#sometimes i look at Things I Have Wrought and pull a full Talking Heads style 'how did i get here?'

[recurring-polynya]

I have to say I knew that at one point renji, ikkaku, yumichika and iba were in the same squad with kenpachi but good god you managed to paint a beautiful picture for me. I simply assumed that for them it was simply party time all the time along with a few bald jokes but this is much better. Emotionally healthy squad 11 which still love fighting more than anything. I always cringed when someone would just describe them as hooligans that do nothing but fighting. I mean they do that too but I love the idea that they are all emotionally healthy and mature, a loving and supportive family to their own - in their own wakka doodoo kind of way thats endearing - and of course they are in my opinion they single capable force against sexisim. Because they don't care about anything else - gendere, sexuality, gender performances, race, mentality or anything - other than if you fight good you respectable and if you fight good in squad 11 you family. ( like when kenpachi just became captain he made yachiru his lieutenant and no one was against it no one thought it was beneath them, sure thru nag at her sometimes but that's mostly in a banter like way because she call them stupid nicknames but no one hates her for being unrightfully their superior. One day they got a new captain and a new lieutenant that's a child and they just went with it.) I admit their disdain and disrespect to squad 4 is still frowned upon but I do believe some squad 4s can handle their own, it's just that we saw the really peaceful ones. Anyways sorry for ranting. Just wanted to say that yeah, I really like how the past squad 11 with iba and renji in it was a great place in general. I think if they found out some one was being sexist - for whatever reason - they would be there right next to nanao - or iba's mom protesting. Kenpachi and yachiru as well. And that makes me want to be squad 11 ,despite not being much for fighting, so bad.

So, for starters, thanks! I try to have fun whenever I write Squad 11, and I’m glad you enjoy my take on them.

My Squad 11 is just... really not very canon, though. Canon Squad 11 is actually pretty gross and sexist. Yumichika is transphobic, Kenpachi makes homophobic remarks about Yumichika, they bully Squad 4, there’s a filler episode devoted to a guy that Ikkaku bullied for, like 100 years because the guy lost his reiatsu saving Ikkaku’s dumb ass.

When you write fanfic, you occasionally run into these more problematic aspects of the source media, and you can choose to dig in and analyze them, or just... remake them in your own way. Take for example, Gin. If you read fanfic about Gin, there are some people who will peel away the layers of him and his fears and insecurities and still make him be a horrible gremlin, and it’s really stellar writing. Other people prefer to write him in an AU where maybe less bad stuff happened to him, and he’s more mischievous than sociopathic, and this is a less meaty interpretation, but it’s also more fun. Sometimes fanfic is a meal and sometimes it’s candy. It fulfills different needs and different fantasies and all of it is welcome.

Yumichika, who for me is the fulcrum of Squad 11, presents this problem. I really don’t like the way his “appreciation for beauty” plays out in canon. He doesn’t actually appreciate beauty, he just likes telling other people they’re ugly. I don’t think he’s ever pointed out beauty in anyone else aside from himself or his zanpakutou. I remember the first time I watched his fight with Charlotte and it struck me as so off -- why wouldn’t he find her beautiful? I mean, I know it’s a transmysogynistic joke, that’s why, men dressed as women is funny, hurr hurr, but Yumichika is gender nonconforming himself. This was an opportunity to make a cool character point, and Kubo took the cheap laughs road instead. Going back to what I said last paragraph, a skilled writer could, in theory, write about his insecurities and his brittleness and meanness and write a pretty compelling story, but a) Kubo certainly doesn’t, and I have never actually found a Yumichika-centric fanfic of this nature, and b) this doesn’t fit the role I need him to play in my stories. I am rarely really interested in writing about Squad 11 for its own sake. I like to write them as a backdrop for the period of Renji’s afterlife where he hit absolute rock bottom and bounced back up again. We already know the role Ikkaku played in this, except that Ikkaku is a complete moron in terms of mental health, and I really, really felt like this is where Yumichika needed to come in.

I like to massage Yumichika’s character a bit, but I do want to keep the flavor of some of his character flaws-- he’s still shallow and mean and judgy, and I love that for him, but I like to add in a positive side to his appreciation for beauty. Having Yumichika make fun of Izuru’s pores is funny but it’s even funnier if he’s just given Renji a compliment on his hair first. The idea that a Yumichika compliment is attainable makes all his drags the more vicious. Yumichika also judged people by their beauty instead of their moral character, which is humorous to me. He dislikes Byakuya as a person, but is obsessed with his haircare regime. I like to have him treat Rangiku as an equal, beauty-wise, and a person whose opinion he respects based on her aesthetic. Rangiku is actually a pretty savvy and very emotionally intelligent person whom many people write off because she likes to present herself as a lazy airhead, so in an extremely convoluted way, this all works out. I like to think that Yumichika’s ideas of beauty are also caught up in boldness and risk-taking and having one’s outward presentation ring true to their inner self. To me, this is the core of why he loves Ikkaku. To him, Ikkaku’s devotion to doing the most Ikkaku thing at all times, no matter how stupid, is irresistibly sexy. 

Aside: At some point, I decided that the fact that a lot of people in Bleach have colorful marks on their faces and elaborate hairstyle and accessory games implied that make-up in Soul Society is gender neutral. I like to think there is actually more of a divide between the nobility, who like their make-up to follow rules and be classy, and, well, Squad 11, who like to get make-up ideas from Jem and the Holograms. I don’t even wear makeup (I don’t know how and it’s expensive and I am ashamed of myself, we can talk about my own gender presentation later) but I like to write about both my male and female characters wearing make-up. I don’t actually know how my readers feel about it, but it just falls under the “Is that what people want?”/“It’s what we do” philosophy of all my writing.

I think one of the theses of my writing is that middle management is more important to the character of a squad than the person at the top. Captains sort of act as ideals to strive for, but they are generally unapproachable for one reason or another. Yachiru is more like her captain in this respect (which makes sense, since she is, in fact part of her captain). Ikkaku and Yumichika present this dual idea that 1) strength is awesome, fighting and being the best is awesome, and 2) part of strength is presenting yourself to the world in a bold and confrontational way. (The fact that both of them are hiding huge parts of themselves is laughably ironic). Kenpachi and Yachiru are shining examples of Do Whatever You Want and Be So Strong That No One Can Stop You. 

What really makes this work is that you need someone one layer down-- does anyone actually subscribe to this nonsense, and that’s why Iba - Abarai Squad 11 is Best Squad 11. I really, really enjoy the genre of Reddit posts where a total bro will find out that his girlfriend is trans and react by becoming a vehement advocate for trans rights. I love the bodybuilders typing encouragement to each other meme. Our world is flooded with disingenuous messages from concern trolls trying to tell us why being kind and inclusive to one another is bad or that you should reject help because struggle makes you stronger and the idea of a Himbo looking at something like that and saying “that seems dumb" is delightful to me.

I actually feel like there are a lot of awful people with bad ideas in Squad 11, it’s just that Renji and Iba don’t put up with their shit, and over time, that becomes the culture of Squad 11. I think that Squad 11 has incredibly turnover, but the ones who stay are the ones who subscribe to the ideas you mentioned-- fighting is what matters, if you wanna go argue about shit, go join Squad 5. In the IkkaYumi story I wrote, which happens shortly after Zaraki takes over, a ton of people leave. The Bount Arc (which I know a lot of people skipped) features a dude who was extremely pissed off because he had liked the old Kenpachi and thought Zaraki sucked and was so mad about it that he betrayed Soul Society. You might think that this arc would feature Zaraki caring about this in some way shape or form, but he really didn’t. So, I think there are a lot of Soul Reapers that took issue with serving under a little girl as a vice captain, they just aren’t in Squad 11 anymore.

Oh, one last note on Iba’s mom. I am of an age where a number of my friends have mothers who were Second Wave Feminists. The moms in question are a real mixed bag, because they Came From a Different Time, and on one hand, you have to respect what they went through, and on the other hand, they are very difficult to get along with. I liked the idea that Iba has always chafed against his mom and her big personality, and then Renji comes in, and is like, “hey, your mom is strong as hell and she has a lot of ideas that I never thought of but they make sense” and Iba realizes that, even though she’s still a huge pain in his ass, his mom is the person who made him who he is. Moms are complex.

Uhhhh, I have definitely lost the thread of wherever I was going with this post. Thank you for enjoying my Squad 11, which is nothing like canon Squad 11. Hopefully maybe this year, I will actually finish my Squad 11 Self Care story, where Renji stops being a drunk disaster person after Yumichika teaches him how to fill his brows; I got stuck on a part where Rangiku gives Renji a talk on ethical sluttery.

#squad 11 #sometimes i look at Things I Have Wrought and pull a full Talking Heads style 'how did i get here?' #my squad 11 stuff is my absolutely weirdest most bonkers writing #i am glad people seem to like it #just trying to find some meaning in this hot mess #i think i blame The Toast

[mikauzoran]

Marichat: Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses: Kiss Five

Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses: ...where it doesn’t hurt.

“Sorry I’m not very exciting company tonight, Princess,” Chat Noir mumbled from where he lay dozing on Marinette’s chaise longue.

“No worries,” Marinette assured as she put the finishing touches on the zipper of the outfit Jagged Stone had commissioned for an appearance at an upcoming music festival. “It’s more than enough just to have you here. You don’t have to be exciting.”

“Good to hear,” he sighed, letting his eyes drift closed again.

Setting down the garment and switching off her machine, Marinette spun around in her desk chair to face her boyfriend. “Hey, are you all right? I don’t want to press if you don’t feel like talking, but…I’m here to listen if you need me, okay?”

Chat’s eyes flew open, and he ignored his aching muscles, propping himself up on his elbows to meet her gaze. “Sorry to worry you. I promise nothing’s wrong. I’m just wiped, is all. …Thank you, though.” He summoned up the energy for a dazzling grin in hopes of convincing her he was fine.

“Has your father been making you help with his company a lot this week? Or is it something else that has you exhausted? School okay? Have you been able to hang out with your friends lately? Are you getting enough sleep?” Marinette ran through the usual list of culprits.

Chat Noir’s grin turned sheepish. “Nothing like that, Princess. I’m still wiped from today’s akuma battle. It was a tough fight, and it took Ladybug a bit to figure out her Lucky Charm, so I had to get thrown into a wall by the akuma a couple times to buy her time…. And now even the bones of my inner ear are feeling it.”

Marinette winced, turning a guilty expression on him. “I’m so sorry, Minou. Ladybug should have figured her Charm out faster.”

Chat shook his head, gently explaining, “No, Marinette. It wasn’t her fault. I know Ladybug makes it look easy, but those Lucky Charms are no walk in the park. Trust me. Maybe you would be good at figuring them out, but I would much rather be thrown into walls. And, I mean, it’s fine. The suit absorbs most of the damage, but…I still feel like I’ve been pummeled by a bunch of bricks.”

“Wait.” Marinette’s eyes went wide in horror. “Doesn’t Ladybug’s Miraculous Ladybug fix everything? Why are you still hurt after she used it? Did it not work?”

Seeing his girlfriend begin to panic, he waved away her concern and rushed to assure her, “It worked. Everything is fine, Marinette. I feel a lot better than I did before she used it, but…” He bit his lip. “…maybe, like, seven percent of the time it doesn’t have its full effect. There’s not really a pattern I can discern, but…sometimes I’m really sore still even after she uses Miraculous Ladybug to fix everything. Today is just one of those days.”

“My poor Minou,” Marinette whispered, sliding out of her chair and crossing to him, dropping to the ground to kneel beside the chaise. She reached out and gingerly ran her fingers through his hair, eliciting a contented purr. “I wish I could kiss it all better.”

“You and me both,” Chat sighed, pressing up against her hand.

“Poor, sweet kitty,” she cooed, tracing soothing patterns against his scalp. “Is there anywhere it doesn’t hurt?”

“Where you’re rubbing is good,” he purred, eyes slipping down to half-mast.

She kept playing with his hair and stroking his head for several minutes as she fretted, going back over all of their battles, worrying about which injuries her powers hadn’t fully cured, worrying about battles to come where her powers might fail and cause her to lose him forever.

“…May I kiss you?” she whispered a hint of desperation behind the words.

His eyes opened, and he looked at her for a moment, evaluating, trying to decode the anxiety in her voice.

“Of course you can. Always,” he assured, offering her his cheek.

Marinette pursed her lips. “Actually…I meant…may I kiss you? A real kiss?”

Chat’s eyes flew wide. “O-Oh! Oh. You mean…” He gulped. “…on the lips.”

She nodded, suddenly feeling like she’d made a mistake. “Sorry. Am I moving too fast? I’m sorry. I figured that we’ve been dating a couple weeks now, so…but if you’re not ready, it’s fine! I’m not trying to rush you. I know you purposely didn’t date for a couple years since things went poorly with trying to date your one friend while getting over Ladybug, so—”

“—Marinette,” he cut her off softly, taking her hand in his and gently squeezing. “It’s okay. I’m ready. I’d like to kiss you…but don’t you think this is a little…” He winced. “Sorry. It’s not very romantic, is all. Would you really want our first kiss to be like this?”

His eyes studied her face intently, scanning, trying to understand what she was thinking and feeling.

Marinette smiled brightly. “Honestly, it’s not really a big deal. It doesn’t have to be romantic so long as it’s with you.”

Chat Noir blinked, a bit stunned by her answer. “Oh. …I mean, right.” He attempted to laugh it off, despite the uneasy, troubled feeling stirring within him. “It’s not a big deal. You’re right. It’s just a kiss. So long as we’re together, it’s…it’s fine.” He smiled.

What else was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? “No, it has to be romantic”? He supposed that this was what Luka had been talking about when he’d warned a sixteen-year-old Adrien that real relationships didn’t always play out like they did in the movies. Things weren’t always perfect. Things didn’t always turn out how you hoped.

“…So…” Chat’s brow furrowed. “Should we kiss now?”

A deep frown etched itself in Marinette’s features.

“Sorry. I’ve never kissed anyone before—that I can remember, anyway,” he quickly explained, fearing the worst. “Am I doing this wrong? I didn’t mean to screw it up. I’m sorry.”

“No, no. You’re fine,” Marinette insisted, giving him a reassuring smile. “You’re not doing this wrong at all, Chat Noir. I am.”

“What?” He looked after her in confusion as she got up and went over to one of her desk drawers to fish out some fairy lights. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Marinette. Sorry. I’m really confused right now.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she insisted with a look of concentration and determination on her face that told him she was planning something. “We’ve still got twenty minutes before my parents’ midnight curfew. That’s plenty of time to get things right.”

Chat frowned as he watched his girlfriend rush to the little closet over by her vanity and pull out three pillar-style candles of varying heights. “I’m sorry. I’m not following, Marinette.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she repeated, cautiously climbing up to her loft with her arms full. “Just wait right there. You’ll see in, like, ten minutes.”

Marinette disappeared up out her skylight and came down a minute or two later to fetch her phone. It too went up to her balcony.

Next went a tray of pain au chocolat along with two mugs of Marinette’s special hot chocolate.

She came back down and went straight for her closet, instructing, “Close your eyes. I’m going to change.”

Chat covered his eyes with his hands for good measure to make doubly certain he didn’t see anything she didn’t want him to. “Why are you changing?” he had to wonder.

“You’ll see,” was the only response she would give.

Marinette finished her costume change in record time and hurried up to the balcony to put the finishing touches on her surprise.

“Okay. Come on up!” she called down to him when everything was ready.

Still feeling utterly lost, Chat uncovered his eyes and apprehensively climbed the ladder up to Marinette’s loft in order to join his girlfriend on the balcony.

He pulled himself up through the skylight and was instantly blown away.

Fairy lights had been wrapped around the wrought iron railing, and rose petals littered the ground. The candles Chat had seen Marinette grab were arranged on the table and surrounded by more rose petals as their flames flickered prettily in the soft breeze.

The tray with Chat’s favourite beverage and favourite pastry was resting on the wooden crate they often used as a seat. Soft jazz played in the background—Diana Panton singing Quiet Night of Quiet Stars.

And then there was Marinette herself: hair down, the breeze gently playing with the strands…coy smile with just the barest hint of teeth. She looked so pleased with herself, so happy to see him and the stunned look on his face.

She was wearing a black, off the shoulder cocktail dress that hugged her curves up top but flared out at the skirt which was longer in back and shorter in front. Around her neck was a small bell on a gold chain, nestled comfortably at the hollow of her throat.

“…Wow,” Chat breathed after gawking for nearly a full minute.

It was all he could come up with when he was feeling so overwhelmed and loved.

“Do you like it?” she prompted shyly, afraid she’d gone over the top and now he felt pressured.

He covered his mouth with his hand and nodded eagerly, unable to get the words for what he was feeling out.

He turned around in a circle in place, taking it all in.

“Wow,” he repeated. “Marinette…thank you. Thank you. It’s wonderful…but you didn’t have to do all this.” He looked back at her with a sappy grin.

She laced her fingers through his, giving his hand a squeeze. “Yes, I did. Earlier, when I said it wasn’t a big deal our first kiss not being very romantic, I wasn’t thinking. Romance is nice, but it’s not really something I need so long as I’m with the person who’s special to me. Just being with you is enough for me, so sometimes I forget that not everyone is like that. I didn’t stop to think that maybe you needed it to be romantic, so…voila. I hope I did okay. It was short notice,” she chuckled.

“It’s perfect,” he stressed, beginning to get choked up. “That you would do all this for me…” He stepped in, lovingly cupping her face in his palm.

Her free hand went to his hip, and she inched closer. “You’re worth it,” she whispered.

“It’s perfect,” he breathed. “You’re perfect.”

He leaned in, lowering his head while she raised hers until their lips met in a warm, unhurried kiss that was everything he’d ever dreamed his first kiss would be.

#Marichat #Adrienette #Adrinette #Miraculous Ladybug #Miraculous Ladybug Fanfiction #Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Chat Noir #Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Adrien Agreste #Chat Noir #Adrien Agreste #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Kissing #Writing Prompt #Mikau's Writings #Serendipity: Fifty Marichat and Adrienette Kisses

[illshowyourhurricanes]

Back to the Beginning

Who wants a little peek into the life of our favorite musician to brighten their Monday? Look no further! I hope y’all enjoy, and as always, thank you for reading!

Image prompt 6: Ryan Brenner x reader (requested by @thisisparadisemylove)

Rating: PG due to absolute and adorable fluff.

Word count: 1946

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This is related to (later down the line) A Familiar Face, which can be found in my masterlist.

The air in the city was dense and heavy. Before you could take anything in, to appreciate your time there, you had to train your lungs to breathe in the atmosphere; it was imperative to get acclimated to the moisture that hung invisibly around you. It was so thick, the humidity was almost strangling.

But when you hit that point where you could breathe again, to inhale that air with ease, the sensations surrounding you were breathtaking. 

The uneven, crumbling brick paving the sidewalks were littered with people: tourists with strands of colorful beads hanging from their necks, carrying styrofoam cups; older couples holding hands while taking leisurely strolls; giggling teenagers ducking into shops with signs in the windows boasting shrunken heads and Voodoo dolls. The air carried with it succulent smells from various restaurants, and dance troupes occupied the middle of narrow streets to entertain. People spray-painted in metallic tones from head to toe stood frozen like statues, so still it was as if they weren’t breathing. Depending which street you were on, the energy around you would flip between an electric buzz or a warm leisure--  the kind that was the reason behind the city being coined The Big Easy. 

But one constant in New Orleans, whether in the French Quarter, down Magazine Street, or lost just beyond the corner of Decatur and St. Peters’ expanse of the French Market—crowded with vendors selling silver jewelry or art, fresh vegetables and homemade soaps offered in booths at the farmers’ market further down the street, or finding hidden treasures buried deep at the flea market adjacent to the famous Cafe du Monde— was the music. 

Street performers playing various flavors of music occupied almost every street corner in the New Orleans area. But Royal Street— Ryan had told you it was pronounced roy-AL, like a duo of two male names sewn together— that was where the real music was, the music with heart and soul and life, no matter the sweltering heat and thick, suffocating humidity. Thirteen blocks through the French Quarter and several leading down toward Frenchman Street was the city’s epicenter of live music. It was where Ryan wanted to take you. 

“There’re all types of musicians down here, Y/N,” Ryan said, excitement apparent. Soft-spoken by default unless he was singing, full-bodied and soul on fire, Ryan’s smooth, soft drawl was a pleasure to hear, even if you had to strain to hear sometimes. But the enthusiasm of what he was set to explore with you— to share with you— added volume to his voice, thickened his drawl just a touch, and shifted his intonation to the point that his words sounded more like song than speak. “Jazz is the front-runner but you name it, and you’re goin’ to hear it.  I reckon there ain’t a place like it anywhere else in the world.”

Ryan tore his eyes from a two-story brick building, balconies adored by wrought-iron and punctuated with lush hanging plants. You’d read that most of the businesses in this part of the city hailed in structures that were built centuries ago. You smiled as your attention turned to Ryan’s face, lit up with a wide, Cheshire-like grin. His happiness was your happiness, and when he gifted you with that big, toothy, genuine smile,, you felt like a Mega Millions winner. You knew you’d hit the jackpot with this man. 

He’d ditched his pack in the bed and breakfast you’d booked days before, despite his protests.

”This was my idea, Y/N. “

“But I wanted to come.”

Slowly nodding his head in agreement,  Ryan gently pointed out, “I asked you to join me—“

“And I accepted.”

He eyed you with his eyebrows quirked, and you continued. “You let me come with you, and you let me live life your way for a few days. It’s been exhilarating and uncertain and I feel more alive than I have in a long time.” Your eyes were full of sincerity, and Ryan took a few steps toward you, only stopping as stood right in front of you. He reached to tuck your hair behind your ear. “So let me find us a warm bed to sleep in and cold air conditioning to lay under.”

Finally, he conceded. “If that’s what you want, Y/N, you know you got it. But I gotta tell you, it’s not a usual part of my way of livin’.”

You bit your bottom lip thoughtfully and narrowed your eyes playfully. “Maybe it’s your way of livin’ with me.”

He’d left his pack, but still carried his guitar case. His tattooed fingers were laced with yours as the two of you walked; you had a destination: the flea market just a few blocks away. But first, Ryan wanted to take a slight detour. 

“I really want to experience the music. Appreciate it. Take our time, if that’s alright.” 

You’d nodded immediately, agreeing with him. You wanted the same thing, wanted to be there with Ryan and join him in his elation and opinions and feel a bit of that love he felt for music. 

“And I know you want to go to the flea market—“

“I need to go to the flea market.” You interjected, and he laughed. You shrugged. and he shook his head 

“You’re somethin’ else.” The slight smell of coffee wafted through the air, and as the smell became stronger, it took on an almost sweet scent. Applause broke out from somewhere ahead of you, momentarily drowning out an increasingly loud dissonance of chatter. 

“You know, I think you’ve told me that before. Once or twice.” Before Ryan could answer, you found yourselves standing just outside the open-air, renowned Cafe du Monde. The scent, the chatter, and the perfect, faraway backdrop of a nearby trumpeter’s solo version of When the Saints Go Marching In was classic New Orleans. You felt a sense of nostalgia wash over you, and you knew at that exact moment that this city, so full of culture and history, art and Cajun food, voodoo and ghost tours, jazz and zydeco and blues and swing and swamp pop— this city meant something to you, and it was your first time visiting. 

Ryan gently led you to an occupied table, smack in the middle of the cafe. He pulled out your chair for you with a boyish smile before sitting in the chair across the small table, guitar case close by his side. He leaned forward on his elbows so you could hear over the noise. 

“The menu’s not your traditional menu,” Ryan warned you. His eyes danced from across the table, and he added, “Not that New Orleans skimps on tradition, but they do it their own way. ‘S their style.”

You found yourself leaning in as well, caught you in the cadence of Ryan’s voice as well as his words. Ryan wasn’t a huge talker, he didn’t need to be, but when he got on a roll about music or traveling or something that he was passionate about, he spoke up more than usual and you loved those moments. This was one of them. 

“ ‘Bout a half-dozen choices to choose from. It’s slim pickin’s, but you can’t go wrong with what they’re offerin’.”” Ryan had been to New Orleans many times; there was just no other place like it. He held up his left hand, calloused fingertips and vertical lines inked between mid and lower knuckles of each finger. “You’ve got coffee—cafe au lait. Fresh-squeezed orange juice, milk…”

You had started to shake your head as Ryan went on. He stopped before he rattled off a variety of sodas and coffee over ice; he knew what you were saying without words, and had known as much before he spoke. The two of you shared a smile, intimate with understanding. Opening your mouth to share a sentiment, you were stalled as a waitress appeared tableside, vibrant purple hair pulled back and piled atop her head. She was around your age and looked frazzled. You smiled at her. Many days at the diner had you in the same state at some point. 

“A cafe au lait and order of beignets, please,” Ryan said politely, inclining his chin to order while looking at the server, not just rattling off what he wanted. He was always attentive, and actually talking to someone rather than at them was something you valued at work. Ryan just did so naturally without a second thought. “Same for my girl here.” He looked at you adoringly with an expression asking for confirmation.

���You got it,” you said, meeting Ryan’s eyes for a beat of time, then looking to the waitress and nodding appreciatively. “Thank you.” 

In his typical fashion, Ryan followed immediately, offering the woman a small smile. “Thank you, ma’am.”

When she turned to walk away and Ryan’s attention was yours again, he immediately noticed the way the corners of your lips turned upward. He looked at you as you appreciated his features from across the table. 

“I’ll wait,” he teased gently. Leaning back in his chair, his long legs stretched out as much as possible beneath the table without invading your space, you nudged his knee with your own. 

“Wait for what?” It was a rhetorical question; it was all in your expression, the way you sometimes got as quiet as Ryan himself and just looked at him like he hung the moon. Ryan had called you his girl, and you supposed it was true, but to hear him say it was another thing entirely. He had you reeling. It took you a moment to get back on track. “I was just thinking about your thank you ma’am. How it sounded familiar, and how someone else is bringing us coffee instead of me bringing it to you… which, in hindsight,  is why we’re here. Together. It’s all come full circle in a sense.”

It seemed like a lifetime ago. As you and Ryan enjoyed your beignets, you relished in little memories, and that was what made your relationship so special. Ryan had taught you just how important simplicity was. He laughed as you balked, tasting your cafe au lait without adding sugar first, forgetting there was chicory in the drink. You stood from your chair to brush powdered sugar from a beignet out of the scruff on his chin. He taught you the difference between zydeco and swamp pop, and insisted on paying for your coffee and beignets. 

“There you go again, Ryan Brenner. Fighting me over sweets and tips, bringing it right back to the beginning. You’d finally made it to the flea market, but before you could walk in, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You let out a sigh.

“I like the present much better, Y/N,” he said, speaking into your ear. Your shoulder shrugged involuntary, his whiskers and breath tickling your ear.  “The beginning was real nice, but this,” he paused, pressing his lips to your temple, “What we have now, it’s been on my mind since that first cup of coffee.” You looked up at him with a look of awe; it was a confession he’d never made before, and it felt like the perfect moment for him to do so, there in this huge flea market in New Orleans. You had words on the tip of your tongue, but they were stuck there. 

When you didn’t reply, Ryan just smiled down at you. It was one of those small, simple, yet significant moments. You’d had so many with him. He let his arm fall from your waist to link his fingers with yours again, leading your further inside. “You make a damn good cup of coffee, Y/N.”

#dani's 150 followers event #drabble requests #ryan brenner x reader #image 6 #a familiar face #aff #look into the future

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Wrought Iron Machine (Final Part)

It hasn’t taken long at all for the headlines to announce her vocal struggles and declining health, to have them plastered for everyone to see. Even if she wants to she can’t say anything on her own behalf. She reads another headline; ‘Has the Fire Been Put Out: Fire Of Agni Frontwoman Loses Voice.’

Azula sits in an emergency room back in the Fire Nation, they still don’t have the equipment to correct the worsened cyst. For the time they only monitor her vitals and pain-levels. She doesn’t think much about the pain though. Her head is preoccupied by the image of her father’s complacent look of satisfaction. By the realization that she had made a fool of herself at the world’s most extravagant and esteemed music competition. By the thought that she will never talk, much less,  sing again.

She doesn’t know which matter concerns her the most, she supposes that they are all interconnected. Even if she does recover, after unleashing such an Agni-awful, ear-piercing sound on stage she can’t imagine that she’ll be getting another invite to Southern Air Sounds. Her musical career is over. Her only option is to wander back to her father and hope that she can win him over with her firebending talents. She can’t beg him for another chance if she can’t speak.

There is a pressure behind her eyes and she wants to let it out. But crying will only do more damage to her delicate vocal cords. The doctor warns as much. So she tries her best to choke back her embarrassment and grief.

She truly hopes that she won’t hear from her father anytime soon, she can’t take it. Zuko takes a seat next to her and squeezes her hand. She appreciates his company and the gesture, but it is little condolences. Just as little as TyLee’s tight hugs and loving kisses. Mai tries to assure her that the crowd was kind. “They weren’t saying anything bad about you, you know? After the show everyone was just asking if you were okay.”

“They were really worried.” Zuko adds.

“Someone told me to give this to you!” TyLee smiles. She hands her a stuffed fire ferret and a get well soon card. Azula takes them without a sound, she barely looks up. She isn’t sure who is rubbing her back but she thinks that it is either Zuko or TyLee.

“Do you…” she rasps but it is broken and painful so she ceases trying to vocalize her question.

“Here.” Mai pushes her a pad of papers. She pushes it back, opting to spell her question in the air with fire. If she can’t speak she may as well make it look cool. With her fire she asks if they’ve been barred from attending S.A.S in the future. It is easier to simply use the acronym so that is what she does.

“I don’t think so. We were doing amazing up until…” Mai trails off.

“They said that they admired our creativity and ability to improvise.” Zuko points out.

‘No thanks to me.’ She spells out.

“Creativity!” TyLee points out. “They liked your idea to have an instrumental number. None of the other bands did that.”

It is only a sliver of reassurance. At least she hasn’t completely messed up. She stares at her hands. She just wants her voice back.

The pain finally begins setting in, it rips at her throat bringing tears to her eyes.

Zuko’s back rubs increase.

“Are you alright, Azula?” TyLee asks, her eyes sympathetic.

She only has it in her to spell out, “hurts.” She curls herself up

.oOo.

The temples are stunning, more stunning than Kuvira remembers. They have added some decorative chandeliers. She feels blessed that they have invited her to stay. She and the rest of her band have been invited to a dinner with the three bands that performed after hers. An unexpected but every bit as welcomed victory surprise.

She triple checks her hair and attire. She has her hair in another neat and tight braided bun and has applied a touch of makeup to her face. “How is this, Baatar?”

“I already told you that you look amazing.” He replies, “can we just have dinner?”

“Yeah, I’m getting hungry and I hear that the wine is fantastic.” Ghazan remarks, putting his arm around Ming.  

“You’re always hungry.” P’Li remarks.

“Correct.” He winks.

Kuvira adds a comb hair clip to her outfit and checks the mirror for a fourth time. She wants to leave a good impression if she is going to be dining with musical legends. Baatar takes her hand and pulls her away from the mirror. “I think that that’s perfect.”

“You say that about everything I wear.” Kuvira points out.

“Because everything you wear is perfect.”

“Ugg.” P’Li grumbles. “Definitely didn’t miss that.”

Kuvira unfolds a cloth map and leads her band down the hall. Baatar links his arm with hers. They wander for some time, stopping on one occasion to see the Southern Air hall of fame. It is organized by category from jazz to pop and folk to metal. Kuvira scans the category reserved for the musical legends, it is surreal to see an image of their band among them. It is from their performance three days prior.  

“Now Ming, don’t touch anything.” Ghazan says.

“Ha. Funny man.” She mutters.

As they chatter, Kuvira wanders further down the hall viewing the metal category and finding a second image of Wrought Iron Machine. Still it is dream-like to see it hanging there in a frame of swirling gold. The rest of her band comes to catch up with her. She comes to the last category, a seemingly new sub category. There is only a single photograph in the section for bands with the most unique concepts.

She wonders if they are even aware being as they were forced to depart so soon.

Baatar nudges her, “we’re going to be late.”

Kuvira picks up her pace and soon she is standing before a set of almost absurdly long double doors. The insignia of the air nomads is carved at the center of both of them. Kuvira takes a breath and smooths a few wrinkles out of her outfit. Baatar rubs her shoulders encouragingly.

She heaves the doors open and makes her way to the empty chairs reserved for she and her band. “Welcome.” Greets Karou. The frontman of Wan Shi Tong’s Waltz sits at the head of the table, their dinner and competition host.

It is somewhat hard to maintain composure, the result of some residual teenage crush that never had a chance to fully extinguish.

“Thank you.” Baatar fills in for her. “We’re honored to be guests here.”

Karou shakes their hands each in turn. “And I’d like to personally congratulate you for joining us in the hall of fame and for the baby. Perhapst the child will share your musical talents.”

Kuvira smiles. “Thank you. I hope the same.” Even if the child has other interests she makes a very special point to let them flourish. “Though she may take up Baatar’s fascination with machines.”

Another woman speaks, Xing-Bora from Tears of Yue. “I think we should also congratulate the two of you for saving your marriage and the band.”

“It’s a wonder you all pulled through so close to the competition.” Remarks Chong. “What was that about anyways?”

His own wife nudges him. “Apologies, he still has is countryside manners.”   

P’Li scoffs, “we’ll forgive him if you all forgive Ghazan for being a human disaster.”

“It’s a long story.” Kuvira cuts in before they can start a secondhand embarrassment inducing round of bickering. “To put it simply, even though I let him name the band,” Kuvira sneaks in, “he felt as though he didn’t get enough creative freedom.”

Baatar rubs the back of his head. “A man needs to show his brilliance every now and again.”

Conversation breaks off momentarily as appetizers are passed around. Kuvira resumes the chatter with a simple. “It was a pleasure to see you perform.” An understatement.

“And a pleasure to listen to your band as well.” Karou returns cheerfully. “I was hoping that you would be willing to perform during our next competition.” He pauses. “Of course, you won’t be able to perform as a contestant. Instead you will be performing with us during the esteemed after-competition show.”

“We certainly plan on it.” Kuvira replies. Though she isn’t entirely certain what ten years will bring. How their child will impact their band. She decides to take things as they come and hope for the best.

“It will be hard to top this decade’s contest.” Chong notes.

“It was certainly eventful.” Xing-Bora remarks. “It’s a shame about Fire of Agni…”

“How is the girl?” Chong’s wife asks.

“If the headlines are to be trusted, she’s due for surgery sometime within the month.” Karou replies.

“I hope that it works.” Chong’s wife says softly.

“Yes,” Kuvira adds. “She…” she isn’t sure if she should use past or present tense. She feels optimistic. “She has a very unique talent, I don’t think that I’ve heard a voice like hers.” Again, her heart pangs for the girl.

“I thought that your band didn’t like theirs.”

“It was a phase.” P’Li waves her hand dismissively. “We needed someone to shit talk so we wouldn’t shit talk each other.”

“We did it anyways.” Ghazan shrugged.

“No less, the kids have talent.” Karou speaks. “I would love to see them back next time around. They have it in them to win if Azula makes a full recovery. They have it in them to win even if she only recovers partially.”

Their discussion dies down again as the main course is set before them. Kuvira takes the opportunity to gaze at the other tables; like their own two others are lined with golden tablecloths. They host other past winners of Southern Air Sounds. The ones lined in silver host the second placers and the honorable mentions. And a bunch of others tables a reserved for audience members and bands that had paid to have seating. She sees four empty spots at the silver tables. Karou follows her gaze. “We figured that it would be respectful to have a spot open for them even if they can’t fill them.”

Kuvira nods.

The rest of their dinner is mundane. She inquires some about the bands and styles that have influenced Wan Shi Tong’s Waltz and Ghazan makes a few off-color remarks as the beer gets to him. Ming really only speaks to ask why her ice cream is topped with two cherries while everyone else only has one. It is more laid back than she has anticipated. And it goes by much faster. It seems as though they have barely finished desert when guests start heading for the door.

Karou turns to her and hands her an envelope. “Your prize money and an invite to our next competition.”

Kuvira will have to split the prize money when she gets a chance.

“If you run into Fire of Agni before they receive their letter, do tell them that they have been invited.”

“I can hand them their letter personally.”

.oOo.

The surgery leaves her terribly anxious. They say that it can ruin her voice. All the same she wonders if it even matters, she has already done that herself.  She does wish, though, that they hadn’t told her of the possibility of something going wrong enough to kill her. On the other hand, she no longer knows if she is entirely opposed to that.

She faintly thinks that she is being overly dramatic. If nothing else she still has TyLee. She still has Zuko and Mai.

The three have worked so hard to uplift her spirits. To remind her not to bother with her father. To remind her that she still has a spot in the band. They don’t tell her how, they leave her to remind herself that she can still play the guitar. That she can still organize the band and design their sets and write their lyrics.

She repeats the reminders to herself as TyLee pulls her into her arms. She doesn’t particularly want to be held at the moment, she has received enough pity and babying, but she doesn’t resist either. TyLee holds her tightly, it is almost too brief because a nurse comes to beckon her forward.

Azula listens to them explain the procedure to her, cringing inwardly at some of the descriptors. After a certain point she wonders if she even wants to know. She decides that she does, she wants to know exactly what to expect.

Not long after, she finds herself drifting into a drug induced sleep.

She wakes up groggy. She opens her mouth to speak but is immediately scolded. It takes her mind a moment to catch back up with her. The words die on her lips. She sits herself upright, they let her do so but it leaves her feeling dizzy so she goes to lay back down. Zuko holds her up as TyLee props a pillow up for her. She scans the room for Mai and finds the girl leaning against the wall as quietly as ever.

Doctor Fing-Sho reappears, taking a seat next to her bed. “I have a few instructions for you.”

Azula nods.

“Obviously I advise that you talk as little as possible for the first two weeks, perhaps three. When you do speak, be brief. Don’t yell or try to sing.” He pauses and she nods her understanding again. “Your voice will sound very hoarse. This can last up to eight weeks. We can start vocal therapy during week three. I know I said you can begin talking more after two weeks, but I would like to play on the safe side. You are very lucky that we were able to fix the damage you’ve done.”

Azula subtly gnaws the inside of her cheek.

“With that said, I recommend that you find yourself a vocal trainer who specializes in musical techniques.”

Azula nods once more.

“Finally, you have a visitor.”  Fing-Sho smiles.

Azula knits her brows and then the panic sets in. Rather quickly she spells with fire, that she doesn’t want to see her father.

“It’s not your father.” The doctor replies.

Using her fire she vocalizes her approval and Fing-Sho beckons her visitor into the room. Azula tries to hide a scowl when she sees the face of the woman who she’d handed her victory over to. Kuvira makes herself as comfortable as she can in a hospital chair. She rests one hand on the arm rest and her other on her belly. “I hope you don’t mind me coming by.”

Azula absolutely does, but she doesn’t use her fire to depict as much.

“I actually came by to give you something.” She holds an envelope out.

Azula reaches for it and her brows knit again at the sight of the seal.

“There was an after party of sorts. I spoke to Karou, he says that he hopes to see you at the next competition.

Azula’s face softens, the woman is doing a good job of breaking the ice whether she wants to admit it or not.

“He believes that you will do well even if you don’t make a full recovery, I don’t know if that makes things any better.”

This time she does let the woman know that it does not.

Kuvira gives a small laugh. “I didn’t think so. Not much made me feel better when Fing-Sho worked with me…”

Azula tilts her head so Kuvira elaborates.

“Awhile back...a long while, Wrought Iron Machine tried to do something like your first album. I don’t have the vocal type you do. I messed my voice up rather quickly trying to force something that I wasn’t good at.” She shrugs.

“Why are you here?” Zuko asks. “Your band hates ours.”

Kuvira shrugs a second time. “We don’t hate your band. We just...got a little competitive.”

How diplomatic, Azula thinks to herself.

“We were falling out of the limelight and you were in it.”

She is the jealous type.

“You’ve created a sound that no one has heard before and...we wanted to do that for ourselves.” She pauses. “A success by the way.”

“Well congratulations.” Mai grumbles, “it’s our turn to be on the bottom.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Kuvira replies. “I meant that your creation was a success. You have a spot in the Southern Air Sounds hall of fame for it.”

“We do?” TyLee smiles.

“Yes, you do.” She turns back to Zuko. “To answer your question; I’m here to make amends.”

Azula frowns. She has very little interest in the woman, she is condescending and self-righteous. She folds her arms over her chest and glowers at Kuvira. The woman looks terribly unfazed. Azula supposes that she isn’t all that intimidating in a hospital gown and without her voice.

“You remind me of myself. You have reckless ambition. A drive to make it to the top.” She pauses again. “I’ve only ever seen that kind of determination when it’s all or nothing.” Again she halts. “Mine comes from spite I suppose. My parents thought that my dreams were foolish so they dumped me on the side of the road for trying to pursue them. I was hoping that my appearance in Southern Air Sounds...” She breaks off. “I just thought that they would show up. For some reason I expected them to. I don’t think that they even know who I am anymore.”    

Azula wishes that the woman hadn’t shared because now there is a sort of connection, now she feels inclined to hear the woman out. Zuko speaks first. “I don’t know if you heard about it but Azula and I didn’t leave home willingly either.

Kuvira nods empathetically. “I had a feeling. I know what an abandoned child looks like…”

She remains quiet in thought for a long while. “That’s also why I’m here. I have another offer for you.”

.oOo.

The house is quiet. Quiet and empty. She and Baatar haven’t quite gotten around to moving all of their furniture in. P’Li, Ghazan, and Ming-Hua have taken to exploring their new neighborhood. Kuvira herself decides to stay home and try to tidy the place up a bit, plan out how she’d like to lay out their furniture. She looks over Baatar’s ideas, deciding that they are probably good enough. The man in question is away as well, somewhere between his childhood home and their new one, driving a large satomobile full of their possessions. She would love to help but they are down to the heaviest of their belongings and she has already received a good scolding from her doctor against heavy lifting.

Eventually she resigns to that she is six months along and needs to take it easy. She supposes it isn’t so bad, she hasn’t left him totally alone. He has help from his brothers and from Zuko. Most comfortingly, he has Lin’s assistance. Kuvira is half convinced that the very reason so much progress has been made in their move because of Lin alone.

Azula wanders into the nearly barren room, Kuvira didn’t hear her come in and wonders how long she has been there. She doesn’t talk much and Kuvira, at first, assumed that the girl was still weary of hurting her voice further. But she has come to find that the firebender is simply a quieter person. When she does speak it is typically soft-spoken. The kind of soothing timbre Kuvira had been expecting and not expecting all at once. Looking at her, it makes perfect sense but after hearing only her music for so long it is hard to imagine her speaking so softly.

“How was therapy.”

“It was…” she thinks for a moment, “it went better than last time.” There is still a hoarser undertone to her voice, but the raspiness is becoming less pronounced as the healing process continues.

Kuvira has cup of tea ready. It is still steaming when she pours it for the girl. “Here, drink.”

Azula takes the cup in her hands. “Uncle makes better tea.”

The girl has a bit of a difficult temperament, Kuvira has learned to brush off her more prickly moods. She no longer takes the more off-handed commentary to heart.

“It’s not the taste that matters, it’s the effect.” Raava knows that the girl has fought her on this many a times. Kuvira stands by her opinion; as long as the tea can help soothe the girl’s throat, it is serving its purpose.

Azula routinely argues that Kuvira should learn to make better tea if she is going to make her drink it every other day.

“Have a seat.” Kuvira offers only to have the firebender decline.

“I like standing.” She sips at the tea, just once before holding it over a small fire in her palm.

“I’ve never seen firebending like that.”

“It’s actually quite common for firebenders to heat their tea like this.”

Kuvira rolls her eyes, feeling a faint hint of amusement. “I’ve never seen someone use blue fire.”

Azula gives a prideful smile. “Good. I like to think that it is something only I can do.”

The remark is the loudest Kuvira has heard from the girl since adopting her. She wonders if the firebender’s voice had always been this soft or if it is the product of her injury. She tries to recall one of Fire Of Agni’s interviews. Before she can truly reach a decision her thoughts are cut off by a very loud and very cheerful, “Oh Azula! You’re home!” Kuvira watches the other girl throw her arms around Azula who returns the gesture by awkwardly patting her girlfriend’s head.

“It’s good to see you too, Ty.”

Kuvira finds it hard to resist making an inquiry. “Was her voice always this quiet?”

TyLee thinks for a moment. “Hmmm. Sort of. She used to talk a little louder, but not that much.”

“You need more tea.” Kuvira declares, needing an excuse to be on her feet.

“You need to get out of the house.” Azula shoots back.

The girl isn’t entirely wrong. But her tone of voice comes with a touch of sass. Kuvira supposes that it will do her well to get used to it. Her baby will be a teen eventually. Raising--though she uses the term loosely--the former princess, her brother, and friends has been an interesting feat to say the least. She doesn’t know how Suyin has managed to raise all of her children and Kuvira herself.

“I suppose that I will when Baatar gets home.” Kuvira says at last.

“What are you going to name it?” TyLee changes the subject.

Before she can give her answer Azula grumbles, “you better not name it after Karou.”

“We had two names in mind.” Kuvira replies. “Setsuko and Kotone.”

“Setsuko.” Azula casts her vote and TyLee nods in agreement.

Azula hands Kuvira her cup. “I don’t know what you want me to do with this.”

“Whatever my servants used to do with them.” Azula shrugs.

“I’m not your servant. I’m your mother.” It is still somewhat strange to say.

Frowning, Azula hands the cup to TyLee who flounces over to the sink and washes it. Kuvira rolls her eyes. One of these days she will have to get the girl to do her own dishes.

It would seem as though TyLee doesn’t share any of the awkward feelings. “Are you coming to or show tonight, mom? It’s our first one since S.A.S.”

“I’ll be there.” She replies.

“Good because it’s going to be my first time singing that many songs. And Azula has been really working hard on learning to play the guitar.”

“I thought that you already knew how to play it.”

“I put more focus into singing.” Azula shrugs. “But if I can’t do that, I might as well make myself known for play the guitar better than everyone else.”

So that is why Ghazan has been strumming his bass so intensely. She wonders if it is truly possible that her fiance is in an unspoken competition with a teenager. It begins to dawn on Kuivra that she has created a very bizzare family for herself. She supposes that she likes it this way, it keeps her occupied.

.oOo.

The past few months leave the former princess wondering why she had gone out of her way to create scandals and article material. Headlines seem to be coming left and right these days. The headlines have long since made note of Kuvira adopting four fire children with speculations ranging from simple observations to theories that they are about to form one large band.

The chatter of that had only just died down when Azula’s former rival found herself to be the subject of a new brand of talk with a slew of invasive journalists trying to get the first shot of the woman’s newborn. A seperate news article reported P’Li landing a good punch on one of the particularly eager ones.

For herself, Azula’s voice and the state of it are in constant discussion. The latest article unveils her plans to begin singing again. For the time it will  be reserved for the recording studio only and depending on how that goes, she will be singing on stage when they tour alongside Wrought Iron Machine.

She is reluctant to thank Kuvira. Albeit a bit overbearing, the woman has gone out of her way to pass down a few of the vocal technique and warm ups she has learned. With the woman occupied by her baby girl, Azula almost misses having her lingering in the studio with her. But she has TyLee for company. Soon she will have Zuko and Mai as well. They are late again because Zuko refuses to leave without his beanie. Maybe if her brother kept his room more organized, he wouldn’t run into such a struggle. Perhaps she can get Kuvira to nag the boy. Such is another area of common ground; they both wish that one of their bandmates could tidy up a bit.

All in all, she is growing used to and fond of referring to the metalbender as her mother. She is closer to her than she had been with her real mother. And the woman, though prone to being somewhat of a hardass is kinder than her own father ever was. She is nearly at a point where she doesn’t miss her real parents at all. But if Kuvira is anything to go by, the disappointment never truly leaves.

Azula uses the spare time to get her new lyrics in order and her equipment adjusted. Her line of thinking switches. She is somewhat nervous to be back in the studio. Doctor Fing-Sho insists that her vocal cords are mostly healed, that the therapy is doing them very well. Yet there is still a faint tingle at the back of her mind that she can tear them apart again.

Screaming is still off of the table, at least for the time being. She is allowed a line or two of harsh vocals but it is advised that she doesn’t perform a set with them every single night. For now she will leave Zuko with that job and take up the gentler vocals.

No matter how solid her plan is she still feels vaguely insecure. The change is so subtle but she still finds that she can’t speak as loudly as before and there is still a very slight rasp to her voice that is going to take some getting used to.

Perhaps it will make her stand out. It isn’t a vocal quality many others have. TyLee speculates as much anyhow.

Finally the door opens. But it is not Zuko who enters.

Kuvira leans in the doorway Setsuko in one arm and a tea set in the other. Azula admires the woman’s creativity, she uses a metal platter, bending it to keep the porcelain on it from falling.

“I wrote a letter to the Jasmine Dragon a while back.” She says as she sets the tea set down. She brushes her fingers over the baby’s cheek. “You better like it this time.”

“Thank you.” Azula picks up the cup. It is heated to a satisfactory degree, things are off to a good start.

Baatar appears in the doorway. “Suyin says that she can watch Setsuko while we reccord tomorrow.”

“Thank Raava.” Kuvira mutters. She hands the baby over to the man.

Azula notes that the woman definitely looks worn. Her hair is some straggly and she is still wearing pajama bottoms. Baatar slips his free arm around the woman’s waist.

“What are you going to do today?” Azula asks.

“While Baatar watches Setsuko, I was going to take P’Li to visit Zaheer in prison.”

Azula krinkles her brows. “Seriously.”

Kuvira nods.

“Have a grand time.”

Kuvira laughs. “If you need anything just call Baatar.”

Azula nods. As Kuvira and Baatar leave, Mai, TyLee, and Zuko make their appearance. “It’s about time. I was about to start on my solo album.”

Zuko bumps her shoulder. “Good to have you back, Azula.”

It is nice to be in the studio again.

#Avatar #Legend Of Korra #Kuvira #Azula #Baatar Jr #Zuko #P'Li #TyLee #Ming-Hua #Mai #Ghazan #Fanfiction

[jasenet]

200527 | #lota-julian-bedrom

( image cover. ) — location: seraph house.

CH: arms full of clothes and a bag filled with colorful patches ranging from rainbows to flowers and hearts, multi-colored lightning patches he thought were especially cool, he leans himself against the wall just beside julian's door. with a soft grunt, he tries to balance everything enough to free his hand just enough to open it. with a victorious 'oh yeah' he stops the door from closing with his foot, hand having already returned to keep a sweater from falling free. nudging the door wide enough to slip in, he calls out with a smile, "sorry for coming in unannounced but i really wanted to show you all of this! there's a cute balloon animal patch in here and i wanted you to see it!" dumping the clothes onto julian's bed, he lets out a big breath, wiping his brow as if it'd been strenuous work to bring it all over. "i think they're iron-on... but you know how to sew too, right? i hope you're better than i am... ah wait i got ahead of myself. someone gave me all these patches and i thought you'd like them too. if you don't have any clothes you wanna put them on, you can take one of mine!"

JN: Keeping with his regular work and routine, there was rarely much to do in the afternoon. Every day, he would come and go in relative silence. It was a perk of living on the same floor as the medical room. He was not two minutes away from anyone’s medical emergency, to which he could only be grateful for. However, even with the spare time, the bedroom looked minimally lived-in. Various strange sketches and concept art were taped haphazardly on one wall, while the open window took the one beside it. The window naturally let in the afternoon sun, and it was the sole source of light throughout the room. As for the ceiling, it remained blank. He didn’t know whether it’d be appropriate, but he wished to paint a mural. 

 Just as he tossed himself onto the bed, an arm over his eyes and legs below the knee over the edge, the scent of perhaps the sweetest wolf he’d ever encountered was drawing stronger by the second. Julian sat up and took a gander over his bedroom for any anomalies. The unnecessary concern distracted from Chase's entrance, and his blue eyes shone curiously onto the colorful items as they got closer. The lota wasn’t sure how to tell the omega how much of an ametuer he was with sewing. Such tasks were for the kappas, as he was introduced, and he simply accepted that it wasn’t for him to learn. “I’ll give it a try.”

Perhaps it was obsessive how he quickly latched onto anything colored yellow and orange. Plucking out a few different flower patches, he assumed they required more intricate sewing. He then pulled out a brightly-colored sweater to inspect, and it was not dissimilar to his own choice of wardrobe. “I didn’t realize our styles matched so well.” The image of his closet, as it was the last time he’d seen it, appeared in his memory plain as day. There were certainly some that could use a bit of customization. However, he could argue that all of them were eligible. “My closet is free reign to you, too.” Julian offered Chase a small smile. “Where do we start?”

CH: though the words aren't brimming with confidence as he hoped, the truth is, he thinks julian has steadier hands, more meticulous of a work ethic. when it comes to detail and perfection, chase mostly does so for his singing. even that, in the end, is typically wrought over more so by emotion than technique and professionalism. however praised he might be when he used to perform, he knows he was lacking, still is now that his most consistent performance is in the showers these days or under his breath as he helps out with errands. "i've been wondering that! sometimes i look at your clothes when i see you and think i have something similar or i want something like that too! it suits you. i like seeing you in bright colors! it makes it easier to smile when i see you. i already do but everything is so colorful!" beaming at the offer, he closes the distance between them, an arm hugging julian's waist before he lets go, going through the patches himself and holding up the balloon animal patch he spoke off, holding it up to julian's chest. "do you think we'll go back to the boardwalk or to a festival or something? i want a real balloon animal too. i think this would look good on a yellow shirt or sweater. what do you want to put the flower patches on? it is getting warmer these days..." 

JN: “You’re so colorful,” he blurted with nothing but a toothy grin on his face. “Inside and outside.” Although he was stunned by the hug, he reached up a moment later to hug back. — Looking down at the patch Chase held against him, he placed a heart patch beside it for review. “I think all I have are sweaters,” he replied sheepishly. He took another look at Chase’s clothes and realized that that was the difference. “And long sleeves.” It took a moment for him to process what ‘boardwalk’ meant, but nothing came up for it. He was too embarrassed to ask. However, he understood ‘festival’, so he could at least respond to that. “A friend of mine said there’s a lotus garden festival soon.” Nam Hae somehow always knew about these things, so he found out by just being in the room. There was no chance he could go, though, so Julian relied on her stories. “Is that what you mean?” 

CH: "me?" his brows lifting, he stares at julian, questioning what it's like to be colorful inside and there's the obvious joke about his organs and how blood is a bright red but it's more than that; he knows it is, that it's something more along the lines of how he likens claire to sunshine and julian to moonlight the more time they spend together. there's a sense of hesitation in the air from the hug but he brushes it off, smiles at julian again and nods in approval when a heart patch is paired with the balloon animal. "that's perfect!" hearing that the lota's clothes seem more suited for colder weather doesn't surprise him and he continues smiling, "that's okay! do you wanna put it on a sweater then?" because if julian doesn't want to wear shorter sleeved clothing, chase wouldn't push it on him. "lotus garden? that sounds pretty! do you think we could try? i wonder if cam would let us... we should all go to a festival. they seem so fun. but something like that! but i don't think if that sounds like a festival they'd have cotton candy at... i wish! but i don't want to forget! should we put these patches on a sweater for you?" 

JN: Julian could think of quite a few candidates of his own to stitch these things onto, but he took a better look at Chase's selection for reference. If their styles were that similar, then he could certainly find something that matches a couple of them. "Mhm sure," he nodded. "Let me go get one." He passed Chase, making a beeline for his closet, and noted that he should probably head to the laundry room again sometime soon. Some of the clothes in there were more suited to autumn and winter with their thicker fabrics. "What does a festival look like to you?" He came back with sapphire blue cashmere and sunset-gradient cotton sweaters. He figured they would suit the patches better. If anything, they were blank canvases. He stopped in place, smiling sheepishly at the bed as he put his clothes down. "Cam won't be awake to notice anyway." 

CH: pursing his lips, he drums his fingers along the bedframe, gaze still lingering on the different patches and debating if he prefers simple or more intricate or both. but he shouldn't be overzealous considering his sewing skills. toying with the hem of one of the shirts he brought in, he realizes late that if they're sewing the patches on for extra security, some of them might be too thin to hold up. chase recalls being told something like that, bits and pieces of the advice went over his head both in content and because he was distracted looking at them all. "like a lot of people!" his answer comes immediately, correcting himself, eyes brightening as he says, "lots of smiling people. families, little kids holding plushies and candy. ah, cotton candy..." trailing off dreamily, chase almost tastes it on the tip of his tongue. distracted now by the colors of the sweaters julian brings, he laughs, nodding in agreement. "let's pick a festival to go to then, you and me. we could ask near and baby too. it'll be like the ice cream shop!" 

JN: Rather than by subject themselves, Julian's starts separating and grouping the patches by color. It's a different sort of organization to the medicine cabinet, but arguably much more fun. He refrains from placing a few aside which would look like on his sweaters, and splits his attention with Chase talking instead. There's not much of a reference for him to go by when the camping trip would have to have been the first of its kind for him. The beach and boardwalk had a lot of different people and children smiling away their troubles and enjoying their day. Perhaps that's what Chase is referring to. They'd have to go back sometime, if possible. "Did you get any cotton candy during the trip?" He remembers being asked for the flavor at the ice cream parlor, but he never consumed the real thing himself. Julian looks up at Chase again once he's done organizing the patches with a small hum. "We should go again, yeah. Have you seen them around recently though?" 

CH: "i did! when i was on the boardwalk with cam," he grins, fond of the memory and even more fond of cam for getting cotton candy with him after the trip. sitting on the bed, he sorts through some of the clothes, debating which ones look best and sorting out the thicker materials from the thinner, setting those too thin behind him and off to the side after he realized moments ago it's best to stick to the former. "is there an ice cream parlour in town . . . there's the diner and the bakery . . . " just how long had it been since he went into the city or in town anyway? he'd become more of a homebody since becoming part of seraph and he doesn't mind it at all, but it is different from how he once lived. "oh, i see near more often because i . . . our rooms are close so i say good night most of the time," he clears his throat, staring down at one of the sweaters he last grabbed. "i want to spend more time with everyone. but that's hard to pull off, huh?" 

JN: It doesn't distract him too much. If anything, he's more than encouraging to have Chase talk, particularly more than him. It feels like the omega has so much to say at all times. Julian wants to get it out of him, learn and keep learning about everything Chase, if possible. "Oh, I didn't get to see him much. What else did you do there?" He still hasn't finished drawing everything he decides to remember in his journal, but among them already had been the cycling. There'd been quite a few firsts during the trip. "I haven't explored the town any. I guess the higher ranks would know. Or... Do you want to find it?" 'With me', he'd add, but he isn't the most reliable companion for such an excursion. Chase is really social, though. Surely he'd have someone to turn to for such a thing. "Depends on the wolf, I think." Pulling out one of the sweaters, he gets up to press it against his current wear. "This one? With the yellow and blue flowers?" 

CH: "mm, i don't think i remember much. i didn't seem cam much then eith— oh, i went to the aquarium!" how he made it there on his own, he doesn't know anymore but he had plenty of fun. "have you been before? we should go to one too." that's true, asking the higher ranks would make it easier. asking athena and yeon seems reasonably easy too. "ah— yeah! that sounds fun! let's go explore on our own," he pauses only because it's not the safest idea but they'd go during the day most likely so it should be okay, right? looking over the sweater, chase grins, looking for pins to keep them in place as they decide. didn't he bring some... reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the pins he borrowed, yellow flower-like stoppers on each one. "do you like butterflies? flowers and butterflies are cute! oh, or we could make it all flowers... too many options..." 

JN: Brows raised and mouth agape, the very notion of an aquarium takes him aback. "There was an aquarium?" One might even say the beach is the better trade, the very one littered with glass he'd gone with Athena. But the thing is, he had the time and energy to go. The sadness of missing out weighs him only the slight bit more. However, the proceeding invitation most probably outweighs ten folds. "Yeah! Let's go to an aquarium together." And plenty of other places. "Did you see any sharks?" At some point, one would just have to stop and ask whether he'd like to be a mer-wolf, right? His spring has arguably been filled with water-related trips. The hesitation is quite telling. No matter how well he can follow directions, follow a map, he'll always somehow get himself lost. But he appreciates the enthusiasm. Regardless, the here and now calls for other matters to be attended to. Namely, the very much blank sweaters in juxtaposition to the colorful and busy-looking patches right next to them. "We could make a garden, or the illusion of one." He quickly picks out three flowers he deems a color-match along with a blue butterfly to go in the center. "At the end of the sleeves, and then these leaf ones on the chest. Suture- Sew them together." 

CH: "yeah! it was . . . oh, it wasn’t that far from the bike shop we went to! i want to do that again too. biking with you or skating. i heard there was jet skis too but those are a bit more dangerous,” with a laugh, chase scratches at the back of his neck. “i think i might need more courage to go on one of those.” looking at julian, chase realizes he might be able to muster up enough bravery if they’re doing it together. there’s something about the lota that wrap him up in healing warmth, that allows him to feel comfortable and confident. maybe it’s the optimism that shines so brilliantly in ocean eyes, how it washes over him, refreshing and cool. “they had sharks! even the one with the, uh, it’s like . . . ah, the hammer shape head.” the name is so simple his cheeks flush a little once he realizes but his hands are already next to his own head, trying to make the shape, grin growing on his lips. “a garden sounds pretty,” his tone drips of awe and his cheeks hurt from smiling as he imagines it. “seraph has the best lotas,” he chuckles. “thinking of suturing even now.” taking the patches in hand, he tries to hold them up to the sweater to see where to pin them but it’s not the same comparing it in the air or even laying it down on the bed. “do you mind wearing it so i can pin them in place? i wanna figure out the best spots for each one.” 

JN: "Oh, I'll try anything once." He nods as if to make the statement final. "It sounds fun." There are so many more mundane things he has yet to experience, so doing something that isn't commonly done is of great interest. They shoot up higher up the do-to list if he has someone to do them with. "Hammer head sharks? I wonder how the glass doesn't break if they hit it." Julian looks off momentarily, a bit lost in thought as he holds the sweater closer to his chest. His gaze wanders to the blue pile of patches, plucking a random few from it, and thinks about how fish might feel if they see someone eat fish. "Speaking of which, do you like sushi?" Though he's about to sit back down on the bed, make more combinations, he pauses in place at the request. It's simple, certainly. But perhaps not to him. "Is that... really... okay?" As he swallows, he thinks the question is for himself as well. Only a couple of wolves have seen his torso, littered with scars that have since 'healed'. But scars don't really heal, do they? He carefully sets the sweater down, eyes downcast and color muted. And as if a tester, he pulls back his right sleeve to reveal a few more scattered scars; smaller knife cuts and veins more visible due to, what he thinks, is his paleness. 

CH: with the admission, chase wonders if julian is more daring than he thinks, more open but with his own secrets. but something like coming from julian doesn't carry the same tones or suggestion that some of their own pack members saying it would. he doesn't think so anyway but he still ends up swallowing thickly, pushing the thought away from his mind. wouldn't be the first time his mind wanders to that when the words itself had been said innocuously. "hammerhead sharks? oh... do you think it's as hard as a hammer? or harder since hammers... what came first?" but he's distracted by the mention of sushi instead of indulging in the sudden urge to google hammerhead sharks. "i love sushi!" he hesitates, remembering that it's not as common, right? a wolf preferring fish to red meat. "do you?" 

he's trying to wrap the pin cushion strap around his wrist, having seen it done a few times to make pinning easier as he sticks a few in there, when he looks over to julian. it seems like a trick of light at first until he realizes what's on julian's arm is really there and he gapes for a moment, wondering what to do. does he say something? does he pretend not to see? does he ask? a million thoughts start to run through his mind but his body moves before he can process, taking julian's arm and trailing his fingers over some of them, brows furrowed til he can manage to look julian in the eyes. "does it hurt? are you hurting?" he knows well enough from his own past that these scars could've come from anywhere, anything, anyone. 

JN: It's commonplace for his train of thought to switch from one lane to another, one random thought after another. He doesn't have a definitive answer for Chase, though. He's been told that tools have been around for more years than he can fathom, but as a species of fish, it's likely they came around first. "They're prehistoric, I think. The shark, fish. But yeah, I do like sushi. I'll make it for you sometime." The words come out easier that way. They don't hold any personal history to them, not like what he ends up revealing to the omega. He swallows thickly, unsure whether to keep going or cut their losses now. Julian expects scorn, mockery, perhaps even anger. Something similar to what he got from those... Whoever they were. They looked like them, like this, but were they really wolves? Or just humans? Just humans doesn't feel right to even think when they were the assumed individuals responsible for all this torture. Some of these cuts were fresh back then, the start of his new life. But even now, almost two years later, the phantom feeling of the stings returns as the memory does. "No." He covers his sleeve back up. "No, it doesn't." Blinking up at Chase, he manages a sliver of a smile, though short-lived. "The rest of me is like that, though." Ugly. Damaged. Unworthy. "I can't do anything about it."  He curls his fingers by the edges of his shirt, but he can't move them. As kind and compassionate Chase has always been to him, he's still afraid. He's afraid that it'll be too much to be kind to. 

CH: "are they?" then again, his knowledge of this and that when it comes to anything beyond basic information is questionable at best. though he had access to certain materials to try learning, he was limited by what he could get from the human children in the house, trying to help them to avoid being— well, that's something else entirely, now, isn't it? he shouldn't let his thoughts drift there. shift the sails, guide it elsewhere like getting lost in ocean eyes. "i'd like that." but he'd enjoy anything julian makes for him, that julian wants to make something chase likes is even sweeter. bated breath is released when julian says no, that it doesn't hurt, that he's not in physical pain at the very least and he can't imagine it. he can't imagine having physical scars to match the emotional ones left behind. the faint smile clenches at his heart and he's reaching out to grab julian's hand as it fixes his sleeve, catching them just when they linger at the hem of their shirt. "so the rest of you is soft and warm? sweet and comfortable?" the words slip out faster than he can think because how julian sounds when he says he can't do anything about it nearly breaks his heart. he doesn't have to do anything about them. if they're a part of julian, they're just as lovable as he is. "is that . . . is that why you wear long sleeves even in summer?" 

JN: In all honesty, there’s nothing good that he expects out of this. Showing even a little bit is a rick he so adamantly avoids. Sometimes he wonders if he could get away with suturing cloth to his skin, but that’s a little extreme, isn’t it? Just like how he’d rather inject himself with vitamins than eat most days. It’s not healthy in every sense of the idea, he knows. It’s like he can only think in extremes. So when Chase speaks again, using positive adjectives with such fondness in his tone, he grows evermore speechless. Even breathing in this moment feels like a violation of all that is socially acceptable. But asphyxiation is a real way to one’s demise, so he doesn’t. He’s shaking, though, he can’t help that bit. 

How could you say that? He wants to ask. Short and simple, and very curious. It might take more than five minutes, more than an hour perhaps, to even process those words. Soft and warm? Sweet and comfortable? Is that how he’s projecting? “Isn’t that all you?” He swallows, regretting his words the millisecond before it leaves his lips. He’s so in his head right now that it feels trapping. As if he can only see Chase in this moment, and yet that’s sort of hard to do right now. “You’re lying if it’s not you.” He remains seated on his bed. His bed, yet it feels so unfamiliar all of a sudden. Julian presses his eyes closed, nodding his head at the question as he hides his arms behind his pulled up legs. A barrier, he supposes. He doesn’t know, really. He wants to… He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t want Chase to reject him, but it feels so much like it.

#( ongoing )

[readbookywooks]

'I demand to see the wizard,' she announced. 'Pray admit me this instant.' 'He's rather busy at present,' said the face. 'Were you after a love potion?' 'A what?' 'I've – we've got a special on Cutwell's Shield of Passion ointment,' said the face, and winked in a startling fashion. 'Provides your wild oats while guaranteeing a crop failure, if you know what I mean.' Keli bridled. 'No,' she lied coldly, 'I do not.' 'Ramrub? Maidens' Longstop? Belladonna eyedrops?' 'I demand —' 'Sorry, we're closed,' said the face, and shut the door. Keli withdrew her foot just in time. She muttered some words that would have amazed and shocked her tutors, and thumped on the woodwork. The tattoo of her hammering suddenly slowed as realisation dawned. He'd seen her! He'd heard her! She beat on the door with renewed vigour, yelling with all the power in her lungs. A voice by her ear said, 'It won't work. He 'eef very fstubborn.' She looked around slowly and met the impertinent gaze of the doorknocker. It waggled its metal eyebrows at her and spoke indistinctly through its wrought-iron ring. 'I am Princess Keli, heir to the throne of Sto Lat,' she said haughtily, holding down the lid on her terror. 'And I don't talk to door furniture.' 'Fwell, I'm just a doorknocker and I can talk to fwhoever I please,' said the gargoyle pleasantly. 'And I can ftell you the fmaster iff having a trying day and duff fnot fwant to be disturbed. But you could ftry to use the magic word,' it added. 'Coming from an attractiff fwoman it works nine times out of eight.' 'Magic word? What's the magic word?' The knocker perceptibly sneered. 'Haff you been taught nothing, miss?' She drew herself up to her full height, which wasn't really worth the effort. She felt she'd had a trying day too. Her father had personally executed a hundred enemies in battle. She should be able to manage a doorknocker. 'I have been educated,' she informed it with icy precision, 'by some of the finest scholars in the land.' The doorknocker did not appear to be impressed. 'Iff they didn't teach you the magic word,' it said calmly, 'they couldn't haff fbeen all that fine.' Keli reached out, grabbed the heavy ring, and pounded it on the door. The knocker leered at her. 'Ftreat me rough,' it lisped. 'That'f the way I like it!' 'You're disgusting!' 'Yeff. Ooo, that waff nife, do it again. . . .' The door opened a crack. There was a shadowy glimpse of curly hair. 'Madam, I said we're cl —' Keli sagged. 'Please help me,' she said. 'Please!' 'See?' said the doorknocker triumphantly. 'Sooner or later everyone remembers the magic word!' Keli had been to official functions in Ankh-Morpork and had met senior wizards from Unseen University, the Disc's premier college of magic. Some of them had been tall, and most of them had been fat, and nearly all of them had been richly dressed, or at least thought they were richly dressed. In fact there are fashions in wizardry as in more mundane arts, and this tendency to look like elderly aldermen was only temporary. Previous generations had gone in for looking pale and interesting, or druidical and grubby, or mysterious and saturnine. But Keli was used to wizards as a sort of fur-trimmed small mountain with a wheezy voice, and Igneous Cutwell didn't quite fit the mage image. He was young. Well, that couldn't be helped; presumably even wizards had to start off young. He didn't have a beard, and the only thing his rather grubby robe was trimmed with was frayed edges. 'Would you like a drink or something?' he said, surreptitiously kicking a discarded vest under the table. Keli looked around for somewhere to sit that wasn't occupied with laundry or used crockery, and shook her head. Cutwell noticed her expression. 'It's a bit alfresco, I'm afraid,' he added hurriedly, elbowing the remains of a garlic sausage on to the floor. 'Mrs Nugent usually comes in twice a week and does for me but she's gone to see her sister who's had one of her turns. Are you sure? It's no trouble. I saw a spare cup here only yesterday.' 'I have a problem, Mr Cutwell,' said Keli. 'Hang on a moment.' He reached up to a hook over the fireplace and took down a pointy hat that had seen better days, although from the look of it they hadn't been very much better, and then said, 'Right. Fire away.' 'What's so important about the hat?' 'Oh, it's very 'essential. You've got to have the proper hat for wizarding. We wizards know about this sort of thing.' 'If you say so. Look, can you see me?' He peered at her. 'Yes. Yes, I would definitely say I can see you.' 'And hear me? You can hear me, can you?' 'Loud and clear. Yes. Every syllable tinkling into place. No problems.' 'Then would you be surprised if I told you that no-one else in this city can?' 'Except me?' Keli snorted. 'And your doorknocker.' Cutwell pulled out a chair and sat down. He squirmed a little. A thoughtful expression passed over his face. He stood up, reached behind him and produced a flat reddish mass which might have once been half a pizza[2]. He stared at it sorrowfully. 'I've been looking for that all morning, would you believe?' he said. 'It was an Ail-On with extra peppers, too.' He picked sadly at the squashed shape, and suddenly remembered Keli. 'Gosh, sorry,' he said, 'where's my manners? Whatever will you think of me? Here. Have an anchovy. Please.' 'Have you been listening to me?' snapped Keli. 'Do you feel invisible? In yourself, I mean?' said Gutwell, indistinctly. 'Of course not. I just feel angry. So I want you to tell my fortune.' 'Well, I don't know about that, it all sounds rather medical to me and —' 'I can pay.' 'It's illegal, you see,' said Cutwell wretchedly. 'The old king expressly forbade fortune telling in Sto Lat. He didn't like wizards much.' 'I can pay a lot.' 'Mrs Nugent was telling me this new girl is likely to be worse. A right haughty one, she said. Not the sort to look kindly on practitioners of the subtle arts, I fear.' Keli smiled. Members of the court who had seen that smile before would have hastened to drag Gutwell out of the way and into a place of safety, like the next continent, but he just sat there trying to pick bits of mushroom out of his robe. 'I understand she's got a foul temper on her,' said Keli. 'I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't turn you out of the city anyway.' 'Oh dear,' said Cutwell, 'do you really think so?' 'Look,' said Keli, 'you don't have to tell my future, just my present. Even she couldn't object to that. I'll have a word with her if you like,' she added magnanimously. Cutwell brightened. 'Oh, do you know her?' he said. 'Yes. But sometimes, I think, not very well.' Cutwell sighed and burrowed around in the debris on the table, dislodging cascades of elderly plates and the long-mummified remains of several meals. Eventually he unearthed a fat leather wallet, stuck to a cheese slice. 'Well,' he said doubtfully, 'these are Caroc cards. Distilled wisdom of the Ancients and all that. Or there's the Ching Aling of the Hublandish. It's all the rage in the smart set. I don't do tealeaves.' 'I'll try the Ching thing.' 'You throw these yarrow stalks in the air, then.' She did. They looked at the ensuing pattern. 'Hmm,' said Cutwell after a while. 'Well, that's one in the fireplace, one in the cocoa mug, one in the street, shame about the window, one on the table, and one, no, two behind the dresser. I expect Mrs Nugent will be able to find the rest.' 'You didn't say how hard. Shall I do it again?' 'No-ooo, I don't think so.' Cutwell thumbed through the pages of a yellowed book that had previously been supporting the table leg. 'The pattern seems to make sense. Yes, here we are, Octogram 8,887: Illegality, the Unatoning Goose. Which we cross reference here . . . hold on . . . hold on . . . yes. Got it.' 'Well?' 'Without vertically, wisely the cochineal emperor goes forth at teatime; at evening the mollusc is silent among the almond blossom.' 'Yes?' said Keli, respectfully. 'What does that mean?' 'Unless you're a mollusc, probably not a lot,' said Cutwell. 'I think perhaps it lost something in translation.' 'Are you sure you know how to do this?' 'Let's try the cards,' said Cutwell hurriedly, fanning them out. 'Pick a card. Any card.' 'It's Death,'said Keli. 'Ah. Well. Of course, the Death card doesn't actually mean death in all circumstances,' Cutwell said quickly. 'You mean, it doesn't mean death in those circumstances where the subject is getting over-excited and you're too embarrassed to tell the truth, hmm?' 'Look, take another card.' 'This one's Death as well,' said Keli. 'Did you put the other one back?' 'No. Shall I take another card?' 'May as well.' 'Well, there's a coincidence!' 'Death number three?' 'Right. Is this a special pack for conjuring tricks?' Keli tried to sound composed, but even she could detect the faint tinkle of hysteria in her voice. Cutwell frowned at her and carefully put the cards back in the pack, shuffled it, and dealt them out on to the table. There was only one Death. 'Oh dear,' he said, 'I think this is going to be serious. May I see the palm of your hand, please?' He examined it for a long time. Alter a while he went to the dresser, took a jeweller's eyeglass out of a drawer, wiped the porridge off it with the sleeve of his robe, and spent another few minutes examining her hand in minutest detail. Eventually he sat back, removed the glass, and stared at her. 'You're dead,' he said. Keli waited. She couldn't think of any suitable reply. 'I'm not' lacked a certain style, while 'Is it serious?' seemed somehow too frivolous. 'Did I say I thought this was going to be serious?' said Cutwell. 'I think you did,' said Keli carefully, keeping her tone totally level. 'I was right.' 'Oh.' 'It could be fatal.' 'How much more fatal,' said Keli, 'than being dead?' 'I didn't mean for you.' 'Oh.' 'Something very fundamental seems to have gone wrong, you see. You're dead in every sense but the, er, actual. I mean, the cards think you're dead. Your lifeline thinks you're dead. Everything and everyone thinks you're dead.' 'I don't,' said Keli, but her voice was less than confident. 'I'm afraid your opinion doesn't count.' 'But people can see and hear me!' The first thing you learn when you enroll at Unseen University, I'm afraid, is that people don't pay much attention to that sort of thing. It's what their minds tell them that's important.' 'You mean people don't see me because their minds tell them not to?' ' 'Fraid so. It's called predestination, or something.' Cutwell looked at her wretchedly. 'I'm a wizard. We know about these things.' 'Actually it's not the first thing you learn when you enroll,' he added, 'I mean, you learn where the lavatories are and all that sort of thing before that. But after all that, it's the first thing.' 'You can see me, though.' 'Ah. Well. Wizards are specially trained to see things that are there and not to see things that aren't. You get these special exercises —' Keli drummed her fingers on the table, or tried to. It turned out to be difficult. She stared down in vague horror. Cutwell hurried forward and wiped the table with his sleeve. 'Sorry,' he muttered, 'I had treacle sandwiches for supper last night.' 'What can I do?' 'Nothing.' 'Nothing?' 'Well, you could certainly become a very successful burglar . . . sorry. That was tasteless of me.'

#Mort