#the majority of his burning rage is directed towards himself...specifically...

[theabyssalmuses-archived]

[ anon asked:  how would lalnable get along with some of your canon muses? like DIO? ]

Let’s see...not very well! Lalnable very rarely gets along with anyone...but! He and DIO seem quite similar, huh? Both are evil, sexy blonde men with a lot of power...both have dreams of world conquest...and both are generally unlikeable! 

So would they get along? 

Not at all!  To begin with..it would seem like they did. Lalnable and DIO would...work together, of course, cordially, but...the truth of the matter is that they’re both using the other- but Lalnable knows this, and would plan accordingly. Ultimately, his strategy would be ultimate loyalty, no matter what, until an opportunity for betrayal presents itself. Lalnable’s unstable, hypocritical mindset allows him to devote himself to causes he does not truly believe in- that is, it can be nigh impossible to tell when he’s lying (even for the likes of Mind Readers - which DIO is not.) 

Lalnable would detest DIO, ultimately. (and surely, deep down- while he would respect his ambition, DIO would not be fond of Lalnable either.)

It’s just a matter of who makes a move first to kill the other. (DIO has the advantage of time stop, though.)

[kayfabebabe]

Go gentle

Kane X Female Reader - You agree to help Kane out with his hair - No major warnings. Some angst because why not? An appearance by everybody’s favourite boi, Mankind. 

Kane had come to your locker room for no real reason when he found you, talking and laughing with Mankind whilst you… brushed his hair? At least, that’s what he thinks you’re doing, but Mankind isn’t screaming in pain and you’re not tugging his head in different directions. You stand behind him and guide the brush smoothly through his hair despite it, somehow, still appearing messy. Kane lingers in the doorway, not wanting to disrupt the peace between friends. Mankind notices him first and calls him into the room although it’s your bright smile upon seeing him that makes Kane come closer. You were always happy to see him. 

“Great timing, big guy. I just finished so I’m all yours for the rest of the afternoon.” 

You have to stop yourself from sounding too excited. On the inside, you were jumping for joy in knowing that you were going to hangout with Kane. The two of you gravitated towards each other more and more. Sometimes, you could be found in Kane’s dressing room doing nothing with him and, other times, he could be found in yours doing the exact same with you. It was easy to just be with Kane. Mankind quickly leaves after giving you a crushing hug and slipping his own mask back into place. You catch sight of Kane tentatively touching the bristles of your hairbrush as if they’re going to bite his fingers. 

“What do you get out of brushing his hair?” 

You’re not even sure how brushing Mankind’s hair started, but it soon became a part of your routine. One that you honestly did enjoy. Every other week, he would arrive at your locker room, arms laden with treats from the vending machine and his crooked smile. How could you turn him away? You even bought a specific hair oil that left Mankind’s hair smelling like chocolate chip cookies and protected it from the steam in the boiler room. 

“Nothing... Well, he does pay me in candy, but that’s more because he wants to.” 

The answer does nothing to change the expression behind Kane’s eyes or how his thumb runs over the brush. In the relatively short time that you’ve known each other, you haven’t seen Kane do much more to his hair than flip it back away from his face and drench it in water before going out to the ring. 

“I can brush your hair, if you want…” 

His instant reaction is to say ‘no.’ To run and hide in a dark corner with his arms covering his head. Nothing good ever came out of letting people touch his hair. Men dressed in long, white coats would pull on it if they deemed something that Kane did as wrong. They’d pull even harder if he ever cried about it. Paul Bearer - his own father - was no better than those men; yanking his hair hard enough that his scalp became bruised and sore to the touch.

You wouldn’t do that to him though, right? You were different. Even during his fits of rage, you treated Kane with a kindness that he didn’t deserve, but you still freely gave to him. Kane gives his answer by sitting in the chair that Mankind was occupying in the centre of the room, allowing you space to work around him comfortably. You rummage through your duffel bag for the leave-in conditioners and a comb. 

“Which one do you like the smell of more?” 

Two brightly coloured bottles are presented to the large man and he takes a hesitant sniff of them. The first one smells overly fragranced, which makes Kane want to sneeze. It itches and burns the insides of his nostrils. With a firm shake of his head, you toss that one back into your duffel bag. The second one is better. Much better. The scent is sweet, delicate and one that Kane recognises too. Coconut and Honey. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see how tightly Kane grips his own knees, preparing himself for the inevitable pain. There’s always pain. This time, it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s just the smell of the conditioner in the air and the deliberate movement of your hands. You start off at the very front of Kane’s head so he can easily see you. He watches carefully; you begin at the very ends of his hair, slowly working the conditioner up to his scalp before running your fingers through the small section, bit by bit. Then, only when you were sure that no knots remained, you combed through the section and moved on. The process is slow and careful. Minutes pass before Kane feels himself relaxing into the chair and his hands release their grip on his knees. Your touch is so gentle and soothing. 

How are you this gentle with him? Nobody is gentle with Kane. Not anymore. 

There was a time, long ago, that Kane remembers being treated like the most precious thing in the world. When the air was warmed by the early summer sun and he could hide himself in his Mother’s embrace if storm clouds threatened to overshadow him. He was carefree then. Just a child who chased after frogs and poked worms with a stick until he was called home at dusk. It wasn’t often that Kane allowed himself to think of those days as the ghost of that child was seen enough in his nightmares. 

Your thumb lightly pressing into the tense muscle at the nape of his neck brought Kane back to the present. He was no longer exploring the dried up river bed behind the funeral home with his older brother pretending to stand watch. He is sat on a chair in your locker room and the funeral home is nothing more than ash. Once Kane’s hair is knot-free and the comb glides through it, you spend a few minutes massaging his scalp. Something about seeing this giant of a man turn to putty beneath your hands makes your mouth twitch in a fond smile. 

Eventually, you have to pull away as your forearms began to ache and you still had a match in a couple of hours. The noise of protest from Kane makes you giggle.

[twiistedgalaxies]

Three Times Jaskier Didn’t Seem Quite Human

(And one time Geralt asked too many questions.)

      “Jaskier isn’t human,” Yennefer stated bluntly, swishing a wine glass in her right hand.

      Geralt blinked, “What?”  This gave Yennefer pause. She knew that her on and off again lover was oblivious, but she hadn’t realized it was quite to this extent. Jaskier gave her a pained, pleading look from the other end of the table. She ignored him.

      “You seriously haven’t noticed?” she continued with a huff.

      “...No?” Geralt’s brows furrowed together in confusion. The nerve of these idiots. Yennefer had half a mind to just state the obvious, to keep these two from continuing to dance around the subject, possibly until the end of time.

      But it was much more fun to gently direct Geralt to the answer and watch his bard squirm. Yennefer took a sip of her wine, mentally cursing her high alcohol tolerance, “You’ve been travelling with the man for decades,” Geralt’s face was blank, the puzzle pieces not fitting into place, “He hasn’t aged, Geralt.”

      “That doesn’t mean anything,” he protested, though from the way his eyes shifted towards his companion he was clearly thinking it over. If they were not at such a high profile party Yennefer would have strangled him. He opened his mouth to say something else, but it was at that exact moment that Jaskier decided to pick up his lute and perform for the crowd - granted, it was what he had been invited to do, but Yennefer sent him a withering glare anyways. She was met with a cheeky wink. Oh if looks could kill. 

      “I could prove it to you, you know? A few well placed detection spells and-”

      Geralt shook his head, “He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

      “You two are hopeless,” Yennefer sighed.

-@~*^*~@-

      It had been after a particularly difficult hunt, when Jaskier had to dress his companion’s wounds for the umpteenth time. Geralt sat upon a stool in the center of their tiny room at the inn. He looked more irritated than usual as Jaskier gave him what was essentially a sponge bath around where a kikimore had stabbed his shoulder with one of it’s spindly arms. Jaskier winced, it was too close to important organs for comfort. Humming as he worked, Jaskier tried to stitch shut what he could and thoroughly bandage the rest. The wolf medallion on Geralt’s chest thrummed contentedly each time the bard’s delicate hands drew near.

      “Where did you learn?” he asked suddenly, his gruff voice cutting through the peaceful quiet.

      “Hm?” Jaskier hummed, ignoring the Witcher’s grunt of pain as he applied one of his many salves to his shoulder, “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, dear.”

      “The salves, the stitching, all of it,” Jaskier raised an eyebrow at that, but Geralt continued, “It’s a very odd skill for a bard to have.”

      A laugh, Geralt had to bite back a hiss as Jaskier’s touches grew less gentle. He clearly wanted him to drop it. “What? Do you think that I was helpless before you came along with your bulging muscles and witchery glares?”

      The witcher shook his head, silver hair sending droplets of water in the air, “No it’s not that,” the bard had certainly proved capable and skilled many times over, “It’s just, were you a healer before you became a bard?”

      Jaskier froze, seemingly caught in a memory, “Something like that,” he began to bandage Geralt’s shoulder, “This kikimore did quite the number on you, didn’t it?”

      Geralt gave him a look of disbelief because obviously.

      “Come on, come on, give me the details, I can’t write my ballads off of just grunts and intrusive questions now can I?”

-@~*^*~@-

      Jaskier had tagged along on what was supposed to be a minor contract. Nilfgaard had stormed a small town, leaving destruction and countless corpses in their wake. Corpses that were perfect for every Alghoul in a three mile radius. 

      He and Geralt were engaged in their usual banter (which consisted mostly of Jaskier rambling about whatever was on his mind, punctuated with the occasional grunt from his witcher), when a sudden, piercing screech rang through the air. It was high pitched, shrill, and caused Jaskier to clutch his head as he let out a groan of pain. 

      Meanwhile, Geralt immediately leapt into action, drawing his silver sword as a pack of the necrophages surrounded them. He was able to take out several, his sword and the ghouls creating a smooth, gory dance. It all seemed to be going well before an Alghoul caught Geralt off guard, leaping onto his back while extending its spines. This sent Geralt off balance, and he was quickly overwhelmed. His sword got knocked out of his hands in the scuffle and he thought that this, however stupid it may be, would be what would kill him. 

      A cry of rage. Slashing, tearing. Suddenly the weight that was dragging Geralt to the ground grew lighter. He felt something wet and sticky. Geralt looked up to see Jaskier standing over him, holding Geralt’s silver sword, out of breath, and covered in Alghoul viscera.

      The bard looked down at himself, annoyance on his admittedly handsome features, “That was my favorite tunic too!” The tunic in question, once baby blue (like his eyes which were now flashing gold, what the fuck?) was now stained red and black. Jaskier brushed a bit of entrails off his shoulder, visibly disgusted.

      “Huh?” Geralt said, intelligently.

-@~*^*~@-

      The pair was making their way north, Jaskier strumming on his lute and Geralt sat atop Roach. The dirt road was a tunnel bordered by a wall of towering trees, whose orange and red canopies blocked out the sun, casting the duo in dappled shade. 

      Jaskier strummed a few chords in the major key, before he spoke, “Geralt, are you doing alright?” His face was soft and forget-me-not eyes distant like they often grew when he was lost in thought. Geralt shot him a confused look. “It’s just that, you’ve seemed rather distracted lately.”

      “Hm?”

      “I,” Jaskier sighed, collecting himself, “It’s just with the kikimore and the alghouls, and just last week when you forgot your potions in Roach’s saddlebags. I’ve never seen you get like this before, what’s going on?”

      “It’s nothing.” Geralt replied, gaze sliding to anywhere but his bard.

      Jaskier reached up, intertwining his lithe fingers with Geralt’s own, “I’m worried about you, Love.”

      Geralt huffed, he could never resist the man’s pouting lips and puppy-dog eyes, “Yen and I had a conversation at that party a few months ago.”

      He felt the bard tense, “Is that so?” There was a long, uncomfortable silence between them. Jaskier must have realized Geralt, man of few words that he is, wasn’t going to elaborate any further, so he spoke, “What did you two talk about?”

      “She said you aren’t human and I just thought about it more and… it makes too much sense,” Geralt began, feeling awkward as he tried to find the words to explain, “The way you don’t age, your medical knowledge (even of witcher potions!), how you know your way around a sword and how your eyes gleamed-”

      “Geralt, as you know I have an impeccable skincare routine and-”

      He frowned, “Don’t give me that shit, bard.”

      Jaskier sighed, “You really want to know?” A nod. “Okay, well, here goes nothing.” The bard let go of the witcher’s hand, and pulled off a golden ring that, now that Geralt thought about it, he had never seen the man without. A shimmer fell over the bard’s body, like a statue being unveiled. The first thing Geralt noticed was his eyes, they were a sickening, piercing yellow. His face was marred by countless scars, from claws, burns, knives, and magic. Jaskier’s build underneath the glamour more closely resembled Geralt’s, though he retained his shorter stature. The bard smiled sardonically at the witcher’s shocked expression, “Like what you see?”

      Geralt’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, “How?”

      “You’d probably know me better as Julian,” Jaskier’s eyes got that distant look to them again, his face was downcast, an unusual expression for someone who typically embodied sunshine, “I was in the Griffin school, before we were attacked,” a joyless laugh, “I had never wanted to be a witcher, ya know? Wasn’t cut out for it. But my father, Viscount Pankratz himself, couldn’t pay a witcher for his contract, so he offered me up instead. I failed as a noble, so maybe I wouldn’t fail as a witcher. He was wrong, of course, I spent most of my time writing poems instead of studying Signs. Singing instead of sparring. After the trials I spent a few years on the path before I grew sick of it and returned to Kaer Seren.”

      Geralt hummed, encouraging Jaskier to continue.

      “I was made to look after the students, I had to patch up their wounds and keep them from blowing themselves up with alchemy. I loved the little rascals, which is why..” Jaskier trailed off, fingers tracing the grooves in his lute.

      “It’s okay,” Geralt said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

      He shook his head hurriedly, “No, no I want to, I have to,” his voice cracked, “I left after the trials killed them. All of them. I couldn’t bear to be a part of it. A part of everything. So I ran, like a coward,” He spat out that last word like a curse.

      The pair stopped. Geralt placed his gloved hand on the bard’s shoulder, a rare gesture of affection and reassurance.

      “Eventually, I found a mage and spent my life’s savings on a well-made glamour and the lute the elves at Posada so lovingly destroyed. It wasn’t until I had graduated from Oxenfurt that I found out what happened in Kaer Seren.”

      “Why didn’t you tell me?” Geralt asked, his voice gentle.

      Jaskier’s face flushed red with shame, “I was afraid. Afraid of what you would think of me. That you’d hate me.”

      Geralt frowned, “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.”

      At that, Jaskier laughed, “Just look at me! I’m an ugly fuck-up.”

      “No,” Geralt said resolutely.

      “Huh?”

      “I said no. Do you know how many times you’ve saved my life? Made long nights on the path easier to bear? I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for you,” Geralt continued, looking Jaskier directly in the eyes. He didn’t reply to that, just slipped his ring back on and hugged his arms to his chest.

      The rest of the day’s journey was spent in silence.

A/N:  I hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a comment, I love hearing feedback. I had one hell of a time writing this, I originally had only written the first scene, and it took a few months for my single window's screensaver brain cell to finally hit a corner and figure out how to continue and finish the story.

Ao3

[thebmatt]

FFXIV Write Day 3

Scale– each of the small, thin horny or bony plates protecting the skin of fish and reptiles, typically overlapping one another. - OR - an instrument for weighing, originally a simple balance ( a pair of scales ) but now usually a device with an electronic or other internal weighing mechanism.

(yes there's other definitions, these two are what's relevant for my response)

It was a somewhat chilly morning in the Azim Steppe as Dahkar Darkspear, Warrior of LIght and kahn of the Azim Steppe, strode through Dotharl Khaa, striding in the direction of the khatun's tent.  Hushed whispers seemed to follow him, as every Dotharl Xaela in the settlement could not stop watching him or speaking quietly to each other.

It made little sense to Dahkar. He was a Xaela himself and a regular fixture in the settlement at least once a week. He made sure to check in with all of the major leaders of the Steppe regularly to hear news, arbitrate disputes, and otherwise do whatever he could to ensure the people of the Steppe were mostly doing well.

Well, almost all of the leaders. He ignored Magnai and Daidukul on principle. Esugen, the Oronir's culinarian he'd helped a few times, made sure he was always in Reunion when he knew the khan would be arriving so he could pass on information about the Oronir and the Buduga.

He was a day early in this instance, so perhaps that was the reason behind the whispers. He put it from his mind as he approached the woman standing in front of the khatun's home.

Shar smiled and nodded to him. "Welcome, khan. You're early this week."

He smiled back to her. "That I am, Shar. How's your son doing?"

"He's growing well. The khatun does not yet know who is behind his eyes, but it has been but only a couple of moons. She is confident the soul within will reveal themself soon enough. I'm very excited to re-meet whoever it is!"

"I look forward to the day I can meet them. Is Sadu within? I have some...well let's just say an interesting proposal for her"

Shar smirked at him. "Oh, really now? Very bold of you, khan. Very Dotharl. I hope you're ready for a long fight. When my husband proposed to me, we fought for 10 bells straight!"

A look of shock crossed Dahkar's face, descending into horror. "What? No! Not that kind of-!"

She began laughing, loud and from her belly. "HA! Aahahaha! Oh, khan, the look on your face! Priceless!" In between fits of giggling, she opened the tent's flaps to admit him.

"Pretty sure there's rules against sassing your khan" he muttered to her as he walked past her, into the tent. "And if not, I'm gonna make some." This did nothing to stop her laughter.

The tent's sole occupant, a beautiful white-haired Xaelan woman dressed in her people's blue attire with a horned darkwood staff, turned to him. She smirked at him. Dahkar had often witnessed that smirk directed at him, but it was only now that he noticed Shar had given him a very similar one. Clearly she'd been taking lessons.

"Well, well, our glorious khan graces us with-". She suddently stopped and looked at him, frowning. "What in all the hells are you wearing?" she asked, incredulously.

Dahkar looked down at his attire, a style he'd seen many on the Steppe wearing during his first two trips there. He'd made sure to acquire some before departing that second time, aetherically aligned towards boosting magicks. "What? It's hardly unusual. Hells, I saw many of the Dotharl wearing very similar garb on my way in. Granted, this is white in color, but I didn't want everyone to assume I'd joined the Dotharl or-"

"No no, the garb is fine. But...I have never seen you wear anything other than that heavy black armor you favor. Or carry any weapon other than those slabs of metal you refer to as swords. Now you wear this? And is that the weapon of a conjurer on your back?"

Ah. That explained the stares and the whispers. "Yes, it is." He removed the cane from his back. The white crystal embedded in its head began to glow, a series of green-yellow energy lines shimmering around the head of leaf-covered branches. "Before I ever took up the sword of the Dark Knight, I was a conjurer. Pretty good one, in fact. So good they actually decided to let me train as a White Mage, which...well, you probably aren't aware of what those are or why it's a big deal. Suffice to say, I'm damn powerful with conjury."

"Hmmph", she signed, annoyed. "And what, you just decided that one day, it didn't work for you and took up a giant sword, instead?"

"Not quite that simple, but that's not far off the mark. Bad things happened to me and I changed in response to them in part by taking up the art of the Dark Knight." He shrugged and slung the cane over his back again.

"Oh yes, our glorious khan knows all about change!  You and that Doman. First you win the Naadam, as foreigners no less, then you rope us into this alliance of yours and persuade us to fight those men of metal and machines!" Sadu threw up her hands and turned her back to him. "Tell me, khan, what change will you bring next?"

Dahkar sighed. It was an argument he'd heard from her, and others, many a time. "Are we really doing this every time, Sadu? You know there's no rules against foreigners entering Bardam's Mettle, nor against competing in the Naadam. You agreed to help Hien and I fight the Garleans. Multiple times. You even told me you enjoyed the battle to liberate Ala Mhigo! You aren't actually angry about any of this, because you know what i know. Change is inevitable, stagnation equals decay."

She turns, smiling at him again. There's still mockery in her smile, but not as much this time. "Hrmph. Fine, you are correct. I suppose I just wanted to throw you off balance. As usual, you are hard to break. So what brings you to us a day early? It's too early in the day for you to have gone anywhere else first, so I assume this is important."

Dahkar smiled. "That it is. I want to talk with you about the future of the Steppe, and of the Dotharl, specifically."

Sadu's narrowed and her smile turned downward. She crossed her arms. "Speak. I suspect I will not like this, but you have earned the right, many times over, so I will hear you."

"It's simple, really. Many of the other Xaela fear the Dotharl. They see you as merciless raiders who seek only to deal death to them, who lust only for battle and killing. I would have you change that perception."

"And just how would you have me do that? Moreover, why would I even WANT to? The Dotharl live for battle. How many times have you heard me say it, khan? 'In battle do our souls burn bright, and in death do they sing'. Those are not empty words, they define us."

Dahkar smiled. "I'm well aware. I'm also aware that you very much realize that your way of life is not sustainable to the Dotharl's continued existence. You admitted as much to us, Gosetsu and I, that day we first met." Sadu turned her face away from him, eyes downward. "Hrmph. So I did. What of it? We have endured thus far. I will not compromise our way of life, khan"

"I'm not asking you to. What I propose is not a change to it, but a direction for it. I would have the Dotharl become protectors of the Steppe."

She turned to him again, her face a mixture of shock and rage. "...Protectors??  Have you heard a word I've said?" Dahkar raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Wait, just hear me out. It's not as radical as it seems, and it will solve your biggest problem of numbers in the long run."

Sadu resumed crossing her arms, glaring daggers at him. "...fine."

"Very well. First of all, I ask you what exactly the Dotharl gain in making war on weaker tribes? You yourself told me that only in great battle does the soul burn brightly, so what does it gain your warriors to slaughter those of lesser skill in battle than you? Seems unworthy of you. Turning that strength on the marauders who engage in such unworthy predation? That seems like a far better chance for a real battle. Not to mention the Steppe is crawling with monsters and vicious animals of various types. They may pose no threat to most tribes, certainly, but there are those to whom a monster attack is a death sentence. You can protect them and test your strength and bravery at the same time."

"If memory serves, you told me that it was in a monster attack that your own tribe was slaughtered. Purbols, I believe. I can't help but wonder if this is why you ask this of me."

"Which leads me to the second benefit this would bring to you. What do you suspect would have happened had the Dotharl come to our aid?"

"I imagine you would have been grateful, which is hardly worth anything to us."

"Gratitude is a long-term investment, Sadu. Think on it. If I'd been raised on tales of the tribe of warriors that saved us from vicious monsters, that fought back against other marauding tribes that kidnapped people like the Buduga? There's a very good chance that I would have bid farewell to my tribe and joined you all the day I came of age."

A single eyebrow raised. "You would have?"

"Very likely. I became an adventurer because it seemed like the easiest way to earn a living helping people and making things better. If my tribe hadn't been killed and my mother fled the Steppe? I doubt I'd be so different as to not want to do the same, still. Joining the Dotharl, becoming an undying one, born again and again to fight to save people, to help them? Well, it would have been extremely appealing to me. And I doubt I'm the only one, too. In time, I believe this swell your numbers significantly. Furthermore, when the Naadam comes around again, all those tribes you helped? Seems to me like they'd be more willing to help you as allies. In time, this will tip the scales in the Dotharl's favor and you'll reliably have more than enough numbers to rout the Oronir without question. Frankly, I would rest easier knowing the Steppe was in your hands rather than Magnai's. So long as you don't intend to break your word to the rest of the Othard Alliance, that is.  I'll kick BOTH of your asses for as long as I have to, if that's your intent."

She smirks viciously again. "Is that a challenge, khan?"

All mirth or joy fades from Dahkar. "No, Sadu, it's a promise. I have fought through some hellish things these past few moons, and I know that the worst of it is yet to come, and it's going to affect the entire world when it does. I take it you've heard about that large metallic tower that suddenly appeared off the southern coast of Yanxia? They're all over the world, and they're part of it. The Steppe is going to get caught up in this whether the people want to be or not, and I would rather my people fight what's coming together with all of the Alliance than risk being slaughtered and their culture gone. So yes, if I have to fight you to preserve that, I will. But I'd rather see to it that the Dotharl are in a place to help preserve it and maybe even guide it to a better future without leaving tradition behind entirely."

Shock appeared on Sadu's face. "....very well, I'll admit your suggestion has merit. I will not give you an answer now, however. I will need time to think on this, discuss it with the others."

"I expected no less."

"And I demand another battle with you as payment for even entertaining your presence!"

Dahkar rolled his eyes. "I expected that would be the case as well. You DO know that we're going to be interrupted, right? Magnai and Daidukul and whatever others he decides to bring with him are going to show up and whine about us not asking his permission or something along those lines."

Sadu's vicious smirk was on her face again. "I am counting on it!"

"You don't actually want to fight me at all. You want to fight at my side."

"More than one way for our souls to burn bright, khan."

[vaguely-concerned]

Any tips for a TF POV fic? I want to write one because I too went through a time in my life when I let feelings bounce off cuz that was easier, but I feel like that's not quite on point for him 🤔

God I have SO MANY THOUGHTS about this and they’re all so wordless and frustratingly evasive to me yet (I am in the process of writing a looooooong T.F. POV fic and it gives me much more trouble than Graves POV, probably because as a person I’m quite a lot more like the T.F. Type in real life lol). But yes, here we go, let me try to express some of what I personally try to have as my hm ‘anchor points’ for his perspective. (Heavy disclaimer that these are just my personal & disorganized little musings and by no means the only or ‘correct’ way to read the character!)

- First of all I agree, the image of ‘bouncing off’ doesn’t feel quiteright -- it’s in the right neighbourhood but the wrong address sort of thing, but it’s really hard to come up with a way to explain how I feel the nuance here.

*insert three hours later spongebob meme here* Okay, so the metaphor I came up with is: T.F.’s relationship to emotions is a direct parallel to his relationship to water/the ocean: it’s scary down there, it’s dark, it’s dangerous, and if he should ever be dumb enough to try to go in too deep it’ll kill him dead because boy oh boy on so many levels this man just did not learn how to swim. As far as he’s concerned any sensible person would simply bob along on the surface in a sturdily built boat and try not to think too much about the weird shit that lives down there in the depths. (In this metaphor the layer of artifice and performance so habitual it’s basically integrated into the fabric of his soul is the boat. Y’know, the part that’s Twisted Fate and not just plain ol’ Tobias. I’ll hasten to add that I think both parts of his identity are equally ‘real’ and equally him, but the Twisted Fate part is like… protecting the Tobias part. Keeping him from drowning, as it were. I’m not sure he’d think of it like that himself for the longest time, though, I suspect he has more of a ‘that man is dead’ attitude towards the Tobias part after Graves is gone)

I think what I’m trying to get at is the idea that to him, raw emotion is as hostile and unknowable and unnavigable an ‘environment’ as the deep ocean. (And the only time we see him willingly go there, physically and otherwise, is for Graves, so you know let’s jot that down first of all lol.)

- He seems to genuinely quite like and be interested in people – how they think, what moves and motivates them, their secrets and foibles. So I tend to try to keep the uh ‘detail work’ in his POV focused in that direction. Priority going like 1) people 2) people’s valuables 3) the relative availability of people’s valuables at this moment if you have clever hands and a very charming smile haha

- One of my favourite things about T.F. is that he seems, I don’t know… quite genuinely good-natured beneath it all? If you back him into a corner some sharp and dangerous things peek out (he has survived in his line of heh ‘business’ for like thirty years, and a lot of it on his own), but for the most part and when unthreatened he has a sort of mildly amused and intrigued live-and-let-live attitude to the world even as he’s conning it that I find deeply charming. Which to me ties in with:

- T.F.’s first instinctive reaction to danger (perceived or real) the majority of the time seems to be ‘Flight’. Confrontation and violence are basically his ‘when literally everything else has failed’ options. (As seen prominently in Burning Tides, where he just keeps running and running and the only time he actually starts throwing punches is when he has to because Graves is in immediate danger and they’re backed into a corner. Which feels like it means something huh lol, I often think about what could actually make T.F. angry enough that he would openly express it and that seems to be the most likely angle for it in my eyes.)

- My take on one of the fundamental differences between Graves and T.F. is that Graves has A LOT of feelings but doesn’t quite know it (or more like can’t quite conceptualize it I should say) – he has a hard time identifying or finding vocabulary for feelings that aren’t some shade of anger. Meanwhile T.F. KNOWS he has feelings, he just doesn’t like it, ardently wishes he didn’t, and will do pretty much anything to run away and not have to engage with them haha.

Another important difference: when brought out of equilibrium Graves gets angry, and T.F. gets scared. I have the feeling that beneath it all he’s scared a lot, and it’s why his persona is so oriented towards gaining control in ways where people don’t realize it enough to even think try to take that control away from him until he’s already long gone. Misdirection as a way of life babEY

- This might be too deep in the ‘my WIP/process specific’ territory to really count as general analysis, but I think it’s there in canon too – there’s almost a feeling that he implicitly feels like he has to make up for some fundamental flaw or lack he has at the core? (Not a weird thing for him to end up feeling, considering what happened to him as a kid.) All the rest of him, all the cleverness and style and charm, is there to ‘make up’ for how at the end of the day he’s… wrong somehow. As Graves, who knows him better than anyone, focuses right in on, a coward. And that is CERTAINLY not the whole truth and even Graves in a full rage relents when he sees the effect the accusation has on him and once he gets the actual facts of what happened. But I think that sense of deep unworthiness is what’s stuck with him emotionally. His people left him because there’s something fundamentally lacking and immoral about him. He lost Graves because he’s not good enough, because he’s a coward who leaves people behind. He deserves to be alone. Mix in a ton of survivor’s guilt to taste, and I think you have the like… core emotional wound he’s constructed around.

There’s also something here about fear of profound powerlessness specifically in situations where words, generally his strongest card that’s not a literal card (har har har oh we do have fun here), simply don’t work right at the moment when he needs them to the most – he tried to beg for his people not to leave him behind, he tried to convince Graves to get the hell out with the rest of the crew… and it didn’t work. (In Burning Tides you see he’s given up even trying to explain himself, he just wants Out in whatever way leaves both him and Graves tolerably in one piece, even if he won’t be understood or heard or less alone afterwards. It takes him until like half way through the entire chase to even THINK about just telling Graves the truth. In all fairness to T.F. it probably wouldn’t have worked at that moment, but it does vaguely crack me up that he didn’t even consider it until all of Bilgewater harbor was already burning merrily behind them fhsajkfa)

- He has a little bit of a (perfectly justified considering his background honestly) chip on his shoulder, especially when it comes to powerful or arrogant people. There seems to be a special satisfaction in outsmarting and robbing specifically rich assholes (which would also be the people who have the most to steal, so y’know good times all round). From his short stories and few places in his bio you almost get the feeling that he has a funny sort of Robin Hood-esque sense of lopsided justice about it. (Robin Hood-esque only so far as to define ‘the poor’ as the eternally hard-strapped ‘T.F. & Graves Waistcoats and Cigars Fund’, of course lol)

I think T.F. both has a mind that tends more towards analyzing the big picture and also has more direct experience with like… structural/systemic powerlessness and oppression. So the cons they pull are probably partly how he channels the emotions that arise out of that (and the rest he just represses, like the relatable guy he is haha)

- Graves being back would cause some IMMENSE internal conflict in him, I feel – of course all the feelings of relief and attachment and love, but also… so much of who he is now came about specifically to find a way to deal with Graves being gone, with seemingly just shutting down the entirety of his need for real human companionship or closeness for like a decade, things that are suddenly starting to be brought online again and must be tremendously stressful to deal with when you’ve had it completely suppressed and deadened for so long. He’s put so much into trying to be fundamentally unattached to anything, anywhere, anyone (and there are some things here about perpetually being an outsider his whole life that I can’t quite put into words, but that’s a dimension too.) That sort of psychological self defense mechanism doesn’t just contentedly nod its head and go away just because something good happened one time haha. Probably a work in progress there huh (at least he’s not alone in it now <3)

PLUS some bonus Graves POV observations because man. I love writing him, he’s just a marvel of a man

- I know I call him a dumbass all the time, but in a street smart way I think he’s actually quite clever haha, he just has a bad tendency to get hung up on an idea and get tunnel sight. (I’ve based this a lot on the short stories but see also more recently his Sentinel skin voice lines for good examples: he’s incredibly straightforward in that ‘well obviously if it doesn’t affect me personally I ain’t gonna give it that much thought’ way, but you also have glimpses of surprising insight/shrewdness and… I don’t quite know how to put it, but something like an ability to get to the bottom line of something without getting caught up in the details. (I suspect T.F. does find himself lost in the details quite frequently, he’s much more attached to the decorative curlicues of the world.) Graves clearly & frequently has no idea what’s going on, but he strips things down to the essentials very quick: Lucian’s story as a direct thematic mirror to Viego’s, Is There A Sun Lady – Oh, I See, all of this is weird and creepy and needs shooting, and maybe most crucial of all: Isolde doesn’t want to be with her husband anymore so what he’s doing is just like. Extra shitty. He gets what he needs to get and then just barges ahead heedlessly with that. Icon.)

- He’s actually pretty darn eloquent in a gruff sort of way and uses some quite sophisticated vocabulary! And the way this is contrasted with the tendency to slip into blunter coarser language just as readily -- like when he takes the time to describe the monster that takes down the Prince’s ship in such poetic terms as ‘gargantuan’ and ‘the behemoth’s immense, distended jaw’ and it having ‘pallid dead eyes the size of the moon’, and meanwhile during his swim at the beginning of the story we get bastard cold and bastard dark and full of bastard jellyfish and crabs – brings me such immense and unending delight

- He’s more eloquent in his internal voice than he is when speaking (especially noticeable in Destiny and Fate; he does have a tendency to fumble his words when talking lol), and he gets quite easily lost in his own meandering reflective musings in a way I find incredibly endearing. I’d almost call it whimsical at times, honestly, hilarious as that is? Like when he’s literally so absorbed in a line of thought he forgets which way they’re rowing and T.F. has to remind him. (I think T.F. generally has more of a grip of what’s going on around them than Graves does lol)

- There’s an important distinction to be made that Graves actually does, by and large, read T.F: very closely and seemingly also pretty damn accurately. He’s good at (and clearly very interested in) reading his moods, spotting what tactics he’s using interpersonally, when he’s being genuine and when he’s being dissembling.

What Graves is actually bad at is understanding his own emotions, and to not bleed those emotions into other people’s motivations and behavior, especially when he’s upset or in heightened states of feeling, like he is all the way through Burning Tides. He can only name his own feelings in a vocabulary of anger, when it’s pretty clear from the subtext that there’s a whole bunch of other stuff going on there, and he has incredible trouble divorcing those feelings from what other people’s got going on with them right then. He feels hurt, betrayed, and undone by everything that’s happened to him, so the intention to hurt, betray and undo must live in the other person who he feels caused it. In less drastic cases you see him do this a bit when he feels like T.F. is being evasive with him – taking it as a form of rejection rather than realizing T.F. is just lost in his own thoughts, sort of thing. There’s a real improvement in this one between Burning Tides and Destiny and Fate, though, so maybe he’ll have an easier time of it with some time and practice.

Sorry it took so long to get back to you on this and that it’s a bit of a rambling mess, words have been real hard recently. Or rather I have too many words, all the time, left and right, I just can’t put them into the right orders to make any sense hahaha, I hope there’s some useful point in this somewhere for you at least!

[merthurmagic]

Self-Fulfilling Prophecies and Primary Motivations in Merlin - Why Everything Went Wrong

Alright folks buckle up. I’ve got THOUGHTS.

Issue #1: Merlin’s role models and their primary motivations

Consider Gaius. A man who stood by and watched while Uther burned innocent sorcerers. A man who stopped practicing magic even though he knew it wasn’t evil in order to appease Uther. A man motivated by fear of dying on the pyre.

Obviously Gaius has issues. His primary motivation for everything is fear. “Merlin, don’t reveal your magic, you might be killed.” “Merlin, don’t go on this quest, it’s dangerous.” To Gaius, life is fleeting and should be protected. But his fear of death only leads to an empty life. After all, risks must be taken in order to gain rewards.

So, Gaius is motivated by fear and imbues that fear in Merlin.

Now, consider Kilgarrah. A dragon whose kin were murdered by Uther. A dragon entrapped under the very castle that houses the man responsible for the deaths of all other dragons. A dragon who longs to have blood for blood, and eye for an eye. A dragon motivated by revenge.

Revenge is a bloodthirsty, ugly need. It’s similar to fear, but full of a lot more anger. Mostly, Kilgarrah is angry. But while his anger might be directed only at Uther, his thirst for revenge applies to the whole of Camelot, as seen when he attacks civilians as soon as he’s released.

Importantly, this means that Kilgarrah has very little care for innocent lives. For him, any association with a bad thing (in the past or in the future) justifies death.

To summarize, the vast majority of advice that Merlin receives is motivated by fear and revenge. No wonder he failed in his destiny.

Issue #2: Mordred as a child

Now, a little boy is running from the guards and Merlin helps him. Of course he helps him. The boy clearly has magic and Merlin sees himself in him. At this point, Merlin is completely motivated by compassion.

Then he talks to the dragon, who tells him to MURDER THIS CHILD (or at least let him die) because he is Arthur’s doom. 

Merlin CONSIDERS this! He almost doesn’t go to help Mordred and Arthur escape from the city. He does help eventually, but Mordred knows that he wasn’t initially planning on it.

Later, at the druid camp, Merlin uses magic to trip Mordred in an attempt to get him captured.

Mordred remembers these actions against him. Because of the fear instilled in him by Gaius, and the black-and-white he-will-do-a-bad-thing-so-he-deserves-death logic of Kilgarrah, Merlin acts against an innocent little boy and turns the boy against him.

This sets the stage for Mordred not trusting him as an adult

Issue #3: Mordred as an adult

So Merlin sees Mordred again and immediately acts hostile towards him. (granted, he was taking them to Morgana, but still). Even after Mordred helps them escape from Morgana’s clutches, Merlin STILL acts hostile towards Mordred.

Had Merlin not known about the prophecy, he and Mordred could have bonded over being magical in Camelot and everything honestly would have gone so much better.

But alas, that’s not what happened.

Had Merlin built a rapport with Mordred, he could have talked him down after Kara’s execution. After all, she was given a chance and she didn’t take it. Mordred honestly over-reacted, but he had no one there to calm him down or talk to him, so he went to the only person he still felt welcomed by: Morgana.

issue #4: The Disir

So the Disir gave Arthur (and by extension, Merlin) a choice: Sacrifice Mordred or bring back magic. Merlin advises Arthur to sacrifice Mordred because he’s afraid that Mordred will kill Arthur later.

Where does that fear come from? The stupid prophecy.

Then, surprise, Mordred’s alive. Why? Was it all a trick? Did the Disir just want Arthur to die? I don’t think so.

I fully believe this was a test for Merlin and not for Arthur because if he had saved Mordred, something he DEFINITELY WOULD HAVE DONE IF NOT FOR THE PROPHECY, magic would have been returned to Camelot.

Instead he chose to sacrifice Mordred because he was afraid. Why did fear become such a primary motivation for him? See issue #1.

Had Merlin advised Arthur to save Mordred and welcome magic back into Camelot, Kara would never have been executed. Mordred would still have faith in Arthur and in Emrys and would never have gone to Morgana with Emrys’s true identity.

So, Merlin’s knowledge of the prophecy that Mordred would kill Arthur is WHY MORDRED KILLS ARTHUR.

Self-fulfilling prophecy.

Issue #4: Merlin’s primary motivation

Merlin is undoubtedly motivated by Arthur’s well-being and happiness. While this starts as a good thing, helping Merlin protect Arthur against the numerous threats against him, it morphs into something darker.

Soon Merlin is killing sorcerers who attacked Arthur. He could have talked to them, made them see that Arthur is not Uther, but instead he just killed them, because they were against him. This is a very Kilgarrah thing to do.

Then, Merlin’s motivations turn even darker. While Mordred is in Camelot, Merlin acts almost solely based on fear. Fear of Arthur dying, specifically. Fear of Mordred.

This leads him to act coldly towards Mordred, which, as stated in issue #3, leads to Arthur’s eventual death.

A Hypothetical:

What if Merlin let Mordred die as a child? Would Arthur have lived?

I don’t think so. Letting Mordred go was an act of Merlin’s compassion. Letting him go was the right decision. If this was a test, he passed it.

Had Merlin killed Mordred (or let him die), a few things would have happened. Firstly, Merlin would not have been able to live with himself.

Remember that shell of a man Merlin became in the later seasons, haunted by the people he’d killed and able to focus only on the one person he’d killed them to save (because focusing on anything else would mean allowing himself to think that maybe he’d made the wrong choice)? Imagine if that happened even earlier, and baby season 1 Merlin lost his happiness and innocence that early.

Secondly, I think that fate would have killed Arthur anyway. The whole prophecy thing is a test of Merlin’s morality and motivations. Killing Mordred as a child is the same as advising Arthur to sacrifice Mordred in season 5. The latter led to Mordred being alive anyway, so naturally the former would result in terrible consequences as well.

If we want to get really dark, maybe Merlin would end up being the one to kill Arthur, possibly in a fit of rage as he realizes that the man he’s killed for isn’t all he’s cracked up to be, and he still hasn’t legalized magic. (not hating on Arthur btw, he’s got his own problems but that’s for another post)

Thanks for attending my TED Talk. I might add to this at some point but that’s all for now. Please share your thoughts!

[writers-thoughts09]

True Mind, True Heart

Act 1 Chapter 1

Title: True Mind, True Heart: Act 1 Chapter 1  Word Count: 9.6k words Pairing: Zuko x Oc (or reader, however you wanna look at it) I zon’t own Avatar Rating: PG, sometimes I’ll sprinkle some 13 to add some spice ;) Warnings: PTSD, a wink of abuse of power (not caused by Zuko, though I am using his season 1 roughness. I won’t make him abusive in this story, we don’t vibe with that). A/N: I’m baaaack, sorry for any grammar errors and taking so long. I really wanted to make sure I was getting what I wanted to get in with purpose. I started it a few weeks before Zuko spots the avatar, but I still go through episode 1. Enjoy please like and comment if you wish. Next chapter is based off episode 2′s plot.

|Prologue| 1 | 2 |

*

Act 1: Salvation

“Sometimes life is like this tunnel. You can’t always see the light at the end of the tunnel, but if you keep moving, you will come to a better place.”

- Iroh

Panda Lilies. One of the rarest flowers in the Earth Kingdom. Grows only on the rim of volcanoes, usually found on Mt. Makapu, and holds deep meaning. Although its black and white color is simple, panda lily petals are as soft as velvet. Its stem is such a vibrant green I’m sure it’d rival the Earth King’s jewelry and robes. Even though it may not be the most unique in appearance, for some reason I can’t help but find it enraptures me. So small, rare, fragile even; but enduring…

As a child, I always wondered what panda lilies meant. I’d often see my father come home with it behind his back after a long trip from the northern Earth Kingdom to surprise my mother. He’d present it to her in such a way it reminded me of Chan -the little five-year-old that used to live next door- childishly. My father had such a child-like admiration for my mother. I always found it comical, and sometimes a little embarrassing with the things he’d do for her attention…even though they were already married. Yet my mother would always gasp in delight, smile, take the flower from him, and plant a panda lily of her own on dad’s lips. A kiss. She'd do this every year when he’d bring one home.

Yeah, my dad said let’s set the standards uncharacteristically high for the other people back in our town.

Of course, as I grew a little older, I finally understood the meaning behind panda lilies. It was a symbol of the love my dad held so deeply for my mom. I guess over time, even after they married, my father never lost his passion for her. To me that’s beautiful. 

Usually, the flowers are used to win the hearts of those we have affection for. A crush so to speak. So, it was like my dad used the flower’s tradition to tell my mom every year, “Hey, I loved you then, I love you now, and I still want your heart.” Did my mother know this? Yes. She was actually the one who told him about those flowers in the first place way before I was born. Did she play along with my dad’s antics? Of course, because she loved him just as much.

I wish I could go back to when times were simpler, brighter. I wish I could go back to when my mother would teach me about flowers and the other nations. I wish I could go back to when my father would tell me about the different elements of bending. I wish I could go back to before-

Knock

Knock

Knock

The sound of knuckles rapping on metal echoed around her quaint quarters as a curt voice jarred her from her thoughts.

“Servant girl, where’s the general’s tea? He’s already above deck waiting!”

Two hands scrambled to shove everything away under her mattress. The journal she used to write in, along with the ink and brush that she, borrowed, one night from a crewman’s room while everyone was above deck. With everything hidden, Lila scrambled up from the edge of her bed and rushed to the door with shaky hands. Tanned fingers strained as they jerked the heavy hunk of metal open and came face to face with none other than Lieutenant Jee, a senior officer on this ship. The tall man held nothing but a frown on his face as he looked down at her.

Lila thought back to her first few days aboard, she considered him to be middle-aged by the state of his graying hair. A good few feet taller than her. An accomplished military man he was…and an accomplished singer too. Though she doesn’t dare tell him the last part.

As the lieutenant stared her down, expression unreadable, Lila couldn’t help but curl in on herself. Her good eye staring up at him sheepishly as he huffed out an unimpressed sigh.

“General Iroh’s been waiting for ten minutes now. Hurry it up if you know what’s best for you.” It was meant as a warning, and Lila knew better than to take her time and make the General wait any longer.

Quickly sliding out of her room, the door shutting behind her with a loud slam, and into the dimly lit hallway the girl squeezed out a, “Yes, sir I’ll get to the tea right away”, and hoped her words sounded as firm as the lieutenants. Though the only indication she got was the quirk of an aged brow before he swiftly turned away to walk back up the stairs that led to the main deck. No doubt to tell the General that Lila was on her way with his tea. Once the lieutenant was out of view, Lila spun on her heels and borderline ran through the dingy halls to get to the kitchen. All the while praying her tardiness wouldn’t result in any form of punishment; even though she’s never been on the receiving end of one during her time on this ship.

As she rushed through the halls of the ship's lower deck Lila knew it wasn’t the lieutenant or any of the other crew members that intimidated her. It wasn’t even the General. If anything, General Iroh was the nicest one to her compared to the others here. No, it was the person in command of this ship who truly frightened her. She’s seen the intensity of his rage when directed at his men many times throughout his three-year search for the Avatar.

Although he wasn’t much older than her, he still carried himself in a way that you wouldn’t think of him as someone younger. In Lila’s eyes his mere presence was imposing and domineering enough that she thought he could pass as a Fire Nation General. Maybe even an Admiral. A force to be reckoned with. Although he was exiled, he didn’t look at all like a banished prince.

All Lila knew was that she didn’t want to start slipping up now. From what she experienced firsthand, the Fire Lord’s family and his military were truly terrifying. 

When her boots rounded the corner to the kitchen’s entryway a stifled gasp flew from her lips as crewmen, specifically the firebenders, ambled out of the mess hall. The majority of them shoving past her without a second thought, knocking her off balance, their heavy fire nation armor clanking as they passed. Swiftly but awkwardly Lila caught herself from falling. Her back bumping the wall as her hand latched onto the door frame. After the last helmeted soldier left, she righted herself and set off to brewing Iroh’s usual. Jasmine tea. Once she was in the kitchen, she gently set down a pot of water to boil as her good eye ringed with a dark circle glanced about the empty kitchen. 

Deeming the area fully empty, broken fingernails ghosted over the cloth covering her other eye. Memories from long ago, ones she didn’t want to remember forced their way to the forefront of her mind. 

Visions of fire.

Men in red uniforms.

A burning house invaded her thoughts. 

Until the image switched as she remembered the Palace Gardens along with a girl dressed in fire nation clothing and forehead tattoo. She was hurling bursts of flame after flame, cackling as a young Lila ran through the fire lily bushes screaming crying out-

“Stop it.”

The one-eyed girl whispered. Shaking her head, jagged fingernails toyed with the edge of the cloth. 

Just like that, like dunking someone in cold water, Lila resurfaced from her haunted daydreams once she heard the boiling water bubble and hiss for her attention. 

“Oh my goodness!”

With her seeing eye, Lila snatched the pot of water, grabbed a clean teapot from the dish rack and hastily prepared the rest of Iroh’s afternoon tea all in one motion. This was all routine for her, except today she was late. Now panicking, Lila arranged everything on a serving tray and scurried as fast as her legs would allow without spilling, or worse, dropping anything.

The sound of her baggy uniform pants rubbing together and her dark boots tapping against the metal floor could be heard as she raced through the torch lit corridors. Past her sleeping quarters, and up the main flight of stairs leading to the ship’s main deck.

“Oh spirits, I’m extremely late!” Lila anxiously cried to herself as she slinked up the last few steps, forcing her rushed pace to a normal walk. On this ship she always had to make sure she kept her composure around the others. A habit she developed from her service in the Fire Lord’s Palace.

When she came out into view on deck, the afternoon sun shined brightly over her features. If it were any other place besides the south pole Lila would’ve appreciated the sun’s warmth, but it wasn’t. The subzero temperature seemed to overpower the sun as the cold hugged her through her heavy servant garbs anyway. A slight shiver crawled up her body after a particularly strong gust of southern wind blew past.

With her head bowed Lila made her way toward Iroh and his pai sho table. The old man was seated in the middle of the deck observing both his game and the banished prince’s training. Peeking up to look a few feet past Iroh, Lila caught sight of prince Zuko and the men he trained with. Another shiver traveled down her spine. One of fear.

Judging by his lack of clothing and sweaty face, the prince seemed to have just finished his training session once she walked on deck. Prince Zuko grabbed a towel from his uncle and wiped down his face and chest. Without sparing anyone a second glance prince Zuko marched off toward the command tower, barely brushing Lila’s shoulder as he went. Memories of her tardy punishments given by her last master flashed by. However, when prince Zuko didn’t stop to question or berate her for her late appearance, Lila released a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

Once certain that prince Zuko was completely gone and she wasn’t in trouble, Lila continued walking and closed the distance between her and General Iroh. Once she reached the old man’s side, Lila bowed in respect, a few wispy curls tumbling from her bun as she kneeled beside him. As always, every day for the past three years, the chubby man welcomed her with a bright smile and boisterous laugh. Now Iroh was a pale portly man with long grey hair and bright amber eyes to complement. Even though they never properly talked, he was always kind in greeting whenever he saw her around.

“Ah! There you are, I wondered where you were. I was scared you got lost on the ship.”

Knowing that Iroh was joking, Lila cracked a carefully practiced smile as the old man joyfully laughed.

“No, no, I didn’t get lost. Though please accept my deepest apologies, I hope my tardiness didn’t upset you, sir.”

Professional and sweet her words were, but rehearsed in nature. Iroh could tell, but he watched with kind eyes anyway as the young girl placed his tea on the table with steady hands. He was pleased to see she didn’t tremble near him like she did with his nephew. Unbeknownst to the blinded girl, prince Zuko’s uncle always noticed her reactions when it came to the boy. He’s always wanted to know why she’d become so small and nervous every time Zuko was near; but he knew better than to out-right ask. 

The retired general quickly took a sip from the cup she placed before him, the wondrous taste of jasmine tea dancing along his taste buds. This girl knew how to make it just how he liked it!

“You know Lila, that is your name, right?” Iroh questioned casually. The young girl stiffened in response as she awaited his next words with bated breath, “after three year of being on this ship together, we have never really sat down and talked over a nice calming glass of your tea.”

Still kneeling, Lila released a breath in relief and couldn’t help but look at him with slight confusion but quickly remembered her place and schooled her expression into poised neutrality. She glanced down before murmuring, “Well, with all due respect sir. I’m a servant placed on this ship by my master. I didn’t think it was expected of me to dine and drink with you and your men.” 

Remaining quiet Iroh regarded her as he took another sip. To Lila, it seemed her answer didn’t satisfy him as he shook his head in disagreement. Afraid she spoke out of turn, Lila fidgeted slightly with the empty tray in her hands.

Remember your place.

Mentally shaking the voice from her head, she began to rise from her spot beside the general. Before she could fully stand, Iroh’s voice cut through.

“Of course, it’s expected of you. You are important to this ship, just like how prince Zuko and his men are important to each other. Every person on this ship has a purpose and a duty that benefits us all. Just as you have yours. But before you go, sit. Have some tea with me, you deserve a moments rest.”

Her eye, ladled with exhaustion, widened in surprise at his bold comparison between the prince, the crew, and herself. Especially prince Zuko. All she did was fulfill orders and make sure everything on this ship was clean. Lila was nowhere near as valuable as the Prince of the Fire Nation, banished or not. Years at the Caldera Palace has surely taught her where her place was, and it wasn’t on the pedestal of fire nation royalty.

Even with that reminder, it didn’t stop the dust of pink from tinging Lila’s ears while she adamantly refused his words, “Sir, you mustn’t say such things-”

The retired military general smiled, kindly interrupting the stuttering girl’s babbling, “Please, sit. I’d be graced by your kind presence if you’d give an old man like me some company on this lovely day.”

Seeing that Iroh wasn’t going to relent, Lila let out a small sigh and sat on her knees before him on the other side of the pai sho table. Back straight and hands polieltly placed on her lap. Over the rim of his teacup Iroh peeks at her and couldn’t help but feel pleased. Like a chink in a wall, a little part of her mask breaks without her even noticing.

Once fully situated across The Fire Lord’s brother, Lila couldn’t help but still feel incredibly small and vulnerable. Never in her life has she ever been requested to sit with someone of such high nobility before, as equals, even if they were banished. For a while, they sat in complete silence. An awkward one on Lila’s end and a serene one on Iroh’s. Lila watched as Iroh wordlessly played pai sho and sipped his tea. Crisp south pole air blew past every now and then, gently running through Lila’s dark curls like invisible fingers. Genuinely the girl was at a loss of words so she stayed quiet and waited until Iroh had something to say, chosing to watch the tall walls of glaciers slowly drift by. While Lila was distracted by her captivating surroundings, Iroh threw back the last of his tea like nothing and let out a loud long sigh of satisfaction.

“So,” He chirps, “Where are you from if you don’t mind me asking?”

Remember your place

“Well, I come from a small town near the Fire Nation Capital and served the Fire Lord and his family growing up,” Lila responded without missing a beat. Though she doesn’t miss Iroh’s unconvinced look as he cocks an eyebrow at her. Lifting the teapot, he pours himself a second cup.

“No offense, but if you’re going to lie, at least make it a little more believable. Not laughable…although some good lies are pretty funny…” he quips. An aged hand coming up to stroke his chin.

‘He caught my lie,’ defeat briefly colors her face and Lila wonders if it’s okay to take off her mask, even if it’s just for a moment. Can she trust him?

“General Iroh-”

“Just Iroh or uncle Iroh is fine, I’m retired. You don’t need to keep formalities when you’re with me,” the old man laughs as he pours a cup of tea for Lila. The warm assurance Iroh gives off disarms Lila, even if she didn’t want that to happen, allowing her to relax just a little more. Her mask slipping from her fingers.

“Okay…Just Iroh,” Lila teases.

It came out a bit awkwardly, but she peeked her eye up anyway to gauge his reaction at her failed attempt of a joke.

However, she’s pleasantly surprised when she sees the stale joke earns her a guffawing laugh and she had to fight off the beginnings of a grin that wanted to push past her lips, “why do you want to know?”

“Just curious, but since you asked,” passing Lila her cup Iroh playfully narrows his eyes, “you don’t look or sound like you’re from the Fire Nation capital. Don’t get me wrong you’re a very beautiful girl,” Iroh clarifies, “but your facial features are different from the people in the capital. You also have a slight accent. Not only that but Lila isn’t a name commonly used in the Fire Nation.”

As Iroh spoke, each sentence had Lila’s eye lower, all the way down to her cup on the table. This man figured her out in a matter of seconds! To Lila part of her felt embarrassed for thinking she could out-smart a military leader. Retired, but still. An experiensed military man no less. 

Though she knew he didn’t mean any harm by what he said. He claimed to just want her company, and she was trusting that he only wanted to get to know her. No one has done this with her before so this was new territory, and Iroh has never given her a reason to fear or distrust him before during these three years, so she decided why not? And let her mask hit the floor. She looks at Iroh and he catches her good eye soften.

Words roll around her head for a moment before speaking, “My mother was born in the Northern Water Tribe, but she left. In her travels she met my father who lived in a small town not too far from Omashu. They married a few years after meeting. My dad really helped her out when she had nothing and no one to help her.” Iroh’s lips curled up into such a wide and infectious smile at the girl’s words, and funnily enough Lila found herself mirroring him, too.

“Wow, that is wonderful! Two completely different people, from completely different parts of the world meet and fall in love. That’s rare,” Iroh gushed as he teasingly added, “On top of that they made such a soft and gentle spirit too!”

Giggles, that were actually quite loud, erupted from Lila as she flushed at this witty old man and his compliments. “How do you know I’m soft and gentle?” She asks, taking a large gulp of tea, the warm brew filling and puffing her cheeks. Slowly she guzzles it down, cheeks deflating, before adding, “I could be really mean in reality.”

Golden eyes worn with years of life crinkled in amusement at her newly surfacing playfulness, “I have been around for many years. You can tell when someone has a genuine spirit and when someone doesn’t. You, miss Lila,” said girl freezes at the respectful use of her name. No one’s ever used ‘miss,’ or her name, at all when talking to her, “have a very soft and sprightly spirit, when given the chance to bloom,” Iroh declares with satisfied finality. To show he was set on his opinion, Iroh sat with his eyes closed, blocking out any protest Lila might’ve had as he reverently drinks his tea and moves a pai sho tile.

‘Miss Lila’ in turn sits in stunned silence, her brow deeply lined with thought and her mouth agape. Genuinely she couldn’t see what he saw in her but didn’t have the heart to correct him. It’d be futile to argue against him and win. So instead, she shyly thanked him, and awkwardly filled her cheeks again with more tea to distract herself.

For the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, as no one seemed to need Lila’s assistance, she got to know her first friend since little Chan from her village. They went back and forth talking about many things. Lila discovered that during his younger years Iroh learned and observed techniques from the waterbenders which in turn helped enhance his firebending. He regaled her with many stories of what he learned and how he learned it. A smile etched deep into Lila’s face as she tried to absorb everything he was saying. It was heart warning for Lila to see someone from another nation appreciate her mother’s culture. She also found out that he’s a decent tsungi hornist and can’t tell the difference between certain tea plants and the poisonous ones.

Iroh learned some things about Lila, too. He discovered that she had vast knowledge about plants and flowers from all over the world. Even the ones about tea! Thanks to a book about flowers her mother gifted her as a child. He also found out that under her pillow she keeps an earth kingdom bracelet her father made and can play the kalimba. They even taught each other songs native to their nations. Both of them found such wholesome companionship with each as other they kept this up every day for a few weeks during Iroh’s afternoon tea.

One day as the two friends sipped on a new tea Lila decided to try her hand in making, ginseng tea, Iroh decided it was time to discuss his nephew. However, the tea was too good for him to just leave it half finished. ‘I’ll begin once I finish this cup,’ he said to himself. So, they sat together in comfortable silence. In the background the rowdy voices of the ship’s crew could be heard, they too took a moment to relax from today’s work. Prince Zuko seemed to be on edge more so than usual so the men were taking in all the peace and quiet they could from their makeshift break.

Back to the main pair though, the clink of Iroh’s teacup being set on the table barely registered in Lila’s ears. She was currently taken by her surroundings as she watched a piece of ice fall from a passing glacier. A chilly breeze brushed and caressed her cheeks. Usually she’d shiver at the winds touch, but it seemed that over the past few weeks of Prince Zuko navigating these waters, the southern climate didn’t seem to bother her as much anymore. It was still cold though.

Feeling ready to talk Iroh clears his throat, “You know, I don’t really think you have much to be afraid of when it comes to my nephew Zuko.”

In an instant Lila’s revere for the beautifully cold landscape is broken as she meets Iroh’s steady gaze in surprise and discomfort. This was definitely a topic she wanted to avoid.

“I know Zuko is a very coarse person and rough around the edges, much like the rocks back home. But he really isn’t as bad as people make him out to be. Though he may be banished, he is still very honorable,” and for a moment Lila sits there taking in his words. She didn’t really know what to make of it. Her perception of the Prince vastly opposed Iroh’s. Although she understood why Iroh would say that about his nephew, he did seem to have a love the boy. Lila tries to muster the courage to say something but again she hears that voice,

Remember your place

Echoing in the back of her mind. After moments of her struggling to gather herself and Iroh waiting patiently, Lila stammers out, “Sir, I assure you I’m fine I do not fear-”

To which uncle Iroh chooses this moment to remind her, “Lila, you don’t need to be so formal with me, nor do you need to hide yourself. You know me. You can tell me how you really feel.”

Again, she hears that same phrase, remember you place, but louder this time attempting to drown her out. She tries to push back a little harder so the voice would go away, but to no avail. Lowering her eye in submission, specks of brown glinting in the sun’s rays, Lila quietly chokes out, “I shouldn’t say anything at all negative…concerning the Fire Lord or his children. Whether they are banished or not,” the rehearsed tone Iroh heard when he first spoke to her returned. The man could clearly see the internal struggle warring within her. The deep line crinkling between her brows, the downturned tilt of her lips, to the flicking of her eye as she couldn’t look at him dead on. It was like he was watching a two headed viper fight itself.

Choosing to divert his attention to his game he allows Lila the time she needs to fight the thoughts that overshadowed her. Once he noticed she’s calmed down a little he quips, “But, I’m not the Fire Lord nor am I the Fire Lord’s child.”

“I know,” Lila squirms a little and averts her gaze to her hands, “but you are the brother of fire lord Ozai and the uncle of prince Zuko. It would be rude of me to say anything negative about anyone from that family…and I don’t want to get in trouble with prince Zuko.”

Taking in the sight of his friend, her fingers fidgeting softly, Iroh gently counters, “I just want to know how such a soft and gentle soul like yours, has become so scared and broken.”

For a while, Lila sits in hesitant contemplation. Many times, and many ways Lila has only tasted pain and hurt her entire life. One of her eyes has complete loss of vision for goodness sake! No one ever bothers to give a passing glace to those seen as lesser than themselves. To peasants like her. No one cares for little servant girls…but Iroh does. Iroh, out of every person she’s ever met in the fire nation, has been the first and only one who’s truly treated her like she’s worth more. Worth more than a servant. Iroh always treated her like a human and a friend. In his eyes, she is a friend. Iroh is, someone she can trust…regardless of his bloodline. With that, her mind was made up. Like a baby bird spreading its wings to jump, Lila opens her mouth to speak – but closes it and freezes once she spots prince Zuko emerge from his quarters. The usual fire nation uniform adoring his body.

Red uniforms.

Just like that, the flower that Iroh saw trying to bloom, closed in on itself once more.

Saddened by the state of his friend, amber eyes close as Iroh shakes his head. Looking at his last pai sho tile he places down the fire symbol. ‘How ironic’, Iroh thought.

Finished with his game Iroh looks toward his nephew, a wide goofy smile now replacing the disheartened look before.

“Hello nephew, nice of you to join us on this lovely day! The sun is out, a nice breeze is blowing. Miss Lila here has even made a new delicious tea for me to try today, you should have some.”

Unphased by Iroh’s excited suggestion, prince Zuko maintains a cold and silent expression. As he makes his way next to his uncle his sharp gaze cuts through everyone on deck. Immediately his crewmates stop what they were doing as Zuko examines each person, silence being the loudest noise on the ship. Once his glare shifts to Lila for a moment her eye darts away, avoiding eye contact.

Prince Zuko then begins barking orders at the crewmen who were idling about. “Lieutenant Jee, care to tell me why all of my men are not where they’re supposed to be?”

Sensing the rapidly brewing eruption that was about to explode, Lila cautiously rose from the little table she and Iroh occupied. Yeah, she fully intended to creep away from the banished prince’s tirade and busy herself with work, until she felt a calloused but tender hand hold hers. Her eye shot to Iroh as he encouragingly motioned for her to sit back down, “If my nephew really needed something from you or felt like you weren’t doing your job right, he would’ve said so already. You’re okay, either way you don’t need to do anything until dinner time…which is in another hour.” He stated smugly. After those weeks of getting to know one another Iroh memorized her schedule like the back in his hand. Lila knew Iroh again wasn’t going to let her win this round, again, so she slowly sat down.

Once prince Zuko was done ordering -well more like yelling- at his men to get back to work he looked at his uncle, completely ignoring Lila, and rigidly mentioned, “If you need me uncle, I’ll be in my room meditating.”

“Good, good! Practice your breathing, it’ll help you with your control.”

Judging by the upturned eyes and smile Iroh gives his nephew, completely disregarding his attitude, Lila could tell he held a deep love for the prince. For her, she didn’t hold any of that. Prince Zuko was part of fire lord Ozai’s family. She just didn’t understand.

Then just before he turned away prince Zuko’s piercing gaze finally caught Lila’s as if finally realizing she was there.

“You. Servant girl”, his voice was hard as stone. His inflection unwavering and clipped, while hers was wavering and small.

“Yes?”

With prince Zuko’s attention fully on her, Lila’s brown eye flitted between his intense stare and her hands. The discomfort of being trapped under his gaze grew too much for Lila as she squirmed and tried to keep the fear from taking hold. He only acknowledged her presence, that’s it. ‘I don’t think I’ve done anything wrong today’, she rambles to herself, prattling off anything she might’ve done for him to call her name in such a way.

Cutting through her mental check list, terse words, “Get. To. Work,” are spat from between the prince’s teeth. His scarred face now inches away from her. Up close Lila could vividly see his raised skin, burnt red and irritated, marring the left side of his pale face. The disfigurement of the scar left his eye squinted in comparison to the other eye. Thoug she had to admit, the eybrow that wasn’t burnt off was perfectly arched. Within his amber gaze, Lila could see the anger that always seemed to linger there. However, she knew better than to test his already thinning patience.

With a breathless, “Yes sir,” Lila clambers to her feet, collects Iroh’s tea set as fast as she could and rushes away from the two. Heart pounding within her chest. Faintly, she could hear Iroh complain to prince Zuko about how he didn’t need to scare off his friend and how he should’ve tried the tea she made. To which Zuko yelled, “I don’t care! She doesn’t get special treatment just because she made you tea!” That, she heard loud and clear.

Lila powers through the corridors below deck and even though it’s an hour early she decided that she might as well help the chef prepare dinner since she did all her work earlier. This time as she rounds the corner, teacups clanking with every footfall, she smoothly side steps any shipmates that may be bustling out of the kitchen. ‘Don’t want a repeat of before,’ she notes to herself.

Upon entering the kitchen, she sees the chef and he raises his knife in greeting before continuing with the meat cutting. Last week prince Zuko docked at a nearby harbor to restock on any necessities the crew might’ve been running low on. Specifically, hygienic items and food supplies. “Servant girl!” the chef calls, keeping his eyes on the task at hand, “You’re just in time. I need you to start on the rice.”

Offering a timid smile, which he didn’t notice, Lila carefully placed the tea set in the sink, rolls up her sleeves and stands beside him to start on the rice. Like clockwork they quickly but efficiently finish dinner for everyone on the ship, with Lila scooping the last bit of rice into bowls to deliver to the prince and his uncle. Soon enough the rest of the men file in for dinner. Lila attempts to give one last smile to the chef, which again falls on blind eyes, before tiptoeing out of the now lively kitchen and right into lieutenant Jee.

“Lieutenant Jee!” Lila gasps in startlement, “I’m so sorry I didn’t see you there!” She bows as best as she could while balancing the two trays of food. Jee waves it off with his hand, “You’re fine, just be careful next time.”

As he starts to make the line for dinner Lila haltingly calls his attention once more, “Um, mister, Lieutenant Jee, sir…” he hums. “Just to be sure, do you know if the prince and his uncle are in their rooms? I don’t want to be late again, especially with prince Zuko.”

“Yeah, last I checked that’s where they were.” Jee dissmisively responds before laughing with the other men at a joke the chef said. Lila’s presence completely ignored.

Laced with a hint of despondency, Lila whispers, “Thank you,” and continues her trek up from the lower decks, up onto the main deck, and to the command tower. All the while balancing the two hefty dinner trays. The tower was where those in charge slept. Reaching her first stop, Lila found herself in front of prince Zuko’s room. She began to feel her hands shake and quickly but carefully placed Iroh’s dinner tray down by the door. No way did she want to drop anything in front of her leader’s door and really risk getting punished for the first time. Reigning in her nerves Lila breathes out deeply and knocks.

No words of entry could be heard.

Trying her luck, she knocked harder one more time but still received no answer. Usually on any other day he’d call for her to enter and she’d place his food on his table, but this is the first time he hasn’t responded. Which leaves Lila at a crossroad. She wasn’t really sure what to do, she didn’t want to leave his food outside, but she didn’t want to just barge into his room. His privacy. And anger him. Then again, standing in front of his door doing nothing wasn’t going to solve anything either.

“I guess we won’t know until we try,” she sighs wearily.

The door squeaks as she apprehensively opens it and cautiously peeks her head in. The room is in its usual state, clean and very minimal. No elaborate decorations, just a few fire nation banners on the wall, a mattress in the corner of the room, a weapons rack, and a rug. The only time Lila would go in the prince’s room was when she’d do her daily cleaning rounds and food deliveries, like now. Then, her eye catches sight of him with his back facing her. Candles sit in front of him on the table, the flames rising and falling with every breath she hears him take.

“Prince Zuko?” Lila slips a foot past the door as she shakily squeaks, “I have brought you your supper, do you want me to place it where I usually-” a loud huff escapes prince Zuko’s mouth, flames shooting up in tandem sharply.

“If you wish I could come back later with-”

“You really seem to have forgotten your manners, haven’t you? I’m meditating.” Prince Zuko drawls, irritation filling his voice as he maintains his meditative position. Lila stares at his back in puzzlement, she didn’t mean any disrespect to her prince, she was only doing what she thought was right in this situation.

Even though Lila knew prince Zuko couldn’t see her she still bowed her head in apology, rushing out, “Please forgive me my prince. You didn’t answer when I knocked, a-and I didn’t want to leave you without food-”

Like a bomb, prince Zuko’s aggravation toward her initial interruption and her rambling explodes, “I don’t care as to why you felt the need to come in my room unannounced! You see I’m in the middle of something, and just because I’m quiet doesn’t mean you can start talking like I gave you permission to, when I didn’t! I’m not my uncle. You’re a servant, remember your place!”

Lila stands in stunned silence at Zuko’s verbal barrage, she was doing so well with her streak of staying on his blind side. Although she knows his words are nothing compared to what he’s said and done to his other men, tears still flood and gloss over her eye. Violent scenes she repressed played through her mind as clear as day. Mocking her.

Remember your place

Remember your place

Remember you place

Tears of pain and anguish flow down her burning cheek. The intensity of the man’s punch could still be felt as she cradles the side of her face. Sobs heave from the little girls mouth as she watches the flames engulf her home. When suddenly a large hand yanks a fistful of her hair. A shrill scream ripping through her busted lips as he drags her closer to the carnage he and his men waged. All dressed in red uniforms. She could hear her parents yelling her name from somewhere afar, and she tries to tear away from his grasp to find their voices. Though the vice like grip in her hair harshly jerks her head back, causing the girl to whimper in pain.

“Ah! Mommy, daddy! Where are you?” She can’t see them, but she could hear them fighting in the background. The sound of the other men in red wrestling with her parents could be heard too and it amps up the fear seizing her heart.

Tiny nails dig into the hand on her head, scratching and hitting the with all her might to escape. Though her attempts failed as she is aggressively thrown in front of the burning house, the heat of the flames licking for a taste of the child. Suddenly a blood curdling wail, that could be heard all around her terrorized village, shreds from her raw throat as searing pain erupts all throughout and within her eye. Vision becoming an all-consuming black.

The words, “Remember your place, you little brat!” Are roared in her face.

Finally, the tears silently bubble over her cheeks like a stream of water. Stifling any noise, Lila bites her lip and bows deeply, even though prince Zuko barely gives a sideway glance over his shoulder.

“I am, so, sorry my prince,” she chokes out hoping to the heavens above that he wouldn’t punish her or hear the strain in her words. She can’t be crying like a fool in front of her leaders, that’s not what she was taught. Serving was what she was there for, nothing else. Her master before made sure she knew that. Swallowing all the sobs she could without a sound, Lila carefully places his food by the door and quickly leaves shutting it with a soft click. All the while a slight frown could be seen on Prince Zuko’s lips. He caught sight of the tears falling from her eye.

Outside Lila takes a few deep breaths and leans against the door, the muscles in her lips twitch as she tries to stop the upcoming torrent of tears; but the dam breaks. Smothering her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt, her other quivering hand covers her face. Lila starts bawling. Muffled sobs and gasps wrack her body as her eye squeezes in grief, hot tears spilling even faster. Now it wasn’t necessarily Zuko’s words that made her react like this, even if they were hurtful. It was what he inadvertently triggered. Memories too painful that she didn’t want but was forced to keep. After a few minutes of her trying to keep her mourning silent, she hears a door creak up ahead at the end of the corridor. With hitched breaths Lila drops her snot and spit stained arm as the hand covering her face quickly retrieves Iroh’s forgotten dinner tray. It was a little cold, but nothing a firebender couldn’t handle. Lila sniffles and schools her features back into a poised appearance and continues to her last stop. A trail of quiet tears streaming in her wake.

Upon reaching Iroh’s room, Lila wipes off any evidence of her crying and knocks on the door. This time around Lila hears a tired, but nice beckon to enter. Opening the door, she sees Iroh sitting on his bed and he beams at the food Lila has in her hands, until he sees her face. As quickly it appeared his smile is gone as he takes in her damp sleeve, tear stained cheeks, runny nose, and wet eyelashes. Iroh had an idea of what might’ve happened.

“Sometimes, life can be like a hurricane. It’s harsh and unforgiving at first, but they always end and the sun shines after. No matter how bleak the storm looks.”

At that, Lila breaks down again. Crying all the while, she fully enters the room and places her friend’s food on his bedside table before rushing to hug him. As she engulfs him, Iroh gently rocks her from side to side, rubbing her back. The motion reminds Lila of her father when he’d rock her to sleep, her arms tightening around Iroh. She missed her dad deeply. Softly her old friend began to sing one of the songs he taught her a few weeks ago.

“Winter spring, summer, and fall. Winter spring, summer and fall. Four seasons four loves, four seasons four loves.”

Although his voice wasn’t perfect, it still pulls Lila to join in, sniffling. Iroh’s voice strong and comforting, while Lila’s was weak and quiet. They sing it a few times until Iroh sees her tears and hiccups slow.

Feeling slightly better, Lila breaks from the hug and sits a few feet from Iroh.

“Thank you. I really needed that,” she croaks and rubs at her teary eye. The patch on her other eye was pretty damp so she knew before bed she’d have to clean it.

“Of course. As your best friend it is my duty to make sure you’re okay and laughing.” To which Lila giggles.

“How about this?” Iroh offers, “I tell you more about what I learned from waterbenders and you teach me more about the flowers you know?” Lila tiredly nods in response; her crying drained all her energy for the day. The two friends share dinner at Iroh’s behest, saying how she shouldn’t skip her meals, and chatted for a few hours. They talked about flowers, tea, and history -mostly Iroh teaching her what he knew- until Iroh noticed how exhausted Lila was and urged her to get some rest.

The next day was like any other day for Lila. In the morning she’d wake up at dawn, do her shower routine, clean her teeth, and tend to her eye. After that she’d set off to make breakfast with the chef for all of the shipmates. Deliver breakfast to Iroh and prince Zuko, and luckily for her today the prince wasn’t in his room. She only found a note that said he wasn’t hungry. Then once all the men were at their usual posts Lila would go ahead and tidy up all their sleeping barracks. By the time she’d be done with cleaning everyone’s rooms she’d have an hour or so to herself, which was filled with journaling or writing all Iroh has told her about waterbending, until she had to help prepare lunch. After she’d finish that, there’d be a fifteen minute window of nothing to do before Lila would make Iroh’s afternoon tea. Which was what she was doing right now.

Again, like before, Lila make her way from the kitchen, through the corridors, past her room, and up the stairs to get to the main deck. However, instead of sitting across from Iroh Lila places herself next to him as he greets her with a joke. Thankfully he doesn’t mention what happened last night as they laughed and talked as they usually do. Today Lila was trying to explain the differences between the white jade bush and the white dragon bush to Iroh. The white jade bush being a poisonous flowering plant. During her explanation, Lila couldn’t help but notice Iroh somewhat dazed off, and she snorted as she thought, ‘I really hope this doesn’t bite him in the butt’ when a question flickered in her. Checking her surroundings to see where prince Zuko was, she saw him a good few feet away facing the front of this ship. The scarred boy looked to be distracted with his own thoughts, so Lila figured it be now or forever hold her peace.

“Hey, uncle Iroh?”

“Hm”, he grunts, liquid gold eyes ever so focused on today’s particularly tricky game of pai sho.

Lila’s already soft-spoken voice lowered to a whisper, “Why did you agree to go with prince-”

Unexpectedly, from far away, a huge ethereal beam of light shoots up into the air, cutting through the sky! The beam cast a blue shadow over everyone and everything in the south pole, blue ripples rippling across the sky. Lila literally falls back in wonder from what she’s witnessing at this moment. No one on prince Zuko’s ship has ever seen anything like this during their three year search. When she looks to see if anyone else is seeing what she’s seeing her eye catches the banished prince’s reaction. Prince Zuko himself is also snapped from his own thoughts by the sight of this strange but amazing light. His jaw dropping in awe, but realization dawns as his features shift to one of aggressive determination.

“Finally,” he growls. Turning to Lila’s companion, who’s surprisingly unphased by what just happened, prince Zuko continues, “Uncle, do you know what this means?” His words seemed to be filled with something akin to…dare Lila say, hope? Desperation?

While keeping his eyes on his pai sho table Iroh asks, “I won’t get to finish my game? And Miss Lila won’t finish telling me about the…what was it called again?” Being in such close proximity to the prince after what happened last night, Lila wasn’t sure if she wanted to answer with him so near.

However, Prince Zuko answers for Lila declaring that the beam of light means his search for the Avatar it about to end. Though not sharing the same optimistic thought as his nephew, Iroh shakes his head and places down another pai sho tile. Still unwilling to relent, Zuko points to the shinning beam and snaps,

“That light came from an incredibly powerful source! It has to be him!” Looking back, he sees the light disappear, causing the blue shadowing that was cast over everything to disappear as well.

“Or, it’s just the celestial lights,” Uncle Iroh suggests, lifting his arm to the sky with a tile in hand to further prove his point. “We’ve been down this road before, Prince Zuko. I don’t want you to get too excited over nothing.” The absent-minded tone is apparent in Iroh’s voice although he means well. He’s just looking out for his nephew. For Lila, well she had a whole cauldron of mixed feelings. If that light really was from the Avatar then they could all finally go home. She should be happy, right? Three years of searching finally over. Except, she has no home, all that’s there waiting for her in the fire nation is a cold and malevolent palace. Nothing good was waiting for her there.

Again, Lila is pulled from her thoughts by Iroh, “please, sit. Why don’t you enjoy a cup of calming Jasmine tea Lila so kindly brewed?”

Like an awkward, and slightly uncomfortable middleman, Lila’s honeyed eye worriedly gauges Prince Zuko’s increasingly riled posture. Her eye slowly shutting to a cringe; she could tell the prince was about to explode from the continuous dismissal of his claims.

She was correct.

Prince Zuko barks in exasperation, “I don’t need any calming tea! I need to capture the avatar!”

As he ordered the helmsman to set a course for the light, Lila withdrew back to her thoughts. In a small way, she kind of understood why he was being so snappy. Though his attitude was usually foul. Still, he’s trying to go home after three years of banishment. Everyone on this ship wants to go home. Even if she had no place to call home, Lila could empathize in a way with why he’s so rude, and somewhat desperate, when speaking to his uncle the way he does. The Avatar is his ticket home.

Suddenly the wind picked up, whipping the dark hairs that fell from Lila’s bun. Turning to Iroh as he puts down his last pai sho piece, an air nomad symbol, Lila can’t help but blurt, “What does this mean?” Her words uneasy as she watches Iroh imploringly. Brown eye dancing over his form.

Iroh turns to her and gives a meaningful smile before laughing out, “It means our days of tea and pai sho together are coming to an end.” Lila looks on in confusion, “It’s almost time for you to help with dinner. Go, and make sure you bring some roasted duck for me tonight!” He jokes.

Later that night Lila finds herself repeating the same delivery process as before, rushing up the main deck and to the command tower. However, when she goes to knock on Iroh’s door she sees him coming from around the corner, “Oh uncle there you are. Where were you?”

“I was just coming down from the observation deck trying to tell Zuko he needs rest. Of course, my brooding nephew wouldn’t listen.” Iroh sighs dramatically as he walks to his door. However, all Lila can think about is the discomfort she feels with the possibility of being alone with prince Zuko again…and the stairs she has to climb to reach him.

“B-but, that’s a lot of stairs though…”

“Ha! How do you think I feel? An old man like me shouldn’t have to do workouts like that anymore!”

Iroh smiles when Lila giggle in response. Opening his door, he turns to his friend and gently takes his dinner tray bidding her goodnight. Left alone Lila continues her walk to find prince Zuko. “Up the stairs I go…”

By the time she reaches the observation deck she’s winded and breathing a little deeper. Her heart felt like a drum about to beat out of her chest, she did climb like four flights of stairs. Leaning against the opening of the door to the observation deck, she sees prince Zuko there with a simple night robe draped over his sleeping attire. He stood alert and focus despite it being dusk. Unlike him everyone else was getting ready to retire for the night. A little hesitant to address her presence in fear of repeating what happened last night, Lila waits for the scarred prince’s permission to let her speak. A few minutes pass and a breeze flows by, stray pieces of curls tickle Lila’s neck as the prince still stands in silence.

“Pardon my intrusion prince Zuko, but it’s dinner time and I have your food ready for you…”

Looking over his shoulder at her for a moment he simply rasps out in a gruff voice, “I’m not hungry…” before continuing to watch the darkening horizon.

“But, you haven’t eaten anything today, are you sure?” Regardless of the fear prince Zuko strikes in her heart, he’s still human and needs to eat.

Again, like yesterday an aggravated and abrupt huff leaves his mouth as he deeply drawls, “What, did I just say?”

Wanting to avoid another outburst tonight Lila timidly stammers, “You’re not hungry…” as the feeling of embarrassment from being talked to like a child washes over her.

“You may leave my presence.”

Lila turns and was about to head back down to the kitchen before a thought struck her. Quickly but silently she takes the bowl of rice and the bowl of roasted duck meat and pours half of it onto the serving tray, before leaving it near the doorway. That way if prince Zuko changes his mind the food will be there. Satisfied with herself, Lila walks down to the now empty kitchen, grabs a pair of eating utensils, and eats what was left in the bowls. “Well I’m not letting the food I made, which I know is good, go to waste,” and the food really was good too.

Once she was done eating, Lila washes the tray and grabs a cup filling it to the brim with water. Double checking the empty kitchen Lila carefully makes her way to her servants quarters. She takes gradual and slow steps in order to keep the water from spilling over.

In the safety of her room, Lila closes the door with her foot and nimble fingers lock it behind her. She sets the cup down in the middle of her room and goes to get the journal she’s been writing in from underneath her mattress. Lila pulls out the journal and returns to where she placed her cup. Sitting down with her legs crossed, she flips to the pages filled with information she wrote from the times Iroh would tell her about waterbending. Lila takes in a deep breath, holds it as if she were underwater, then slowly exhales through her mouth. Closing her eye, her hand reaches up and unwraps the cloth covering the other side of her face.

The cloth falls in Lila’s lap as her hand hovers over the cup of water, beginning to practice her waterbending. Although as she tries lifting the water from the cup Lila feels no connection to the energy inside of her. Her control is weak and shaky as the water spills over. Shutting both eyes Lila tries to concentrate harder, but all she can see are the memories from her past burned deep within her mind. 

Fire

Screams

Laughing

Fingers

Eye tattoo

With a shuddering breath Lila drops her hand and sighs in disappointment.

Remember your place.

The next morning Lila is on the main deck with Iroh, Prince Zuko, and some of his men. At Iroh’s invitation Lila watches as the prince does his firebending training, though she didn’t know as to why he wanted her there. The young servant had a very deep fear of fire, every blast of fire prince Zuko or his firebending companions made, memories of that little girl in red would flash by. Screams of her younger self and cackling of the little girl ring through her ears. So, Lila stood by the railing of the ship a few feet behind Iroh, not too close to prince Zuko and his fire but not too far in case they needed anything. With her eye on the ground Lila watched in fascination of the elongated shadows the morning sun created around her, until she heard Iroh begin to lecture prince Zuko on his firebending.

“No. Power and firebending comes from the breath, not the muscles,” Iroh clarifies. It’s clear there’s a tinge of stress in his words as Zuko failed to truly grasp what his uncle was trying to say.

“The breath becomes energy in the body,” Iroh continues and begins to demonstrate each point of his explanation, “the energy extends past your limbs and becomes fire!”

Lila gasps at Iroh’s last demonstration. A strong but controlled and precise stream of fire shoots from Iroh’s fist at prince Zuko who stood unflinching. The fire dissipated inches from the prince’s face. At the sound of the small noise Lila made, Zuko’s eyes flicker to hers for a quick second before settling back on Iroh. She could see how the prince’s muscular shoulders began to tense as he walked menacingly toward his uncle, so she tuned out the impending argument and turned to look over the ship's railing. The morning rays glistened over the water lapping at the ship below, creating a lovely twinkle. The shimmering water looked like diamonds to Lila as she mulled over the words Iroh tried explaining to his nephew.

Vaguely she could hear him call his nephew impatient in the background, but Lila’s mind was still committing what uncle Iroh said to memory, “patience,” she softly whispered to no one in particular.

Power comes from the breath…not the muscle.

Lila glanced behind her and saw that prince Zuko was still arguing with his uncle as some of the firebenders looked on. Zeroing in on the sea water once more, she suddenly felt a small beckoning from below…

Breath becomes energy in the body

With her hand extending over the railing, her heartrate picked up and her body tingled with nerves when she realized she’s really going to try this in front of firebenders. The ones who once tried to wipe out her people…but the push and pull of the water was too enticing, its seductive call too strong to ignore…

With a flick of the wrist-

The energy extends past your limbs and becomes-

Water! 

Water shoots out in the form of a wave away from the side of the boat. In no way was it a large or impressive wave, it was actually very small. However, it was enough to make Lila laugh and light up in elation. A huge smile decorating her lips. A smile she hid behind her hands. However, when she tried to recreate what she did, nothing happened, the feeling…the connection, was gone. Her smile dissolved and fell, the light in her face dimming as she turned back to the men on deck.

Her honey colored eye widened in surprise at seeing both Iroh and Prince Zuko’s golden gazes pinned on her.

“…Um, hello.” Lila shyly breathed with a small wave of her hand. A twinge of fear twisted in her heart at the off chance of her getting caught waterbending.

“I was just telling my nephew how even you have more discipline and patience, and you’re not even a bender,” Iroh says bellowing a loud laugh. The imaginary weight on Lila’s chest disappeared as she awkwardly forces out a laugh too -in relief- before catching the sneer on prince Zuko’s lips. His hands closing into a fist, Lila was sure he probably didn’t like that comparison.

“I mean, but sir I’m just a servant it doesn’t matter what I have or don’t have,” Lila responds as she lowers her gaze. Iroh opened his mouth to object but the young servant girl beat him to it, “anyway, if you are in no need of assistance,” she casts a look between both Prince Zuko and Iroh, “I must go help with lunch. If you’ll excuse me.” Demurely Lila bows her head and turns to go.

With Prince Zuko was back to sparing with the other firebenders, Iroh took the chance to call out, “Wait.” 

Lila turns and regards him curiously as he begins to pour a cup of water, “Here, have this before you go. You might need it if you get thirsty.” He carefully hands her the tin cup. It looked like it was about to overflow. Lila looks at him questioningly but all he gives her is a knowing smile that she couldn’t quite place.

Later, after she finished helping the chef with lunch, Lila made her way back to her room, the cup still in her hands. She only took one sip from it today, either way she was going to meet with Iroh for afternoon tea soon, so she didn’t think much about it. Once inside she sat at the edge of her mattress and placed the cup on the floor in front of her. Resting her elbows on her knees, she folds her hands and places them over her lips as she stares at the water. A thought struck her, debating whether or not she should try bending again.

“I shouldn’t, I can’t even properly control it!” Lila hissed to herself.

Until Iroh’s words about breath and energy filtered through the back of her mind. Then another image appeared. The image of prince Zuko meditating with the candles in his room a few nights ago. Releasing a sigh Lila gave in and sat on the floor in a crisscrossed position, straightening her back like how she saw prince Zuko do it. Like the night before, she untied the cloth covering her face and closed her eyes. The palms of her hands braced on her knees. Deep breath in, she inhaled, and a deep breath out, she exhaled. Slowly a sense of calm and peace crept over her. Concentrating on her breath and the energy inside that she couldn’t really feel yet. Lila repeated the technique over and over, and even though she didn’t see it, with every breath she took the water rippled.

*

Thank you for reading, let me know what you think in the comments. I hope you enjoyed it.

[hysteriium]

Dazzling Devil;

(A/N): I made this for @jokerfleckk​ because she had an amazing idea and I couldn’t resist???? Also just want to say @pennyship​ is my BABE AND I LOVE HER SM FOR GOING OVER THIS BEFORE I POSTED!

Summary: Literally rewrote the whole Murray sequence lol rip. 

Pairing: Joker x reader

Warnings: smutty themes (not entirely), violence, swearing! 

////

Anxiously, you tugged at the threading of your dress. The loose strings which, although hidden for the most part, twisted between your relentless digits, acting as an escape from the simmering pressure of your surroundings. Though, as the enthusiastic, high-spirited melody of the live band, to your right, resonated in one explosive blow, this momentary retreat was short-lived. 

“We’re back with our guest, Dr. (L/n)!” 

His introduction speedily brought you back to reality, and you promptly dropped the hem of your dress, eyes snapping towards him. 

“Now!” Murray paused, immediately, turning to you.

His expression was beaming as he leaned forward in his chair, “you gotta see our next guest for yourself. Will you stick around? Maybe you can help, I’m pretty sure he could use a doctor.”

“Oh,” you paused, brows furrowing, “does he have sexual problems?” 

“He looks like he’s got a lot of problems.” Murray retorted, and you internally cringed at his mocking tone. You weren’t sure who his next ‘guest’ was, though if what Murray said was in some way true, you couldn’t imagine being ridiculed for it made the mystery guest very happy. 

The audience, as always, laughed.

“You’ll see,” he grinned, pointing towards one of the monitors. 

“Play the clip!” 

Everyone, the audience included, watched as the monitor transitioned from Murray to a man on stage. In what you assumed was provoked by his nervousness, sweat coated his forehead, trailing down his face.  

It quickly became apparent that the man had pseudobulbar affect, a condition while you knew of, weren’t particularly acquainted with – your field mainly contrived of sex therapy. 

You watched, sadly entranced, as his hands desperately clenched at his throat, trying to force his planned jokes out, only for a flurry of broken phrases to wryly pass his lips. Composing himself appeared to be an arduous task, and the dread that built up at the sight of those making fun of him, of those laughing, neared its peak. The sensation was a prominent discomfort in your gut; his suffering was deemed as a hilarity – an oddity to poke fun at – and you were the only one who empathised; who understood the anguish lost in the gloss of his eyes. Murray was wrong for making fun of this man, wrong for making fun of someone who had a condition. 

As you gazed at the audience’s thundering hysterics in shame – reflecting on the filth Gotham had become, the video ended shortly after. Murray’s voice returned once more. 

“Okay, you may have seen that clip of our next guest when we first played it two weeks ago. Now before he comes out, I just want to say that we’re all heartbroken and sensitive to what’s going on here in the city. But, honestly, I think we’re in need of a good laugh, and this is how he wanted to come out. So, please welcome, Joker!” 

On cue, the audience prompts flashed, begging for applause. The public complied and projected their excitement while the band played its specific introductory piece.  

A man strutted on stage, and an abundance of adjectives filled your mind. ‘Colourful’ had been one among the heavy flow, ‘confident’ was another and following short behind, dare you say, ‘magnetic.’

Within nanoseconds, your eyes had snapped to the male, drinking in his features. Even though they were hidden behind a thick coat of white greasepaint, as well as the ever so widespread symbolism of the clownish makeup, it wasn’t hard for you to conclude that the man who prowled his way on stage in an ostentatious manner, like a lion, was damn near gorgeous. The clip truly hadn’t done him justice.   

‘Joker’ as Murray had called him, was a name which failed to relinquish its robust hold on your thoughts; a metronome – repetitious and in tune. 

With a certain finesse, the man, after flicking his cigarette behind him uncaringly, propelled himself to his right in a series of twirls. His striking pine green hair floated behind him, and the carmine jacket followed similarly. 

Joker’s entrance secretly had you squirming in your seat. 

It was something you hated to admit, let alone acknowledge. You barely knew the guy – yet there was something about him that had you aching for more. Maybe it was the air of danger which stuck to him like a potent kind of glue, fabricating his demeanour. Or perhaps it was how those frozen eyes snapped towards you; harsh and determined, forcing you to scramble up from your seat. 

Shit, maybe you needed a doctor. 

You didn’t have time to dwell on it because once he halted the rhythmic snapping of his fingers and shook Murray’s hand, he strode right for you. The flickering twitch of his right eyebrow, complemented with his heart-stopping grin, was the last visible feature of his face as he grabbed your own with large, delicate hands. 

When he so unexpectedly pressed his painted lips to yours, you glaciated. Slender were his digits, majority sliding behind your ear, while his ring and pinky pressed up against the distinctive bone of your cheeks. His thumbs occasionally stroked the skin of your neck obliging a deep, thrilling, full-bodied shiver.

Immediately, the peculiar tang of his face paint flooded your senses, and this only worsened when you kissed back. Eyes long since fluttered shut, you felt his surprise when you responded, a gentle vibration – a grunt – tingling against your lips. The fury of the crowd’s applause, wolf whistles and shouts included, were lost on you as you focused on the softness of Joker’s lips, his rhythm slow and sensual, taking their time to sync with yours. 

When he suddenly pulled you closer to him, a sultry growl left his lips; a noise riddled with an enticing hunger. No longer were those hands at your chin, they had slithered down your body, seizing your waist with an abrasive squeeze. 

To say your body was on fire was an understatement. 

You’re unsure as to whether Joker had noticed the applause dramatically stop at his bold movements, the room worryingly silent except for the occasional awkward cough. To this, you were conscious of, very much so, but the lingering exhilaration coursing through you like a fever – at the prospect of millions of eyes watching the two of you clinging to each other – had you grinding against him. It was a move equally as brazen, though one he was equivalently pleased at; reciprocating. As he pushed up against you, a muffled moan left your stained lips, swollen, as you felt the outline of his stiffened cock in his trousers. You were completely, and utterly, devoid of shame.   

What you were both unaware of, however, were the producers signing desperately to cut the show. Many, too shocked, upon weirded out to do so, had missed the infamous ‘t’ signal, hypnotised by the bizarre scene ahead. 

Fuck you, Murray.

When you opened your mouth a little wider, Joker, not missing a beat slid his tongue past, hardly asking permission. Well and truly, the slickness between your legs had built up, and you were hyper-aware of it pooling in your panties. Giddiness was hardly the feeling you would associate with your shared moment, more accurately a carnal lust; a need displayed in the fervid movement of your leg and how it moved against his hip. The very same hands which were once gentle, eagerly maneuvered to your thigh, supporting the limb. Then, without warning – the other. 

The swift movement had you breaking away from the man – only for a second – with a titter. Furious steps, which sounded more like stumbles, filled the silent room, then a frantic voice.

“We’ll be right back folks!” 

At this, Joker, with a dramatic roll of his eyes, pulled away to look at the hollering mystery man. His make up was smudged beyond belief – namely his lips, though his sinful grin seemed to be something that couldn’t be rubbed off. When he directed his attention back to you, his tongue trailed over his teeth, placing you down. With a dangerous glint in his eye, he turned towards the audience, adjusting his waistcoat and his lapels. 

“Y-you – uh – alright...doctor?” Murray asked you, bewildered. 

You refused to look at Murray, while you were red-faced and fidgety, it was hardly because you were embarrassed. 

Joker’s eyes hadn’t left yours as his nose wrinkled in laughter. 

////

If you knew of the events which would inevitably transpire that night, there would have been a small part of you that wished you never met Joker. That you were never given the opportunity to swallow the pill that so willingly established your addiction. He was unlike any man you had met before. 

Wild, eccentric, unafraid.

Mysterious. 

Curiosity killed the cat, however, and before you knew it, you were at Joker’s side. The havoc of the studio was nothing compared to the blaze raging within his eyes. He was chaos, beauty and grace – a madman all wrapped into one. 

His hand reached out to yours, Murray’s bloodied corpse an afterthought. The Joker, who had thrown the gun somewhere, a move similar to the cigarette he had tossed prior, was void of concern. While you had been shocked at the violent move, Murray’s blood splattering across your dress, a morbid interest had you reach out for him.

His exuberance, almost child-like, heightened when you interlaced your hands together. Yet to depart from the camera’s view, he pulled you up from your seat and spun you around, then, finally dipped you. His hands had once again snaked your waist. His lips were mere centimetres from yours as his breath, warm, tingled against yours; teasing. You wanted to kiss them again – badly – and you knew he could tell from the wicked grin contorting his face. 

Oh, how absolutely enthralled you were.   

“Burn Gotham with me,” he whispered.

It was almost comedic. The way that poisonous phrase was uttered like it had in fact been something so innocuous, the way his eyes glistened with a newfound hope; hell, you would have thought he had asked you to prom. 

Perhaps a demagogue, perhaps not; what you did know was that he had changed Gotham. Propelled it into chaos with the deaths of those three men. Tension had been building up for God knew how long, but he had been the catalyst for the end. Gotham had finally reached its boiling point. 

Without thinking, you breathed an agreement. 

And, at that moment, you had sold your soul. 

To the dazzling devil.

[anigodd]

part 1 of a new thingy

Inspired by “What One Must” by JumpingInMudPuddles on A03, specifically the last chapter (6). Also inspired by Stephen King’s ‘Misery’.

Trigger warnings: severe broken bones, gore, mentions of being chained, depictions of severe pain, swearing, yelling(?), mentions of death (not major)

I’m back on my bullshit where I sink my greedy little claws into a character and make them suffer for no reason :))

—————————

When Phil was put under house arrest, he was more amused than intimidated. He listened to people walk around him as they led him to his house with a small smile (and if that unnerved the little squad that was escorting him, it wasn’t his fault entirely). Tubbo had told him why he was being incarcerated, sure, but he nearly laughed at the hesitation and fear Quakity exhibited when told to put the monitor on his ankle. He saw the poor boy’s hands shake so hard when he was clasping the iron monitor on him that he nearly offered to do it himself. Almost. Fundy and Ranboo, well, he didn’t have anything against them. They didn’t let him escape but they also didn’t do anything remotely violent towards him besides standing and watching him.

Yet.

So, Phil hatched a plan. He wasn’t going to sit in his house like a good little boy and expect to be let off because of his ‘good behavior’. He had shit to do. People to see. Anarchy to plan.

And if he missed seeing his boys, could you blame him? They had just managed to bring Wilbur back to life, able to see his real smile, able to hold him again, able to just be in his middle son’s presence. And if Phil often woke up in the middle of the night in a panic to check to make sure his son was still breathing, could you blame him? He and Wilbur had yet to talk about what happened but he was confident that they would understand each other better than they have in years.

Phil wasn’t too worried about Techno but he knew his eldest would begin to worry if he didn’t visit within a week. Though Techno would never admit it, he worried about Phil being in L’manburg. He would offer up his guest bedroom, gaze facing away from Phil as he fiddled with his sleeves, hoping for Phil to stay longer. Phil would warmly smile at his eldest and tease him, making a blush creep on the pinkette’s face as he accepted the offer. It never failed to warm his heart to know that he was still wanted by his sons.

And Tommy....they still hadn’t managed to find him yet. His youngest had always been a spitfire—passionate and always burning—but it often got him into trouble. Hence, the exile. Phil had sighed deeply when Techno told him as his eldest hid snickers behind his hand while they ate dinner. They were sure he would show up in a few days, but then a week, then two weeks, then a month went by and they were beginning to get worried.

Phil couldn’t handle to potential of losing another son, especially Tommy. The kid had barged into the house so many years ago and immediately brought chaos and liveliness into their little cottage. He taught Wilbur to embrace his hobbies and Techno to laugh. He helped his two boys to bond with Tommy as the glue.

Tommy taught Phil how to be a better father.

And if Tommy was gone alongside Wil, what kind of father was he? ————————— He probably should’ve expected that people would be checking to make sure he was still in his house. It’s why he was so caught off-guard by the butt of an axe swinging into his temple and knocking him to the ground. Black spots danced in his vision while his ears rang. He groaned when he was yanked to his feet and dragged back to his house, head pounding and thoughts jumbled.

He probably blacked out for a bit because suddenly a healing potion was being poured into his throat and the worried face of Tubbo swam into his vision.

Phil was...lying on the floor?

“What the fuck?” he mumbled.

He tried to move his arms but found that they were held down by something cold and heavy. Phil quickly snapped out of his dazed state and followed where his body was laying on the floor in front of his bed, the chains on his wrists, to the shackles on the walls.

These bastards just chained him to the wall! Aw, hell no.

“Tubbo,” Phil began, “why am I chained to the wall?” His voice was deceivingly polite but rage was evident in his eyes.

Tubbo held back a flinch at the hatred directed at him and motioned for Quakity and Fundy to stand beside him. Ranboo was not there.

Phil looked each of them in the eyes, reveling in their fear before Quakity spoke.

“The President has increased the severity of your, Philza Minecraft’s, sentence due to your escape attempt. As a result, you must be shackled to your house alongside the ankle monitor in order to prevent another escape. Any other attempts may be met with severe consequences.” Quakity’s voice wavered as Phil’s glare turned downright menacing.

However, Phil quickly turned to Fundy as his once-grandson spoke.

“Phil, listen, we didn’t want to have to do this but—“

“Don’t talk to me, Fundy, I think you’ve already done enough,” is all Phil said before turning to Tubbo, ignoring the hurt look he got.

He raised an eyebrow. “So, Mr. President,” he mocked, “how long is my sentence now?”

Tubbo hesitated and looked out the window before responding.

“Until Dream thinks you’re no longer a threat,” he said softly.

Phil blanched. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.

Dream could want Phil out of the way for a hundred different reasons, but each revolved around his sons. And now Phil was stuck.

He was stuck, but not hopeless.

Hell. Fucking. No.

He didn’t see Tubbo and his entourage leave his house nor did he hear the doors close. He was too busy formulating a plan—one that included breaking one of the most important rules in the Dream SMP:

No flying. —————————

Phil has dislocated his shoulder many times, but each time he was either in a battle or chained up like this by bigoted humans. Regardless, it still hurt like a bitch.

It took him 30 minutes in order to get into the right position and another 20 minutes in order to calm himself down and brace his arm against the wall.

One pop later and several loud strings of curses, Phil was able to reach his back where he kept a hidden weapon underneath his kimono. He nearly cried in relief when he felt the hilt of the dagger, clutching onto it and letting his shoulder fall limp but his nerves were on fire.

He dropped the dagger on the floor, closing his eyes and laying on the bed. Phil took deep breaths to prevent him from either passing out, or vomiting, or both.

‘Come on Phil, you have to do this. For Wil, for Techno, for Tommy.’

‘Dadza pog.’

‘Old man injured.’

‘Life alert.’

‘You can do this, Phil!’

‘U u R r’

‘Happy 3 months pog’

‘Phil pop your shoilder back in it’s bad for you.’

He chuckled as the voices mixed with his thoughts. They could be encouraging at times and, in times like these, they were well appreciated. He sat up and braced his arm again, listening to the pop and the stabbing pain that came with fixing a shoulder.

He let out a deep breath and made sure to keep his shoulder still. He had nothing to wrap it with yet and he couldn’t afford to have a permanently stiff shoulder.

Phil picked up his dagger, held it to the chains, and snapped the bloody things like sticks. He rubbed his wrists from where the chains were—not too red, he noted—and immediately went to fetch a sling and some bandages from a chest.

‘Old manza’

‘oh no guys he’s hurt let him be’

‘haha old man hurt’

‘dadza supremecy’

‘badass Phil’

“Shut the fuck up, guys,” he said fondly.

—————————

Luckily, he already had everything he needed packed and ready to go. His house in L’manburg wasn’t really his home and kept it minimally stocked. Unfortunately, he didn’t have potions because Techno always had so many at his house that Phil never needed a brewing stand.

He regrets that because now he’s one arm down in case a fight breaks out.

Phil shakes his head. He can’t think about the ‘what-ifs’ right now. What mattered was getting his shit together and making a break for it out of this gods-forsaken country.

He set his one bag down and double-checked his inventory and weapons. Everything was in order, at least to him. He can feel the buzzing at the back of his head get stronger as the voices told him he was forgetting something.

He ignored them and moved on to the most important part of his plan: his wings.

It had been way too long since he flew but he still kept them groomed and preened under his robes, specifically for emergencies like this.

He shrugged off his clothes, blatantly ignoring the voices yelling about stripping and dad bod, and groaned as he stretched his purple and black wings above his head. Phil shook them out a bit, watching as the feathers puffed and settled down before grabbing his custom clothes and slipping them on.

There wasn’t much of a difference between his other clothes and the new ones except they made room for his wings. He grabbed his trusty bucket hat, bag, and axe before checking his windows.

He didn’t see anyone outside, but it was around midnight. If he was lucky, they wouldn’t notice he was gone until dawn. Phil put his bag over his injured shoulder much to his dismay, held his axe in his good hand, and exited his house.

He checked his surroundings once again and lept off of his balcony in the direction of Techno’s house. Phil glided towards the walls and was nearly free until an arrow pierced his left wing, causing him to tumble and land on his bad shoulder.

His cries of pain alerted his attacker of his location. He shoved all pain to the side, got up, and began to run. More voices followed him and shouts for him to stop were ignored.

He was so close to the walls. If he could make it right up to the edge and push his wings to force him to fly over the edge he would be free.

He just didn’t account for Dream to be joining the search as well. Phil was suddenly pushed to the side and lost his balance, stumbling onto his hands and knees as the masked figure approached him.

Phil knew he could probably fight Dream long enough in order to get away, but there were four other people surrounding him, he was tired, injured, and hadn’t eaten anything all day.

To top it off, Dream clutched his injured shoulder, eliciting a grunt of pain from Phil. He just didn’t understand one thing: how did they find him?

He must have asked that out loud because Dream taps his ankle with his axe and Phil looks down.

That stupid ankle monitor.

He forgot to cut it off when he cut off the chains.

His eyes widened as his breaths now came in gasps. If they put him in chains for one escape attempt, what would they do for a second? And with Dream here? He’ll get no mercy.

“Dream?” Tubbo asked from beside Phil.

He inclined his head towards Tubbo, never taking his eyes off Phil.

“What, uh, what do you want us to do with him?” Tubbo was nervous. He was fidgeting and rocking back on his heels. He probably knew that whatever was going to happen to Phil would not be pretty.

Dream feigned thinking for a moment. “Go back to Phil’s house and wait there for me. I’ll be there in a few minutes after having a chat with Mr. Philza here,” Dream instructed before turning to fully face Phil, his hand tightening on his shoulder.

As he heard their footsteps retreat, Phil felt genuine fear sink its teeth into him. Dream was notorious for his punishments that didn’t fit the crime, and now that Phil has broken two of Dream’s rules, he was sure he wasn’t going to be making it out of L’manburg.

He heard Dream sigh from in front of him and Phil tensed. The voices had gone silent.

“Phil, Phil, Phil, come on. I expected better from you,” he patronized.

Phil could feel anger starting to brew in his chest.

“I give you one simple rule to follow and that was no flying. I even let you keep your wings—“

Let him?!

“And you abuse that freedom by breaking your sentence in order to escape—“

“Oh and I was just supposed to sit there like a good boy?! I fucking hate this place and now you act all high and mighty—“ he was cut off by a hard punch to the cheek.

His head swung to the side as pain laced his face. The action caused his shoulder to be jostled and he let out a groan. The front of his shirt was grabbed and he was met with the white porcelain of Dream’s mask.

“Listen here Phil, I did not work my ass off to keep L’manburg in line just to let you ruin all of my hard work,”

“I-“

“And I think you need to be taught a lesson in obedience,” he said angrily as he let Phil’s shirt go.

Before he could even attempt an escape, a wooden beam came down onto his left leg hard. He could feel his bone crack in his shin followed by a sickening sound that only came with a shattering bone.

Phil screamed.

He tried to move away but his arm was fucked, his eyes were blurry from tears, and now his leg was fucked, too. Dream hefted the beam up again and Phil begged him not too do it again, that he would go to his house quietly, but Dream ignored him. He swore he could see a sadistic smile under Dream’s mask from where Phil was on the ground.

As soon as Dream broke Phil’s other leg, all he heard was the crack of his last hope of freedom and the never-ending fire that consumed his legs.

He must have screamed his throat raw because when he woke up in his bed, he couldn’t speak, walk, or make any new attempts at an escape.

For the first time, he felt hopeless.

(Phil cried for hours after he found out his wings had been chained to the wall instead of his hands.)

[dessarious]

Broken Harmony Pt2

Master List 1   Master List 2     Prologue   Beginning   Next

Part 2. for now most of this story is going to be Damian’s PoV. I might switch back to Mari, or redo some of it in her PoV but I haven’t decided yet.

When they reached the hotel Damian didn’t even bother to go to his room. Jet-lagged and ready to fight anything and everything in his path he took to the streets of Paris letting the song guide him. He vaguely heard his father calling after him as he exited the hotel but after that nothing really penetrated. He just kept walking and listening. He was forced to backtrack multiple times as a street wound away from his soulmate. It was after midday when he came to a stop in front of a school.

Looking around at all the teenagers he just wanted to rip into someone. The closer he’d gotten to his soulmate the stronger he felt her worry and something else… fear maybe? It hadn’t been there before but he wasn’t sure if it was new or if the distance between them had masked it. It didn’t matter though. Once he found her things would be different. He was willing to burn Paris to the ground if that’s what it took to make her happy again.

He could feel eyes on him from every direction and Damian had a feeling his murderous intent was plain for all to see. Judging from the fact that they were all milling about outside he assumed they were on lunch or possibly in between classes. Since he had no real idea how schools worked in France finding his soulmate felt like a race against the clock. He wanted, no needed, to find her before classes resumed. Deep down he knew that waiting until the end of the day would have disastrous consequences. 

“How could you?!” The shrill voice drew Damian’s attention to the left side of the courtyard where a crowd was gathering. At its center were three girls. One was hanging off the second while pretending to cry. He could tell it was fake from where he stood and wondered how any of these idiots believed her act. The second was where the voice originated. He took them it at a glance but it was the third person that captured his attention.

 She was smaller than almost everyone around her but her presence was so much larger. Even with her shoulders slumped in resignation or maybe defeat she was still a bastion of strength and power. He started moving towards her without realizing it. The song had led him here and there was no doubt in his mind that this was his soulmate. 

“Alya, I don’t know what she told you but…” Her words were cut off by a resounding slap. Damian watched as his soulmate, his Angel staggered back and ended up being tripped by one of the others and falling to the ground. The shock and hurt on her face matched the song in his head and he picked up his pace to get to her but before he could the group closed in around her.

Her pain, hurt, and despair were singing strong enough to make him feel like he was drowning. He knew there was sound but couldn’t make out specifics through the fog of rage engulfing him. He forcefully moved bodies out of his way with no regard for how much if any damage he caused. Once he made it through the mass of bodies he found his soulmate on the ground, curled up and covering her head as some people were still aiming kicks at her. 

“Next person who touches her won’t live to regret it.” 

Damian didn’t know if it was his tone or the look on his face that got the majority to back off and he didn’t care. It was taking all of his self control not to commit mass murder. The only thing holding him back was the need to make sure his Angel was okay, or at least didn’t need to go to the hospital. 

As he walked closer to her the vibrations from the resonance started to take over and drown out even his barely suppressed anger. He’d never really known what to expect when meeting his soulmate, but this… he couldn’t even describe it. There was a feeling of rightness, of calm even. But it was suddenly feeling whole for the first time in his life that really caught him off guard. His entire life he’d been missing something and hadn’t even known it. 

He knelt down next to her, almost scared to touch her as the resonance hummed insistently throughout his body. He wasn’t sure he could survive it getting much stronger even though he knew that was foolish. No one died from their soulmate bond, though more than a few had gone insane once their partner died. When you’ve lived your whole life with the song in your head the sudden silence was maddening. 

“Are you alright Angel?” He tried to soften his voice but she flinched at the sound. Before he could make another attempt the shrew who had slapped her spoke again.

“This is none of your business. We’re just giving a bully what’s coming to them.” Literally everyone else had taken one look at Damian and backed off. Everyone except this self-righteous harpy. 

“Turn and walk away if you value your pathetic life little girl.” Damian’s voice came out as more of a growl and the girl finally seemed to sense the danger coming off of him. At least that was his assumption when she slowly backed up without responding. Taking a deep breath he turns back to his soulmate who hasn’t moved. His anger is slowly being replaced by worry and panic. If they had really hurt her they would pay in blood.

“Angel I need you to talk to me. Do you want me to take you to the hospital?” He still didn’t touch her not sure if she was ready for him to. 

“She’s fine. You can stop with the dramatics and get up Mari. I know you’re not actually hurt.”

His rage ramped back up turning white hot as he glared at the blonde boy leaning against the wall. He had been a spectator the entire time. Not a part of it but not bothering to step in and stop it in any way.

“How the hell would you know? Were you the one that got slapped? The one who was kicked over and over again?”

The boy had the audacity to sigh in annoyance and his tone when he next spoke was as if he was patiently explaining something to a toddler. “She’s fine. Mari just overreacts to things. There’s no need for you to be here or get involved.”

Damian was about to lunge for the boy’s throat when a hand settled lightly on his wrist. The song in his head exploded into a symphony where it was once more like a quartet. He could hear the combination of both of their emotions blending together seamlessly while still being able to pick out each one individually. One of those emotions was fading but it stopped him in his tracks. A lot of her fear had been of him, not the people around them. Something in his own emotions was obviously making that fear go away but it still hurt that it was there in the first place.

When he looked up from where her hand touched him Damian stopped breathing entirely. Even with a bruised cheek and split lip from being slapped, she was gorgeous. As much as he wanted to go after the ones who had hurt her he could feel her want, no need, to just get away. Now that the bond was fully formed he could also tell how much pain she was in. Her injuries weren’t life threatening but she really did need to go to a hospital.

“Can you stand?” He kept his volume low in the hopes that the idiot from before wouldn’t hear him. Damian wasn’t sure he’d be able to restrain himself if that idiot spoke again. She blinked at him almost as if coming out of a trance and nodded once. He wondered if it was just from the bond or if she had a head injury too.  

He stood up and carefully helped her off the ground. In the process he noticed that a couple fingers on her right hand looked to be broken. Judging by her movements and the pain nearly screaming at him through the bond it was a good bet her ribs were, at best, bruised as well. Still she didn’t show it at all. No crying, yelling, or even a wince. Her face was a blank mask and his blood began to boil once more at the thought that this obviously wasn’t the first time she’d suffered injuries this severe.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.” Her words forced him back out of his head. She was in so much pain, physically and emotionally, but here she was trying to reassure him. She wasn’t just saying the words either, he could actually feel a warmth through the bond trying to sooth him. He was so busy trying to figure out how someone so caring could exist at all, let alone with whatever she’d been going through, that it took him a moment to realize this was the first time he’d heard her voice.

Given the intimacy of their connection her voice shouldn’t have been a big deal. Somehow it was, and the bond actually seemed to enhance it. Physically he heard the weariness in her voice, the smallness of it. Mentally he felt all her pain and exhaustion, the lack of self confidence, and the almost desperate want for someone to care about her. He’d known before that her life had been in a downward spiral but he hadn’t expected her to be so broken.

“Yes, you will be fine because this will never happen again.” Damian glared at everyone still standing around the courtyard. “I’m taking you to the hospital and once they’ve said you’re okay to leave we’re talking to my Father and your parents and fixing this situation. Starting with pulling you out of this school of idiots and cowards.” He may not have any idea what was actually going on but the fact the all those not involved simply sat by and watched as his soulmate was attacked made him feel the description was accurate. 

She just blinked at him. The feelings he recognized through the bond were making his temper rise again. The one that really got to him was surprise. It was as if she was shocked he seemed to care for her or was putting her well-being as a priority. Before her song changed he got the feeling she was social. He’d felt loneliness very rarely in her song. Now it seemed to be constant. Could neglect have caused this in six months? He didn’t know but he was going to make damn sure she was put first from now on. 

“I really don’t need to go to the hospital. It’s not that bad.” She was fidgeting and wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Angel I can feel your pain.” He gently grabbed her wrists and looked at her hands and arms. “And I’m not blind. You’ve got at least three broken fingers, probably more fractured. There are cuts and bruises already forming all along your arms and that’s just what I can see. Given that you were covering your head I’m hopeful you don’t have a concussion but it means any shots to your ribs were unobstructed. I’m taking you to a hospital. I’ll carry you if I have to.”

Her eyes shot up to his and her cheeks turned pink. Looking into her eyes he could have gotten lost if not for the fact that apparently that shrew had slapped her hard enough to burst a blood vessel in her eye in addition to splitting her lip. At least he hoped it was all from the slap. 

“Okay. There’s a hospital nearby we can walk to.” She paused and uncertainty tinged the music in his head. “I’m Marinette.” Damian mentally slapped himself. He’d been so caught up in what was happening he hadn’t even bothered to introduce himself. She giggled, he assumed at his embarrassment coming through the bond, before wincing as the movement must have hurt her ribs.

“I’m Damian.” The smile she gave him was so bright and happy he wasn’t sure how to react. No one had ever looked at him like that. “Shall we go?” He wanted to take her hand or put an arm around her to lead her away from this nightmare but he was afraid of touching her. The last thing he wanted was to cause her more pain.

Her smile shifted into something softer, something that felt private somehow. She obviously sensed his reticence and took his hand in hers, the one without the broken fingers, and slowly walked him out of the courtyard. As they walked he went over everything that had happened in his head again and kept going back to the moment she touched him and her fear.

“You want to ask me something.” It wasn’t a question, she could probably feel it though the bond.

“You weren’t scared of them even though they were hurting you, but you were scared of me. Why?” She frowned and he could feel her concentration through the bond. She started biting her lip before hitting the cut and wincing.

“I wasn’t scared of them because I’m used to their anger.” She paused and shot a furtive look at his face. “I was worried you would be mad at me.” Her voice was so soft and unsure. Now that he knew what it was he could feel the worry though the bond. She was still scared that he would get upset with her. 

“Why would I be mad at you? You didn’t do anything wrong.” Once again he wanted to destroy whoever had caused her to be so uncertain of herself.

“You’ve been angry ever since… since my song had to have changed. I thought maybe you were upset with me about it.” 

“You what?” His astonishment seemed to cause a rush of relief in her. He pulled her to a stop and made her face him. He knew she would be able to feel his sincerity through the bond but he still wanted her to see it in his face as well. “I was never mad at you. I was furious that you had been hurt so badly and worried that it felt so different. I wanted to rip off the head of who or whatever had dimmed the joy you had always radiated.” 

“Thank you.” The words were whispered and she had tears in her eyes. She was actually thanking him for being mad for her rather than at her. His grip on her hand tightened and he cupped her unbruised cheek with the other.

“You never have to thank me for being on your side. I hear you, the real you. Just like you hear the real me. I may not know what happened but I do know without question you aren’t at fault. Even though you blame yourself.”

She gave him another one of those soft, private smiles and the song in his head created a harmony so pure it was almost painful in its perfection. It receded slowly as some of her pain resurfaced and it brought him back to his current destination. He ran his thumb lightly over her cheek before pulling away and tugging them both back into motion.

Master List 1   Master List 2    Prologue   Beginning   Next

[itsmyusualphannie]

watermelon sugar high

Title: watermelon sugar high (ao3) Beta: @counting2fifteen Artist: @violetofthesea Word Count: 3.5k Warnings: none Rating: T

Summary: Dan is the son of Hades, god of the Underworld, while Phil is the son of Hebe, goddess of youth and vitality. They couldn't be more different, but somehow they're friends (and maybe a little more). A Percy Jackson AU.

Author Notes: yes this is my second fic for @phandomreversebang! yes, it’s the day after my other one! no, i don’t have any shame! don’t forget to check out emma’s art for this fic!

~~~

It was mid-day and Phil’s neck was damp with sweat beneath the heavy rays of the sun high above. Chatter and clanging of utensils against dishes rang clear around him, the air heavy with the noise of over a hundred campers clustered around tables in the Dining Pavilion. Many of the tables were full, piled with teenagers and food, but a few of the tables around the edge of the gathering were sparsely occupied.

One table, in particular, had Phil’s attention. He watched it with one eye as he methodically made his way through the slab of roast beef, mound of mashed potatoes, and herbed vegetables piled on his plate. The table he was watching didn’t have a single occupant, though there should have been one. If the tables weren’t specifically assigned, Phil had no doubt he would be sitting there.

A ruckus arose from one of the tables across the pavilion. Phil could barely see what was going on, his sight hampered by the leaping flames of the bonfire in the centre of the arranged tables, but he could tell by the various bellowing and shrill yelling that something important was happening.

“We got another fuckin’ Apollo kid!” someone bellowed, and the table that was just beside Phil erupted. In a simultaneous motion, they rose and moved as a mass across the pavilion, whooping and leaping.

It was a claiming, then. Phil could see the kid now, jostled between two tall blonde-haired teens as they practically hauled him back toward the table they’d just vacated. The kid was wide-eyed in either excitement or terror, and Phil could see the bright golden laurel wreath glowing just above his head. It was an obvious symbol from his godly father, Apollo.

The kid was squeezed onto a bench at the table and immediately drawn into conversation with the others at the table, all of them his half-siblings. Phil watched them for a moment, entertained by the outgoing nature of the Apollo campers and the way they immediately drew in their newly-claimed half-brother. One of his closest friends, PJ, was an Apollo child - and there he was now, catching Phil’s gaze and waving. He had the familiar blinding grin that all of Apollo’s children seemed to claim, although unlike many of the others’ golden curls, his hair was tousled dark waves. He turned back to the new kid and joined the chatter directed at him, and Phil laughed a little before going back to his own food.

Phil’s table wasn’t nearly as crowded as the Apollo table. His godly mother, Hebe, didn’t quite have the same voracious sexual appetite that many of the major gods and goddesses seemed to have. There were less than a dozen of Phil’s half-siblings at the long table, and he wasn’t particularly close to any of them. His friends, collected through various training activities and games, were scattered around the pavilion at different tables.

There was PJ, son of Apollo, at the table right next to him; Natalie, daughter of Dionysus, a few tables away as she waved a cup of grape juice and laughed boisterously; Olly, son of Athena, navigating between his notebook and arguing with one of his siblings; and Louise, daughter of Aphrodite, fingers deep in one of her brother’s long silvery locks as she weaved his hair into a braid.

For the dozenth time since Phil had come to lunch, he looked over at the empty table at the edge of the pavilion. There was a single plate on the table, but no one ate from it. That was where Phil’s best of friends usually sat, but he was noticeably absent.

Around Phil, a few campers were already climbing from their seats and heading toward the bonfire in the middle of the pavilion, so he grabbed his plate and joined them. It took only a moment to scrape his leftovers into the crackling fire, the usual ritual that offered the smell of their feast to the gods, and then he headed out. He offered a wave to Olly, who was frowning intensely as he disputed with another Athena teen but returned Phil’s gesture, and swung by the empty table to steal the plate that was sitting unattended. It was still piled high with the same meal that Phil had eaten earlier. Phil supposed he had dumped a sufficient offering from his own plate to make up for taking this other, so he hopped down the steps to the pavilion and took off across the campground.

He knew where he needed to go. There was only one place his friend would be instead of the Dining Pavilion, where he would need to sit at a table alone, surrounded by too-loud campers and conversation in which he couldn’t partake.

The sound of boisterous chatter faded behind Phil as he struck out down the dirt pathway. He gripped the plate with both hands, more than a little worried that his natural clumsiness would somehow force him to trip over nothing and lose the food. The path may be smooth, but that didn’t mean much when Phil was walking on it.

It only took him a few minutes to reach the cabins, arranged neatly in a horseshoe pattern, but Phil barely cast them a look as he hurried past. The cabins, each named after its patron god or goddess, were designed and decorated in the style of their benefactor. Phil could see the Hermes cabin, still a good distance from it, and its overflowing trinkets and accumulated trash. It wasn’t quite as full as it used to be, but there were still a lot of Hermes’ children sleeping there.

Phil was grateful that he didn’t have many siblings since his cabin wasn’t too packed, but as his gaze fell upon the Big Three cabins - Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades - he couldn’t help the pang of compassion for the few children of those gods. There were only two of Zeus’ children, both gone on missions outside the camp; one of Poseidon’s sons, who Phil hadn’t seen since last summer; and one son of Hades. Their cabins, tall and glorious, seemed to loom over the others. The Zeus cabin was bright and almost painful to look at for more than a few seconds at a time, the Poseidon cabin was elegant and arched, like a wave crashing to the shore, while the Hades cabin was dark and ominous, shadows licking around the edges.

Phil was more familiar with the Hades cabin than any of the others. That one drew his gaze more than the others, even more than his own mother’s slender, golden cabin. He wondered for a moment if his friend was hiding there instead of eating lunch, but Phil shook off the thought. He didn’t want to second-guess himself, so he continued on down the path, passing cabin after cabin and the occasional other camper who had left lunch early.

He got a brief look at The Big House, where the camp director Chiron stayed, before he passed the Forge. Billowing grey clouds were drifting from the towering smokestacks and Phil could hear the ringing clang of hammer against metal inside. The Hephaestus children were hard at work, it seemed.

Someone screamed on Phil’s right and he jumped to the side just in time to avoid a pale-haired boy sprint past, his arms churning. A red-faced girl wearing full armour and a long, slender lance in one hand thundered after him, but the metal was slowing her down. A malicious laugh floated back from the boy, clearly a son of Hermes. If Phil didn’t recognise the girl bearing down on the boy as a daughter of Athena, he would have assumed her to be one of Ares’ children, with the way her muscles coiled and amber eyes burned bright with rage.

Phil watched them hurtle down the path back toward the cabins, and then they disappeared from view around the gleaming Apollo cabin. He was used to the antics, though, and he continued on undisturbed, the plate still gripped in his hands.

Rounding the Forge, he smelled the strawberry fields before he saw them. The sweet, delicate scent surrounded him, drowning out the blunt iron and copper smell emanating from the Forge. He made his way toward them, avoiding the miscellaneous gardening supplies scattered next to the low picket fence that surrounded the fields in a sloping sprawl. It looked like the Demeter kids hadn’t finished their gardening before lunch had been called.

The rows of strawberries were long. For ease of picking, they were on tall shelves of dirt almost three feet above the ground, with deep furrows between them. Phil made his way along the side of the fence, peering down the length of each row. They stretched for what seemed like miles, bright green plants dotted with red berries.

Finally, Phil spotted the person he was hunting. A figure was sitting cross-legged a few dozen metres down one row, his dark clothes and hair blending effortlessly with the rich earth surrounding him on two sides. He was slumped, head ducked over something in his lap.

Phil let out a little cheer and swung his leg over the squat fence. Even if it had been taller, it wouldn’t have made much difference, not with his impossibly long legs. He straddled it for a moment, balancing the plate with one hand, and then he was over it and trotting down the narrow pathway between the cleaved mounds of dirt. Despite their height, they barely reached his waist.

“Dan!” called Phil as he approached, but didn’t receive a reply nor an answering gaze. Huffing impatiently, he hurried a little faster. He tromped to a stop next to his friend and immediately dropped to the dirt next to him, his shoulders thumping awkwardly against the dirt walls. His hair barely brushed the stalks of the strawberry plants beside him, and now that he was amongst them, their scent was overwhelmingly cloying and saccharine. He could almost taste them on his tongue.

“Hey,” Phil prodded, nudging Dan with his elbow. “I brought you lunch.” He offered the plate.

Dan looked up, and Phil could see what he had been preoccupied with. It was a slim Nintendo DS, the dancing graphics pausing as Dan lifted his thumbs. “Thanks,” he said, his voice almost a croak. He coughed, clearing his throat. “Um,” he tried again, “yeah. Thank you.” He offered the handheld console to Phil, and they traded items. Dan clutched the still-warm plate like the most delicate of flowers, while Phil folded his fingers around the console and peered down at it.

“Mario Kart?” he asked, delighted.

Dan nodded, mouth already stuffed with a spoonful of mashed potatoes. “Mm,” he said and then rolled his eyes long-sufferingly at the pleading gaze Phil shot him. He swallowed his mouthful. “Yeah, whatever, go ahead.”

Beaming, Phil unpaused the game and began playing where Dan had left off. He only dedicated half of his attention to the gameplay, glancing up at Dan every few seconds to make sure he was eating.

Dan polished off his plate in record time. Phil would have been worried that he hadn’t eaten all day if he hadn’t seen him at the pavilion for breakfast that morning. He set the plate on the ground, the side opposite to Phil’s position beside him, and just watched Phil as his fingers sped over the controls.

“Still hungry?” Phil finally asked, pausing the game and looking from the empty plate to Dan.

Dan shrugged, which was as good as a spoken reply. Phil handed the console back and reached over his head, feeling the thick berry plants with careful fingers. The rough leaves brushed against his hands, but he didn’t stop until he closed his fingers around the distinct form of a thick berry. He withdrew them, brushing the few specks of dirt from the strawberry. It was dark red and plump, clearly ripe for picking.

Phil offered it to Dan, but Dan didn’t reach out for it. Instead, he leaned forward toward Phil, eyes dark as he parted his lips expectantly. Phil quirked a smile subconsciously, but he didn’t hesitate, placing the tip of the berry against Dan’s mouth and sliding it forward until Dan’s teeth closed down over the fruit, biting it in half. Phil held it up until Dan had swallowed that portion, then pressed it up against his lips again until he bit into that as well.

He plucked another berry without delay, briefly dusting it before holding it out again. Dan obediently ate it as he had done with the previous, lips gleaming with the juice from the ripe berries. Phil fed him another half-dozen before Dan sat back, apparently satiated.

Phil flicked away the leafy portion of the strawberry that Dan hadn’t eaten, but it flipped through the air and landed stubbornly on Dan’s jeans. The dark green was a stark contrast against Dan’s black trousers. Phil snorted a laugh. “You could use a little colour in your life,” he told Dan, who didn’t look impressed as he swiped at the discarded leaves until they fell to the packed dirt beside him.

“My outfit is an aesthetic and stylistic choice,” said Dan primly, tossing his head as though he had long, flowing locks and not tightly-wound curls and buzzed sides of his hair.

Phil eyed Dan’s black shirt with a faint shimmering skeleton outline, the tiny silver hoop in his right ear, the tight dark jeans, the black high-top shoes, and let his gaze linger as he trailed it back up to Dan’s eyes. “Sure,” he finally said, amused. “You’re not at all going with your father’s Underworld theme.”

Dan shrugged nonchalantly, picking at a root that was protruding from the dirt just beside his shoulder. “Just because Hades is my dad doesn’t mean I have to dress like this. It’s a personal choice.”

“Of course,” Phil agreed, grinning at the faux-offended, half-hearted punch Dan offered to his knee. “Ow.” He plucked another strawberry and glanced quickly at it before he lifted it to his own lips, and he was glad he did look at it. There was a shrivelled brown area near the tip of the berry. He narrowed his eyes at it. A familiar sensation made its way known deep in his chest, burning hot and spreading through his body, down his arms, to his hand. A faint glimmer manifested on his fingertips, feeling like the tiny pop-crackle from a flame, and enveloped the berry in a swarm of small flickering sparks.

The berry trembled in his grip, and then all at once, it was visibly shifting, the dark red of the berry smoothly slipping over the withered area. In an instant, it was a normal strawberry with no defects. The warm feeling withdrew from Phil’s hands, arms, shoulders, and nestled back into that small space in his chest that he rarely let loose. He surveyed the berry again, pleased at the plumpness of the skin, then popped the entire fruit in his mouth.

Dan had watched the entire procedure with a curious expression. No matter how many times he had seen Phil de-age various items, he still seemed to find it fascinating. Phil wasn’t sure why, since in his opinion, Dan’s otherworldly communication with and control of the dead seemed far more exciting than Phil’s ability to restore a few small objects to their past glory. Their individual parents’ gifts were always useful in some unique way, though.

A bell rang in the distance, the clear sound making its way even to the strawberry fields where they both hid from the rest of the camp. Dan and Phil startled in unison, then laughed at themselves. Time had gotten away from them, and they hadn’t even noticed, although that wasn’t particularly unusual.

Phil reluctantly stood, his legs almost wobbly beneath them as he grabbed the dirt row next to him for balance, and then held out a hand for Dan. Accepting the help, Dan gripped his hand and hauled himself up, tucking the Nintendo console into his back pocket. 

They both looked back down at the empty plate Dan had cleared off with disconsolate expressions, then at each other. Instantly, their hands flew up and they touched their nose, speaking in unison, “Not it!”

Dan sighed, dropping his hand. He had been a fraction too slow. “Damn it.” He eyed the plate, lying at a lopsided angle on a lump of dirt.

Phil realised what he was going to do an instant before he did it. “Dan!” he protested, but it was too late. Dan lifted a foot and stomped the ground, which split beneath the contact. A narrow, yawning chasm opened beneath Dan’s feet and stretched hungrily toward the plate. It wavered on the edge of the crevice, then gave out and toppled into it. It fell endlessly, spinning round and round into the gaping darkness in the opening. Dan tapped his foot against the ground again, considerably less aggressively, and the chasm sealed itself shut, leaving nothing out of place but a few disrupted clumps of dirt where it had been.

Phil glowered half-heartedly at Dan. “Now we’re going to have a missing plate,” he attempted to scold him. “Also, blatant misuse of your death powers.”

Dan shrugged. “No one’ll notice.” Phil noticed that he didn’t refute the “death powers” title, as he was clearly pleased by it.

“Fine,” Phil sighed. It wasn’t much point arguing further; besides, now neither of them had to haul the plate back to the dining pavilion. Maybe some skeleton or spirit deep in the Underworld would appreciate the crumbs of food still clinging to the plate. Or would they? Phil wondered if they could eat the food if they found it. Could they eat the plate?

Dan tugged Phil’s arm and he started out of his thoughts. “Huh? Oh. Ready for riding lessons?”

Sighing, Dan began trudging toward the fence, out of the row of strawberries. “You mean, ready to watch you pretend you’re not terrified of horses?”

“Hey!” Phil complained, following him. “I don’t pretend! I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone that I don’t like them.”

Dan snorted a laugh. They reached the fence and Dan went over it with an easy hop. He waited until Phil joined him, and then they began walking along the fence back toward the main area of the camp. The stables were visible from here, although barely.

Grass whispered against Phil’s ankles as he trudged alongside Dan. He stole a few glances over, but Dan noticed almost immediately.

“What?”

Phil laughed. “Nothing! I just like looking at you, that’s all.” He was gratified by the patchy blush that crawled up Dan’s jaw and cheek.

“Shut up,” he grumped, but a smile was creeping over his lips. 

Phil poked Dan’s deepest dimple and offered his own grin. “Remember when we first met? You were all quiet and sullen with your fully-black outfit and Pokémon hat. You were so annoyed when I started talking to you.”

“How could I forget? You hauled me into your friend group and forced me to get along with everyone.” Dan batted Phil’s hand away from his face, but when Phil pouted at him, he gave in and grabbed his hand to clutch between them. 

Phil swung their clenched hands between them, delighted. “They’re our friends,” he rejoined. “It’s been almost five years since you showed up here as an eleven-year-old dork, you don’t exactly have plausible deniability now.”

Pretending to be disgruntled, Dan tugged at their shared grip, and Phil stumbled a little, catching himself with a laugh. “I can deny whatever I want.”

“Hmm, I don’t think so.” Phil stopped abruptly and Dan was jolted to a stop. He tugged Dan toward him until only inches were between them, and then he leaned forward to steal a kiss from Dan’s lips. He tasted like strawberries, which was to be expected.

Dan’s flush was even more prominent when Phil pulled back, licking his lips at the sweet flavour that clung to them now. “You suck,” was all Dan said, but his eyes were bright and betrayed the lie, and Phil grinned at him.

“Yeah,” he agreed. Unable to help himself, he kissed Dan again, and then settled back on his heels, satisfied. “Can’t deny that.”

Dan looked like he was torn between flipping off Phil or pulling him back in for another kiss. He settled for sticking his tongue out, but Phil only laughed again. He never laughed as much as he did with Dan.

Another bell chimed in the distance, the last warning before riding lessons began. They looked at each other, dark brown gaze meeting bright blue, and then, in mutual unspoken agreement, they turned and began sprinting toward the stables in the distance, hands still clasped between them.

It was mid-day and sweat clung not only to Phil’s back but also to his hand gripped in Dan’s. He couldn’t be happier.

[rosaalee]

Fastest Girl. [2]

Pairing: Rosalie Hale x Carter Jones. (FEM OC)

Series.

Genre: Twilight, Mentions of drugs/alcohol, slow burn.

Word Count: 1570

I've been dreading leaving for school the moment I woke up this morning. Not only was I joining a new school March of second semester is that I dont have my vehicle with me. I still have to contact my mom and ask her to get someone to bring it to me. I miss my baby already.

"Hey kiddo, you're gonna be late if you dont leave now," my grandma said before tossing me her keys. "Take my truck, I dont have anywhere to go today." she said opening the front door waiting for me to grab my bag and exit the house with her before she started watering her plants.

"Thanks G'ma." I smiled before hopping into her truck and starting the engine and driving to school. I made sure that yesterday I would take her truck around and get used to the roads here and where most of the major things around here were.

The drive to the school wasn't as long as I thought. Maybe it had to do that I was going 15 over the speed limit. Pulling into the schools parking lot was a nightmare, considering everyone has to be up in peoples business wondering who the new kid is. Here we go.

Locking the truck I scanned the parking lot a little bit, I didn't see Rosalie so I assumed she is a late person, or she's inside the building, which I dont know why because it seems like everyone likes to waste their time outside at their vehicles.

My boots smacking against the wet concreate as I avoided everyone's stares and entered the building, immediately finding the front office to my left. "Name?" The woman said at the front desk, she sounded like the one I spoke to on the phone.

"Carter Jones," I told her and tapped my knuckles on the wood desk waiting for her to hand me my slip as she leaned back in her chair and grabbed something from the desk behind her.

"Here's your class schedule, have your teacher sign this slip and leave it with them." she smiled before handing me my schedule and four class slips.

Walking away I was stopped by a boy who started introducing himself to me but I paid him no attention since I wasn't really interested, his name was Eric though from what I picked up. Without a reply I just walked away from him trying to find my first class which was History. 

Upon arrival I seen the teacher at his desk and walked over to him handing him one of the slips and told him my name. He nodded and told me to sit where I wanted and that there wasn't assigned seats. I hummed a response and found myself a spot at the back next to the window.

I heard the last bell ring and more students started joining the class. This brunette sat next to me. "Hi, I'm Angela Weber, you must be the new student." she said leaning over in her seat to say to me, but still trying to pay attention to the teacher.

Nodding my head, "Yeah, names Carter." I told her trying to end the conversation but she reached over onto my desk and grabbed my schedule.

"Oh we have 3 classes together," she giggled before putting it back on my desk. I fake laughed not really into the conversation just wanted school to be over. I'm not trying to be a huge asshole, it just 9am and who has time to be talking right now, especially trying to keep a conversation. I think she got the hint and dropped it.

By the time next class was I had 5 minutes to find my English class. I ended up over hearing Angela and that boy Eric mention they both had English and ended up following them to the class. Repeating what I did with the last teacher, this one had assigned seats. Ending up sitting next to someone named Jessica, she seemed exactly like a snob and the annoying preppy girls I would avoid at my old school.

Zoned out for the most of the lesion I didn't realize Jessica was talking to me till she snapped her fingers in front of my face which ticked me off. Angerly I looked over at her raising one of my eyebrows curious to know what she needed to say to break me from my thoughts.

"I was wondering if you wanted to sit with us at lunch, since it's your first day and you'll probably be a loner sitting at a table by yourself," she snarled while exchanging glances to Angela and Eric who I presumed were her friends.

Avoiding the fact that she was a real bitch, but she was probably right. I haven't seen Rosalie yet so I would probably be sitting alone. I agreed to sitting with them at lunch.

After the bell rang and I followed the three to the lunch room and grabbed some food with the rest of them, we sat at what I assumed to be their table. There was already a boy with short blonde hair sitting there, Jessica sat next to him, along with Eric and Angela. I happened to be sitting on the other side of the table, more onto Angela's side though.

"Mike, this is Carter, she's new here." Eric said to the blonde boy who just nodded, didn't really say much. Which was surprising to me since all the kids here are very active talkers from what I have noticed.

Biting down on my celery stick, I never really noticed the groups of people. There wasn't really a specific groups of people, sure there was the basic jocks and "nerds" and the outcasts, but everyone seemed to be together.

"The pale faces are staring," Mike brought up bringing everyone out of their conversations and all eyes behind me. I turned and seen one familiar face and four not so.

"They're looking at Carter," Jessica groaned. Causing me to roll my eyes and lean back in my chair facing the four at my table.

"Dare me to go over there," I smirked, knowing exactly what my goal was. I didn't want to sit with someone who I knew was already having a direct issue with me and I didn't even do anything to her. She dislikes me because I'm new.

"Uh, I don't think that's a good-" Angela started before Jessica cut her off.

"Do it, embarrass yourself." She spat, crossing her arms.

I pushed me chair back and grabbed my food tray, turning on my heel, noticing all eyes were on me. I walked over to the table, slammed my tray down. "I'm sitting here now." I stated, grabbing an empty chair and pulling it up to where I was.

Looking at everyone at the table, beside Rosalie was a presumably tall buff boy with jet black hair, is face was stern but he gave me a smile which I mirrored to him. Beside him was a boy with honey golden hair, similar to Rose's but more golden, his face held many emotions. Next to him was a girl with pixie like hair, sticking in multiple directions, she looked very sweet. And finally there was a boy with dark brown hair, he stared at me with much concern. I smiled at them all before turning my gaze to Rosalie.

"I really needed to get away from that bitch," I sighed taking a drink from my water.

"Jessica Stanley?" The pixie hair girl asked, fumbling with her fingers.

"Sure yeah. She's been a royal asshole to me for no reason." Turned my gaze back to my previous table and noticed her looking at me with rage. Whatever crazy.  "Rose, I wish I had my first two classes with you." I said bringing myself to a topic I could care about.

"I have Bio next, do you?" She asked raising her brow, leaning over the table to talk to me.

Thankfully I indeed did have Bio next, so hopefully I would be able to sit near her. "What about you guys?" I addressed to the rest of the group.

"Edward has it too, Alice has Spanish with Jasper and Emmett have Math," she told me, I nodded and continued eating my food.

We were walking to the class together, Rosalie was actually pretty close to my body, it was like she was trying to avoid bumping into anyone. Not like that would be an issue since most kids let them walk in front or they lean towards the walls and lockers of the halls.

I barely got my foot in the door before the teacher was up in my face, he said his name was Mr. Molina and that he was a huge fan of my grandma's work, which isn't surprising since she's a fantastic lady. He told me to sit wherever I wanted, and I opted to sit next to Rosalie, who's seat was empty.

Class was pretty boring, I ended up copying off of Rose, which she didn't really mind actually. I was never fantastic at school, I don't really care for it.

I was zoned out basically for the whole class. My hands were cold and shaky, all I want is a release. Hopefully my next class will have what I'm looking for.

[purpleswans1]

Ghillie’s Villain!Izuku AU Outline

Since the only way this AU is going to see the light of day is as interconnected one-shots as I get angsty/villain prompts, I’m posting the major backstory elements now so readers can reference it. If I end up writing enough of these one-shots, I may rearrange and republish them as a coherent story, but until then here’s a basic starting point.

When Izuku is about 7 or 8, his father comes home and decides to do something about his son’s quirklessness (he’s not a real villain, just a rando with more pride than sense.) Hisashi ends up in a fight with Inko over this, and it eventually becomes so violent Hisashi sets the apartment on fire. Izuku makes sure his mom gets out, but his dad grabs him and runs from the burning building, saying that he’s heard about a “specialist” who could help them.

That “specialist” is All for One. At some point during the meeting, All fro One decides to kill Hisashi but sees something in Izuku and decides to keep him, raising him alongside Shigaraki (I’ve got ideas for a subplot where Izuku’s quirk is the ability to handle multiple quirks so All for One was thinking about using him to hoard extra quirks, but I wouldn’t get into it until WAY down in this AU, and could just as easily be dropped in favor of AFO being impressed by analytics and spirit)

AFO proceeds to groom Izuku to be a villain. At first Izuku keeps hoping that a hero (read “All Might”) would rescue him from the villian who killed his father, but AFO is quick to shatter Izuku’s faith by revealing the truth about One for All, specifically that it originally came for AFO. Izuku gets a little boost when All Might defeats AFO, but AFO makes it clear that he mortally wounded All Might and the hero can't be that powerful anymore.

During this time, Izuku and Shigaraki are basically being raised as brothers. However, they’re brothers that fluctuate between getting on each other’s nerves, flat-out hating each other, and very rare bonding moments. When they first meet, Shigaraki hates Izuku’s original faith in heroes and Izuku thinks Shigaraki is creepy, and this sets a bad precedent for their whole relationship. The fact that AFO is obviously showing favoritism to Shigaraki doesn’t help matters. Stll, you can’t spend half your life around one guy without forming some kind of bond with them, even if it’s a part of a vicious, abusive cycle.

Oh yeah, AFO is being very manipulative and emotionally abusive towards Izuku in his attempt to make the kid turn villain. Although Izuku quickly learns to hide his wish for heroes to save him, AFO is still trying to make Izuku hate hero society and only praises him when he helps villains. AFO is constantly saying that he’ll give Izuku a quirk of his own once he’s proven himself to deserve it and AFO decides what quirk would best suit him. Unfortunately, Izuku develops a kind of Stockholm syndrome and craves appreciation from AFO and Shigaraki.

Izuku does still subconsciously know that this is wrong, but in some psychological misdirection he turns all his negative feelings about AFO’s emotional abuse towards the other pearson who used to abuse him: Bakugo. Now that Izuku has distance he recognizes that his friendship with Bakugo was very unhealthy, and starts to turn all of his built-up hate towards him.

Izuku finds his calling in quirk analysis. At some point he overhears Kurogiri, Shigaraki, and AFO planning some criminal activity and provides suggestions on making the most use of the quirks available. AFO and Kurogiri are impressed, and bring Izuku into the criminal organization to plan operations. This leads to Izuku earning the villian name “Analyst.” He is still a little hesitant at this point though, not wanting any civilians to get hurt.

Around the time Izuku is 13-early 14, AFO brings a new kid into the organization. Uraraka’s dad had died in a construction accident that killed several employees, so her family gets stuck with a lot of debt. The accident was actually caused by a hero being careless (probably Mount Lady) but nobody wants to blame the hero so it gets swept under the rug. AFO offers to pay Uraraka’s family’s debt if she comes to work for him and gives up on hero school, and a desperate Uraraka has no choice but to accept. She’s barely in the organization for a day and decides she likes Izuku a lot better than Shigaraki.

When Izuku was supposed to start high school, he somehow finds out that Bakugo not only got into UA, but got the top spot in the entrance exam. The fact that his childhood bully got into the best hero school throws Izuku into a rage and he finally decides to help with Shigaraki’s passion project: killing All Might at UA. He develops a plan to maximize the quirks they have at their disposal and counter the teachers’ quirks, but asks Shigaraki to wait until after the sports festival so he can take the student’s quirks into account. When Shigaraki refuses, Izuku finally comes out his rage and realizes he doesn’t actually want to hurt any of the students, except maybe Bakugou. He plans with Uraraka to keep the kids from getting too hurt, using the excuse that their focus needs to be on defeating All Might.

USJ attack happens, Izuku fights Backugo who recognizes him, eventually the pros show up and they have to retreat, but Shigaraki blames Izuku for the failure.

Izuku goes in disguise to see the sports festival for research. Izuku witnesses Todoroki fighting with Endevor, and the two have a heart-to-heart about hate. They exchange numbers because Todoroki likes talking to him and Izuku thinks he can turn Todoroki to his side. Todoroki ends up using his fire to upstage Bakugou, and eventually realizes where he’d seen Izuku before.

When Stain shows up at the bar, Izuku and Shigaraki are still fighting. The fact that Shigaraki doesn’t like Stain but Izuku agrees with his ideals doesn't help. Izuku and Stain hit it off, and although Stain basically said he wouldn't work with Shigaraki he does say he's interested in Izuku.

Shigaraki throws a temper tantrum and decides to attack Hosu, but Izuku goes in secret to talk to sSain, looking for "advice" but really just trying to find an ally that will take him away from AFO. He catches up just before Stain kills Iida. The 3 have a discussion about Heroes, Izuku reveals that he completely lost his faith in the system when Bakugo was accepted to UA. Eventually, Shigaraki sees Izuku talking to Stain and tells a nomu to pick him up. It's when the pros chase after the Nomu that they capture Stain. Later, Izuku receives a flashdrive in the mail containing Stain's manifesto, including directions to upload it.

When Stain's followers start flocking to the League of Villains, most of them connect with Izuku. There quickly becomes a clear divide between those that follow Shigaraki because VILLAINY, and those who follow Izuku. There's some tension between the two groups, but Izuku and Kurogiri mostly keep the peace.

This all comes to a head when Shigaraki announces his intention to recruit Bakugo. Izuku is livid and refuses to help plan the operation in any way. Eventually he threatens to leave. AFO gives Izuku his usual admonishment and reminder of the possibility of getting a quirk. Izuku finally realizes that AFO is never going to give him a quirk, and as long as he's in the LOVs he'll always be in Shigaraki's shadow, and he decides to actually leave. To his surprise, his half of the LOVs comes with him and they form "The Quirk Revolutionaries."

This is when things really get going.

[willardswritindump]

Untiled Halo Fic

Chapter 1

The year is 2525. Humanity has just discovered that we are not alone in this universe. An alien alliance known simply as "The Covenant" has begun to seek out human worlds and outer colonies, kickstarting what would be the darkest, bloodiest conflict in human history. Luckily, the UNSC, or United Nations Space Command, have been preparing humanities galactic military strength due to the rise or the Insurrectionists, or Rebels, in the outer colonies who disagree with the treatment the colonies receive, and political and financial influences.

 The UNSC, now needing bodies to man the massive space railguns they call ships, have constructed several dozen training academies and military schools for humanities brightest and bravest souls. One such facility would be the Corbulo Academy of Military Science, or CAMS. Corbulo is specifically an officer training Academy, housing only the most promising and talented future Officers of the UNSC

The shuttles' thrusters burn as it enters orbit, Lowering itself from the sky to the clouds. Heavy rain bashes against the reinforced hull of the Heron, as new recruits are mentally preparing to be rushed out of the bay upon landing. Some of the finest are among these rookies, such as Viper Mcfairle, the son of a high-ranking Navy Admiral and Julia Lebrette, a somewhat distant relative of a Catherine Halsey, (with a skill in advanced technologies to show-).  The only noise being drawn from the turbulence of the D20 lowering altitude. There's a sense of nervous anticipation that all of the rookies feel, but don't mention. It's crowded and underlit, save for a small piece of space in the back-left corner of the Heron, who's only resident was a seemingly unimpressive, slightly short girl with brunette lengthy hair, and piercing brown eyes. She seemed to emit a sense of hatred for everything around her, which was probably why she was alone, scribbling in a paper journal. Which, to more preppy individuals, is seen as a poor, dirty thing. Dressed unlike the rest, in grey and crimson maroon, with a light brown bandoleer crossing her torso.

 "February 23, 2525. The recent attack on Harvest is still shocking everyone across the galaxy. Not like I've been saying aliens are fucking real all my life. Still, it's scary. News feed of Civilian Evacuation and Military engagements on Harvest are on every media platform. It's all most can talk about, and all anyone thinks about. I still can't stand how the UNS--"

A sudden bang of turbulence disrupts her thought and sends the lead-tipped writing utensil leaping across the floor, gathering the attention of few.

"Fucking hell."

She thought to herself in pissed, but she eventually stops giving a shit, puts the tatty stained notebook away, and continues to project an aura of misery.

As the shuttle lands, someone who looks something like a sergeant stands up in the center or the rows of seats, and begins speaking aloud

"Alright, all of you, listen up! I want all of your electronics and biotics off and away, if I see it at all, that's it, you're done..."

He went on for about a minute on basic instructions, what to do, all that yadda yadda. Everyone did what they were supposed to, anyways.

Everyone knew what to do, though. It wasn't any of their first rodeos, (as most had either transferred from other academies, or were from well-known military families. Something odd happens about this time, though. The entire power grid goes dark, now the only lights being the dark red overheads from the shuttle. The Sergeant stops, orders everyone to siddown and shut up, and goes to have a chat with the pilot, probably for the radio communicator in the cockpit. The recruits, if you can call them that, do well on their end to shut the hell up, save for maybe one nosy individual...

The blonde cadet that sat across from the girl and who had been asleep for the vast majority of the transport ride was suddenly jolted awake as the turbulence rattled the shuttle, his pale blue eyes alert as he waited for the inevitable.                                                    

“Son of a bitch.”

He quietly muttered to himself as they descended onto the planet. As soon as the Sergeant began his speech, he could help but zone out, he was already far used to the icy military treatment from his family, at least this sergeant didn’t give birth to him.

He couldn’t help but wonder how much of the tirade was practiced beforehand by the sergeant. As he stared dead ahead of him the cadet couldn’t help but take survey of the girl in front of him. Not that he found her particularly interesting, although the found her a little cute it wasn’t enough to truly distract him, just enough to occupy his mind for the few minutes they would be stuck staring through each other. He knew something was off by the strange uniform she wore; it wasn’t the same white and grey dress uniform the rest wore but he couldn’t put a finger on why it was notable. Still it was enough to occupy his “recon mind” as his brothers put it and he made a mental note to keep an eye on her. Something about the air of rage that she gave off made him think that was probably a good idea. It made her seem dangerous, something that both fascinated and somewhat, well scared was probably to strong a word, he knew to approach with caution.

The brunette girl takes notice of the other cadet, who to her, almost can't take his eyes off her. She gives a quick half-assed glance and continues to stare out of the shuttle’s porthole-shaped window. A few brief moments pass, and the girl gives off a slight sigh of remorse, and with something of an agitated, intimidating, slightly monotone voice, basically demands the question,

"The hell do you want, pretty boy."

Her deep brown eyes now focus directly on the blonde, unflinching, unnerving. Whoever she was, whatever planet she called home, it was clear now that the most she had in common with any of the other cadets is height. She didn't give off any sort of formal military sense, but something about her told the boy that she had experience, and she knew what she was doing.

“Shut the fuck up back there!” The Sergeant yelled, how he even managed to hear the girl was beyond the boy. Soon enough the entire group was being rushed through a haze of noise and chaos. The only relief being the mean that they had 30 minutes to eat. Through coincidence the boy wound up at the same table as the strange girl.

The mess hall was brightly lit, thanks to the overhead fluorescent lights illuminating the tables and benches. The giant room seemed to particularly favor the color white, as everything from the counters, to the ceiling and shiny marble-like floor, was coated in whites and light grays. Cadets grabbed their grub, sat down wherever, and tried to keep the volume to a minimum as to not piss off the already annoying Sergeants and Officers around.

 In the third isle, on the end next to a window overlooking the courtyard, sat the very same girl from earlier on the shuttle. Now in her titanium white cadet fatigues, "Oliver" sat only a few seats away from anybody else, as if she'd rather observe them than interact. She notices pretty boy approach with who appears to be a friend of his. From the sound of it, they were in a conversation about Harvest

"... And contact was lost right before it got hit! See the resemblance, man? The Aliens are helping the god damned Innies!... Uh, who's this?"

Hoffman, the slightly taller cadet with short, frizzy black hair, gestured to Oliver. Her full attention was now on them whether she liked it or not

The “pretty boy” took a seat across from Oliver, the neutral look on his face from the transport in hadn’t faltered despite Hoffman’s topic of conversation not exactly being one that he was fond of. “I don’t know, try reading. Not like our names are on the uniform.” The “pretty boy” said as before taking a bite of his food. “Also, I’m thinking our problems just got a little bit bigger than the insurrectionists, and that’s all I’m saying on the subject.” Pretty Boy said, a slight sense of sadness in his voice as he talked about Harvest, like something about it affected him more than just the loss of a colony. His eyes were distant as he continued to eat across from Oliver. Upon closer inspection the “pretty boys” name was Daniels.

"I dunno, man. All I know is when we get out of here, I'm getting payback on those gas-sucking freaks, right after those dirty fuckin' Rebels."

Hoffman sat next to Daniels, diagonally across from Oliver. She gave him something of a suspicious look, and turned back to the other cadet

"So what's your deal."

She directs towards Daniels, curious as to why he chose to sit there out of anywhere else in the Hall with much more bright, optimistic rookies. Well, in comparison to her, anyways.

The seat was open.” Daniel said calmly as he continued to eat his food. Truth be told he chose in an attempt to shut Hoffman up and to gather more information on Oliver. He couldn’t explain it but something about her interested him. “What’s your deal?” He asked her before going back to the synthetic vegetables on one side of his plate

"I'm not a fan of company, and three's a crowd."

Although she was being more honest and less rude, there was still some harshness in her words.  Her accent seemed to differ from most of the other cadets as well, who talked either as if they were from fast, bustling cities, or rather slow, more laid back colonies. Oliver, however, had a much more foreign drawl. Daniels had a hard time putting his hand on it, it was almost a cross between Ancient Russian and some European country. Maybe she's from Eposz? She took a swig of bottled water, and then continued what one would guess to be meatloaf. It didn't kill her, so she didn't care.

"Oh, great, another extremely extroverted ray of sunshine! Don't worry, Oliver, we don't bite. Unless you get on Daniels fun side here... rrwwwrrrr~"

Hoffman tiger purred at his fellow cadet, messing with him and trying to lighten the somewhat dim mood

A moment quickly passed before Daniels turned to Hoffman and raised an eyebrow in a “what the fuck” look. “Okay first, don’t you ever that again, and second, don’t you ever do that again.” He said in a calm monotone, raising one finger on first and a second on “second”, pointing both at Hoffman. Truth be told as much as he liked the guy he kind of hoped the icy girl would scare him off, that clearly wasn’t the case. “As much as I appreciate your suave attempt at being a wingman I don’t think you’re helping..... that means fuck off Dustin.” Daniels said before going back to his so-called meatloaf.

"Alright, alright Odie, you win. Besides, you know I'm just fucking with you. Not so sure about that one from Eridnus II, though-"

Oliver almost smirked. She didn't really give a damn for what either of them had to say, but Daniels' response was somewhat humorous to her.

"You two are idiots."

She went back to her almost real meatloaf, acting uninterested and observing the outside courtyard below.

“What part of fuck off didn’t you understand.” Daniels said before taking another bite of the meatloaf and a swig of water. “Honestly, that’s a fair point.” He said in response to Oliver’s verbal jab at both him and Hoffman, truth be told he knew Hoffman wasn’t exactly the brightest and didn’t exactly know how to shut up but Daniels knew that without a doubt Hoffman would have his back in a fight. He couldn’t count the amount of they’d bailed each other out back on Reach.

"Ah, don't worry about him. He's just been grumpy lately. Guess we all have since... Uh, yeah.."

A moment or two flies by, before Oliver piped up and asked

"... So where are you two from."

If you could call it asking. She had something of a demanding tone, as if she didn't show empathy towards being courteous. Still, her, asking this, is friendly, for Oliver.

“Reach.” Daniels calmly replied, interested at getting anything more than an insult out of the curious fellow cadet. “And I thought we both agreed NOT, to bring that up.” He said to Hoffman, an agitated tone in his voice. The topic of harvest still seeming to be a bad one with him.

Hey, I didn't say anything, just throwing vauge...ness out there."

 "Oh. I see."

Not much had been said, but things never had to be too obvious for her to pick up the pieces. From her guess, at least one of them lost something important on Harvest.

"Tough shit."

Oliver mumbled to herself.

"So what the hell are you doing here? In this gunkhole?"

“What does it matter?”

Daniels still seemed sore from all the talk of harvest. He soon swallowed down the last of his water and poked at what was left of the synthetic meatloaf and between pushing his few so called vegetables around his plate, his appetite clearly squashed.

“Why the fuck are you here?”

"I came here because I want to learn and get experience. I was tired of sitting around and listening to all the assholes back home, so I came here for a change."

"I came here to fight."

She had finished most of her meal by now, and pushed her tray and water aside.

"So, why are you here."

“I’m here to kill.”

Was all Daniels responded with, a dark look spreading across his face.

“I wanna see the pink or whatever the fuck color mist that those hinge heads make.”

He went on before taking an aggressive bite of the rest of his meatloaf and quickly swallowing.

"Hm."

Oliver didn't say too much after that. She didn't need to. Hatred like that resonated with her, in a way. It was probably the only emotion she would outright show empathy to. That is, if silence is empathetic.

 "Sarah."

 It had looked like Odie was going to open his mouth as if to say something (presumably an introduction), but she cut him off.

 "You're Odie, and this is Dustin."

"Tolerable to make your acquaintance.

“Oliver, my name is Oliver.”

Daniels said before gulping down the rest of his water and getting up. With that he vanished into the sea of white and grey.

 Some hours later after a long night of being yelled at, group punishments and being pushed through more supply lines than anyone thought possible the cadets were finally placed in their rooms. And who did Daniels wind up with for a roommate but the Ice Queen herself, the name Oliver, Sarah was placed right above the bed across from him. He sighed as he began to unpack his newly issued gear and few personal items.

Sarah had almost finished unpacking and organizing her gear, save for an ivory colored trinket with string wrapped around it. She unfolded what appeared to be an amulet, put it on, and stuffed it under her collar before Odie could make out the object, if he was even paying attention.

 "Guess we're stuck together, pretty boy."

Sarah fell back onto the bunk and crossed her arms behind her head, in a somewhat relaxed, "Zero fucks given" pose.

"That's alright. Maybe you'll take a stray round for me at the firing range."

Luckily, there was a slight hint of sarcasm in her voice.

Oliver went about arranging what little he had from home. A chess board with pieces composed of standard UNSC shell casings, a few books, and a framed picture of a group of about 11 boys all varying ages and shades of blond hair, and their eyes all the same piercing shade of blue. After staring at the picture for a few moments Oliver grabbed one of the books and took a seat on his bed.

 “If only it were that easy.”

Oliver said as he flipped through the pages of his book.

“Alright, cut the bullshit. Why are you really here?”

He paused for a moment as he turned the page.

“All the others are obvious. Either their mommies and daddies are military and they have no choice in the matter or they actually want to serve but mommy and daddy don’t want to loose their precious little darling to the insurrectionist, or.... whatever the fuck those things are.” An ever so tiny sliver of pain came through Oliver’s voice as the subject of the covenant cane up but he quickly composed himself.

“So they sent them here hoping they wind up some high ranking POG just like the ones who’s asses they kissed to get them here.”

 Odie paused again.

“You’re neither.”

The girl sat up straight, and went silent for a moment. Sarah had a serious yet vacant expression on her face, as if she had been lost in a sad, dark memory.

 "Mommy and daddy are the reason I'm here."

 "And that's all I'm saying about that."

 There was impatience in her tone, for sure, but something about the way she said it made it seem... Regretful.

Without even looking up Oliver could sense that he had struck a nerve even deeper than when Harvest was mentioned around him. He slowly closed the book before just staring at the ceiling.

“I’m sorry.”

"It's fine, shit happens. Lotta people don't make it through this fucking war. After a while you get used to it."

 Sarah spoke with more agitation in her voice than sadness, and was trying to give off her usual "I don't give a damn" tone. She almost got away with it.

 She cracked her neck left then right, then moved to sit on the edge of the bed. She paused for a moment, then looked over to Odie.

 "What do you know about the Innies."

Oliver paused for a moment before turning to face Sarah.

 “Do you want to know what I know or what I think, because that’s an important distinction to make.”

 Oliver sat in silence as he surveyed Sarah and her reactions.

"And what might that be?"

Sarah leaned to her left, using her elbow as a stand and resting her cheek on her knuckles. She was expecting something along the lines of "Well sometimes they have good intention but sometimes they're too extreme". It was the most common thing she'd heard, but in her mind, drastic times sometimes call for drastic measures.

“Well, if I’m to tell the truth...”

Oliver paused to try and find the best way to phrase what he was going to say.

 “I find the insurrectionists tactics to be somewhat sloppy, and that’s part of what makes them dangerous. Overall however I think the universe just got a little bigger than petty human squabbles over territories and politics.”

Oliver’s deadpan making it sound less like a personal opinion and more like he was reading from a briefing.

"Yeah, galactic civil war, aliens, what next? A big fucking gun that kills everything in the universe?"

Putting the "lighthearted" humor aside, she had a point.

 "You think we should join up with the Rebels against them? If only temporarily."

“I think we’re going to need everyone we can get if we want to keep....”

Oliver paused, a little pain in his voice.

“If we want to keep the rest of us from ending up like Harvest.”

Her tone dropped serious and she looked Odie dead in the eye

"Things just go south from here on out. Harvest won't be the last. You know that."

“Yeah, but we have to do fucking something. Besides, if those things really do wanna kill us all then I’d rather die fighting than on my knees.”

Odie returned the look with one of his own, one that said he was going follow through with those words.

It may just come to that, if you let that gung-ho attitude of yours get to your head."

She flipped her bangs to the left and out of her face

"We'll get 'em back. They have to have a home world or base of operations somewhere."

"We'll blow it the fuck up."

“I’m not saying I’d complain about that. Not like dying in the line of duty isn’t part of my family history.”

Upon hearing that something clicked, Oliver was one of those Daniels.

Sarah felt an immediate jolt of emotions even she found hard to describe run down her spine. Her fists clenched up, and she had to act like she didn't just hear the fifth shittiest news of her life.

 "Daniels. Son of Sergeant Major Henry Daniels, Company Commander of 106th ODST Special Forces."

 "You're his son

“Technically, yes.”

Oliver paused as he tried his best to phrase what he was going to say next.

“Bastard never did anything to exactly qualify him as a father except sticking his dick my mom.”

He paused once more.

“I didn’t know him, he ain’t got shit to do with me.”

Sarah went silent. She didn't know how to react. How the fuck does somebody react to that kind of news? She tried to hide the anger and hatred she had for one of the most prominent military families this side of Eridanus. It almost worked.

 "What. The Fuck-"

She felt her heartrate skyrocket, pounding in her chest. Almost every bone in her Venezian body wanted to break her fists on his face and vice versa. She couldn't, though. Not yet. It wasn't the time.

"Don't fucking talk to me."

Sarah moved away from the edge, and began making her bed, ignoring Odie entirely.

“Shut the fuck up in there you two or I swear you two will be running to Reach and back! Lights fucking out!” Their platoon sergeant yelled out before the main lights of the room sharply shut off and the only dim lights above the bed were able to barely illuminate Sarah’s work and gave Odie enough to read. He figured going back to his book was probably the best course of action after Sarah’s less than favorable reaction to his family heritage. Although he couldn’t completely understand, all that bastard of a man had done was beat him for being in his words a “useless runt” and make the homestead reek of alcohol until he got pulled back into some mission. “Yeah, real dad of the year material”, Oliver thought before marking his place and slipping the book under his pillow.

Sarah couldn't sleep that night. Not anything unusual for her, but this time was different. That assholes dad was responsible for her mothers death, one way or another. She'd get her revenge. In time.

 Days turned to weeks, and most of the time all Odie would get from his battle buddy was quick, harsh glances and puffs of aggravation. The only time they shared conversation was in situations when they were required to. She was intent on following through with her words.

Chapter 2

[covid19worldnews]

The history of wildfire modeling

What are the origins of fire modeling? Who actually runs fire models today? Why aren’t fire models as impactful as weather models, and will they ever get there?

‍Fire modeling was born in the 1940s, against the backdrop of World War II, the looming Cold War, and a fire-phobic Forest Service. The pioneer of fire modeling was a mechanical engineer named Wallace Fons, who built wind tunnels and crib fires to study the behavior and properties of fire.

Left: a wind tunnel Fons built for his study, “Analysis of fire spread in light forest fuels”; Right: a crib fire, a 3D grid of sticks with different thicknesses and densities. Image from Fons et al. “Project Fire Model: Summary Progress Report – II.”

Fons noted that fire spreads by successively heating neighboring fuel particles up to ignition temperature. He reasoned that the rate of fire spread is largely controlled by how long it takes fire to ignite the type of fuel as well as how far apart the fuel particles are.

In 1946, Fons published the first mathematical model of wildfire spread. The model applied the energy conservation equation to a uniform fuel bed exposed to fire, and found a logarithmic relationship between the rate of fire spread and the temperature of the fuel bed. Despite the model’s flaws (it linearized the contribution of radiation, i.e., ignored the fourth power of temperature in the radiation heat transfer equations), it was validated by experiments with pine needles.

Like most other accomplished fire scientists in the country at the time, Fons worked for the Forest Service—which was and is part of the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA). Since its establishment in 1905, the Forest Service had essentially become a hegemon, and was waging a well-documented “war on fire.”

The Forest Service controlled fire science, with the singular goal of suppressing wildfires; whether that goal was also the motivation behind the first fire model isn’t totally clear, but it undoubtedly played a role in the agency’s decision to employ Fons.

The birth of fire modeling coincided with the end of WWII, at which point the focus of fire research had shifted from suppressing fire to weaponizing it.

After the war, authorities were convinced that the next war would also be a fire war, and it’s pretty easy to understand why. Japan had launched bomb-carrying hydrogen balloons (called Fu-Gos, or “fire balloons”) into the US in an attempt to start wildfires. While the launch was largely unsuccessful, it was the longest-range attack the world had ever seen. Then, there were the firestorms—massive, bomb-induced fires that created hurricane-level winds. After allied forces bombed Dresden, Hamburg, and Tokyo, unexpected firestorms raged in the cities. The Hiroshima atomic strike produced yet another firestorm, which destroyed over four square miles.

Recognizing the need to understand fire, the federal government began investing heavily in multidisciplinary fire research and large-scale field experiments—and continued to do so through much of the Cold War. The Forest Service became actively involved in nuclear blast tests, employing the country’s best fire scientists. While the US didn’t release another major fire model until the 1960s, the war-inspired boost to fire research uncovered fundamental knowledge about fire that formed the basis of future fire models.

Fons himself, who worked for the Forest Service until his death in 1963, was involved in several classified experiments studying the impact of detonation-induced fires on forests and other materials.

One of these experiments, part of Operation Tumbler-Snapper, explored whether trees can provide safety from a nuclear blast. To measure how trees bend or break under shockwave forces, Fons drove trees around at fixed speeds in the bed of a specially-equipped truck. The Forest Service extended this work to study blast effects on an artificial pine forest they set up in Nevada. A video of this experiment (around 32:05) shows several men who all seem to be able to singlehandedly lift AN ENTIRE TREE…until you notice the crane in the corner later in the video.

Can we also pause to appreciate the irony of these incredibly smoky film transitions?

Anyway, the first fire modeler was apparently also an asset to national defense; in 1961, then Vice President Lyndon Johnson presented Fons with the USDA Superior Service Award for “notable pioneering contributions to forest fire research and to national defense including the establishment of the thermal and blast effects of nuclear explosions on forests and other natural cover.”

Some of the Forest Service’s other fire-related initiatives during this time were less fruitful. For example, they launched Project Skyfire in 1953 with the goal of preventing fires by modifying weather. Specifically, researchers tried to suppress lightning by seeding thunderstorms with silver iodide.

In the 1960s and 1970s, several countries released new fire models, with the US, Australia, Russia, and Canada leading these efforts. Like Fons’s model, many of the newer models were physical—based on the laws of fluid mechanics, combustion, and heat transfer.

However, Australia and Russia also released the first empirical (McArthur, 1966) and semi-empirical (Molchenov, 1957) models. This new wave of fire models—based on statistical correlations from experiments or historical wildfire studies—was made possible by the experiments and data-gathering of the previous decades.

One of the most influential fire models was Dick Rothermel’s semi-empirical model of forward fire spread, published in 1972. Rothermel was an aeronautical engineer turned USDA fire modeler. His fire spread model was based on Frandsen’s 1971 heat balance model as well as data from wind tunnel experiments and Australian wildfires. The model calculates the rate of forward fire spread by dividing heat source by heat sink:

Calculations in Rothermel’s basic surface fire spread model. Reference: USDA.

The Rothermel equations were suitable for so many wildfires that the Forest Service implemented them in the first release of the National Fire Danger Rating System (NFDRS), which initially consisted of lookup tables and nomograms. Using paper and pencil, firefighters manually plugged in the wind and slope angle to estimate the speed and direction of fire spread.

Today, the NFDRS is computerized, but still based on Rothermel’s equations. Many other prominent fire modeling software packages, like BehavePlus and FARSITE, also implement Rothermel’s groundbreaking model.

Left: early fire danger rating system, from the 1978 National Fire-Danger Rating System: Technical Documentation; Right: recent forecast from WFAS – Severe Fire Danger Mapping System.

‍ Another fire modeling breakthrough of the 1970s was the use of Huygens principle of wave propagation to model fire spread in all directions. Huygens principle, originally proposed to describe traveling lightwaves, treats each point on the edge of a wave-front as an independent source of secondary wavelets that propagate the wave.

Applied to fire modeling, Huygens principle simulates fire spread using wavelets (typically elliptical wavelets). At each time point, the wind-slope vector determines the shape and orientation of each ellipse, while the fuel conditions determine their size (spread rate). The wavelets form a kind of envelope around the original fire perimeter, and the outer edge of this envelope is the new fire front.

Huygen’s principle applied to fire propagation, with uniform wind from the southwest (reference: FARSITE). A) Fire spread across a landscape with uniform fuel type; B) Fire spread across a landscape with four different fuel types.

Sanderlin and Sunderson were the first to apply Huygens principle to fire modeling. Their computerized “radial fire propagation model,” published in 1975, projected fire growth using a three-dimensional wind field and a gridded fuel and topography landscape. Shortly after, in 1982, Hal Anderson at the Missoula Fire Sciences Laboratory applied Huygens principle to perimeter data from a test fire. To this day, Huygens principle is one of the two most common methods for propagating fire (the other method spreads the fire based on direct contact with, or close proximity to, neighboring cells).

While fire modeling was making a comeback, the Forest Service was eating humble pie. Other federal agencies had grown weary of the Forest Service’s monopoly on fire science, and were eager to implement their own policies. The National Park Service, the Department of the Interior, and the National Science Foundation all became involved in fire research. At the same time, the Forest Service’s funding from the defense department, which had been flowing in steadily since the end of WWII, started to dry up.

With this shift in fire research came a pivot in the attitude toward prescribed burning (setting intentional fires), which had been gradually reemerging as a forest management strategy since the 1940s. Wildfires, once viewed as nothing more than a threat to life and valuable forest resources, were increasingly being recognized as a vital part of the earth system.

As this funding-fueled frenzy of fire research came to a close, many questions about fire physics and chemistry were left unresolved. Nonetheless, the impending era of computers greatly advanced fire modeling in the decades that followed.

Before computers, people forecasted fire growth using physical maps, nomograms, spread rate calculations, and vectors of slope and wind effects. With the advent of computers came computerized fire simulation models, which converted the existing 1D point models of forward fire spread into 2D planar models that propagate the whole fire perimeter across a landscape. The Forest Service released the first wildland fire behavior prediction program—called Behave—in 1984. Behave was based on the Rothermel equations and initially programmed on a TI-59 calculator.

A lack of fuel and terrain data, however, severely limited early fire spread software. In the 1990s, remote sensing capabilities, Geographical Information Systems (GIS), and greater computing power revived interest in fire behavior modeling. Behave and other fire modeling software packages were integrated with GIS, bringing landscape data into fire simulation.

In the 90s and early aughts, researchers released several new GIS-based fire simulators. Notable examples in the US included Dynafire (1991), Firemap (1992), FARSITE (1993), Burn (1994), and Embyr (2000). With the exception of Embyr, each of these models was based on the Rothermel equations.

In 1996, Garcia Vega and other Forest Service researchers published the first application of machine learning to wildfire modeling. They used an artificial neural network, trained and tested on historical wildfire data, to predict human-caused wildfires in Alberta, Canada. Using the weather index, regional size, and district as input data, their model correctly predicted where fires wouldn’t occur 85% of the time and where they would occur 78% of the time.

It was also in 1996 that National Science Foundation researcher Terry Clark showed that fire spread models could be coupled with numerical atmospheric models. This coupling allowed fire to interact with the atmosphere and “create its own weather” in simulations, as it does in the real world. The atmospheric humidity, temperature, wind speed, and wind direction affect the fire environment, while the smoke, heat fluxes, and moisture fluxes from the fire influence the atmosphere.

Clark’s model—called CAWFE—ushered in a new generation of coupled fire-atmosphere models that fall largely into one of two camps. The first camp, exemplified by CAWFE and WRF-SFIRE, pairs a simplified empirical fire spread model with a 3D numerical weather prediction model (with a resolution of hundreds of meters or more).

Information flow of the coupled fire-atmosphere model WRF-SFIRE.

The second camp of coupled fire-atmosphere models includes models like the Wildland-Urban Interface Fire Dynamic Simulator (WFDS) and HIGRAD/FIRETEC. These programs pair fire models with a computational fluid dynamics (CFD) model, simulating turbulent airflow at a very high resolution (single meters) over a relatively small area.

This brings you pretty much up to speed on the history of fire modeling in the US, but where does the field stand today?

Fire modeling today

In this final section, I address some of the most interesting questions about fire modeling today.

Who actually runs fire models?

How are fire models used for real firefighting?

Why aren’t fire models better, and how can they improve?

Who actually runs fire models?

Spoiler alert: it’s not firefighters. The US manages wildfire responses through the Incident Command System, an interdepartmental effort that was established in the 1970s after devastating California wildfires. Under this system, a Fire Analyst (or Fire Behavior Analyst) runs a fire model and relays the highlights of the model output to the Incident Commander (IC).

The IC coordinates an emergency response based on many streams of information, one of which is the fire model output. In addition to the model, the IC must also consider where crews are and whether they are safe, which structures are the most at-risk, how the fire can be accessed, where the nearest water sources are, what the weather is like, what type of terrain they’re dealing with, and so on. The IC uses all this information to make quick decisions about where resources should be focused and what crews on the ground should do.

How are fire models used for real firefighting?

Firefighting organizations in the US use several types of fire models for real-world wildfire management, with notable examples including FARSITE (Flammap) and the Wildland Fire Decision Support System (WFDSS)—built in 2009. All fires under federal government jurisdiction are run through WFDSS.

That being said, we still suppress 97% of the wildfires in the US (it’s the other 3% that cause all the devastation in the news). Since modeling a fire that won’t spread is futile, analysts only model about 1% of wildfires (and 3% of those on federal lands). As such, the most common application of fire model output by far is staging—deciding where to move firefighting resources based on where wildfires are most likely to occur.

When it comes to modeling ongoing wildfires in real time (rather than predicting where they will start), most operational fire models are pretty basic and rely on simple input data. All of these systems use empirical 1D fire spread models, which are faster and less complex than their physical counterparts. As computers get faster and more powerful, physical models are increasingly being incorporated into fire spread simulations. Some of the more complex models, like the coupled fire-atmosphere model WRF-SFIRE, are already fast enough for real-time use!

Wildfire management teams are also leveraging AI-based tools. For example, the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (CalFire) is using Wildfire Analyst Enterprise—developed by the startup Technosylva—to predict wildfire behavior. Wildfire Analyst Enterprise uses fire spread models and machine learning to compare current and historical fires, then uses this information to predict where a fire will go and when it will get there.

At the end of August, CalFire Battalion Chief Jon Heggie sent firefighters and equipment to Felton, California after the Wildfire Analyst Enterprise predicted that the CZU Lightning Complex fire would spread there. They were able to save many homes as a result of the early intervention.

Why aren’t fire models better, and how can they improve?

Right now, the biggest barrier standing in the way of better fire models is a lack of knowledge about the physics and chemistry of fire—particularly large-scale wildfires.

Burning questions about fire.

Ironically, between the excessive fuel buildup from decades of wildfire suppression and the hotter, drier seasons of recent decades, our wildfires are starting to look more and more like the highly unpredictable, bomb-induced fires we studied so intently after WWII.

Fortunately, the gradual reintegration of prescribed burning as a forest management strategy provides an excellent opportunity to boost fire science and improve fire models. To understand why, consider the closely-related problem of modeling weather. Fire and weather are intimately interlinked, and in many ways, fire modeling is a weather modeling problem. Fire and weather (unlike earthquakes, for example) can both be directly observed. Why, then, has weather modeling outpaced fire modeling?

Aside from funding, another (closely-related) reason is data. Every day, weather modelers wake up to more weather data, which they can use to help validate their models. The same is not even remotely true for fire modelers. Remember, we still suppress 97% of wildfires in this country, so it’s really difficult for fire modelers to validate their models and gather data at scales relevant to modeling real wildfires.

For this reason, the historical shift in the prescribed burning policy is really exciting for fire modeling. Prescribed burns are much more similar to real wildfires than fires in laboratory settings, yet much easier to collect data from. After all, we know exactly when, where, and how prescribed burns are starting. Couple this with faster, more powerful computers and better remote sensing technology (e.g., LIDAR), and fire modeling is well-poised to rapidly improve in the near future—IF these efforts are sufficiently funded.

While scientists and policymakers alike now recognize prescribed burning as the most broadly cost-effective fire management strategy, this paradigm shift has not been accompanied by a commensurate increase in prescribed burning. In the Western US, prescribed burning activity has actually remained stable or even decreased between 1998 and 2018.

Change in prescribed burning activity between 1998 and 2018 in different regions of the US (reference: MDPI).

In areas that are carrying out more prescribed burns, the federal government isn’t leading the effort; serious wildfires are increasingly forcing federal agencies to devote more of their resources to fire suppression. In the last five years, the Bureau of Indian affairs was the only federal agency that allocated over 25% of its fire suppression budget for prescribed burning; it was also the only federal agency to considerably ramp up prescribed burning activity. In the Southeast, where prescribed burning increased the most, 70% of the burns were led by non-federal organizations.

To make matters worse, many states canceled planned prescribed burns in 2020 due to COVID-19, out of well-founded concern for how diminished air quality could worsen the pandemic. So, while prescribed burns can improve fire science, which can in turn improve fire models, we aren’t exactly on the right track to get there.

Reference: AAAS

Fire models, like fires, don’t develop in a vacuum. Like the physical landscape, the political landscape in the United States shapes how Americans deal with—and model—wildfires.

The 40s and 50s saw the birth of fire modeling and war-driven improvements to fire science. As the Cold War raged on, the 60s and 70s witnessed a flourishing of new fire models. The 80s and 90s brought fire simulators that elevated those 1D models to two dimensions. The 2000s brought coupled fire-atmosphere models, increasingly faster computers, and new AI tools. ‍ What we need now is a better scientific grasp of large-scale wildland fires, and more prescribed burns to help us get there.

‍

References

Andrews, P.L. “The Rothermel surface fire spread model and associated developments: A comprehensive explanation.” 2018.

“A Century of Wildland Fire Research,” 2017. https://doi.org/10.17226/24792. 

Duane, Daniel. “The West’s Infernos Are Melting Our Sense of How Fire Works.” Wired. 2020. Conde Nast. https://www.wired.com/story/west-coast-california-wildfire-infernos/. 

Fons, Wallace L. and T.G. Storey, “Operation Castle, Project 3.3, Blast Effects on Tree Stand: Report to the Test Director.” 1955. WT-921. Washington, DC: USDA Forest Service, Division of Fire Research.

Fons, Wallace L., Sauer, F.M., and W.Y. Pong, “Blast Effects on Forest Stands by Nuclear Weapons,” Technical Report AFSWP-971 (Washington, DC: USDA Forest Service, Division of Fire Research, 1957). 

Jain, P., Coogan, S., Subramanian, S.G., Crowley, M., Taylor, S., and Mike D. Flannigan. “A Review of Machine Learning Applications in Wildfire Science and Management.” Environmental Reviews, 2020, 1–28. https://doi.org/10.1139/er-2020-0019. 

Kochanski, A.K., Jenkins, M.A., Mandel, J., Beezley, J.D., Clements, C.B., and S. Krueger. “Evaluation of WRF-SFIRE Performance with Field Observations from the FireFlux Experiment.” Geoscientific Model Development 6, no. 4 (2013): 1109–26. https://doi.org/10.5194/gmd-6-1109-2013. 

Kolden, Crystal A. “We’re Not Doing Enough Prescribed Fire in the Western United States to Mitigate Wildfire Risk.” Fire 2, no. 2 (2019): 30. https://doi.org/10.3390/fire2020030. 

Pastor, E. “Mathematical Models and Calculation Systems for the Study of Wildland Fire Behaviour.” Progress in Energy and Combustion Science 29, no. 2 (2003): 139–53. https://doi.org/10.1016/s0360-1285(03)00017-0. 

Sauer, F.M., Arnold, R.K., Fons, W.L., and C.C. Chandler, “Operation UPSHOT-KNOTHOLE, Nevada Proving Grounds, Project 8.11b, Ignition and Persistent Fires Resulting from Atomic Explosions—Exterior Kindling Fuels: Report to the Test Director.” 1953. WT-775. Washington, DC: USDA Forest Service, Division of Fire Research. 

Sullivan, Andrew L. “Wildland Surface Fire Spread Modelling, 1990 – 2007. 3: Simulation and Mathematical Analogue Models.” International Journal of Wildland Fire 18, no. 4 (2009): 387. https://doi.org/10.1071/wf06144. 

———. “Wildland Surface Fire Spread Modelling, 1990 – 2007. 1: Physical and Quasi-Physical Models.” International Journal of Wildland Fire 18, no. 4 (2009): 349. https://doi.org/10.1071/wf06143. 

———. “Wildland Surface Fire Spread Modelling, 1990 – 2007. 2: Empirical and Quasi-Empirical Models.” International Journal of Wildland Fire 18, no. 4 (2009): 369. https://doi.org/10.1071/wf06142. 

“United States Strategic Bombing Survey: The Effects of the Atomic Bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.” June 30, 1946

Weise, D.R. and T.R. Fons. “Wallace L. Fons: Fire Research Pioneer.” 2014. Forest History Today.

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https://www.covid19snews.com/2020/11/02/the-history-of-wildfire-modeling/

[biofunmy]

I Love My Jordans, But Nike’s Collaboration With Colin Kaepernick Rings Hollow

As a young person, I was taught to dress from the head down. Some of this was due to religious reasons — I was raised as a Muslim who was expected to wear somewhat traditional Muslim attire. Before I picked my day’s clothing, I had to put on a head covering — generally a kufi. From that, a full outfit would spring forth, complementing whatever colors the head covering was. My mother sewed all of my kufis and most of my clothing, so I at least had access to a closet overflowing with colors, if nothing else. This is what my family was financially capable of.

Because I didn’t grow up in a household where we could afford sneakers — particularly expensive sneakers — I often found myself wearing a single pair all year round, mostly a black pair, without much ceremony. They were shoes that could be kept clean all year round with minimal effort, even with the unpredictable weather swings of the Midwest. Because I went to schools where sneakers were a type of currency I didn’t have, I began to imagine them as a core part of an outfit, a piece of the puzzle that could distract from any other fashion shortcomings. I worked to save enough money to purchase a pair of black and red Jordan 14s right before the summer of my junior year of high school. It didn’t occur to me that no one at school would get to see me wearing them brand-new out of the box. I simply wanted access to that which I hadn’t had access to.

I own far more sneakers than I should now, with more disposable income, more physical living space, and far fewer restrictions on my clothing style. Now I dress from the feet up. I shop for clothing with the sneakers I have in mind first. Everything else I wear is an accessory in service of the sneaker. There are many reasons for this, but the most prominent reason is that for me, the feet are where the performance begins. I am not always confident in my body, and I am not often confident in the things I cloak it in. I am not often confident in my walk, or the things that come out of my mouth, but I can place firm confidence in what I put on my feet. It’s all a trick, this performance of sneakers that I have become so invested in — a game of drawing enough attention and conversation to a single place, long enough to sell someone on the other parts of myself that are less immediately striking.

To engage in this requires cognitive dissonance. Or, at least, it requires me to make peace with the manufacturing of sneakers — or at least the conditions under which some employees are forced to labor in the name of a company’s production. The vast majority of my sneakers are made by Nike, or under the Nike umbrella (Jordan, for example). I wear no pair out to the point where it can’t be passed down to someone else. I donate pairs, often to make room for other pairs. I’ve convinced myself that this is doing enough good in the face of the relentless capitalism that leads to poor labor practices. It isn’t, surely, but in order to engage in this level of performance, I have to reason away some of the more shameful aspects of a product’s creation.

It is another day on the internet and people are setting things on fire. Or cutting them to pieces, or gesturing at inanimate objects with their middle fingers. Earlier this week, Nike made Colin Kaepernick the face of its new ad campaign, culminating in a commercial starring Kaepernick that was released on Wednesday afternoon and will air during the NFL’s opening game tonight.

The tagline of the campaign is “Believe in something. Even if it means sacrificing everything.” The text is laid over a close-up shot of Colin Kaepernick’s face, stoic and determined.

There is no reasoning with the people who claim to be burning Nike items in protest of Nike giving Kaepernick a campaign. The people are still upset about Colin Kaepernick, still bellowing about his protesting the flag and the anthem and America’s troops, despite the fact that they surely know — or have at least heard or seen — the reasoning for his protest outlined by Kaepernick himself, as well as other NFL players who support him. Perhaps the people even know that a donation of their Nike apparel may aid an underserved community.

There is something visceral about setting fire to your belongings as a way of showing disgust. It is an immediate way to not only demonstrate to an audience that you don’t care about the material loss of an object, but also show that you are willing to engage in a violent act against your own property to nail the point home. It makes for delicious drama, sometimes for both sides of the debate. Singer John Rich of country music duo Big & Rich, for example, posted a photo on Twitter on Monday of his soundman holding the severed tops of two Nike socks. The soundman is a former Marine, and in a fit of rage at the Kaepernick news, he cut the Nike swooshes off of his own socks. There are those who view this as righteous and patriotic, and those who find it comically foolish, but the performance serves the general idea: to pull eyes away from the greater, more complicated questions raised by a corporation like Nike endorsing an activist like Colin Kaepernick, and pull eyes toward the fireworks of public disavowal.

As to those questions, I thought Nike’s gesture rang hollow, even as I watched the commercial with its stark and inspirational imagery of athletes overcoming odds, laid over Kaepernick issuing directives about achieving that which seems impossible — and even as I smirked at the news of Nike planning to run the commercial during the NFL’s opening night on Thursday. Nike’s aim feels rooted specifically in another branch of performance: the performance of discussion. Discourse isn’t always profitable in the immediate short term (for those interested in the numbers game, Nike’s stock fell 3% on Tuesday) but stakes its hopes in controversy expanding and extending beyond a week, or a month. Much of the discussion remains surface-level, though, revolving around the publicly appealing aspects of it and not how Nike reckons with its being the official brand of the NFL while leaning fully into a campaign with a player blacklisted by the NFL. If a corporation takes enough sides, there is no longer bravery, just simultaneous echoes of meaningless banter while profits ebb and flow.

The thing is, though, that Colin Kaepernick is only controversial because the people opposed to him haven’t the imagination to see him as a complete person. Nike’s ad asks its viewers to believe in something. Kaepernick chooses to believe in a more egalitarian society in which systemic racial imbalances and injustice are, at the very least, challenged. He’s backed that up, donating over a million dollars to charities since September 2016. The belief that Colin Kaepernick is controversial exists only because we are in a country where iconography can be valued more than the people living under it. What he’s asking for isn’t particularly uncommon, though the actions he’s taken (both in protest and in donation of time and money) are.

I don’t know what, if any, hand Kaepernick had in the direction of Nike’s ad or its messaging. Ultimately, when it’s all said and done, I’m most thrilled to see him continue to access platforms that might lead some people to the work he’s done. But, on its face, the campaign feels like a performance to appeal to Colin Kaepernick as merely a controversy machine.

I will not be setting any of my Nikes on fire, and I will certainly not be cutting up any clothing. I am not on the side of those who would burn their own possessions in the name of this, or in the name of anything. I grew up too poor to do anything but cling to what I’ve earned, even if I’ve earned an unnecessary abundance of it. I cling to my sneakers, those in protest of Nike cling to their ideologies, and Nike itself clings to a desire to be part of a national conversation. And it’s all an attempt to compensate for some absence — be it of confidence, of logic, or of brand accountability. If there is one thing we all have in common, it’s that we understand what it takes to draw an eye elsewhere, even if only for a moment.●

Sahred From Source link Sports

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