeisabottom]

Imprisoned, Impressioned: Nathan Drake x Reader

Summary: As a Panamanian prison guard, you signed on the dotted line that you'd never take bribes, never bring prisoners off grounds, and never beat on/off inmates. But for one, you just might make an exception. So long as he stays in his cage. Notes: Explicit. Gender neutral reader. B0ndage, fem/male-dom, r*mming. Cause that's his bussy, folks, don't get it twisted. (Get it plunged.)

“God, you’re such a fucking brat.” 

Nate snorts in a wavering smirk in reaction, stabilizing a cocky grin as best he possibly can. 

But his best seems to be quickly deteriorating in quality. 

“I distinctly remember telling you we’d only keep this up if you stayed out of trouble.” Your busy tongue shapes words around a threatening tone, fingers drifting mindlessly where you spread him open, but Nate’s quick to wiggle his hips— cute, and fucking irresistible— to coax you back in. 

“Really? Because what you actually do kinda seems to imply the opposite.”

And he’s right. 

You rove and search memory, only to find no occurrence where he wasn’t sporting a newly-earned bruise, a flinching face from a black eye, blood still speckled where his lip had been split from a particularly well-aimed punch. And he’s right. you only gave him this when he misbehaved. 

Punishment, you convince yourself. 

Comfort, your better mind argues.

Like a band-aid you administer, a kiss where it hurts. Maybe you only offered such a thing in the aftermath of cruelty. Defend from the bullies when he claims he needs no defense. 

Even though he does.

“Do you mind taking these off? Wrists starting to ache a bit—”

And he sounds so earnest when he says it that you almost move, relinquish to give him what he asks for. But you’re no idiot. He may be cute— you won’t lie and say you don’t feel some sort of affection for him, no matter how tart and mistrustful— but you’re grounded enough in your conviction to know he always has an ulterior motive. 

“Good. It’ll build some strength. You’ll want this position again. you can tell.”

You learned quickly not to play coy with Nathan. He liked blunt. He liked vulgar. He liked when you told him to shut up after a quip and called him ‘pretty boy’ with a sharp, teasing tone and forced him as deep as his legs could possibly go, ignoring when he’d grunt discomfortedly. He liked it when you called him out on his bullshit. He liked it when you knew what he wanted before he did.

And just like you expected it would, his cock jumps with an excited, anticipatory twitch. Of course he’ll want this again. He likes being held open. He likes being held down. 

But before he can hop in with some sort of pathetic, half-hearted joke, you pry his legs wide and delve back inside. Tongue lapping pink and untethered between his thighs, where his hole puckers sweet, wet, and where he has no choice but to sigh in pleasure. you kiss him there like you’re kissing him— because we’ve never kissed before and frankly have no reason to— and this is a lovely consolation prize. He tastes tangy, stings of soap after-tasting between your lips because he always keeps himself nice and clean for you. You could only be so lucky to one day watch for yourself as he props one foot up on the shower bar, examines himself in the fogging mirror, razor in hand, and fantasizes about what you’d prefer, what you’d desire, what you’d want best against your tongue. What would make you bring him back sooner next time.

Maybe one day you can convince the Lieutenant to transfer your post to the male showers so you can watch for yourself. 

“So good…” His groan rumbles deep and dark down his belly, breath desperate, gasping uneven at a pleasure soaked in only on barren grasses on the outer perimeter, where they forget to water it because no one ever, ever goes out that far. Your passion exists in secret, exists only in handcuffs and lies you hold better than any truth when you tell the other guards you’re only planning to rough him up a bit. When you feel like treating yourself, pushing past the boundaries of where your waning shyness crumbles, you allow your palm to brush past denim— old bloodstains aged to a grainy brown— to squeeze his naked chest between your claws. He’s fit, he’s young, he’s nimble, he’s beautiful. And whatever he’ll let you hold, whatever he’ll let you touch, you will. 

Your tongue dips deeper, pushes past pucker with little resistance— you always wonder if he preps himself for you first, skin stinging freezing cold against the steel toilet bowl and leg hiked high over the toilet paper rack, how many cigarettes must he trade for olive oil, lotion, vaseline, fucking anything— and he croons sounds just as impassioned as his daily fist fights. 

Fights you sometimes let go just a hair too long to enjoy the sounds he makes: pained and giving pain near identical. Though the pained ones have always been a personal favorite. 

Again— he likes being held down.

And the wispy laugh that bubbles past his lips when the fight is finally broken up never suggests anything different.

This can never go on long enough for you— suspicion is born quickly in the likes of a Panamanian jail— so you always need to draw things to a close far, far sooner than you’d like. Your fingers reluctantly reach up to grasp his cock between them, stroke him just how you know he likes, be quick about it because he always either comes way too fast or takes just a little too long, and you always have to split the difference.

He groans delicious at your mercy, nails digging contradictorily merciless into the skin you long to taste, but never have the time to. One day you’ll leave him hard from foreplay and nothing else, abandon him aching and more desperate for next time. And next time, maybe you’ll make him eat you out. The image of his sweet, strikingly blue eyes gazing up at you from between your legs imprints in your weak-willed mind and steers the rhythm of your fist faster. How fucking adorable he is, how scrappy, how witty, how bratty, how you love the sounds he makes, how you love his skin pinching pink between your fingers, how the thought of one day marking him even deeper drives you wild. 

Your tongue points, swallows, and savors for one final taste, before skating further along to foreign territories. And you distract him with quicker speeds, tightened grip, because you’re the same: 

You always have an ulterior motive.

“Fuck—” His moans transcend into higher octaves, just like they do when he’s close, and his feet scramble for purchase, legs bending and stretching and flailing until you have to force them back up into position. Be good, babyboy. Stay where you want you. A gasp suddenly squeezes from his overworked lungs, a product likely of his precarious positioning, and there’s one second where you almost fear you’ll drop him. But your chest is quick to push forward and prop him back upright, keep him vertical, give him support until he comes in your arms. He breaks out into a wistful wisp of moan at the movement.

Yeah. Yeah, you’re definitely gonna want this position again.

And when he finally does come, you squeeze his thighs between your arms just before he can tip over— even though the sick satisfaction of a ruined orgasm, the sight of him falling hard and fast and unfair into the dirt below, always sounds like a fun idea on paper. Your own brand of cruelty is usually more playful than sadistic. But eh, watching him come uninterrupted isn’t so bad, either. 

You drive your pace fast and consistent, and don’t stop even when you feel him coast languidly down your wrist. He always keeps bucking into your fist— hedonistic and somewhat masochistic— even when it must start to edge on the side of pain. Nate chases his pleasure because it’ll run out far too soon, it’s always far too soon, and something tells you he wants to impress. Prove to you a stamina that prolongs, even when you always deny his request to let him inside. Or maybe even a volume, to prove just how much he’s willing to give, how much his body will supply for your tongue to swallow up later— salty and warm and satisfactory because you earned it fair and square. 

He comes a lot— but maybe he’s just trying to beat a personal record.

His final wail gives way to heaving pants, stomach tightening and relenting and tensing and back again, and his pleasure is so thorough that he drops limp in your hands. Little death, indeed. Nate dies in your arms as you gift him one last kiss there in a sweet finality, remind him of what he’ll receive in a couple days if you’re feeling nice, a couple weeks, a couple months if you’re feeling cruel. Taste him again because you love the thought of being inside him-– and the feeling of him around your tongue will be enough masturbation fodder to last you the better part of a week. Until next time. Until he gives you something even better to imagine.

“Woof…” Nate smiles doey-eyed and serene, and you can’t help the cocky, self-satisfied smirk that eases itself across your face. He looks fucking adorable— all blissed-out and rosy red and still slightly throbbing between your fingers with an overeager abandon. 

Yeah… maybe you’ll be nicer this time around. Because you already know how violently you’re going to miss the sight of him like this. 

“Crap, that felt so fucking good.” 

Your teeth clamp teasingly into his thigh, flirty in a way you almost never allow, and he giggles. He fucking giggles. And you want to slap yourself for how quick your heart squeezes around such a delicious sound. you want to hold it longer. Wring it out of him faster. And against all reasoning, you want more of it. 

But there’s no time. There’s no trust. You can never let on such a feeling. 

This can only last so long as you keep control, so long as you keep distance.

But as soon as you lay his legs back to rest— he grunts when his body makes such an abrupt transfer of weight— Nate presses out into the unknown, and asks the only thing that would bridge the distance before you can push it back apart. Just as you finish lifting his slacks back up around his hips, zipping him closed (a common courtesy that may even be too tender by your standards), he sighs relieved and sweet before you can grapple him back to standing:

“...What? Not even a goodbye kiss?”

Oh god.

The freedom awarded by ecstasy has made him dumb. He has no idea what he’s even asking for. And for the fifteen additional seconds of bravery he has left, before his orgasm leaves him in a cold sweat and he begs you to not take him back, he’ll convince himself that this is a good idea. 

He’ll convince himself that his joke is hilarious and he’s a better actor than he actually is. Because, even if you actively tried to ignore it, his wavering breath sticks out like a sore thumb. He can’t make the words sound natural, casual, suave in the way he must want them to. There’s something overzealous about it. And your stomach clenches at how your initial reaction to this isn’t repulsion.

But also, in the now ten seconds of bravery he has left, he’ll convince himself that a kiss will only make the sex better. That it won’t ruin it and he won’t mind the taste of himself on your tongue and the idea of adding feelings to the mix will be a good idea. Because, yes, oh my god, Nate, how fucking brilliant of you, yes, let’s add feelings to the mix. You know, I always thought prison bathrooms were so romantic. What a lovely getaway. Why not retire and raise kids in the handicapped stall while we’re at it?!

But his lips look so soft. Unbearably so. One corner is slightly chapped, skin peeling from a still-healing cut, and the instinct to kiss it better overwhelms, dizzy and sickening in just how badly you want to pursue it into reality. The idea of wanting him nauseates, terrifies. But the desire to give in, to taste for yourself the tantalizing beauty that always hovers just a little too far out of reach, is stronger.

When you two meet, it’s terrible and you hate it. 

Because it’s fucking electric. 

…

Shit. 

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

You break away before you can dwell on it, praying you’ve satisfied him enough to never ask again, but the residue stings clear across your lips. 

It was good. It was a good kiss. 

Nate’s eyes flutter back open just a second too late— and his lungs die on an inhale he must’ve thought he wouldn’t be privy to so soon. But the reaction is evident, etched along his face. It was a good kiss. 

And he fucking noticed.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

His lips curl with a dazed sort of satisfaction, just in the way you feared they would. But his eyebrows jump, too, confusion just as much as pleasure, eyes reading you for something more. Clearly something has to be said, and you pray you're the one to say it first. ‘Okay, up and at ‘em.’ ‘Nice try, but never again.’ ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ ‘You’re a rat and you hate you, asswipe.’ ‘This can never, ever, ever happen again. And fuck you for even trying, Nathan Drake, if that even is your real name—’

But you’re too slow, and Nate’s chest rises in an abrupt inhale that signals he’s beat you to the punch.

Oh god. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. 

But he does. Of course, he does. Even with a sock in his mouth, rope, tape, palm, he’ll find some way to talk (and trust, every single one— and then some— has already been tried). 

“...One more?”

You just didn’t think that was going to be his answer.

There is one moment of absolute terror. The split second of doubt on the deep end diving board. He must know this is a terrible idea. He has to know. There’s no way his orgasm was so good that he completely lost touch with reality. The silence stretches endless and icey. And you can tell the feeling is mutual.

But then, all of a sudden, his fallen face splits, smiles uplifting into something familiar. Cheeky. Safe.

“I’m just messing with you.”

And a laugh escapes before you can even register exactly what you’re feeling. 

The feeling is relief. 

Yeah, that’s it. Relief trickles in and cools your blood back down to sanity. Fucking asshole gave you a goddamn heart attack. You deliver him a curt punch to the shoulder to release the remaining tension, but he laughs it off as soon as it lands. And how sweet his laughter is only makes you want to punch him harder. 

Little brat is much cuter with his mouth closed. And far, far away from yours.

You grab hold onto his handcuffs and wrestle him back to standing— a motion he leans into far more reluctantly than usual— his throat still fluttering with an excess giggle.

“Come on, champ, let’s get you back home. Nobody’s gonna be missing me, but they sure as hell are gonna be missing you.”

“Aww, don’t say that…”

His facetiously tender tone dribbles like slow caramel down your back as he twists his neck to face you, and he drops a bomb that almost makes you die at his feet. 

“I know I will.”

…Fucking brat. 

Yeah, you’ll make sure to bring him back sooner this time. Fucking definitely. Give him a spank or two for good measure. Let him kiss you again— and this time bite his lip til’ it bleeds. Give him a wound of your own. A mark of your own.

But then again, none of that would really be punishment for either of you, would it?

And just before you can shove him back into the courtyard, he tilts down to whisper in your ear:

“Please don’t make me wait so long next time… ma’am.”

Oh.

Oh god.

Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head, Nathan. 

…

I won’t.

⭑⭑⭑

The metallic walls sting matte and clouded with a heavy steam, lungs thick and breath difficult. Lust and peace lie reclined in humidity. After a startlingly quick release down the shower drain, a simple purpose rather than a prolonged pleasure— he tries not to think too hard about why he always curses himself for finishing so soon, or what reasons he has to prefer saving such a deeper pleasure for later— Nate points his focus back to the basics. He never bothered with anything fancy. The money Sully wired them was only ever used for band-aids, Tylenol, and whatever shitty coffee the commissary kept stocked (“None of these rats are ever gonna catch me sleeping,” Sam would say with a suspicious side-eye), which meant nice shampoo was off the table. But suddenly Nate was rethinking it. 

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he started making sure he smelled good. Looked good, too. 

…But for who? 

A pestering question he always ignored the answer to.

He scrubs up his chest generously, barely even notices when he catches the tail end of a peeling scab, absent-minded and letting his thoughts run to nothing and nowhere. This was his only time of peace and solitude— why waste it with thinking? Why waste it when the next black eye, cut knee, broken rib was probably already outside waiting for him?

But as his hands drift downward, reaching to clean between his legs, he abruptly flinches. 

…Huh. 

That’s weird.

Now, Nate was no stranger to violent wounds he didn’t notice till later on— he could almost consider them a friendly confidant, a toxic sort of lover— but this one was especially disconcerting. A dull, tingling pain on his inner thigh. A strange place to not notice getting wounded. 

He shakes his head and tries to ignore it— maybe he had just scratched himself during a particularly vivid nightmare— but when his palm moves low, he winces even harder. 

…What the fuck?

It’s bigger than he thought. A lot bigger. And the ache is sharp enough to make him completely drop his soap when he touches it. 

Okay, seriously, what the fuck?!

Nate abandons all motivation, turns tail out of the stall, and leaves his bar of soap to linger lonely on the shower floor. He has to know what’s going on. Allergic reaction? A sneak attack while he slept? Fucking STDS?

But when he reaches the bathroom mirror, levees his leg up to catch the culprit, his stomach drops. 

And his cock twitches in unexpected interest.

Because there, stained across the inner side of his left thigh— drawn across his skin in lovingly littered hickies— is the unmistakable, pink-purple bruised shape of the first letter of your name. A brand. A claim.

A mark of your own.

“ ...Shit.”

⭑⭑⭑

[feathersea]

WHOOP WHOOP

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MEEEEEE YAYYYYY 🧚‍♀️🧚‍♀️

[eightspringdays]

I think as I grow older, I become less interested in meta and fandom analyses, and I just want to read people smooching and being in love. my brain is too occupied with irl shit, I just want to be silly I don't want to THINK

[jrueships]

Kawhi+paul georp

PAUL GEORP

[racke7]

Once upon a time, someone told me that in ancient times, "genius" was less "a person who is smart" and more "a spirit implanted something amazing in their brain for this one thing".

It was mentioned to me as a way to help distance yourself from your own art.

It's your skill that's being used, but it's the idea-making spirit that's responsible for what you create. And sometimes the idea is incredible, and other times it's kind of meh, and other times it's actively awful.

I don't know how historically accurate this "fact" is, but at the time I first heard it, I very much felt like I could believe in it. It helped counteract that desperate desire to make art that was "as good" as what you'd produced at some other time.

But in hindsight I feel like it was also a weird off-shoot of a philosophy I'd been expressing for ages by that point.

Inspiration is an instant thing, because it happens like a trigger. You might look at a doorknob and something in your brain suddenly goes "that's the last piece of the puzzle" and then suddenly? Inspiration.

The actual final puzzle-piece source of inspiration will never really make sense to anyone who isn't you, even if you could probably piece together a full seemingly-sensible narrative for that inspiration if given enough time.

And that moment? If it doesn't strike you, then you're just left staring at a blank document, trying to force your brain to write. And it'll never "measure up" to those puzzle-pieces sliding into place in your head, but it's also the only part of the process that you can really "work hard" at.

Inspiration will strike you. It might not strike at a convenient place, and maybe the puzzle-piece is of a really shitty puzzle, but it's not something you're ever really going to have conscious control over.

In that sense? It overlaps very nicely with the idea of a muse. A being that will appear suddenly, drag you away from whatever you were trying to do, and then disappear without a trace.

And that's not your fault.

Muse-catching is a complicated and deeply personal thing to learn, and sometimes the muse will make it easy for you, and other times it'll be like trying to punch a hurricane.

Your only real job as an artist is to not stop. To not give up hope.

[dyslexic-mess]

'Oh that won't fly in uni! Ya can't do that in uni-'

One of my lecturers is routinely late to class because she was getting coffee and won't start class until she's atleast half way through said coffee.

One of my lecturers WILL yap about the DC universe for atleast 10 mins if you bring it up. He once closed the PowerPoint to bring up an image from an old comic to make a point about the change in speech bubble style over the years.

One of my lecturers oncee sent us on an unscheduled 30 min brake bec his wife had come by to see him and he didn't wanna turn her away.

One of my lecturers CANCLED A CLASS because she was hungover and just sent us the powerpoint slides

Um yeah. Not only will this fly in uni, the teachers are also human there

[hana-no-seiiki]

holy crap my old works in quotev were fucken bangers

[disorganizedkitten]

Chapters: 7/8 Fandom: Miraculous Ladybug Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Characters: Félix (Miraculous Ladybug), Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Aurora Prolux, Bryan Prolux, Caseario Prolux, Dianora Prolux, Emilia Prolux, Felix Prolux Additional Tags: no beta we die like men, Zombies, Magic, Randomly built lore, Jewels are still magic, Felix July, Felix Month, Family Fluff, This is teen only because zombies, otherwise it's gen, rushed writing, slow plot, Anti-climatic fights Series: Part 1 of Finding the color in Monochrome Summary:

Magic is common. There are thousands of mages, but just like that, there are thousands of magicless too. Félix was magicless. Born that way, lived that way. Until an archeologist unearthed two lost Magic Hearts. Now centuries worth of magic energy is running rampant, and it's up to Felix and the other new Heartholder to catch and control it. Thank goodness the Zombies are only in Paris.

[stcries]

haven't made one of these in a while, but since my writing motivation is creeping back to me, here's a plotting call.

if possible, have a plot or a muse combination in mind before reaching out, but this isn't needed, it'd just make things easier. but heck if not, we can just throw random muses together and see what works!

just comment what you want, and i'll jump into your dms. i can also give out my discord if it makes things easier communication wise.

[peony-pearl]

Zuko mentions to Ursa he would like for his little siblings to come to the Fire Nation to enjoy the summer festival.

By saying ‘siblings’ she knows he’s talking about Chiyo and Katsu - Ozai’s children.

Ursa, Noren and Kiyi have taken residence at the Fire Nation palace for years now, ever since Ursa was discovered on the outskirts of Hira’a. Once Zuko got the information out of Ozai just over ten years ago where his mother had taken up residence, he was escorted there by Aang to reunite with her. Ursa did not hesitate to return to her children once Zuko lifted her banishment, and she was a key figure in Azula’s recovery.

When Ozai broke out of prison, Ursa was a driving force in trying to find him after he threatened Azula’s life. Knowing he was out there, free, for the past decade has haunted her.

And then, just two years ago, Zuko and Azula received news of his whereabouts... and they found him with the help of Aang, Katara and June.

And they let him keep his freedom.

Zuko’s explanation of the events sounded like a bad dream. Ursa listened to her boy, whom Ozai had savagely scarred as a child, defend his decision after seeing Ozai happy out in some Earth Kingdom farm with a new family.

She was speechless. Zuko had left children in the midst of this monster.

Azula was the one who was more critical of her father’s new life. She vented to Ursa about the pain of seeing him so happy with this naive, sheltered woman who decided to stay with Ozai even after learning about his past. Regardless, Azula would eventually begin receiving letters from both the woman, Niwa, and from her younger sister, Chiyo.

And then Zuko dropped the bombshell.

Chiyo was an Airbender.

Ursa spoke to Aang upon his return with Zuko and Azula. He seemed over the moon, to not only learn there was another Airbender in the world, but she was the descendant of one of Aang’s fellow Southern Air Temple residents, and this revelation gave him hope that there could be more Airbenders in waiting out in the world.

And yet, despite all of this... Ursa could only remember the man who who began denying her as a wife when his lust for the crown became stronger; the man who planted the seeds of lies to his daughter of her being a monster, seeds that blossomed into a beautiful, deadly flower. A flower that he ripped out of it’s garden bed and crushed under his boot when she was no longer useful. And Zuko, the son that he turned against and berated and scolded when all he ever did was his best, until the day he finally tried to step into more assertive shoes earned him a permanently damaged eye.

“So...” Zuko begins to speak. “I’ve thought about inviting dad and Niwa and the kids. I’ll make sure he doesn’t come around you, or Noren or Kiyi. But... he’s kept his end of his promise so far. I’ve thought it was only fair to extend a hand back to him.”

Ursa knew the promise: to write to Zuko and Azula, and to maintain a form of communication on a regular basis.

Zuko also regularly received letters from Niwa and Chiyo, and each one ensured truth to Ozai’s words. Even Azula, who often worried that Ozai was telling Chiyo what to write, would read her little sister’s letters that contained questions and thoughts only a seven year old could ask.

Ursa sighs as Zuko makes his case; he stumbles as he sees his mother’s unhappiness. “I-I can have them stay on the other side of the palace,” he says. Azula sits next to Ursa; Aang sits next to her.

Azula squeezes her mother’s hand. “Or we don’t have to invite him.”

Zuko nods, albeit reluctantly, to his sister’s suggestion. Azula becomes miffed.

“Why are you so adamant to see him here?”

“I’m not! I just-”

“You’ve asked every year since we found him if he can visit.”

“That’s only two years, Azula,” Zuko sighs. “Uncle’s been asking about him too.”

“Well, Uncle’s senile,” Azula crossed her arms.

“Azula,” Ursa gently admonished her daughter, who turned her gaze away as she pouted.

Aang touched Azula’s knee, but remained focused on Zuko. “Maybe just invite the kids?”

Zuko shook his head. “Katsu is only two, and to give up her kids so suddenly for a week may not be easy for Niwa.”

Aang grinned at Azula. “It would be good practice though.”

“Get your head out of those clouds; no kids until those vows are said,” Azula smirked.

“You keep declining my engagement!”

“This is a talk for another time,” Azula hissed quietly.

Ursa, having maintained her silence, wrings her hands together. “... Zuko, in the end, you are the Fire Lord. And this is your home.”

Zuko shakes his head. “Yeah, but-”

Ursa holds up her hand. “I admit. I am not keen on seeing him again. Ever again. But... I know this is something you’ve felt strongly about. Ultimately, the decision is yours to make. I simply ask that you inform me of the decision so I can... make arrangements.”

Azula grinned. “Poison arrangements?” She asked, nudging her mother’s ribs. Ursa chuckled.

“If only I could be so lucky.”

“Guys,” Zuko said in exasperation. “Look... I’ll just invite them next y-”

“No, stop it.” Azula rolled her eyes. “Just tell them to come. Spirits, you’re such a downer, Zuzu.”

“Yeah, Zuzu,” Aang echoed his fiancee. Zuko shot him a tired look.

“I agree,” Ursa said. “Invite them. Besides; should anything go wrong, we have you three to keep him in his place; and Kiyi is becoming more proficient in her own bending.”

“Yeah; if he pulled anything we could take him!” Aang agreed.

Ursa could see the look on Zuko’s face though; but still, he nodded and watched as Aang and Azula decided to retire to bed. Ursa lingered, waiting to talk to her son in private.

“Zuko,” she said, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “You don’t owe him any-”

“This isn’t about owing him. I know where I stand on what dad did to me; to us.”

“And yet you’re so hopeful to see him again.”

“Is it wrong to hope for a new path? I found mine, mom. Outside of the Fire Nation. Away from him. I found my life, my meaning. And so has he. I saw it. I saw him experience a life he’d become fully invested in. I saw two happy kids; a beautiful home... And...”

“... And?” Ursa asked.

Zuko swallowed.

“... And I was so mad he found it without us. But you know what? I also found my path without Azula. And... she’ll always have that in her mind. But she’s forgiven me.”

“She could not control the struggles you faced.”

“As I couldn’t control hers; and I’ll always have dad’s favoritism to remember. We’ve all been subjected to lives we didn’t want. Dad was one of them. So were you.”

Ursa folded her arms in front of her, looking much like her daughter. Zuko pleaded to her, still not quite over the fact that he was so much taller, and yet he still spoke to her like she towered over him.

“Mom... The last thing I want to do is hurt you. But there’s a part of me that wants to see this through. He’s my father. And I’ve hated him, and part of me still hates him. But after everything I’ve learned... if Aang can forgive me for everything I allowed to happen to him and his friends... if Uncle can forgive me for turning away from him, I want to know I can reciprocate that.”

“You don’t have to forgive him.”

“Mom, I haven’t. I will never forgive him for what he did to me, or Azula, or you. But I feel like I have an obligation, as the Fire Lord, to make sure he’s not causing trouble. I called off the searches once I saw how much he’s changed. Others have done the same for me. Time goes on. He... He looked out for me back when we were looking for Chiyo. I was hurt and he stayed with me.”

Ursa’s eyes widened as Zuko recalled the event to her for the first time.

“When I told him we would find Chiyo he was thankful for me. I... Sometimes I think maybe now... Maybe now I could get to know my dad-”

“Zuko you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t. But it’s my decision. I respect every bit of advice I get from you but this is something... something I need to do for myself. If Azula never wants to see him again after this, I will never invite him again.”

Ursa reached out to hold her son’s hand.

“And you’re not scared?” She asked. Zuko laughed.

“Mom, I’m terrified.”

Ursa’s face became one of determination.

“Then I will be right here with you.”

“I’m not scared that he’ll hurt me,” Zuko insisted. “Like you said, we can handle him if he were to become a threat.”

Ursa clasped Zuko’s hand tightly with both of hers. “But you’re still scared,” she said. “And I won’t let you be scared alone; not after I missed so many years.”