#and they look like comets when they fly over the farm during the night | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

gamerdamemedia · 3 years

Text

Test Case

So, for a couple weeks now I made a fatal mistake for all fanfic writers: I watched something different that inspired a story idea, & I haven’t been able to get it out of my head & distracting me from other things. So, as I write to exorcise ideas from my head to make space, I decided to put pen to paper this afternoon... or fingers to keyboard, I guess, & write some of it out. Not sure I’ll actually ever share it, as it might stay just my personal pet project, but I figured I could at least share the start. Even writers needs a little side project just for their own enjoyment. Now that studying is done & I’m back from vacation, hopefully I can get back to some regular schedule. I’ve been out of sorts during this crunch time before the big test.

In the grand scheme of the cosmos, freezing to death while drifting along the Etherium wasn't the worst way to go. She could think of many worse ways to die after being spaced. She could fall into the vacuum of space and suffocate, or stray too close to a star and get pulled in by its gravitational force to burn up, sucked into a black hole, or starve (or more likely die from dehydration). But it seemed fate had seen fit to deal her a slightly kinder hand. A hand that still said she was screwed, but only in the gentlest way. With fancy silk sheets and plenty of lubrication.

She would've laughed, but that would exacerbate the splitting headache she already had, so she settled for a chuff. Clearly the delirium of losing core body heat was setting in.

It seemed a rather appropriate bookend to her story, short though it may be. Fitting that her last memory should be bobbing freely along the Etherium waves to wherever they deigned to take her, as it was also her earliest. Gazing up at the endless, twinkling abyss, she could almost imagine the hard wooden deck of her grandfather's old longboat beneath her back. Or maybe the rough fabric of his overalls, with the button that always seemed to poke her in her shoulder blade as she reclined against his portly torso. She smiled to herself then. That's a nice thought, she said to herself, letting her head drift back, supported by nothing but the lack of gravity. It was almost enough to fight off the creeping chill that raced ahead of the numbness as her limbs stopped receiving vital blood. She'd always ridden the waves as they came, be them Etherium or fate, letting them take her where they willed. Why should the end be any different? "A man's heart devises his way, but fate directs his steps," her grandfather would say. Smart man, for just a farmer.

The irony wasn't lost on her, even as her brain began to sluggishly flit around poorly connected thoughts. The woman who always had an escape plan, always left a way out... Lady Luck had robbed her of her one vice. Not that she hadn't tried. It was getting out that had landed her in this situation in the first place. She'd booked passage on a small transport ship out of the Calyn Abyss to... actually, she didn't remember where the vessel was enroute to. Away, was all that mattered. A deal had turned particularly sour, and she needed to disappear in hurry. With enough money in the right hands and a vessel about to pull out of port, nobody asked questions. She'd stepped onto that dock as Absence, and left as Tammy Righte.

Things had been going well, until a bit of turbulence from a passing comet had caused some sort of electrical malfunction. As the transport rocked and swayed, the occupants had tied their lifelines, hoping to ride out the waves. That was when everything started blowing. Something must've shorted, creating a fire below deck. She remembered people screaming as the deck shook. A particularly violent blast caused the ship to tilt and lurch, bucking like a mad bonzabeast, throwing her from the deck. She remembered feeling weightless as she escaped the protective sphere of the ship's artificial gravity. The last thing she remembered was something metallic from the ship hitting her squarely in the face before blacking out.

When she woke an unknown amount of time later, she found herself adrift in space, far from anything to save herself with. Her face ached something fierce, and she'd touched it to feel blood. Without gravity, it couldn't really pour, but she felt it oozing with each pounding pulse of her heart, trickling along her face whenever she turned her head.

Despite the name, one couldn't swim through Etherium currents like water. You went wherever they took you. The knock from the ship had sent her essentially careening through space, and she'd keep going that way thanks to the lack of friction unless something intervened. Not wanting to die, as any warm-blooded being wouldn't, she'd tried to find some way to stop or change her course. But she wasn't near anything. Eventually, hypothermia started to set in, and her limbs became too leaden to move. At that point, she'd resigned herself to her fate. Why die tired?

She reached up a hand to wipe the blood trickling in the corner of her eye, but her aim was sloppy due to not being able to feel her hands anymore. Don't spend your last moments thinking about such things, she told herself. Shouldn't her last moments be happy?

Relaxing back into the Etherium, she went back to imagining herself on her grandfather's boat, bobbing along. They'd spent many a'night floating aimlessly in the sky, the green plains of her home rolling peacefully below them in the breeze. As a little girl, she would sometimes lean out over the side of the longboat, so far her grandfather would have to pull her back to stop her from falling. She'd giggle as he tickled her, tucking her safely to his chest. "Tryin' to fly away, little bird?" he'd ask. "Ya' too young for that, yet." Some nights, if the weather was clear, he'd teach her about the different stars and planets. He'd tell her tales about his brief stint in the Navy, or some adventure from his wild youth-- sometimes they'd even be true! Other times, they'd fall asleep drifting, only to wake up in some random place and go on an "adventure" to get back home. Basic navigational and map-reading skills were an essential pick up. He liked to pretend he was teaching her, but she knew better. Man couldn't find his way out of room with a single door some days.

Her favorite nights, though, were when he'd pull out his old harmonica and play for her. On particularly clear, cool nights like this, his tune would be slow, the notes dragging on for long periods before warbling, bobbing like the waves. She always felt like she was rising and falling in time with the tune. Her hand came up to rest on her breast pocket. Despite not having feeling in her fingers anymore, she knew the harmonica was still safe within. She felt its outline pressing into her chest. Briefly, she thought to take it out and play one final song on the old instrument in memorial, but with her hands as they were, she wouldn't be able to play. And she didn't want to lose it. So, she settled for letting her hand rest there, taking comfort in its presence over her heart.

Everything felt heavy now, to the point she almost expected to start sinking. The organ beneath her hand was beginning to slow as it lost the fight to keep her warm. Non-vital organs would start shutting down soon.

She forced her mind back to more times with her grandfather, this time on land. "Don't think you're too good to put your hands to hard work, little bird," he'd tell her... usually while making her do something around the farm he didn't want to do. Chasing down some ornery creature that didn't want to be hemmed up, most likely. Or time spent fishing at Mrs. Neelie's pond. She didn't actually like to fish, didn't have the patience for it, but she always went to watch him. She swore, her grandfather could be in the middle of an ocean, miles from anything else, and still manage to get snagged on something. Or there was the time he tripped coming down the hill and nearly knocked old Mrs. Neelie into the pond. She'd had to sit down, she'd laughed so hard. "Go ahead, laugh at the old man," he’d warned her.

Her laughter melded into a sob at the end, lips pulled back in a grimace. The stars around her shined even brighter in the light of her tears stuck to her lashes. She felt her lower lip wobble. No one was around, what was the point? She allowed herself to cry, flailing in impotent rage. "I don't want to die!" she shouted to the heavens. Maybe this close, someone would actually hear her and take pity.

There would be no one to mourn her, no one to even report her missing. Absence would be hunted for a while until her pursuers gave up and cut their losses. Tammy Righte would be listed as death in absentia, another sad statistic. All her other alias would only be missed when a contact tried to reach her for something, but swiftly forgotten as they looked elsewhere for someone to do their dirty work. Her more frequent clients might wonder, but it would be a passing question, like the fate of a childhood schoolmate. She'd ghosted through life, taking different names along the way. She went through names like normal people went through clothes: you pick one as needs demand, it gets a little too dirty, discard it and pick out a new one. So many names and alias and identities. Her real name safely locked away.

There was no one left who knew who she really was.

The brief burst of indignation warmed her a little, but the almost absolute zero temperature of space just as quickly sapped it from her, the cold once again cradling her in its loving embrace. Fear threatened to creep up faster than the cold. She'd never been the religious sort. She didn't know if there was anything after this. But if there was, she was sure she'd be going to same place as her grandfather, and that thought offered some bittersweet comfort. Likely not heaven, but if he was there that would be heaven enough. She wrapped her arms around herself as best she could, imagining it was the warm embrace of her grandfather. Droplets floated up from her lashes as she smiled. She'd held his hand when he died, a smile on his face. She kinda wished she had someone to hold her hand, now. "Meet me at the bar, old man," she whispered. "I'm buying this time." Then she closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift to happier times as the cold, gentle embrace of death shrouded her.

#writing #side project #pilot #curious if anyone will know what this is even from #fiction #fanfiction

13 notes · View notes

pricklerick · 4 years

Text

Thanksgiving used to be Summer’s favorite holiday.

It meant spending two whole nights with Jerry’s parents and waking up early and going for a long walk in the snow, then peeling off wet clothes just in time to watch the dog show on TV while grandma baked pumpkin pie.

Things are different now, with Grandpa Rick and Morty gone. Dad, of course, had instantly accused Grandpa Rick of kidnapping Morty. Mom had screamed that her father would never do something like that to his family, to her (even know Summer knows that deep down, her mother was very afraid that Grandpa Rick had done exactly that).

The divorce was so ugly that Summer transferred to a school in Texas, losing a bunch of her class credits just to get away from them.

Texas is good. Well, it’s hot, and Summer’s skin hates that, but the people are nice and her classes are easy, and if she stays within a certain neighborhood, she can find whatever she wants without having to edge over to the east side of town.

She even has a finance. David plays football and his parents own a ranch in the Texas hill country. They have a little money and they like to flaunt it.

Years ago, before Grandpa Rick burst into Summer’s life and started taking her little brother on adventures, before portal guns and real guns and near death experiences became Summer’s adrenaline fix, she would have been thrilled to nail down a guy like David. David is kind, and sweet, and very attractive. He’s got a good future and he’s looking at being scouted as quarterback next year.

Summer’s ring is a gaudy thing, at least two carats, and it sits heavy on her finger. She only wears it when she knows she’ll be with David or the in-laws. It’s an heirloom ring, passed down through generations, and Summer hates it. She’s forever fiddling with it, or pulling her sleeve down to cover it, or hiding it in her back pocket when she’s out with girl friends.

She doesn’t go out as often anymore - they’re seniors now, and Summer has been told that the partying needs to slow down now that David’s future is getting serious. Summer is fine with this. There’s nothing on this earth that matches a party in space, anyway.

Sometimes, Summer looks up at the night sky and wonders how she could get her hands on some of Grandpa Rick’s K-Lax. That was good stuff.

It’s easy to justify spending Thanksgiving away from home because of travel expenses and final exams. Summer’s done it three years in a row now. She doesn't often think of Beth, or of Jerry, either. She’s deeply entrenched in a new family now, invested in a future mother-in -law who insists on being called “Mama June” or even just “Mama,” and an emotionally detached father-in-law who feels that talking to a woman who is not his wife is beneath him.

Summer is spending more and more time outside, looking at the stars, wishing, remembering.

But this week, the week before break, at 2:43 am, Summer’s phone screen lights up with a call from “Beth Smith.” And when Summer, groggy and maybe already a little hungover, answers with a hoarse, “Hello?” Beth is slobbering drunk.

“Honey, please,” Beth cries, slurring her words and hitching her breaths. “I need to see my baby, Summer. It’s Thanksgiving, next week. Summer, remember? Remember Thanksgiving? You... You’re all I have left.”

Yeesh.

Summer does not want to spend her break dealing with Beth and all of her sloppy-alcoholic coping mechanisms.That’s why she’d run away to Texas to begin with.

Summer hasn’t been home since the night they lost Morty.

She doesn’t want to go back. So she shushes Beth over the phone, lets her cry it out and then they start it all again, the crying and the shushing, over and over until Beth is nearly asleep, slurring half-formed words into her pillow.

Summer disconnects the call and drops her face into her hands. “Fuck.”

“What, babe?”

Ugh, she’d forgotten that David had stayed over.

David wraps his greedy arms around Summer’s waist and pulls her in, his naked boner brushing hot against her thigh. It makes her sick. She pulls away from him, leaning against the headboard and fumbling for the lamp. Beside her, David blinks owlishly in the light.

“I’m going home for Thanksgiving,” she tells him. No sense dragging it out.

“Oh,” says David, reaching up to stroke Summer’s cheeks and twine his fingers in her hair. Summer tenses at this, but David is oblivious, still carding his big stupid paws though Summer’s shower-damp braids and looking at her with an intensity that is frankly... terrifying. “What about coming back to Pilot Point, babe?,” he reminds her and he leans forward in an effort to pepper Summer’s face with kisses. Summer dodges them, making a show of reaching for her phone, so David grabs her hand instead. “Remember talking about seeing my folks?”

Summer is suddenly disgusted with herself. She ran away from home straight into the arms of this Mama’s boy who can hardly keep it up for the four and a half minutes it takes him to blow his load in missionary position.

Summer is a Sanchez.

She’s wondered for a while, especially after that stunt Dad pulled during the divorce, if she should have her name legally changed. She shares a quarter of Grandpa Rick’s genes, and by her rights as a Sanchez, the universe owes her good sex.

At least.

“Sorry, David,” she says and she deftly rolls away from him to stand at the edge of their shared bed. “Plans have changed. Mom needs me.”

Now David is sitting up, looking for all the world like a kicked puppy, but there’s a hardness in his eyes that Summer doesn’t like. Oh well. In for a penny, she guesses.

“Listen, dude, this isn’t working anyway. I’m not the hot little wifey on your arm that your parents are hoping you’ll find here.” She snorts, pacing around the bedroom, ticking off points on her fingers. “I don’t even want kids. I’m Summer Sanchez. I’ve been to space. I’ve seen the stars and constellations and comets and asteroids. I’ve met people you wouldn’t believe. I’ve met planets you wouldn’t believe - sentient planets, David! I’ve hit alien drugs that would blow your tiny mind.” She’s trembling now, all keyed up, but it feels good. There’s something cathartic about acknowledging the truth after so long.

She decides that Summer Sanchez has a nice ring to it.

She lifts her hands and twirls, landing in a heap at the foot of the bed. “The best sex I ever had was with a flying lamb on Oourivian Prime, for Chrissakes.” Summer turns, flushed and grinning, and pokes David in the chest. “You better believe I’m not settling down on a silly horse farm in Pilot Point!”

David is looking at her wide-eyed and slack-jawed, like he’s seeing her for the first time. The thought makes Summer smile a real smile. In a fit of giddiness, she pecks him playfully on the lips, sliding his ridiculous ring from her finger and curling it into his palm. “Good luck with that, babe!”

Feeling freer than she has in years, she flutters around the room, grabbing a few outfits that she likes and stuffing them haphazardly into an old gym bag. The whole thing takes less than a minute.

“Oh, and don’t take it too hard,” she calls over her shoulder, “I don’t think we’re really all that sexually compatible, anyway.” She waves a hand toward the flagging erection that is peaking from David’s boxers. “I’m more of a tentacle kind of girl, if you know what I mean.”

And so, during the fall semester of her senior year, Summer Sanchez dropped out of Texas A&M’s pre-law program and flew home to see her mother for the first time in three years.

xxx

Morty enters through the front door because he’s not a stranger. He’s not exactly sure how long it’s been on Earth - time moves differently on Morty’s waste planet - but somehow, he hadn’t expected it to be night. It makes him feel like a burglar, walking up the concrete steps to the front door with his big black cowl pulled low over his face, a deeply ingrained habit.

“You’ve only got one face, Mo-AAAUURRGG-rty. Don’t get caught with it.”

The key code to unlock the door is the same. Morty sighs, surprised at the stress that leaves his body with this revelation. He hadn’t wanted to break into his parents’ home. Now, he doesn’t have to.

He whirls around, taking one last look at the ship he’d parked on the garage pad. He’d avoided the streetlamps best he could, managed to land very quietly (thanks for that rad auto-landing feature, Rick)partially concealed behind some overgrown azaleas.

Morty sighs, tense again. Modifications aside, that is obviously Rick’s ship to anybody who knows it. Morty hopes he can get what he needs and get out. It would be wrong to disturb whatever peace his family had managed to regain in the years he’s been gone.

The front door is squeakier than Morty remembers. He slips into the kitchen as quickly, quiet as a ghost, and pulls the door slowly to behind him.

His first thought is that he’d forgotten that home has a smell. Carpet and lemon pledge and laundry detergent, and the lingering scent of last night’s dinner all converge on his senses like a physical blow to the gut.

How could Morty have forgotten that smell?

He glances around, eyes adjusting to the dim light of the street lamps. A few scattered dishes lie in the sink, an empty wine bottle sits abandoned on the counter. He’s standing on the same ugly linoleum floor with its worn green leaf patten, so subtle you’d miss it if you didn’t know where to look.

Time hasn’t touched the kitchen.

Morty stands in his childhood home and takes three deep breaths. He thought he’d been prepared for anything and everything - all the changes. He’d been ready.

But the house is exactly the same.

It’s Morty who has changed.

Morty’s breathing speeds, and he shakes off the shudder that tempts to run down his spine. If the kitchen affected him this deeply…. He swings his gaze to the garage door that beckons ominously to his left.

Don’t think about it, he reminds himself sharply. The plan is simple - break into the garage, grab the stuff, and get out. There will be time for memories later.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about… him.

Morty shakes himself, setting his shoulders and pulling the heavy door handle toward him as he turns it to minimize noise. Unlike the kitchen, the swing of the garage door is silent.

The darkness deepens as Morty steps down the single step - there are no windows to let in the glow of the street lights here. The air is hotter and heavy, almost stale, and as Morty turns his back to the room to slowly pull the door to, he gets the strangest feeling. It’s almost the uneasiness he feels when he walks to the grave of the other Morty who is buried in the backyard. It raises the hairs on his neck, and Morty wonders if anybody in the family have used this garage since...

Don’t think about it.

Door secured and locked, Morty lets his fingers drift along the walls, his opposite hand outstretched in search of obstacles. But it seems that the garage is exactly as Morty remembers, and he navigates the dark with increasing confidence. He snags the dangling string - right where it should be - and tugs. The bare bulb that hangs over Rick’s work table pops and hums as it slowly blinks on, and Morty bites back a smile at the irony of the inter-galactic space genius Rick Sanchez discovering his greatest scientific breakthroughs beneath this dirty fluorescent bulb.

A thousand memories assault him at once.

“A hair, Morty, I need one of your hairs!”

“Bring me the thing. The thing. The thing. The -- the -- it's got, like, buttons on it and lights on it. It -- it -- it beeps.”

“You little son of a bitch! Y-y- are you a simulation?! Huh?! Are you a simulation??”

“I’m the Rickest Rick there is. And you know, it would - UUUURRGGHH- go without saying that the Rickest Rick… would have the Mortyest Morty.”

“Be better than I am.”

“Don’t… Don’t think about it.”

Morty sucks in a deep breath and grits his teeth hard. Time to get busy.

xxx

Three hours later, and Morty is almost done with the garage.

He glances at the digital clock that reads 3:33. By the time he gets this stuff loaded, it’ll be nearly daylight.

Damn, he’d really hoped to get everything in one trip. Fuel for a trip to Earth from his encampment is not cheap, and this was a long trip.

He picks up the first item, a strangely lightweight box labeled “Time Travel Stuff” and heads toward the kitchen. He dares not raise the garage door - that would make too much noise.

He opens the door and comes nose to nose with Summer.

“What. The fuck. Are you doing in my grandpa’s garage?” she says slowly, advancing on him with each word.

Morty’s first thought as he stumbles backward is, “Where did my sister get a pistol?”

He trips over the step in an effort to give her some space, sending the box flying. He finds himself sprawled on the floor, space bits everywhere, and his ass is killing him. “Ah, geez,” he breathes, repositioning slowly to take the pressure off of his coccyx. It’s probably broken.

Summer’s hands are trembling, and she lowers the gun. “Morty?”

Oh. His hood had fallen when he did. Morty looks up at her, a little sheepishly, suddenly very aware of the beard he’d decided to grow a while back. “Umm, yeah,” he says lamely, still wincing at the pain. “Hi!”

There’s a funny expression on Summer’s face, like she’s thinking a billion things at once, and her eyes are wider than Morty’s ever seen them. But then her gaze hardens. “And which one are you?” she demands, looking as if she’d like to bring the gun back to his head.

Morty raises his eyebrows. He wouldn’t have expected Summer to immediately question his dimension. Clever of her. He quirks a little smile. “C-137,” he answers her, trying and mostly failing to get back on his feet. “I’m your Morty. Well, your second Morty.”

Quick as a blink, Summer slings the gun away. It lands with a clatter and she launches herself at Morty, wrapping him in a rib-creaking hug. Morty’s body tenses - hugs are definitely not his typical physical interaction. But Summer is burying her face into the crook of his neck, and Morty is surprised to find how easily it fits there. When he’d left, they’d barely stood eye to eye.

Morty is stunned. Summer has never hugged him like this. Feebly, he reaches up and lays his hand across her back. She’s shuddering. So Morty pulls her closer, shifting his weight so that his knees are beneath him, and gathers her in. She allows this, never looking up at him, and slowly, Morty relaxes into it.

“Summer?” he asks softly after what feels like a long time. He’s never been good with his sister’s emotions.

Summer cranes her neck sideways to look at him, and she’s a mess of mascara and tears, red-faced and absolutely shaking with laughter. Morty huffs with her, still utterly bewildered by girls. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing’s funny, Morty,” she tells him, but she’s still laughing, so Morty laughs with her. “You’ve been gone for three years. You’ve been legally declared dead, you asshole!” She swats him on the shoulder, but he manages to doge the blow, which only makes her face fall. She comes closer, looking more tearful now than before, and settles beside him. “We had a fucking funeral for you, you complete sack of dicks!”

Morty doesn’t know what to say, so he grabs Summer’s hand and squeezes. “Sorry.”

And he is.

Summer rolls her eyes and snorts, but there’s something softer at the edge of her lips, and she lays her head on Morty’s shoulder and sighs. Morty assumes means he’s forgiven, at least on some level.

They only sit like that for a minute or so before Morty starts to fidget. His ass is absolutely killing him, and time’s a-ticking. He needs to get out of here soon. Summer seems to read the tension in his body, because she stands abruptly and offers her hand, pulling him to his feet with an exaggerated groan.

“Thanks,” he quirks her a little half-smile, the only thing he has to offer her.

But Summer isn’t looking at him. Her eyes are tracking around the garage, noting the boxes that have been drug out and packed up. Something tightens in her face, and when she speaks, it’s in that no-nonsense tone that always drove him up the wall when they were kids.

“What happened, Morty?” Summer finishes her sweep of the garage and pins her gaze on him.

Morty nearly stumbles back at the intensity of it.

“What happened to you? Where is Grandpa Rick?”

Authors Notes:

Based on Vapor Morty, who was originally developed in this hot mess of a text post. Rick’s been kidnapped and Morty has been scouring the universe trying to find him and doing a lot of learning and growing along the way.

Kidnapped Rick saw Morty “die” just before he was kidnapped and went crazy over it. Morty obviously wasn’t dead, was trying to get to Rick to say hey, I’m all good and these guys are after you so let’s get out of here.

Morty literally lives in an intergalactic dumpster and makes a living renovating and selling weapons and machinery. He found his way home to earth because he wants to find any of Rick’s stuff that he could possibly use to track him down, or maybe even build his own portal gun.

Basically, Morty is a little badass now.

I might write more of these little drabbles if people are interested in them. Also, just really hoping I got Summer’s voice right here. Feedback is always, always appreciated, friends! My messages and ask box are open!

#pricklerick original #rick and morty #vapor morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #rickorty #summer smith #i could pretty easily be convinced to dabble deeper into this au #so many vapor morty feelings #summer is my precious sunshine child

36 notes · View notes

seyaryminamoto · 7 years

Note

what sokkla fics do you recommend?

AHAHAHAHA OMG this is going to be long again… but yes, I had said I’d do this, so let’s go!

…

Under the cut, that is. This is WAY too long.

First off, multichapter stories!

The Princess Guard by prinsesseazula

Zuko asks Sokka to help protect Azula from an onslaught of threats that are jeopardizing her safety. Slowly but surely developing the romance of our two dorks. Rated T.

Bonfire Heart by Madame Atomic Bomb

A dangerous group, called the Smoke Demons, plot to kill Zuko. Mai infiltrates the group to protect him, and enlists Sokka and Azula as well so they can prevent the attempts on Zuko’s life. Rated M.

She’s Something by haley97

An alphabet challenge that explores Sokka and Azula’s budding relationship following the prompt word for each chapter. Rated T.

p a i n t by lotusunset

Sokka is a widow, traveling across the world to overcome the loss of his wife and child. He stumbles across Azula in an Earth Kingdom village, where she’s been working as a painter, and he tries to unravel how she came to this place. Rated T.

Of Farms, Fairs and Fame by BellatrixLestrangey

A modern AU where Azula and Sokka live near each other in the USA countryside and have been friends for a long time. Azula is an aspiring musician while Sokka works at his family farm. Rated T.

Opposite Elements by LordStone

Set in a world where the Hundred Year War didn’t happen, Sokka travels to the Fire Nation to live as a guest of the Fire Nation Royals. He clashes with Azula at first, but soon enough they learn to see each other with different eyes. Rated T.

Proving You Wrong by PurplePlatypusBear21

Sokka travels to the North Pole and is surprised to bump into Azula here. He tries to decipher the mystery of why she’s here, and finds himself wanting to help her in any way he can. Rated T.

Reclaimed by Sokkaweekly

Azula escapes from the asylum and Zuko asks Sokka to help him find her and bring her home. Sokka does as he’s told, not knowing that his story with Azula is only just beginning. Rated M.

Prisoner’s Dilemma by PurplePlatypusBear21

Sokka finds Azula freezing in a cooler during the escape from the Boiling Rock, and he’s overwhelmed by his sudden desire to help and protect the Fire Nation Princess. Rated T.

Blue Eyes, Blue Fire by PurplePlatypusBear21

A collection of short stories for Sokkla Saturdays. Rated T.

Saturnalia by clarielparke

Another collection of short stories for Sokkla Saturdays. Rated M.

The Black Cage by Fanwright

In a setting where slavery exists and Ozai’s ambitions got the better of him, his family is confined to a life in the Black Cage, where they’re occasionally entertained by a Water Tribe slave. Rated T.

Lightning and Boomerang - The Bounty Hunters by Chaosconetic

Not comic-compliant. After Ursa’s search ends, Sokka and Azula decide to try their luck as bounty hunters in the Earth Kingdom. Rated T.

Collected by Sokkaweekly

Shapeshifter AU. Sokka seeks to kill a dragon who’s tormenting his village. He doesn’t expect the dragon to have the human form of a young girl with gold eyes and raven hair. Rated T.

Airship Down and the Mountains of Madness by Keith B. Real

Sokka attempts to attack the Fire Nation airship fleet when they’re near the South Pole, but everything escalates out of his control. What began as a reckless mission turn into an ordeal of survival when he has to work with a wounded Azula to save themselves from the horrors buried deep under the Mountains of Madness. Rated T.

Love of Madness by Keith B. Real

Three years have passed since the horror in the South scarred both Sokka and Azula. The return of the monsters of the depths brings them together again as they try to put a stop to their conquest for once and for all. Rated T.

Sokka, Agent of OWL by storywriter1id

Sokka is tasked with retrieving Azula by the Order of the White Lotus, and he must find her in the Earth Kingdom and bring her home. Her life will depend on the success of Sokka’s quest. Rated T.

Majesty by Anariel Tindomerel

AU where Sozin’s Comet arrives many years later: Sokka infiltrates Azula’s troops in the Earth Kingdom, hoping to serve as a spy for the White Lotus. But once he’s in Azula’s radar, she starts to unravel just why this soldier seems so familiar… Rated M. Warning: it’s in Spanish.

Imprisoned by conspiracy victim

Azula captures Sokka while trying to ensnare the Avatar. But the more time she spends with him, the harder it is to resist the temptation they pose for each other. Rated M.

A Week of Steam by Nara Shikaku

Collection of Sokkla stories, a few of them of the smutty kind. Rated M.

Puzzling Pieces by Vayleen

Collection of 100 Sokkla drabbles, a few of them connected with each other, about Sokka and Azula and the development of their story. Rated T.

Gaining One’s Freedom by LadyFireNation

Non comics-compliant. Azula is released from the asylum seven years after the end of ATLA, and Zuko sends her on a quest to find their mother with Sokka’s assistance. Rated M.

Solace by bevesy

After falling out of her father’s good graces, Azula is sent away to the South Pole as punishment, on the pretense of an arranged marriage. But as time goes by and she adjusts to life with her husband, Sokka, winds of change start to blow in the Fire Nation. Rated M.

It Was All Ty Lee’s Fault by Fokusas

A crack fic if there ever was one for this ship, Azula and Sokka have an intimate encounter by accident that results in their marriage in the middle of a war-torn Fire Nation. Rated M.

The Night Before the Wedding by Lord-Captain000

Azula is being forced to marry someone she doesn’t love, while engaged in an affair with Sokka. Rated M.

Now… Oneshots!

Kiss Me Like This by Princess Tyler Briefs

Azula’s birthday party features an entrancing guest who sweeps her off her feet as they dance together. Rated K.

Noble Daughter by LoveBackwards

A fluff piece on the aftermath of the birth of Azula and Sokka’s daughter. Rated K+.

Mother Knows Best by RedBayly

Azula meets Sokka after their affair culminates in a child neither one was prepared for. Rated T.

Flying Dragon, Crouching Tiger by Fanwright

In the Second World War, Sokka’s plane falls during a military operation, and he’s found by three dangerous Chinese military officials. Rated M.

Scribble Hearts by Fanwright

The morning after their wedding, Azula gets her hands on Sokka’s sketchbook and tries to unravel the meaning behind his doodles. Rated T.

Renewed by Sokkaweekly

Azula ponders her circumstances after the war, now that Sokka is often looking after her. Rated T.

Wholehearted by Sokkaweekly

A modern AU take on the Avatarverse where Sokka tries to surprise Azula who only seems to have her mind set on one thing. Rated K.

Genesis by Sokkaweekly

Azula is surprised when a simple sickness turns out to be the signs of pregnancy, and she must inform Sokka about it. Rated T.

Corrupted by Sokkawekly

The Day of Black Sun takes an unexpected twist when a secret alliance changes the fate of the world forever. Rated M.

Defending by Sokkaweekly

Sokka and Azula work together with Aang and Katara to protect a Fire Nation village from rogues. Rated M.

Pampered by Sokkaweekly

Azula’s handmaiden takes a day off, and it’s up to Sokka to provide his services for Azula in the best way he knows how. Rated T.

Singing Metal by BellatrixLestrangey

Azula is worried about the dangers of blades in a house with a newborn baby and tries to approach Sokka on the subject. Rated T.

The Right Decision by BellatrixLestrangey

Azula doesn’t know how to turn her one-night-stand with Sokka into a regular occurrence. Rated T.

Eternal by icewhisker21

Sokka brings a gift for Azula on their anniversary, hoping the hidden meaning of the present will convey the depth of his love for her. Rated T.

Fire and Ice by icewhisker21

A sparring session between Sokka and Azula takes an unexpected turn for the better after the Princess gets tired of losing against him. Rated M.

Shadow by clarielparke

Sokka finds Azula in a village, in the middle of a dark night. But the truth behind his intentions might push her away from him for good. Rated M.

Swordplay by Fanwright

While sparring in the Agni Kai Arena, Sokka and Azula find themselves succumbing to a hunger they cannot quench through anything but each other’s bodies. Rated M.

Teaching You The Ropes by clarielparke

Sokka is sent by Zuko to capture Azula, who has been working as a bounty hunter. But the assignment brings complications when the Princess proves to be craftier than Sokka anticipated. Rated M.

Tales of the Stranded by icedcoffeepanda

The adventures or misadventures of Sokka and Azula while under the influence of cactus juice. Rated K+.

Stressed Out by Gd2go2

Long days of work at the United Forces offices have been very stressful for Sokka. Fortunately Azula knows just now to help him. Rated M.

Trick or treat by prinsesseazula

Modern AU. Sokka’s Halloween party is a complicated event for Azula, as she’s not sure she’s welcome amongst his friends just yet. Rated K+.

To Sleep With Fire by BellatrixLestrangey

Sokka fights with Azula over the covers in the bed. Rated K

The View From Atop Your Shoulders by BellatrixLestrangey

Modern AU. Sokka allows Azula to sit on his shoulders during a rock concert. Rated K

In Perfect Silence by BellatrixLestrangey

Sokka and Azula sneak away during a festival to find a place where they can be alone. Rated K+

…

Ya’ know, I’m actually missing out on a huge bunch. I know I am. And that actually makes me kind of happy because it really shows we’ve got a ton more content than we did five years ago. Damn, I’m glad.

But alas, I’ve already spent like 3 hours of my life making this list? Or has it been longer? I was supposed to answer other asks too xD so I assume you have plenty to go on with the list as it is! Do enjoy, anon!

#seyary finally answers #sokkla #fic rec list #my god I can't believe how long this took #and I still have a full inbox #dear god

420 notes · View notes

readbookywooks · 8 years

Text

This is the bright candlelit room where the life-timers are stored – shelf upon shelf of them, squat hourglasses, one for every living person, pouring their fine sand from the future into the past. The accumulated hiss of the falling grains makes the room roar like the sea. This is the owner of the room, stalking through it with a preoccupied air. His name is Death. But not any Death. This is the Death whose particular sphere of operations is, well, not a sphere at all, but the Discworld, which is flat and rides on the back of four giant elephants who stand on the shell of the enormous star turtle Great A'Tuin, and which is bounded by a waterfall that cascades endlessly into space. Scientists have calculated that the chance of anything so patently absurd actually existing are millions to one. But magicians have calculated that million-to-one chances crop up nine times out of ten. Death clicks across the black and white tiled floor on toes of bone, muttering inside his cowl as his skeletal fingers count along the rows of busy hourglasses. Finally he finds one that seems to satisfy him, lifts it carefully from its shelf and carries it across to the nearest candle. He holds it so that the light lints off it, and stares at the little point of reflected brilliance. The steady gaze from those twinkling eye-sockets encompasses the world turtle, sculling through the deeps of space, carapace scarred by comets and pitted by meteors. One day even Great A'Tuin will die, Death knows; now, that would be a challenge. But the focus of his gaze dives onwards towards the blue-green magnificence of the Disc itself, turning slowly under its tiny orbiting sun. Now it curves away towards the great mountain range called the Ramtops. The Ramtops are full of deep valleys and unexpected crags and considerably more geography than they know what to do with. They have their own peculiar weather, full of shrapnel rain and whiplash winds and permanent thunder-storms. Some people say it's all because the Ramtops are the home of old, wild magic. Mind you, some people will say anything. Death blinks, adjusts for depth of vision. Now he sees the grassy country on the turnwise slopes of the mountains. Now he sees a particular hillside. Now he sees a field. Now he sees a boy, running. Now he watches. Now, in a voice like lead slabs being dropped on granite, he says: YES. There was no doubt that there was something magical in the soil of that hilly, broken area which – because of the strange tint that it gave to the local flora – was known as the octarine grass country. For example, it was one of the few places on the Disc where plants produced reannual varieties. Reannuals are plants that grow backwards in time. You sow the seed this year and they grow last year. Mort's family specialised in distilling the wine from reannual grapes. These were very powerful and much sought after by fortune-tellers, since of course they enabled them to see the future. The only snag was that you got the hangover the morning before, and had to drink a lot to get over it. Reannual growers tended to be big, serious men, much given to introspection and close examination of the calendar. A farmer who neglects to sow ordinary seeds only loses the crop, whereas anyone who forgets to sow seeds of a crop that has already been harvested twelve months before risks disturbing the entire fabric of causality, not to mention acute embarrassment. It was also acutely embarrassing to Mort's family that the youngest son was not at all serious and had about the same talent for horticulture that you would find in a dead starfish. It wasn't that he was unhelpful, but he had the land of vague, cheerful helpfulness that serious men soon learn to dread. There was something infectious, possibly even fatal, about it. He was tall, red-haired and freckled, with the sort of body that seems to be only marginally under its owner's control; it appeared to have been built out of knees. On this particular day it was hurtling across the high fields, waving its hands and yelling. Mort's father and uncle watched it disconsolately from the stone wall. 'What I don't understand,' said father Lezek, 'is that the birds don't even fly away. I'd fly away, if I saw it coining towards me.' 'Ah. The human body's a wonderful thing. I mean, his legs go all over the place but there's a fair turn of speed there.' Mort reached the end of a furrow. An overfull woodpigeon lurched slowly out of his way. 'His heart's in the right place, mind,' said Lezek, carefully. 'Ah. 'Course, 'tis the rest of him that isn't.' 'He's clean about the house. Doesn't eat much,' said Lezek. 'No, I can see that.' Lezek looked sideways at his brother, who was staring fixedly at the sky. 'I did hear you'd got a place going up at your farm, Hamesh,' he said. 'Ah. Got an apprentice in, didn't I?' 'Ah,' said Lezek gloomily, 'when was that, then?' 'Yesterday,' said his brother, lying with rattlesnake speed. 'All signed and sealed. Sorry. Look, I got nothing against young Mort, see, he's as nice a boy as you could wish to meet, it's just that —' 'I know, I know,' said Lezek. 'He couldn't find his arse with both hands.' They stared at the distant figure. It had fallen over. Some pigeons had waddled over to inspect it. 'He's not stupid, mind,' said Hamesh. 'Not what you'd call stupid.' 'There's a brain there all right,' Lezek conceded. 'Sometimes he starts thinking so hard you has to hit him round the head to get his attention. His granny taught him to read, see. I reckon it overheated his mind.' Mort had got up and tripped over his robe. 'You ought to set him to a trade,' said Hamesh, reflectively. 'The priesthood, maybe. Or wizardry. They do a lot of reading, wizards.' They looked at each other. Into both their minds stole an inkling of what Mort might be capable of if he got his well-meaning hands on a book of magic. 'All right,' said Hamesh hurriedly. 'Something else, then. There must be lots of things he could turn his hand to.' 'He starts thinking too much, that's the trouble,' said Lezek. 'Look at him now. You don't think about how to scare birds, you just does it. A normal boy, I mean.' Hamesh scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'It could be someone else's problem,' he said. Lezek's expression did not alter, but there was a subtle change around his eyes. 'How do you mean?' he said. 'There's the hiring fair at Sheepridge next week. You set him as a prentice, see, and his new master'll have the job of knocking him into shape. 'Tis the law. Get him indentured, and 'tis binding.' Lezek looked across the field at his son, who was examining a rock. 'I wouldn't want anything to happen to him, mind,' he said doubtfully. 'We're quite fond of him, his mother and me. You get used to people.' 'It'd be for his own good, you'll see. Make a man of him.' 'Ah. Well. There's certainly plenty of raw material,' sighed Lezek. Mort was getting interested in the rock. It had curly shells in it, relics of the early days of the world when the Creator had made creatures out of stone, no-one knew why. Mort was interested in lots of things. Why people's teeth fitted together so neatly, for example. He'd given that one a lot of thought. Then there was the puzzle of why the sun came out during the day, instead of at night when the light would come in useful. He knew the standard explanation, which somehow didn't seem satisfying. In short, Mort was one of those people who are more dangerous than a bag full of rattlesnakes. He was determined to discover the underlying logic behind the universe. Which was going to be hard, because there wasn't one. The Creator had a lot of remarkably good ideas when he put the world together, but making it understandable hadn't been one of them. Tragic heroes always moan when the gods take an interest in them, but it's the people the gods ignore who get the really tough deals. His father was yelling at him, as usual. Mort threw the rock at a pigeon, which was almost too full to lurch out of the way, and wandered back across the field. And that was why Mort and his father walked down through the mountains into Sheepridge on Hogswatch Eve, with Mort's rather sparse possessions in a sack on the back of a donkey. The town wasn't much more than four sides to a cobbled square, lined with shops that provided all the service industry of the farming community. After five minutes Mort came out of the tailors wearing a loose fitting brown garment of imprecise function, which had been understandably unclaimed by a previous owner and had plenty of room for him to grow, on the assumption that he would grow into a nineteen-legged elephant. His father regarded him critically. 'Very nice,' he said, 'for the money.' 'It itches,' said Mort. 'I think there's things in here with me.' There's thousands of lads in the world'd be very thankful for a nice warm —' Lezek paused, and gave up – 'garment like that, my lad.' 'I could share it with them?' Mort said hopefully. 'You've got to look smart,' said Lezek severely. 'You've got to make an impression, stand out in the crowd.' There was no doubt about it. He would. They set out among the throng crowding the square, each listening to his own thoughts. Usually Mort enjoyed visiting the town, with its cosmopolitan atmosphere and strange dialects from villages as far away as five, even ten miles, but this time he felt unpleasantly apprehensive, as if he could remember something that hadn't happened yet. The fair seemed to work like this: men looking for work stood in ragged lines in the centre of the square. Many of them sported little symbols in their hats to tell the world the kind of work they were trained in – shepherds wore a wisp of wool, carters a hank of horsehair, interior decorators a strip of rather interesting hessian wallcovering, and so on. The boys seeking apprenticeships were clustered on the Hub side of the square. 'You just go and stand there, and someone comes and offers you an apprenticeship,' said Lezek, his voice trimmed with uncertainty. 'If they like the look of you, that is.' 'How do they do that?' said Mort. 'Well,' said Lezek, and paused. Hamesh hadn't explained about this bit. He drew on his limited knowledge of the marketplace, which was restricted to livestock sales, and ventured, 'I suppose they count your teeth and that. And make sure you don't wheeze and your feet are all right. I shouldn't let on about the reading, it unsettles people.' 'And then what?' said Mort. 'Then you go and learn a trade,' said Lezek. 'What trade in particular?' 'Well . . . carpentry is a good one,' Lezek hazarded. 'Or thievery. Someone's got to do it.' Mort looked at his feet. He was a dutiful son, when he remembered, and if being an apprentice was what was expected of him then he was determined to be a good one. Carpentry didn't sound very promising, though – wood had a stubborn life of its own, and a tendency to split. And official thieves were rare in the Ramtops, where people weren't rich enough to afford them. 'All right,' he said eventually, 'I'll go and give it a try. But what happens if I don't get prenticed?' Lezek scratched his head. 'I don't know,' he said. 'I expect you just wait until the end of the fair. At midnight. I suppose.' And now midnight approached. A light frost began to crisp the cobblestones. In the ornamental clock tower that overlooked the square a couple of delicately-carved little automatons whirred out of trapdoors in the clockface and struck the quarter hour. Fifteen minutes to midnight. Mort shivered, but the crimson fires of shame and stubbornness flared up inside him, hotter than the slopes of Hell. He blew on his fingers for something to do and stared up at the freezing sky, trying to avoid the stares of the few stragglers among what remained of the fair.

#Mort

1 note · View note