#still. seeing him give up that carefully crafted (although full of lies) life that he thought would make him happy was SO heartbreaking | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fire-lady-ilah · 3 years

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I would be fascinated in any ideas you had about how the hunt for Aang would go with 'good parent Ozai' AU!

Ask and ye shall receive! (@tiktokonaclock, here’s that part two you asked about). This continues from where I left off in part 1.

At first, Ozai says no. He has good reason to do so, Zuko is the Crown Prince, should he and Azula die then he will be heirless— he doesn’t know if Ursa would be able to bear another child, nor does he wish for another. In a less logical way, his mind protests because that is his son. Sixteen, yes, but still very much a child. That isn’t even the age of conscription.

He knows that the Avatar is a child, Commander Zhao’s report said that he appeared to be twelve, travelling with two other children that were closer to Azula’s age. He knows that his children make a formidable pair, he has no doubt that, together, they could be able to take on entire battalions of soldiers.

They are his children and they are Ursa’s children. How could he just let them go out to face an enemy such as the Avatar?

Zuko has Ozai’s charisma and awkwardness (as they come together, though few remember the way the Fire Lord used to stumble over his words as a teenager). Zuko looks so much like his father that sometimes older servants even refer to him by his name. But Zuko is equal parts his mother. He has his mother’s kinder nature, and he has her drive. Ursa’s persistence is one of the only reasons the Fire Nation is flourishing as it is now. Ozai knows that it had been suffering near the end of his father’s rule, he knows that he is an amazing military leader, just as he knows that it is better to leave his wife in charge of the majority of domestic policies.

It is that persistence combined with Azula’s carefully crafted wording that she also got from her mother that makes both Ozai and Ursa cave and give permission for their children to hunt the Avatar. Sometimes, Ozai wonders if his life would be easier if he didn’t love his family so much.

Zuko and Azula leave the Fire Nation together. Zuko is sixteen and looks the very image of a Crown Prince, even if a few hairs escape his top knot and fall across his face. Azula is fourteen and looks every bit the Princess she is. A single hair escapes it’s place and she leaves it be. She would not dare call attention to imperfections, just as Ozai himself wouldn’t. He is full of pride as he watches his children board the ship (the second newest design, as advanced as possible while having already been tested. He would not let untested technology take his children from him permanently). Captain Jee stands on the deck, greeting them. Apparently he had been demoted from his position at some point for assaulting an Admiral.

(He remembers the day he discovered the Captain’s existence well. Zuko had been eleven and helping him look over military documentation that had been sent to him to approve. One of such documents had been Jee’s demotion to lieutenant.

“I remember him. He was Lu Ten’s friend.” He heard his son mumble as he touched the included portrait of Jee. Closer examination showed that it had been drawn by his nephew himself. His son had loved his cousin, and he was not against doing things to make him happy. If Jee was loyal to Lu Ten, it only meant he would be more likely to be loyal to Zuko.

“I will have him transferred to the palace guard.”)

He proved to be honourable in the guard and had quickly been promoted back to captain after Ozai heard the true reasoning of the assault through Zuko’s horrified voice. He himself cared little for the affairs of military officers, but if it made his son happy to sign the papers for the Admiral’s dishonourable discharge and imprisonment, so be it.

That action had only solidified Jee’s loyalty to his son (and by extension, his daughter).

Now, I’m conflicted on whether or not Iroh would go with them. I’m leaning toward yes. Neither of them have been hurt by their father, but Zuko is still the most naturally kindhearted person in the royal family and he is destined to be Fire Lord. Azula has more empathy than she does in canon (although that’s not saying much), I doubt Iroh would comment that she’s “crazy and needs to go down”. After all, Ozai loves both his children here. That means that he doesn’t intentionally harm their mental health, nor does he encourage competition between them. They both want to make both their parents proud. If nothing else, Iroh would go with them so that he could stop them.

Thus, shortly after the Crown Prince and Princess of the Fire Nation step onto the ship, the Dragon of the West follows. It is filled with the best of the Fire Nation to seek the only bender of all four elements.

A stark contrast to canon, no?

The hunt progresses somewhat like in canon, though not. Lo and Li instruct further Zuko and Azula in lightning bending.

(“Only a hair out of place, Princess Azula.”

“That means I shall achieve perfection soon.”)

Iroh takes over his nephew and niece’s firebending training, though Azula is a master in her own right and Zuko is nearly a master as well. He forces them back to their basics.

Zuko yells and stomps and Iroh is reminded of his brother at the same age, back before his brother became the monster he is now. The same brother he sees glimpses of when Ozai is alone with his wife and children, the same brother that he sees none of in the Fire Lord. Azula is silent and moves to do her basics without complaint. She unnerves him, but he still loves her.

He loves them both. And he loves what remains of his brother in Ozai, even if he would choose the balance of the world over the Fire Lord in an instant.

They visit Admiral Zhao first. He declares that he has already captured the Avatar and that he would be more than willing to transfer his prisoner onto the royal family’s better equipped ship.

The siblings visit the chained Avatar. Zhao speaks of what he plans to do.

That is the thing about Ozai loving his children. Loving them means protecting them from certain cruelties, at least more than he did in canon. Zuko and Azula both see the Avatar, only twelve, and Zhao’s words overlap with Azulon’s orders to their father when Lu Ten dies. After all, Zuko had been only a year younger then.

That night, the Blue Spirit and the Dragon Emperor break the Avatar out of the stronghold with dual dao and twin daggers as the Prince and Princess sleep in their luxurious cabins. If that isn’t completely the truth, no one says anything to suggest as such. The Blue Spirit is knocked out by an arrow to the forehead. The Dragon Emperor does not allow the Avatar to remove the mask.

(“How did you not see that coming, Zuzu?”

“In my defence, you were supposed to be watching my back while I pulled the Avatar away.”)

They meet the Avatar’s companions briefly before the Emperor gestures to the rising sun and they disappear.

It is only after the escape of the Avatar that Iroh begins to consider the siblings further.

They pen a letter to their father.

Ozai reads between the lines and wonders, just once, if perhaps he had sheltered his children from the reality of war too much. He does not wonder again because he knows the alternative would have been far worse.

Instead, Ozai speaks with his wife. Ursa is a complex woman, but the Avatar is the reincarnation of her grandfather and she has an actress’s mind (and thus she has a politician’s mind).

As their children chase the Avatar, the Fire Lord and Lady put their own plan into motion. Canon Ozai may be content to lay all responsibility on his children, but this Ozai is actually a decent dad.

The siblings are free to enter Fire Nation territory as they wish and have no reason to sneak into the temple, even still they do. They watch as a Fire Sage, one of the highest religious authorities in the Fire Nation, disobeys the Fire Lord to help the Avatar.

Zuko’s quick fingers undo the water tribe boy’s restraints as Azula’s undo the girl’s. They share playful smirks, after all, neither of them are in any danger. They are a powerful team and they have their father’s unwavering support.

(“Why did you just untie us?”

“Zhao’s a dick.”)

Avatar Roku emerges in place of Avatar Aang. He pauses in front of the children, the girl that has Rina’s smile, the boy that has her hair (his own hair), always trying to escape from its confines.

They do not waver. They do, however, run when the Avatar begins to destroy the temple.

The siblings believe the Fire Nation is the greatest in the world. They believe that it is their duty to spread their glory to the other nations. But, late at night, taking tea together, they consider that perhaps Fire Lord Sozin went about it in the wrong way.

(Great-grandfather says hi, Ursa reads aloud from their children’s letter. Not for the first time, Ozai regrets sending his children on such a dangerous mission. He knew that Avatar Roku had been spotted on Crescent Island, he knew that he had blown up the temple. How close had his children come to being blown up?)

The Avatar sets course for Omashu. The siblings make a stop in the Fire Nation while they’re nearby. They have a friend to pick up.

Parts: [1] [3] [4]

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alto-angel · 3 years

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in this post, i would like to present my thesis on why the song metaphor by the crane wives belongs to goro akechi.

"i've gotten good at leaning on metaphors": goro's speech as the detective prince is very flowery, exaggerated, and calculated, in order to please the crowds of people with their eyes trained on him at all times. public appearances, television shows, and interviews are all very important for his image, and as such he's forced to adapt his speech and choose his wording carefully to appease those watching. robbie daymond especially does a very good job of vocally pushing the line of politeness into a tone that sounds just a bit too sugary to be genuine, but not something u would notice unless u were listening closely.

"i've gotten good at living on someone else's page": much like the first line, this one can also refer to goro's public image. because he's put an immense amount of work into his life as the detective prince, he aims to please. or at least, he needs to act as though he does. in order to keep up appearances, he needs to be able to get a read of those around him and keep himself on the same wavelength as them. this also applies to shido—not only does goro need to please his fans, but shido as well, in order to stay one step ahead of him. goro is purposefully putting himself on eggshells every day of his life, and in order to keep that up as well as keep himself safe, this is what he has to practice.

"i cut my teeth on secondhand sentiments": goro is often forced to follow a script, or at least an embellished, public-friendly version of his own thoughts. the things that he says when acting as the detective prince are rarely ever his own thoughts as they would be presented in normal conversation. goro has to hide his true opinion of the phantom thieves behind crowd pleasing buzzwords, keep up appearances by catering his opinions, and even quotes philosophers and other literature ("to paraphrase hegel"). the things that he says as detective prince goro akechi are rarely ever entirely his own, and he's gotten very good at tailoring his speech.

"you can't trust a single thing i say": this one, i think, is fairly self-explanatory. the "you" doesn't just apply to the phantom thieves, but to those goro works with as well. what is it he says to sae; "to trick your enemies, you must first trick your allies"? he uses deception to get what he wants, but his primary motivation for it is to move his plan forward, and to protect himself. obviously, if he were honest with shido, he would've been killed on the spot. goro's proficiency with lies isn't just a tool he uses, but a defense mechanism as well. bc of his fear of and difficulty grasping the concept of opening up to someone, through that skill, he is able to keep himself closed off and in control (that is, until he meets akira).

"i keep my closet free of skeletons": this one strikes me as irony, personally. goro's closet is so full of skeletons that it's practically bursting at the seams. but as the detective prince, something like that just isn't allowed. he needs to play the part, otherwise he pays the price. as himself, as goro akechi, he's got so many skeletons in his closet that he probably can't open the door anymore. but as the detective prince, he has to uphold an air of perfection that seems unattainable to others. goro as the detective prince is the epitome of the culture behind the idolization of celebrities, and the way others place and expect them on pedestals of something near godhood, far above the rest of the world.

"cause i'm much better at digging graves": well, goro akechi is certainly no stranger to the art of killing someone without a trace. we have no idea how many shutdowns or breakdowns he induced over the course of his professional relationship with shido. but i also think this lyric in tandem with the one right before it could relate to goro's tendencies towards repression; the idea that he cannot and should not have any "demons" or "skeletons"—such as past traumas, meaningful relationships, or feelings that he's jammed down and shut the closet doors on, if u will—bc since vengeance is his only objective, then digging graves is his primary task, or the only thing he's good for, in his mind. the word skeletons doesn't have to represent mistakes specifically, but could also refer to how goro views his own heart and how he deals with his emotions. something like, he feels he shouldn't deal with all that turbulence, bc he's far better at warping it into anger—something that he's used to dealing with, and can easily rationalize. the more complicated emotions, not so much.

"but i always dig up bones in your sympathy": this is where i start connecting things to goro and akira specifically. another definition of sympathy entails two people who share an understanding of each other. doesn't that sound like goro and akira to u? so, if u take these lyrics to be from goro to akira, it feels to me like this one could represent his regrets/desire to leave his situation. according to rank seven of his confidant in royal, we know that goro is practically screaming for help before the events of sae's palace. unfortunately, as the player, we are not able to save him. but i think this lyric could represent his desire to connect with akira despite his better judgement—"dig up bones," as in; i'll still arrive at the decision to bury them in the first place, but bc we have an understanding, i'll show u as well as i can that i do not want to be doing this. and that's exactly how rank seven with goro plays out, through the metaphor of a billiards game.

"i can't trust a single thing you say": this could refer to the fact that both goro and akira are withholding truths from each other throughout their relationship, and since they are of equal standing, the same deception that applies to goro would apply to akira as well, albiet in a far different way. however, i can also see it as an unwillingness on goro's part; he feels as though he cannot trust akira not bc akira is truly lying to him, but bc there's no other way for him to rationalize the fact that akira cares for him and wants to spend time with him. as goro akechi, not the detective prince. goro can't trust the kindness akira extends to him not only bc he's used to conditional love (shido, foster parents, etc.), but also bc he doesn't feel as though he deserves it. goro does not have a very high image of himself, as we see later on, and it's easy to see throughout his confidant that he cannot quite understand why someone would want to spend time with him, and not the perfectly crafted version of him that he presents to everyone else.

"don't look too hard, cause you won't like the scars he left in me": the "he" here refers to shido. shido is the sole reason for all of goro's trauma and hardships. he has scarred goro more than anyone else in his life. and goro's sharing of these traumas is very limited: he opens up seemingly out of nowhere, before immediately retreating under the guise of things like "oh, that isn't like me," or "oh, am i bothering u?" such as the scenes that take place in leblanc and the bathhouse. goro cannot fathom the fact that someone (akira) would wish to get to know him, as he is, so he assumes that a normal interaction between friends is somehow too much transparency, and keeps himself at a distance. he mistakes his feelings for akira as hatred, right? obviously, that's entirely the wrong word to describe them. but if goro himself believes that he hates akira, he would likely believe akira to hate him as well; as evidenced by the fact that the dialogue options which give u the most points are the ones where u mention ur "rivalry"—bc again, goro cannot rationalize his emotions as anything other than negative; anger, hatred, etc. it's far easier for goro to blurt out the words "i hate u" rather than "i love u," or "i care for u," isn't it? and this is how he keeps himself at enough of a distance, although simultaneously feels himself drawing closer. emotional closeness is not something goro is well versed in, and bc goro has built his image on being talented and skilled, he refuses to reveal his shortcomings.

"i've gotten good at making up metaphors": the words here are only slightly different than the ones at the beginning, which i think works for goro's further descent into his deal with shido, and subsequent difficulty. instead of "leaning" on metaphors, he's completely making them up. it's more drastic, which could represent a sort of desperation. almost as if he's losing his touch—which we do see after the events of sae's palace, during the tv interview where he monologues internally about his backstory, and we start to really see how damaged he is. goro is frazzled and distraught, enough for it to visibly show, something he prided himself on being able to avoid.

"i've gotten good at stretching the truth out of shape": again, the same situation as before. similar to the beginning, with slightly harsher wording. the lies that goro is immersing himself in are getting more intense, and almost impossible to separate from. his "murder" of akira is a turning point, in a way; akira is the first and only character we see goro kill in what he believes to be outside of the metaverse. he's not only stretching the truth out of shape, but he himself is bent out of shape as well—this stuck out to me on my ng+ run; his sprites in the scene just after akira is reported to be dead from him to shido are very unsettling and absent, as if he's almost completely zoning out. it's a very jarring scene to watch, and i think at least part of that has to be due to the severity of his actions.

"and all these words are sweet and meaningless": this feels to me, if we're going by the timeline i've been suggesting throughout all this, like it's directed at shido. now that akira is dead and the phantom thieves are no longer a threat to goro's plan for revenge, he can focus his energy back on his original objective. goro lays it on incredibly thick in his scenes with shido, so much so that it sometime surprises me that he didn't realize shido was onto him. again with the more intense wording here, which fits with the events i'm corresponding it with.

"you can't trust a single thing i say": now this wording is exactly the same as the first time, but given the progression of everything i've talked about, i take this as a sort of last word to both shido and akira. goro intends to follow through with his vengeance no matter the cost, and this could read as a final nail in that coffin. the song repeats this lyric four times, as well. if i wanted to keep it up all the way up to the engine room scene, and go completely off the rails in the process, i could say that the first iteration of this line is an affirmation to both shido and akira that his revenge takes precedence, therefore it would be stupid to trust him. the second is an affirmation to himself that he is in fact doing the right thing, and everything will pay off in the end, that this is just the way things are supposed to be, as always. the third is a kind of plea, born from confusion, after he's defeated by the theives and they offer to bring him with them to take down shido, an offer he cannot fathom the reason for extending. a sort of "why would u trust me" in the form of "u shouldn't trust me." and the fourth would refer directly to goro speaking to his cognitive self; as he decieves the deciever, making it seem as though he is running back to shido only to close the bulkhead door and resign himself to his "noble" sacrifice.

i hope at least some of this makes any semblance of sense. put this song on ur goro playlists, goroboys.

#persona #persona 5 #persona 5 royal #p5 #p5r #goro akechi #character analysis

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comeoncomeout41 · 3 years

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I just watched the Elf episode of The Holiday Movies That Made Us on Netflix after remembering that I started writing an Elf supercorp AU for Christmas in 2018 (don’t judge me) and found my old notes app first draft so Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah! MAYBE I’ll finish it this year... (she said as a lying liar who lies.)

*The fic in which Kara’s pod crash landed at the North Pole, 13 years later her adopted elf mother Eliza and her elf sister Alex tell her about her cousin Kal now Clark Kent and she decides to go to Metropolis to meet the only other person like her. She meets Lena “naughty list” Luthor. And Clark and Lois are Jewish.

🔥🎄🎄🎄🧝‍♀️🤦🏻‍♀️

Some elves are born to work in Santa’s workshop. Kara Zor-El, however, was not born an elf or even from this earth for that matter.

When her pod crash landed at the North Pole thirteen years ago, she had no memory of a lost planet, no recollection of a cousin she was sent to protect who had already grown up to become Superman, and no idea how to be an alien living with elves. Santa was perturbed as to what to do with a skittish teenaged alien who cringed at the sound of tiny hammers building toys.

The elf doctor, Eliza Danvers, having a daughter around Kara’s age, naturally stepped in to help raise her, teach her elf culture, and attempt to control her powers. There were several mishaps of course.

Kara’s eyes lit up the first time she saw a Christmas tree. Literally. The green pine was burned to a crisp with her heat vision. But she quickly uprooted another tree from outside the elf village and helped Alex redecorate the new tree. And spent several hours carefully placing the new lights and ornaments, after breaking several of the glowing strings of light and the ornate red and blue colored bulbs. When Alex had trouble reaching the top of the tree, Kara swooped her up under her arms to help her place the star on the tree. And she managed to only break one of Alex’s ribs in the process.

After years of being at the North Pole, Kara was actually a wonderful toy maker once she learned to control her strength. When other elves managed to meet their five hundred toy quotas, Kara would have five thousand toys completed. The workshop wouldn’t need any teddy bears for another century, but finding storage for all of the toys Kara built was becoming difficult.

So from there, Kara’s primary job became Elf Master of Letters. She spends several hours each day answering letters for Santa as Santa’s tight schedule and the millions of letters he received each year became too much for the old bearded man. And although she always needed a little proofreading as the different Earth languages were sometimes difficult and much different than her native alien tongue, she enjoyed writing and speaking to children all over the world, bringing them the joy of Christmas.

Alex read over the letter Kara had just finished typing. Her younger but much bigger sister looked to her with a twinkle in her eyes and waited patiently. When Kara saw the red ink marked all over Kara’s letter she cooed and gasped, “That red is so pretty Alex. I know Raymond in Denver will love it! He told me red was his favorite color. I wanted to tell him that’s Santa’s favorite color too! But I didn’t want to give all of the big man’s secrets away, you know?”

Alex sighed and rested her hand on her sister’s shoulder, “Kara, these are your typos. Look here.”

Alex pointed to the last line, “Beleiving isn’t singing. Singing is beleiving.”

“He asked if he could see what the North Pole looks like. I set him straight. Believing isn’t singing. Singing is believing. That was in that one Santa Claus movie you had me watch, which I know isn’t historically accurate or based on true events, but I still,”

“Kara, remember your English spellings. I before e except after c? And it’s seeing not singing.

“Except in some cases like neighbor and weigh. And I just thought! It’s a play on words because ‘the best way to spread Christmas cheer, is singing loud for all to hear!’”

Alex smiled at her then, “You’ll get the hang of it.“

“Yeah, okay so I can’t spell that great, but the writing was good right?” Kara looked hopeful.

Alex shoved her shoulder, “You know you have more Christmas spirit than any other elf. Now come on and fix these typos, so we can go drink hot chocolate with Mom.”

That night when Kara had gone to bed, belly full of twelve drumsticks, eleven pickled peppers, ten cups of hot chocolate, nine hams glazed, eight glasses of milk, seven strudel pastries, six white chocolate goose eggs, five onion rings, four carrot cakes, three French bagels, two turtle chocolates, and a chocolate pecan pie, she curled up on her elf sized bed. Eliza had knit a fourth blanket onto her elf quilt the previous month when her toes started peeking out at the bottom. Alex had tucked her in tonight, making certain she was snug as a bug in a rug in the tiny bed, wishing sweet dreams of sugarplums dancing in her head.

She was content, happy, home and tomorrow would be her thirteenth birthday at the North Pole. What more could her life possibly be, what could be more rewarding than being apart of the magic that brought Christmas to children all over the world? And still Kara thought of that world and all of the little lights that wrote those letters to Santa, the gleaming eyes of all who opened presents on Christmas morning, and she wondered if any of them were like her. If they could hear the faintest sounds of snow falling or reach up and touch the clouds. If they could roast chestnuts with their eyes or see through all those pretty presents wrapped neatly under the tree. If the people of this world could believe that Santa would come every year to bring them gifts, then she had to believe that somewhere out there, there was someone else who was just like her.

That night Kara dreamed of a beautiful red sunset and little baby boy named Kal. It all felt so real, seeing him jet across the sky in a similar pod to the one Kara had found in an abandoned workshop years ago, knowing it must have been how she found her home. She wrote a letter to Santa as soon as she woke up, asking him to find a home for Kal for Christmas.

_____

Kara had been in trouble a bit, always an accident, because really how was it her fault if Blitzen couldn’t keep up with her? He could have flown faster if he hadn’t eaten all of that maple syrup and maybe then he wouldn’t have been left behind! She carried him back the whole way anyway! After she found him three days later in the Swiss Alps.

But this time when she was called to Santa’s office and Eliza and Alex sat patiently waiting for the charges from the big boss, Kara didn’t know why she was here at all, or rather, now she was on the floor with wood debris around her rear because the little chair was a lot lower than she had anticipated. That was the tenth one this month.

Santa cleared his throat and rubbed his white bearded chin, “I read your letter, and I spoke to your mom and sister. I think they have something they’d like to tell you.”

Kara widened her eyes and looked to her mom, “Are we going to adopt Kal? Like you adopted me? Please say we can Eliza. I promise I’ll teach him myself how to control his powers, and I can build him a crib myself. I’ll even chop down the tree for the wood and we can,”

Eliza cupped Kara’s face and kissed her forehead, a tear prickling at the corner of her eye, “Do you remember Kal now sweetie? Do you remember Krypton?”

Kara blew out her breath in bewilderment, “Krypton? What’s that? Is that where I’m from? Is it in Canada? I’ve always felt I was probably a Canadian because I don’t get cold at the North Pole, and I make the best maple syrup every year during the elf Christmas party.”

Santa nodded, “Its true, you really do.”

Alex gasped, “you know you’re not an elf?”

Kara chewed at her fingernails, “Well I’m not, am I? I’m bigger than all of you and I can lift a Christmas tree over my head like it’s mistletoe and fly with reindeer and all sorts of stuff. I’ve known for awhile I’m not from here, but this is still my home. You two are still my family.”

Alex held back all her unshed tears, “But you have other family out there, and we can’t keep you from knowing about Kal anymore.”

So that day Kara cried when Santa showed her the picture of Kal, or Clark Kent as he was called on Earth, glasses askew and a beautiful woman on his arm. Clark without the glasses bearing what she was told was her family crest, the House of El, taking up the mantle of Earth’s greatest hero, Superman. She had crafted thousands of figurines of her only living blood relative, and yet she hadn’t the faintest idea that she had been sent to protect him for all of these years. He had grown up, not alone at least. He was raised in Kansas on a farm, and now he lived in Metropolis with his wife Lois Lane and their son Jonathan Kent.

“Does he even know I exist?”

_____

Kara changed into her best elf attire and her bright red boots that Eliza had made her for Christmas, letting her open one present before she left. Today was the day that she would fly to Metropolis and meet her cousin for the first time. She couldn’t wait, but the dread at leaving Alex and Eliza settled deep in the pit of her stomach. And all of the letters to Santa she still wanted to respond to sat neatly at her desk in her room.

She was leaving behind her entire life at the North Pole. She told herself she wasn’t losing her home, but it still felt like it. Santa’s workshop, Eliza and Alex, it was all she had ever known or could remember. Would it be the same when she came back? Would her room still smell like a gingerbread house and would her stocking still hang by their chimney with care? Would Kal come with her or would she split her time between Kal and Alex and Eliza like some children who get double presents when their parents divorce?

Alex knocked on her door and waltzed in, “Hey Kara, mom made you something to take to Kal. There’s a winter storm over Greenland, you should probably get going soon.”

Kara wiped the tears from her eyes and her sister rushed to hug her. She had to bend down a little and lift Alex off the ground, but no way was she leaving without giving her sister a proper hug.

“I’m going to miss you and mom so much, Alex. I’ve never been away from home for more than a few hours, how am I going to make it to Christmas without you both? Will you even still want me back?”

Alex nuzzled closer, “You better come back because I don’t want to imagine this place without you. Who’s going to lift the fridge so mom can sweep under it hmm? Who’s going to change all of the light bulbs in the workshop when they blow out? Who’s going to drink hot chocolate with me and watch Hallmark movies in July?”

Kara laughed, shaking her head and deposited Alex on the floor, “I thought you hated the Hallmark channel.”

Alex simply rolled her eyes, “But I love spending time with my sister, and I love you, you big sap. I swore I wasn’t going to cry.”

Feeling slightly better Kara shoves her sister’s shoulder, a little too hard and catches her before she falls, “I love you too, dork. Don’t open the present I got you until you get back, pinky swear?”

Alex locks pinkies with Kara and kisses her thumb, “I’ll miss you. Please be safe. No breaking the sound barrier, watch out for pigeons because there’s a lot in Metropolis or so I’ve read. And when you see Kal remember to call him Clark Kent.”

“Got it, and don’t eat anything I don’t buy myself or anything not given to me by Clark, Lois, or Jonathan because there’s a high chance it’s not candy.”

Kara hugged Eliza for thirty minutes after that, and then Alex for another ten minutes before waving goodbye to Santa and all of the elves at his workshop. Metropolis wasn’t so far for her to fly, and she’d be home in no time.

She coasted through the peppermint sparkled glaciers, touched the northern lights, sailed through the skies above the Arctic Ocean, grazed the top of the Daily Planet, and landed atop the small two bedroom apartment building on the rent controlled side of town. Inside the windows of the corner apartment on the top floor, Kara saw Kal with his family, lighting candles, looking happy and calm. She decided to wait until morning to meet Kal, Clark, alone.

She listened into the city around her, all of the heartbeats like a million tiny hammers beating together, all except one. Kara flew the city, pinpointing the sound, admiring all of the lights on all the trees in all of the buildings and all the shining multicolored bulbs lining the streets. And it was there, in the tallest tower of the tallest building, one light shone through the wall to wall window, a small desk lamp in the large office. At the desk a woman with jet black hair and skin as white and fair as snow sat, typing away at her computer, nibbling on the pen in her mouth. She strained her long elegant neck, and stretched her arms above her head before getting back to work.

Kara glanced below the balcony to the street corner, finding what she knew the young woman needed. She floated down to the alley and walked into a coffee shop, took some time figuring out how to pay for a cup of coffee with the paper and coin money that Santa had given her before she left. Smiled and thanked the cashier for helping her, put one of the bills in his tip jar (it was a hundred.) She quickly flew into the woman’s office, left the coffee on her desk, and flew out of sight, feeling a little like Santa herself in the moment.

The woman grabbed the coffee absentmindedly and sipped, not expecting it to be so hot Kara sees her fanning her mouth and frantically searching the room with her eyes. When she turns to peer out her balcony, Kara sees her face, hard jaw line, soft endearing green eyes. She smiles as the woman screams and locks her balcony door as the windows go pitch black.

#supercorp #elf au

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inspired-by-the-music · 3 years

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For You: Stand By Me

Taglist: @jineunwootrash

If you would like to be added to the taglist of any of this blog’s works, please ask!

Recommended Reading: For You: 4 O’Clock; these works have separate, independent, but deeply interwoven timelines.

Warning: This chapter contains themes of bullying, especially in regard to one’s appearance.

Chapter 4: The Boy Who Couldn’t Give More

Lei’s POV

When I turned twelve, I was officially cast as an S.M. trainee. For many reasons, I would rather not describe every trial and hardship. I don’t want to tell you every high and low, so I will just tell you about what stands out as the worst and (somehow) the best day of training.

I’m sorry if you think this approach isn’t entirely honest. There are just some things that I would rather not remember. Plus, I worry that if I detail everything that ever troubled me, you won’t be able to understand that I was, in my own way, happy. I hope you understand me. I hope you believe that I am happy— that I have always been as happy as I can be.

I was probably naïve to believe that I would find a real friend in the training rooms full of people closer to my age. Environments like the one in which idols are trained aren’t exactly conducive to healthy relationships, if you know what I mean. Everything was a competition. Everybody wanted to be the best dancer, the best singer, the best rapper, the best visual.

Everybody except Mark Lee, who was content with being his best. I would never tell him this because he would probably get the wrong idea, but I admired him first. It was never a crush. I just wanted to possess his passion, his optimism, his ability to smile through every challenge.

Because of Super Junior’s influence, I didn’t struggle with dancing, singing, and rapping as much as some of the others. By no means was I perfect or anything. My pronunciations were always weird because of my accent and my braces. I could probably count on one hand how many times an instructor praised me. Talent-wise, I was average. I could have passed on to my debut under everyone’s radar if I didn’t look so different.

Even though I was among the youngest trainees, I towered over the other girls. While they were petite, I was naturally muscular, and my dedication to taekwondo only added definition to those muscles. My hair, although long and dark like everyone else’s, fell in tangled curls over my shoulders. While my braces were closing the gap in my front teeth little by little, my teeth were still way too big for my face. At age twelve, the only beauty standards I met were credited to my cartoonish eyes and pale skin.

Anyway, there was never a moment for as long that I can remember that I didn’t feel different because of my appearance. At twelve years old, I think the last thing anybody wants to do is stand out— especially for looking the wrong way. It was uncomfortable enough when I cursed myself for looking the way I did; it was worse when others noticed the differences and started to point them out.

I guess I always knew that I wasn’t popular. Because most of the girls were older than me— and none of them were quite as inviting as Taeyeon or Amber— I didn’t quite know how to befriend them. Heeding Sehun’s advice, I didn’t talk to the boys under any circumstances. Everybody probably thought that I was mute or that I didn’t understand the language well enough to speak.

Still, even though I didn’t have any delusions about my popularity, I wasn’t quite prepared to hear what they— the girls— thought of me.

I looked like a chipmunk. I was a giant. My hair looked like a bush. My pale skin made me look like a vampire— and apparently not in a cool way. I was fat.

That last one always bothered me because in all my years of self-criticizing, I never once thought I was fat. Yeah, my cheeks were full and I wasn’t crazy about looking like a super tall baby because of that, but my body— I wasn’t overweight. And even if I had been, why should that warrant commentary from people who never bothered to say a word to my face?

The most insulting part was that the girls would drop their voices just slightly into half-whispers. They would speak Korean quickly, obviously assuming that I didn’t know the language, assuming that I hadn’t lived in the same country as them for most of my life.

Trying to follow Sehun’s advice, I reminded myself that some people wouldn’t like me. I told myself that was okay. I fixed my eyes on the shiny wooden floor and kept them there through every practice. Just keep your eyes down, I told myself, and they will stop staring.

Even when they kept staring, I knew that I wouldn’t stand up to those girls. How could I have argued when I agreed that (visually, at least) I was as far from perfect as an idol could be? I think that if I could have disagreed with them, even internally, their voices wouldn’t have followed me.

Mark didn’t want to argue with them either, but he must have heard them too. Every day that we had co-ed training, he would sit next to me and, between stretches, say, “You’re beautiful, Lei.”

At first, I eyed him cautiously, unsure of what to do with the attention. Nobody who wasn’t Mom or Super Junior or any of those “safe” people had ever called me beautiful before Mark did.

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe Mark. There was always something endearing about the obvious fact that he couldn't have lied even if he wanted to. The issue was just— what did it matter if Mark thought I was beautiful if I couldn’t smile at my reflection? What good were Mark’s compliments when his voice didn’t follow me into the dark?

Sehun told me that it doesn’t matter if people dislike me. During trainee days, I learned that it didn’t matter if people liked me either. Maybe that’s toxic. Maybe it’s untrue. But it’s what I believed for years.

The mean girls’ voices followed me because they spoke my insecurities. If I could have learned to admire myself, then Mark’s voice would have followed me. Even then, at twelve years old, it was clear that Mark’s admiration was no substitute for self-love, so — please don’t judge me too harshly for this— I didn’t want him to look at me with little hearts in his eyes. His feelings served no purpose, and, to my absolute horror, everybody noticed how Mark looked at me.

Everybody noticed that we spoke exclusively in English. Everybody who couldn’t understand us misinterpreted our very casual friendship as a young budding romance— even our dance instructor, who warned us once when we were partnered together, “Be mindful never to meet each other’s eyes while performing for an audience. Be mindful!”

Mark and I flinched as we heard for the first time, “You don’t want to end up like the idol who never debuted because she was distracted by romance!”

No, I decided then as the instructor looked solely at me, I didn’t want to end up like the idol who never debuted.

Squirming under scrutiny whenever I stood too close to Mark, I understood why Sehun warned me to stay away from boys. It doesn’t matter what your intentions are; people see only what they want to see or whatever will justify their hatred. That’s another lesson I learned as a trainee.

Anyhow, I think I was doing a pretty good job of hiding the fact that I was absolutely miserable behind a carefully crafted blank stare until the day I overheard one of the girls saying, “You know, she’s only becoming an idol because her mom is a manager!”

That was true enough that, even if I had the nerve to bicker back, I couldn’t have truthfully argued. I lowered my head so I wouldn’t catch my blush in the mirrored wall.

I hadn’t even lowered my backpack before another girl said, “Yeah. I bet she’ll get to debut before all of us because—” She glanced over to see if I was paying attention. Satisfied when I broke our eye contact to stare down at my sneakers, she continued, “her Mom has been sleeping with Heechul for years. Who knows how many executives rely on her for favors?”

When I looked up from my feet, I saw red. Before I even processed the words, I had grabbed the girl around her shoulder, fingers digging small bruises into her bare skin exposed under her tank top, and growled, “Who are you talking about?” as if I didn’t know.

Even if she hadn’t been trembling like a leaf as she stared up at me, too terrified to speak, I wouldn’t have let her answer. “Just go back to calling me chipmunk cheeks or bush head or vampire or fatty or Mark lover or whatever makes you feel clever and better than me.” My entire body flushed, and I hoped that I was burning her with my fingertips. “Don’t say another word about my mom ever again, or I’ll—”

I didn’t even get to threaten to knock her crooked teeth down her throat. Johnny, who was my senior by about four years, carefully pried me off of the girl, tutting, “Ladies, ladies, isn’t training challenging enough without all this fighting?”

It was.

“Can’t we all be friends?”

No. I never could have been friends with those girls, and I said so plainly, snatching my hands out of Johnny’s gentle grasp to cross my arms over my chest. You’ll find that I can hold a grudge like no other. I’m not saying that’s a good thing; it’s just a fact.

“We don’t want to be your friend either,” the girl spat at me. “We don’t want anything to do with the daughter of a glorified hooker! Just look at you.” Her glare trailed from my head down to my toes. “You’re wild. I don’t wonder where you got it from, but at least your Mom knows how to hide—”

Had Johnny not been standing there as an insurmountable barrier, I would have punched that girl, and I probably would have been kicked out of the agency, and my behavior would have reflected poorly on Mom. Fortunately, while I was too furious to think clearly, Johnny was there to wrap me in an almost suffocating hug, trusting that I wouldn’t strike him in my rage.

“Just take the day off,” he urged quietly. “I’ll tell the trainers you got sick, and—”

I started to shake my head and insist on peacefully standing my ground before a sharp pang of nauseated hunger pierced through my stomach. Owing to my lack of appetite those days, I hadn’t eaten much for dinner the night before, and I had woken up too late to eat breakfast that morning.

Johnny promised, “I’ll take care of these girls. Just go and take some time to yourself, please.”

When he wiped my cheeks with the pads of his thumbs, I realized that I was crying. I ran out of the room purely to escape the embarrassment of having been reduced to scalding tears by something so stupid in front of so many other trainees. It was a failed attempt; embarrassment followed me into the hallway.

Eager to try again to make me feel better, Mark chased after me, calling my name. “Are you okay?”

As I slumped down at the table by the vending machine, I thought the answer was obvious. Still, I took the chance to lie. “Yes.” When I brought a hand up to touch my cheek, I was relieved to find that I wasn’t crying anymore.

I had an epiphany: even if I’m not strong, I can pretend to be. Clenching my jaw, forcing my hands into fists under the table, I said, “You should go to practice, Mark, and you should stay away from me.”

“What?” His eyes widened. “Why?”

“Because,” I forced myself to look away from his pained expression, “you don’t want people like those girls to talk about you. They’ll bully you if you keep being nice to me.”

“I don’t care.” Mark stood across from me, but he wouldn’t take a seat. He shifted his weight from one foot to another.

I said, “Well I care.” I really did. I didn’t want to put the target on Mark’s back. “I don’t want to end up like the idol who never debuted,” I swore without knowing her whole story.

Mark scratched at the back of his neck. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything. I just know that I like you, and I’m not gonna pretend that I don’t to please anybody.”

Too annoyed by Mark’s stubborn resolve to like me without knowing me to feel flattered, I kind of rolled my eyes.

“Does that mean you don’t like me that way too?” Mark wheezed, and I understood that he had a crush on me. On some level, I guess I had always known, but I tried to ignore it because I didn’t want to hurt him.

No, I didn’t like Mark like that, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him— not when he looked so sad. Thinking of Sehun (as usual), I mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’m not allowed to like anyone like that.”

Slowly, Mark nodded, and I think he understood that I would never return his feelings. “Well, if it’s okay with you, I’ll just keep liking you anyway.” Without waiting for me to reply that I didn’t think feelings worked that way— I didn’t have to give him permission to like me— he bowed and ran back to practice, carrying most of the burden of his unrequited feelings.

I was sitting there, feeling small because I had given in to my temper, feeling cruel and cold because I rejected Mark’s pure infatuation, when Sehun sat across from me. I didn’t meet his eyes as he laid his head down on the table.

He asked, “What’s up with your face?”

For some reason, that question set my eyes watering again. I tried to wipe the tears before he could notice, but nothing got past Sehun. His eyebrows twitched. “What’s wrong, Lei?”

My chin dimpled as I lied, “I’m just hungry.” Well, it wasn’t quite a lie. My stomach growled loudly enough for him and everyone in the building to hear.

Perhaps eager to believe that I wasn’t troubled by anything too serious, Sehun nodded. “That’s nothing to cry about.”

I watched him spring from his seat and pound a fist against the side of the vending machine. A pack of chocolates fell out without payment. “Here you go.” He tossed the candy before me. When I only stared at it, he said, “If that’s not enough, and if you’re not busy, I was about to go to McDonald’s. You can come if you want.”

That must have been the first time that I didn’t burn to be in Sehun’s company. I didn’t exactly want him to rush to leave, but I also didn’t want him to stand there looking at me that way— like I was falling apart. It’s impossible to please me when I’m upset. I frown if you try to talk to me about my feelings, and I frown more if you try to act like everything is okay.

More than anything, I wanted to be alone in my room where nobody could see my flaws. I couldn’t even console myself with the thought that these feelings would pass within a few years by the time I debuted because it was starting to sink into my mind: the realization that every day for the rest of my life, people would try to tear me apart with their eyes. They would try to weigh me down and drown me with their expectations. There wasn’t any way to eradicate that overwhelming sense of dread because it was rooted too deeply in reality.

I would just have to try to silence it— the dawning knowledge that I would always be more human (a wounded one, at that) than idol— until Mom found me at the table by the vending machine as she always did at the end of long days. Then, I would be too afraid to say anything on the ride home. And then, not too long after we walked through the door, she would probably fall asleep on the couch again, and I wouldn’t have the opportunity to tell her about the unnamed monster tearing me apart even if I miraculously found the courage to string words together. I would just turn the television off, drop the remote on the coffee table, run upstairs to my room, and tuck my radio into bed so I could fall into restless sleep while listening to SHINee because they were real idols. I would comfort myself by imagining that my voice could become for others what Onew’s, Jonghyun’s, Key’s, Minho’s, and Taemin’s— especially Taemin’s— were for me: inspiration and healing.

I wouldn’t have wanted to repeat those girls’ insults to Mom anyway. Imagining her disappointment if I confessed to almost punching someone, I sank. It was best to just keep biting my tongue. I would get used to the taste of blood, and soon the pain would scar and numb.

Looking back, I can see that I kept too much to myself. I went through too many trials alone because I was determined to become strong and self-sufficient even if that meant being forged by fire. In some ways, now I think that strength is a little overrated. Maybe I could have been happier— maybe my shoulders wouldn't have felt so heavy had I talked to Mom or Heechul or Yesung or Donghae or anyone. But I couldn’t. I just couldn't.

Once upon a time, I prided myself on my honesty, but it’s easy to be honest when your feelings are simple. It’s easy to be honest when you feel the right things— happy when you’re supposed to be happy, excited when you’re supposed to be excited, sad only when you’re supposed to be sad. It was too hard to shake the fear of being a burden. I never wanted to be a burden.

Despite deciding to carry my own weight, I wasn’t strong enough. That's why I dropped pieces of myself left and right to become something like the blank canvas my instructors wanted.

Sehun broke through my spiraling thoughts with the promise, “I won’t make you talk about it. I just—” he gnawed on his bottom lip— “I’ll feel like trash if I leave you here alone when you’re hurt.”

Sehun rarely talked about feelings first. His shoulders were tense; the muscles along his jaw were protruding. Obviously, he was making himself uncomfortable in an attempt to console me. Half numb with shock, moved by his concern, I nodded and (after grabbing the candy) followed him outside where we boarded the bus.

This is a little embarrassing to admit following my promise to work through my feelings alone: our bus wasn’t even five minutes down the road before I blurted, “I almost punched somebody today.”

He blinked, clearly taken aback, but he tried to hide his surprise and/or disapproval behind his natural stoic expression. Taking the candy from my hand, he opened the box, popped a colored chocolate into his mouth, and asked, “Why?”

“A girl called my mom a hooker.” I tried to replicate Sehun’s calm, even tone.

Sehun choked, and I felt somewhat vindicated in my rage when his pale face flushed crimson.

“I tried to be good. I tried to be a proper lady,” I promised. “I tried to be strong like you said. Remember my tenth birthday, when you explained that some people are just gonna dislike me, and I can’t shed tears for everyone?”

“Yeah.” Sehun nodded once he noticed that I was looking to him for a response. He returned the candy to me. “I remember.”

“So I tried not to shed tears when they made fun of my hair, my teeth, my skin, and my weight. I told myself that even if they’re right—”

Sehun interrupted to say, “They’re not,” in a tone so stern and authoritative that I never could have argued back.

I nodded, cheeks burning pink. “Well, even if they were, and I’m not saying that I believe them,” I added when Sehun cut his dark eyes at me— “I told myself that being pretty isn’t that important anyway.”

“It’s not,” Sehun agreed instantly. “Being pretty on the outside isn’t important at all.”

Without thinking, I grumbled, “That’s easy for you to say. You’re the most handsome person on the planet.” I didn’t care that he gave me that warning glare. I was telling the truth, not flirting. Heart pounding, I maintained, “It’s easy to say that beauty doesn’t matter when you’re beautiful.”

Sehun frowned at me. “I didn’t say that beauty doesn’t matter. I said that being pretty on the outside isn’t important at all, and I’m right. Superficial beauty is overrated, and nothing as subjective as the words ‘pretty’ and ‘handsome’ can ever define a person.” Turning his gaze out the window, he concluded, “Or, at least, they shouldn't. Those words are too small.”

It occurred to me that Sehun was right. I was in danger of becoming the kind of person who couldn’t look past my reflection long enough to find anything worthwhile inside. Shame washed over me, and hot tears spilled onto my hands, which formed fists around the candy box.

“Please don’t be disappointed in me, Sehun. I promise that I’ll work harder to believe what you say.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I swear that I never would have tried to fight about anybody’s opinions about my appearance. I’m not that shallow. It’s just— they talked about my mom, and she—” my voice wavered— “she’s everything to me. If my whole world was just one person, it would be her. She— you know, there aren’t many people who only deserve compliments, but she’s one of them.”

It didn’t matter that those girls were probably too cowardly to ever talk about Mom where she, Super Junior, or any of the many idols who loved her could hear. They had no right to insult Mom when she worked to the point of exhaustion, when she greeted everybody with her sparkling smile, when she treated everybody with kindness, when she was the most beautiful person in the world— inside and out. They had no right to ridicule her when they wanted to hurt me.

“I know,” Sehun said softly.

When I looked up at him, he was looking down at me, eyebrows knit together in anger or concern, and for half a second, I thought he was mad at me. My stomach sank until he swore, “I’m not disappointed in you, Lei. I told you not to care what people say, and I also told you not to be a pushover. I’m—” He wrestled with his words before deciding, “I’m proud of you. Not just for following my advice, but for working so hard to become an idol. I know it’s not easy.”

He raised his hand, and I held my breath because I thought he was going to hug me, but his hand stopped short and landed atop my head. He patted my hair twice. “Maybe just— um— try to avoid fist fights. It won’t be good for anybody if I have to get involved.”

At first, when Sehun retracted his hand, his protective anger was real and frightening. It lit a fire in his eyes. But then he made a spectacle of popping his knuckles, and we broke into a fit of laughter that lasted so long that we missed our stop.

It wasn’t often that I heard Sehun’s laugh. It sounded more youthful and golden than you can probably imagine. Still, as happy as I felt even with our mistake, I apologized as I finally stuffed a piece of chocolate into my mouth. “I’m sorry we missed the stop.”

“Don’t sweat small stuff like that,” Sehun instructed, shrugging. Moments later, he said, “I’m sorry too.”

I cocked my head to the side and wondered aloud, “For what?” but Sehun didn’t respond with words. He gave me this look that I had never seen before— one that held about a thousand foreign words that I wanted desperately to understand, but my conscience whispered that it was wrong to ask for a translation.

It seemed that Sehun was sorry for a lot, but I couldn’t understand why. From the day we met, he had been an unlikely sort of friend— a protector— and all crushes aside, I truly loved who he was in my life. Beyond the childish infatuation that made my heart race and painted my pale cheeks pink, there was a warm love that shaped every memory of him— a love that shaped aspects of my own character.

It didn’t matter that he would never look at me the way I looked at him; maybe no two people ever look at each other in the same light anyway. He didn’t have to love me or stay by my side as an almost imaginary Prince Charming. I was just grateful that we crossed paths, even if the way we met determined that he would always see me as a gap-toothed nine-year-old. I was beyond happy to sit beside him for a moment where I could admire him up close. I was content, knowing that I would always remember my first crush as a good person.

Of course, I didn’t tell Sehun anything like that. He didn’t appreciate that sort of sentiment. While talking to Mark, I decided that I would never date because I couldn't stand the whispers or the stares. Looking at Sehun, though, I knew that I would forget that decision in an instant if ever we woke up one day (when I was older, of course) and Sehun wanted to love me.

If that day should come, I wouldn’t notice any stare because I would be too busy admiring his every feature. I wouldn’t hear any whisper because I would be too busy listening to his every word.

For that moment, however, I was fulfilled just by smiling at him because I believed that feelings don’t have to be expressed with words to be real. Feelings don’t have to be reciprocated to be real. Sehun didn’t have to give me permission to love him; I always had, and I always would, and nothing could change that.

“I’m about to say something very mushy,” Sehun grimaced, “and I have a feeling that you’re really gonna like it, so write it down or record it in your memory because I won’t repeat myself no matter how many times you beg.”

Holding my nose up in the air, I asserted, “I never beg.” Sehun laughed, and my heart swelled, and I prayed with all of my soul that someday somebody with a warm, gentle touch and a kind, bright smile would make his heart swell too.

“You’re like your mom,” he said, meeting my eyes. He didn’t say it as an insult like those girls did. He said it with a faint hint of a smile— the smile that imprinted forever on my heart. “You’re one of the people who only deserve compliments.” Then, as if he couldn’t tell from my unrestrained smile that he had given me the greatest praise imaginable, Sehun turned his gaze back out the window and mumbled, “I’m really sorry that I can’t give you more.”

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

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Wax and Feathers

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rated: Gen Genre: Hurt/Comfort/Family Characters: Scott, Gordon, Virgil, John, Tracy family

Sometimes limits need to be broken. But a limit is there for a reason, and breaking them has consequences. Episode tag for 3.20 "Icarus"

It was fact that everything had a limit. No matter who, or what, there came a point when they just couldn't push any further. This was even true for International Rescue.

Scott liked to pretend it wasn't. Acknowledging limits felt like giving up, but when Thunderbird Two went underwater, or into space, and barely survived the experiences, or Five's immensely strong structure cracked under too much gravity, those limits almost took the lives of his brothers. So, as much as he hated them, he couldn't quite ignore the fact that limits existed.

Thunderbird One was the fastest aircraft in existence. The idea that speed could ever be an issue for her was ludicrous. Her full capability was rarely exercised, unnecessary in all but the direst conditions and, as John was fond of saying, everything Brains designed had a huge safety margin. Even her limit wasn't really her limit; Scott had never tried to push her more out of respect for his father's impressive record than anything else. He didn't want to know if he could beat it. Not without his Dad watching, anyway.

Something was wrong. Experienced pilot, more or less one with his Thunderbird from so many flight hours together, Scott knew the moment he engaged the VTOL to leave the air show and head for home that Thunderbird One wasn't going to make it back without considerable skill and a healthy dose of luck. The noise of her engines was just off kilter to usual, a change that he could feel more than hear it was so subtle.

Subtle, but there. The controls weren't one with him. For the first time in a long time, Scott actually had to dedicate conscious thought to them, counting carefully the beats before the next shift to account for the airspeed. Ever his Thunderbird, One worked as closely with him as she could, responding to his touches, but it was impossible to fall into her usual rhythm.

"Scott?"

He ignored the hologram of his brother appearing in his line of vision, focusing on the readouts flickering up instead and not even daring to spare the time to swipe the floating image away.

"Scott!"

Mach 1.3 seemed to be the sweet spot, Thunderbird One purring along almost as though nothing was wrong, but it was tough to keep her at exactly that speed without autopilot – and with something seriously wrong somewhere in her engines, Scott refused to trust autopilot.

"Thunderbird One, respond!"

John barked in that tone that meant answer me or I'll take control of your Thunderbird. Anyone else taking control of One right now would be disaster. Scott responded.

"What?"

Short, curt. Uncharacteristically so, even for him at his most stressed.

"Thunderbird One's flight pattern is erratic. Are you okay?" His brother sounded worried. Scott didn't have the concentration to spare on reassuring him.

"Fine."

"You don't sound fine."

Scott ignored him as Thunderbird One shuddered. Whatever was wrong in her engine wasn't fixing itself, and instead seemed to be worsening steadily. He was still several hundred miles from base.

Gritting his teeth, he slowed to sub-sonic flight. At least now if she crashed, he had a chance of walking away from it.

"Scott what's going on?" Virgil's hologram appeared beside John's. Gordon quickly flickered into life to complete the trio of concerned looks. "Why have you dropped speed? Did something happen?"

"We're ahead of you, slow poke," Gordon chimed in. "Feel like doing the dishes for once?"

"Gordon!" Virgil snapped. "Scott, speed up or I'm turning around."

He opened his mouth to protest, instinct rebelling at the notion of his brothers coming back to help him, before common sense prevailed. Thunderbird One was deteriorating too quickly. Either he landed her now, while he was over land, or he would get an unwelcome swim somewhere in the Pacific Ocean.

Thunderbird One had hit her limit. She wouldn't make it back.

"John," he said. "Somewhere remote I can land. Now."

"Scott?" Virgil asked, but John's F.A.B cut across him. Scott gritted his teeth as Thunderbird One juddered again, more fiercely this time. Alarms began to wail, belatedly telling him something was wrong with his 'bird.

"Scott, what's going on?" Virgil demanded.

John was still silent, hopefully calculating somewhere he could land with minimal damage and audience.

"I don't know," he lied. "Some sort of engine trouble."

He knew exactly what had happened. Thunderbird One's operating limit was Mach 19. Her top speed was Mach 20. In pursuing Icarus, he'd pushed her past Mach 21.

His brothers thought he'd stuck to Mach 19, closed in using Kayo's flight path, and not sped up past that until he'd hooked Icarus, at which point he was being effectively towed so the only strain was on the tow cable.

At their comparative speeds, the sudden strain from a craft going Mach 19 latching onto a craft reaching Mach 22 would have torn both ships apart. A difference of Mach 3 was no small feat. In order to keep both intact – and consequently both pilots alive – Thunderbird One had had to attempt to match speed. It hadn't gone perfectly, still enough of a difference that the ships had threatened to tear apart, but he'd caught her and slowed Icarus down at least for a while.

"Sending co-ordinates now," John told him, and Scott glanced up at the new destination as they flashed up, making the adjustments to his course. Dimly, he could hear the lower roar of Two's engines over the sound of One's struggling and despite himself relaxed slightly. The sound of a Thunderbird really was the sweetest thing to hear when in trouble.

It was not his best landing, not by a long shot. He tried to set her down gently, feather-light as usual, but the various small shifts in the engine power required to land a supersonic jet proved to be the final straw for his poor, damaged 'bird. With a concerning snap from somewhere behind him, the engines cut out entirely just before the landing struts engaged and she ploughed, nose-first, into the dirt.

"Scott!" a chorus of brothers' voices sounded, and he groaned, straightening up and bringing a hand to his head. No whiplash, hopefully no concussion either he self-diagnosed as he pushed the restraints up and rolled his shoulders. There was sure to be some bruising from that, but nothing worse.

"Thunderbird One, respond!" John snapped as One shuddered in the familiar way that meant her sister was landing right next to her.

"Scott!" Gordon's voice sounded through the comms in stereo with a faint noise from outside One.

"I'm okay," he told them both, fumbling for the emergency override and opening the cockpit. Gordon leapt in before he could get out, pushing him back into his seat.

"We're gonna be the judges of that," his younger brother told him. "Seriously, what the hell happened?" Scott suffered through the brief medical exam, lengthened by the arrival of Virgil who promptly took over from Gordon and did it all again. It spoke volumes of how worried they were that Gordon didn't protest that he'd done it already.

"She couldn't quite hold long enough," Scott admitted. "Something in her engine's broken." He tried to stand, itching to go and see the damage for himself, but his brothers stopped him.

"I'll check the damage," Virgil said, stepping back. "You and that concussion of yours are staying right there until I get back."

"What concussion?" Scott demanded, then flinched as Gordon's gloved hand brushed against the back of his head.

"That one," his blond brother told him. "Why didn't you put your helmet on?"

"Wasn't time," he defended himself. Gordon raised an eyebrow.

"If I could get mine on with a volcano landing on top of me, you could have got yours on when you knew there was a problem." Scott flinched, mind flickering back to the nightmarish sight of the crumpled Thunderbird Four and her limp aquanaut as Penelope pulled him out of the wreckage.

There went any chance of sleep tonight.

He was saved from having to reply by Virgil's reappearance. The dark-haired Tracy looked grim.

"She's not flying anywhere," he declared bluntly. "Her main engine core's completely burnt out. Two'll have to carry her back." Scott had feared as such.

"But Two's already got a full load," Gordon pointed out. "She can't carry One and Four at the same time."

"I'll just have to drop Four off then come back," Virgil sighed. "Gordon, wait here with Scott. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. I won't be long."

"F.A.B."

Scott bristled at the implication he might try and get her airborne again. He wanted her home in one piece, and he knew the only way that would happen was by the grace of Virgil and Two now.

The behemoth in question lifted away from the ground slowly, only to engage her thrusters to full as soon as she was fully in the air and disappear off in the blink of an eye. It was easy to forget that although she was sluggish compared to One, Two was still an incredibly fast craft. And Virgil wasn't hanging around.

He went to stand up again, and growled at Gordon as his younger brother put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"You've got a concussion, Scott," the aquanaut reminded him.

"So you've said," he retorted. "But concussion or not, I'm getting out of this chair and seeing the damage for myself so get out of the way."

Gordon did not get out of the way. But he did, after a moment, remove the hand from his shoulder and offer it instead. Scott tried to deny that he appreciated the help as the interior of his beloved ship swam slightly before his eyes.

"You'll be riding back in Two anyway," the blond menace shrugged. Scott ignored him as he stumbled his way down through the fuselage to the main engine. The internal access panel was still open from Virgil's investigation, and immediately he could see why Virgil hadn't been gone long.

Burnt out was a rather understated way to describe the charred lump of metal that had once housed the engine core, and his engineer brother hadn't even bothered to mention the relay. It was sheered clean in half – clearly the snap he'd heard as his 'bird had fallen the last few metres from the sky. No doubt her other engines were in a similar condition.

Virgil was right. There was no way Thunderbird One would be able to get back in the air under her own power.

"Brains is going to kill me," he groaned, pressing a hand to his face.

"Join the club, bro," Gordon chimed in, before giving off a low whistle. "Woah, how the hell did that even happen?" Scott shrugged, unwilling to admit that Thunderbird One had gone too fast.

"Scott," John buzzed in from his comms channel. "I just reviewed Thunderbird One's flight telemetry. What were you doing at Mach 21.7?"

"Catching a plane," he said, overriding Gordon's yelp of "Mach what?

"No wonder her engines are fried!" the aquanaut continued. "Thunderbird One's top speed is Mach 19. Nine. Teen."

"Technically that's her operating limit," Scott corrected. "Her top speed is Mach 20."

"Mach twenty one, Scott. Twenty one is higher than twenty. My point still stands."

"Point seven," John corrected Gordon. "He reached Mach twenty one point seven."

"That's even worse!" Gordon cried dramatically, hands in his hair. "What even possessed you to do that?"

"We had to catch the Icarus," Scott reminded him, even though his gut churned as he remembered that despite pushing Thunderbird One into this state, he'd still failed. The success story had been the combination of Two and Three. Wrecking his Thunderbird with nothing to even show for it gnawed at his mind unpleasantly.

He heard Gordon sigh and a hand returned to his shoulder.

"Come on, let's go outside."

He didn't move, staring into the depths of his 'bird and the carnage of her engines. She was going to be grounded for weeks with that much damage while Brains repaired her.

But Brains was working on the T-Drive engine.

He sank down to the floor, one hand blindly reaching out to trace the cool metal of her hull as he did so.

Brains would have to stop working on the T-Drive to repair her. They didn't have time for petty delays yet he'd gone and wrecked his Thunderbird without even a success story to excuse the damage and subsequently put a huge dent in their too tight time frame.

Unless he told Brains to leave her, keep Thunderbird One crippled until the Zero-X was complete and Dad was home. But International Rescue needed her.

The Zero-X or Thunderbird One.

Unbidden, bile built up in his throat, catching him off guard as he retched.

"Geez, Scott." Gordon's voice was softer now, and his hands were gentle even as they hauled him to his feet. "That concussion's not happy with you, is it? Let's get you outside." Drained, too burdened by the realisation that he would have to choose between two equally important craft to have any fight left, Scott let himself be led out of his 'bird's cargo bay door.

Gordon guided him to her nose cone, splattered with dirt and streaks of silver cutting through the red where the impact had damaged it, and coaxed him into sitting on the ground with his back leaning against his downed Thunderbird.

"Stay there," he said before disappearing back inside One. Scott watched him go, looking down the long silver fuselage of the plane to the blue stripe around her engines. From the outside, there was no sign of the wreckage. A slightly scratched nose cone and the lack of her landing gear out were the only signs that she hadn't simply landed there.

"Here." Gordon reappeared seconds after vanishing, holding something that glinted in the sun in his hands. "You're trembling," his younger brother explained as the foil blanket wrapped around him. "Nothing to be done about the concussion, though." He sat down next to him, slinging an arm around Scott's shoulders lightly. "She'll be okay. Brains'll fix her up, better than new."

"Brains is working on the T-Drive engine," Scott reminded him. "He doesn't have time to fix her."

"Then we'll fix her," Gordon said matter-of-factly. "You, me, Virgil, Alan. Well, mainly Virgil. Just like we fixed Two up after her little swimming adventures."

Thunderbird Two's damage had been nowhere near as severe as this.

"It'll be okay, Scott," his brother continued. The arm around his shoulders tightened slightly. "We'll save him."

That was his line, to be recited to younger brothers whenever they needed it. Not for them to recite back to him.

It was comforting to hear.

"Yeah," he said as the roar of Two's engines came into earshot, the green behemoth appearing as quickly as she'd vanished. "We will."

"Budge over," Virgil ordered, their comms crackling back to life in unison and with no ceremony. "I'm going to land on top of her and I don't feel like explaining to Grandma why two of my brothers are fried worse than her cooking."

"I'd pay to see you tell her her cooking is bad to her face," Gordon retorted, but he was already on his feet and pulling Scott up with him. Together they backed up, Scott knowing exactly how far was safe and reluctant to get any further from Thunderbird One than required. Gordon pulled him back a little more.

"You couldn't afford it," Virgil scoffed as he positioned his 'bird over her sister. Without a module, she looked flimsier than usual, even though Scott knew she could lift greater weight without one. "Why is Scott in a foil blanket?"

"You said to make sure he didn't do anything stupid," Gordon chirped, a huge grin on his face. "So I make sure he couldn't."

"Resourceful," Virgil commented approvingly. Scott scowled, even though he knew Gordon was lying – or at least, partially lying. He wouldn't put it past his prankster brother to have had multiple reasons for bringing out the blanket. Two's landing struts deployed to their full extent and Scott watched with rigid shoulders as they came down either side of his 'bird, the rear pair barely missing her extended wings.

Thunderbird Two wasn't strictly designed to land on her fully-extended struts, but Virgil made it look easy as she settled daintily over her sister. The grapples fired down and Gordon ran over to secure them. Contained in foil, Scott could do nothing but watch as his younger brothers secured the two craft together. It looked terrifyingly flimsy, four relatively thin cables trailing down from the walls of Thunderbird Two's module bay the only links, but Scott knew that it would hold. Brains put safety first, and in a gift of forethought and paranoia had installed specific places on Thunderbird One's hull for just such an eventuality. She was far better secured to her sister than any other craft could ever be.

Once all three brothers were satisfied, Scott unable to resist joining Gordon if only to instruct ("I know, Scott!"), Thunderbird Two's platform lowered. Mild concussion or not, Scott refused to be treated as a rescuee and won the argument over whether or not he could grapple up to the platform by himself. That didn't stop Virgil from manhandling him into the nearest seat – usually Alan's, directly behind the pilot – while Gordon slid triumphantly into the co-pilot's seat, which was technically Scott's right as commander, but his brothers were clearly having none of it.

"You sit back and call Tracy Island," Virgil told him when he tried to resist. "Kayo's having kittens about what could have brought One down under her watch and Alan's not much better. Now shut up and let me get your 'bird home in one piece."

Scott scowled, fighting his way out of the foil blanket before tapping his comm unit. Beneath him, Two's powerful VTOLs roared into life, straining for a moment before they began to gain altitude.

"Scott!" Alan's voice burst out of his communicator, the small hologram appearing above his wrist. "Are you okay? What happened? Did you crash? Virgil didn't say much."

"I'm fine, Alan," he cut in, silencing his youngest brother's babble. "One's engines gave out, that's all."

"What happened, Scott Tracy." Kayo flickered into view, pushing Alan aside as she scowled at him, eyes sparking dangerously. "Thunderbird One performed just fine during the air show, and no-one unauthorised got near her at any point."

Scott gritted his teeth for a moment before letting out a sigh. His head throbbed and his shoulders ached – reminders that no matter how lucky he'd been, it had still been a crash landing.

"It's nothing to worry about," he told her, conscious that Virgil was listening in from the seat in front of him. Gordon was tapping his own flight controls, already aware of the cause thanks to John earlier and hopefully on standby to prevent any erratic flying from Virgil. Kayo opened her mouth, clearly about to protest that it was clearly something to worry about if it could take a Thunderbird out of the sky straight after a public event. "Catching the Icarus just put too much strain on the engines."

"Mach 19 should not have strained Thunderbird One's engines like that," Kayo disagreed. Scott winced, and her hologram's eyes narrowed. "Scott?"

"Mach 21.7," Gordon interrupted, and Scott shot him a glare as Thunderbird Two dipped slightly. His brother had firm hold of Two's flight controls, which was fortunate as Virgil whipped around to stare at Scott incredulously.

"Excuse me?" Kayo asked, taken aback. "Thunderbird One's operational limit is Mach 19. Even taking into consideration Brains' safety limits, she can't exceed Mach 20."

Control of the conversation was slipping away – if he'd ever had it – and Scott wanted it back.

"Well she did," he snapped.

"And murdered her own engines in the process," Virgil retorted, regaining flight control from Gordon. "Good job."

"But you're okay, right?" Alan piped up again, shoving Kayo back out of view. Blue eyes, washed out slightly in hologram form, looked up at him in concern, and Scott softened.

"I'm okay, little brother."

Alan's worried look gave way to one of relief, and Scott was content to sit back and let him talk, revisiting his part of the rescue – the successful bit, his brain muttered mutinously – and all the fun he had at the show when they weren't saving Professor Kwark. Virgil kept sending him disapproving looks over his shoulder, which he studiously ignored.

"Tracy Island, this is Thunderbird Two." Virgil cut through Alan's retelling of how he swept up Professor Kwark from the remains of the Icarus for the fifth time. "On final approach now. Alan, Kayo, get ready."

"F.A.B."

Scott's communicator blinked out.

He looked out of the window to see their home looming in the distance, growing by the moment. Two's palm trees were folded back already, a blob of green sitting on the runway. Gordon made a strangled noise of protest.

"Did you just dump Four?" he demanded of Virgil, who raised an eyebrow at him.

"Two can't enter or leave her hanger without a module," he reminded him. "That's where her wheels are."

"Point," Gordon conceded with a shrug.

"Now go get ready to unhook One," Virgil ordered, and with a cheeky salute Gordon headed to the rear of the cockpit. "Scott, you are not leaving that seat until Two is back in her hanger."

"She's my 'bird," Scott retorted, standing up. Gordon pushed him back down and before he knew it the foil blanket had been wrapped back around him and the safety belt fastened over the top of it. "Gordon!"

"Concussions don't go away that fast, bro. Don't worry, I'll take care of your 'bird." Scott groaned and let his head fall back, wincing as the headrest made contact with the source of his headache.

"Good thinking with that blanket," Virgil told Gordon. "We should use it more often."

"You should not," Scott snapped, but went ignored as Virgil turned his attention back to their approach and Gordon got ready to rappel out of the hatch.

Two pods trailed out of Two's hangar, set up as landing gear cradles. Scott watched them vanish underneath Two's bulk and a moment later Virgil opened the hatch for Gordon to disappear out of.

The operation began. Scott listened as his three brothers and Kayo co-ordinated the two pods and Thunderbird Two to get One nestled safely on the landing gear and had to bite his lip to prevent himself cutting in. Unable to even see the holographic display Virgil was referencing clearly, he was stuck waiting, and dwelling.

Scott did not do waiting or dwelling well. Never had done, and now so much was weighing down on him at once, it was even worse. Gordon's words had helped, but they couldn't clear all of the worries away. He'd been useless – worse than useless, now an actual detriment to International Rescue – in trying to save Professor Kwark, and now he was useless in even getting his crippled Thunderbird home.

What was he even doing?

Two's engines increased their thrust, pushing the behemoth back into the sky. Below, the two pods carefully manoeuvred back into the hanger, carrying Thunderbird One.

"Still with us, Scott?" Virgil asked as he brought his 'bird down over module four, finally bringing Gordon's beloved sub into the hangar.

"Yeah," Scott grunted, watching as Thunderbird Two finally came to a halt. "I'm fine."

"No you're not," Virgil corrected him, flicking through post-flight checks rapidly. "Your Thunderbird fell out of the sky and you have a concussion. You're not fine, Scott, and none of us expect you to be."

"I'm fine," he snapped.

Virgil sighed heavily and stood up, smoothly stepping around his chair to stand in front of him.

"Come on, big brother," he huffed, releasing the safety belt. "Let's get you in the house."

They were all waiting for him when the platform lowered, Virgil's arm firmly around his shoulders and keeping the foil blanket in place despite his efforts to dislodge it. Alan barely waited for him to step off of it before tackling him into a hug, while Gordon sauntered over at a more leisurely pace to slip his arm around his shoulders from the opposite side to Virgil. Kayo's arms remained firmly crossed but her eyes were soft, and even John was there, standing next to Brains and looking as though he'd come Earthside in a hurry. Grandma wrapped her arms around as many of them as she could reach.

"What-" he started, wondering what had prompted the sudden family gathering in Two's hangar.

"Don't you scare us like that, young man," Grandma overrode him briskly, squeezing tighter before letting them go. "Now, let's get you upstairs."

"I-I'll get started o-on the repairs," Brains excused himself, and Scott's mouth fell open.

"What?" he demanded. "But the T-Drive-"

"Dad wouldn't want us to prioritise him over International Rescue," John overrode him quietly. "Thunderbird One takes priority. You know this, Scott."

He grit his teeth, wishing he could refute what his brother was saying, but John had the annoying habit of always being right.

"EOS and I will continue calculations for the T-Drive," John continued. "This isn't a setback, Scott."

"It shouldn't have happened at all," Scott spat. "It didn't even help."

"Stop talking nonsense," Grandma scolded, hands on her hips as steely eyes glared up at him. "You might not have saved her by yourself, but that isn't Thunderbird One's role. Thunderbird One brings hope, and you, young man, brought the Professor hope that she would be saved. Don't you forget it."

She reached out and rested a hand on his cheek, breaking into a smile.

"Besides, your father would be delighted that you broke his record."

#Thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #episode tag #scott tracy #gordon tracy #virgil tracy #john tracy #alan tracy #kayo kyrano #grandma tracy #brains #crash landing #tsari writes fanfiction #wax and feathers #thunderangst #thunderwhump #thunderfluff

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ellanainthetardis · 7 years

Note

prompt: Haymitch suddenly realizing that he´s in love with Effie, sometime before de 74th hunger games. Thank you! Your os are the best.

Here you are [X]

A Revelation In The Dead Of Night

Haymitch woke up with an odd feeling.

It took him a few seconds of slowly emergingfrom his slumber, his eyes still closed, to realize what the feeling was. Peaceful. He felt peaceful.

His body was heavy and the sheets were warm,the pillow under his head smelt like fresh flowers, and he couldn’t, for thelife of him, find the will to open his eyelids. He had forgotten how it feltnot to wake up gasping for breath, disoriented and terrified by a nightmare.For the first time in a long time, he felt good. Rested.

He wanted to go back to sleep, to melt backinto the inviting cocoon and drift off. His bladder had other ideas.

He opened his eyes with a small groan and ittook him a moment to remember where he was. The colorful flashing nightlightsfrom the city were spilling through the window, tossing dancing shadows on thewall… He hadn’t been in her apartment often enough to be familiar with thelayout in the dark but the second of tension at waking up in a foreign bedroomwas chased away by the presence of the naked body next to him.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the firstplace.

It had happened before, of course, more andmore often in the last couple of years if he was honest with himself, but hetended to avoid sleeping with someone if he could help it. He was wary of whathe could do in the throes of a nightmare and he didn’t want anyone to get hurt.Least of all her.

Effie had moved away from him during the night– he was pretty sure they had fallen asleep with her half on top of him – shewas on her side now, almost on her stomach really, an arm and a leg bent infront of her, her other arm under her pillow… Her hair was spread on the pinkpillowcase – everything was pink: thepillowcase, the sheets, the comforter… He had been torn between laughing andswearing there would be no fucking onpink sheets earlier when they had stumbled into her bedroom.

The sheets were bundled up over her ass. Hewatched the shadows dancing on her skin for a while, entranced by the sight ofthe changing lights on her spine. He wanted to follow those shadows with hisfingers and mouth.

He remained on his side of the bed though.

He was having one of those moments of perfectclarity he could have done without because self-denial and ignorance were twovery useful concepts.

What was he doing?

In her bed. In her apartment. In her life.

He never came to the Capitol during VictoryTours usually. There was an open invitation for all victors to attend –although for some of them, the really popular ones, it was more an order thanan invitation – the city needed distraction while the newest victor made theirway throughout the Districts. It entailed partaking in official events and whatEffie called making useful contacts withsponsors for the following season – something, he hated. He never came tothe city for the Tour. Never. Ever since they had let him know his presence inthe Capitol in the dead of winter wasn’t mandatory, he had made it clear hewould stay in Twelve all year long.

So what was he doing there?

Why was he being paraded around as one of theresiding victors while they all waited for the Seventy-third winner to reachthe Capitol?

Why had he made himself traipse out of hishouse a few weeks earlier and ask Undersee to contact the Capitol and arrangefor transport? A somehow awkward experience that could have been avoided if hehadn’t torn his own phone off the wall in frustration years ago.

He hadn’t been in the city for two days whenthe penthouse’s phone had rung and Chaff, who was still in Eleven, had askedwhat was going on in a worried voice. Because obviously for him to come to the Capitol for Victory Tour must meansomething was wrong, that he was being blackmailed or forced into something hedidn’t want. His feeble “Ran out ofliquor” hadn’t convinced his best friend. Haymitch hadn’t insisted, noquite sure how to explain it wasn’t the Capitol being fishy for once, it was him.

When Effiehad asked why he had come, he had shrugged and muttered an unintelligibleanswer that she hadn’t forced him to repeat. She had had a pleased spring toher steps ever since.

He wasn’t sure what that meant.

Except he kind of did.

When people asked him what he was doing there,he lied. When he asked the question to himself, he pretended he didn’t know.

Moments of clarity in the middle of the night sucked.

He had been missing her.

That was the answer to a lot of questions allrolled into one.

He had been missing her like crazy.

It wasn’t normal, surely, he mused, as his eyesretraced the line of her spine a last time before he pulled the sheets up tocover her. They had been fucking eachother for years. Eight years, give ortake, by that point. He should have been tired of her and not…

He used to not care about her.

She used to be nothing but his annoying peppyescort.

He used to fuckher because she was hot and young and irritatingand because it had been the best way of shutting her up, of bringing herdown a peg or two… It used to be all about fuckingthe Capitol like always, screw her like they had screwed him…

Except he sometimes thought that he had fucked the Capitol out of her. Literally.

He had grown dependent on her. She was very, very good at her job and she was even betterat keeping him in line. Talks about her being promoted had left him anxious,talks about fiancés and possible marriages had left him livid… They were a goodteam when he bothered to try and she was Twelve’s best chance when he didn’t.

Somewhere along the line she had grown up,opened her eyes and become a woman he could not only respect but call a friend.

He wasn’t even sure that it had been when hisproblems had started.

She had always been too bright, too colorful…Too impossible. She was a storm. Ahurricane. She was a force of nature and she had swept him up in her wake justlike she did everyone. He had just been too blind to see it. He always calledher arrogant but he was the arrogant one because he had thought he was special,he had thought he could resist the tornado.

Stupid.

Because his feet really weren’t on the groundanymore. He was dangling eight stories high, tossed around by the hurricane…

And he had been missing her.

So badly.

He was silent when he climbed off the bed andcarefully padded into the bathroom, pushing the door before struggling to findthe switch. The light was harsh and it made him groan. The bathroom was allgreen and blue, giant dots of apple green on a cerulean blue background as if agiant paintbrush had left splatters on the walls.

He faced the toilet and took care of hisbusiness, letting his eyes aimlessly roam around. He hadn’t been to herapartment a lot in the past. He had certainly never spent a night there. Itfelt like crossing a line somehow.

The penthouse was neutral ground.

The penthouse didn’t belong to either of them,it was impersonal in a way. He had fuckedher in his house a few times, when she had showed up early to make sure hewould be presentable for the Reaping. However, that felt different too. Mostlybecause it had always been quickies and because she had always looked scared ofstaining her clothes or catching something – not that he could blame her, hishouse was a garbage dump. Maybe that was the point, he didn’t consider hishouse to be his home, it was just a place he lived – existed – in.

Her apartment was as personal and intimate asit got. There was a huge bathtub in the corner, shaped like a large triangle,both sides lining the walls were crammed with bottles and other stuff. Themirrors over the two twin sinks were shaped like suns, they were nice pieces ofcraft if a little ridiculous. He was sure the cupboards under the sinks werefull of more products and fluffy towels color-coded not to clash with thedecors. There was a huge black and white framed picture of her on the wallfacing the mirrors and he marveled at her narcissism before realizing that shecouldn’t have been much older than eighteen on the glossy paper and that it wasthere as a sort of golden standard for what she was supposed to look like.

He could glimpse more colorful products in theshower tucked in the opposite corner and he wondered how many of that crap sheloaded, given that there was also adressing table full of perfume bottles, make-up boxes and hair stuff in thebedroom.

There was also an open half-empty box oftampons abandoned on the side of the sink, as if it had been left there a fewdays earlier to be put away until next month and had been forgotten.

He was pretty sure no other man had laid eyes onher box of tampons in a really long time – if ever.

Yeah.

Being in her apartment really made it personaland he wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

He wasn’t quite sure what it meant that he hadbeen able to think about little else but her lately either.

He had been sitting in his living-room when hehad made the decision to come to the Capitol. He had been sitting there,staring at the same wall he always stared at, bored out of his mind, not eveninterested in the bottle he had been holding… He hadn’t wanted the liquor. Hehad wanted her and no amount of usinghis imagination had helped. His hand hadn’t been enough to quench thatparticular fire.

He had been certain he wouldn’t have knownpeace until he had buried himself in her and waiting more than six months forthat had seemed a torture he wouldn’t be able to endure.

So he had made the trip to the Mayor’s housedespite his long respected oath to never purposefully put himself on Maysilee’ssister’s path.

And now, there he was.

Screwed in every possible way.

He washed his hands, staring at his reflectionin the center of the sun-like mirror.

“The fuckyou’re doing?” he asked himself.

It needed to be said out loud, he figured, ifonly for posterity’s sake.

Because whatever it was he was doing, it was stupid.

You didn’t get attached. You didn’t get involved.

That was the rule, a rule he had been strictlysticking to for twenty-three years. Anyone close to him would eventually getkilled. And he would be left alone to pick up the pieces. He didn’t have it in himto get his heart broken another time. He wouldn’t survive it.

He splashed some water on his face, hoping itwould grant him some measure of clarity he had no hope of getting.

Dread and anxiety were making him slightlynauseous.

Effie Trinket was under his skin and he coulddeny it all he wanted, lie to her about it, to him, to the rest of the world…It wouldn’t change the facts.

It was too dangerous.

He needed to end it.

For her sake.

And for his.

He stared at his reflection once more andnodded to himself.

Coming to the Capitol without a good reason? Itwas a dead giveaway and he was sure a Gamemaker or two would have picked up onit. He was becoming careless. A sexual affair, they wouldn’t care about but ifthey had any suspicion that he had feelings for her…

He needed to end it.

Or, at least, to put some distance andperspective back.

It could never be anything but sex.

Desiring anything else was foolish.

She would move on eventually – soon probablybecause she had been his escort for eleven years now and escorts had a expirydate, she was already pushing it age-wise – and there would be no excuses then,no way to hide it or pretend it was just easier than looking for someone else.

And he didn’t want the complication anyway.Effie was a pain. She wanted to be treated like a princess, she was a spoiledbrat… He would never be able to give her what she expected out of arelationship. He wasn’t even interested in trying.

This settled that, he told his reflectionfirmly.

He switched off the light and crept back in thebedroom, his eyes scanning the floor in the semi-obscurity for the clothes thathad flown off earlier.

She had turned around in her sleep.

Her face was relaxed, peaceful. Just as peaceful as he had felt when he had woken upearlier… There was a small wet spot next to her mouth and it made him smirkbecause she would have denied drooling in her sleep to her dying breath… The sheets had slid down and barely coveredher nipples. He could guess at the pink peaks and it sent a jolt of arousaldown to his groin. Her arm was outstretched as if she had felt around for hisbody and then given up.

He wanted to pick up the underwear he finallyspotted hanging from the side of her dressing table but he found himselfwalking back to the bed instead. It was like being in a dream. He knew it wasstupid and reckless and a thousand things in between. He knew he would regretit eventually. And yet he still climbed back between the sheets, gently foldingher arm back so he could get enough room.

She hummed and stretched like a cat beforesnuggling against him, her eyes still closed. “I thought you were gone.”

“Needed to pee.” he mumbled, brushing his handdown her side, pushing the sheets out of the way. He told himself that was theonly reason he was staying. Because he wanted her.

“Something you do but do not talk about inpolite society.” she lectured with a small smile. His hand drifted between herlegs and she helpfully hooked her knee over his hip to give him a betteraccess. “What is it in my bathroom that got you in this sort of mood?”

“There’s a nice picture of you.” he snorted. “Aguy pees, looks at it and gets ideas…”

“Does he?” she chuckled. Her fingers clenchedon his chest when his slowly teased her. He wasn’t sure how he wanted to playit yet. Fuck her hard or make her beg for it… He enjoyed both. He wanted tomake the right choice. The one that didn’t scream ‘I may have freaked out about having feelings for you in your bathroom’.She moved her hand to his neck and playfully bit down on his shoulder. “Whatkind of ideas?”

“Kinky ones.” he challenged, taking his hand frombetween her legs to grope her. “Like you on your stomach with your ass in theair…”

“My, my…” she teased. “I had no idea an old picture of me couldinspire such improper thoughts.”

“Maybe I’m gonna eat you out first.” he mused.“Not sure yet.”

“Should I go back to sleep while you decide?”she mocked.

“Won’t stop me.” he shrugged.

She laughed and finally opened her eyes towhack his arm. “Horrid man.”

He kissed her.

It wasn’t what she had been expecting, he couldtell. Usually, there would be more banter leading up to that, the pretense of fightingbecause fighting was always what had gotten them in bed in the firstplace…Usually, the kiss would have been more brutal too, a shut up for fuck’s sake rather than… whatever it was.

It was soft and sweet and so not them they bothdrew back a little confused.

“Haymitch?” she frowned, completely awake and abit wary now.

“I hate you.” he muttered quickly, awkwardly. “I fucking hate you.”

Maybe if he said it often enough, he would startbelieving it again.

She remained frozen for a second and thenswallowed hard. “Of course, you do.”

Her voice was cheerful, just as forced as hiswas.

It didn’t help.

It didn’t help in the slightest.

They were fucked.

Completely fucked.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #prompt #games time #fluff #teapot #haymitch with feelings #angsting h #coconuts friends

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jentrevellan · 7 years

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Prompt from @thornflo : “Cullen befriends a mabari during Trespasser, I'd like to see more fics of Cullen with the dog. Bonus: what do you think he named it?”

Thank you for the prompt my friend and for your patience! Here’s a fluffy drabble fic for Valentine’s Day (although I’m a day late, soz). Want to give me a prompt? Head to my ask!

Family

The hills are rolling and green, bright in his eyes against the brilliant sun. Sweat trickles down his back as he walks, despite the thin summer tunic and breeches. With a wry smile, he remembers that nothing will ever be as hot as the Western Approach. Back then, now over four years ago, he had donned thick and heavy armour and the sand - well let’s just say he found sand in places he didn’t know he had for weeks afterwards. All of that seems so long ago - back when every day was an anxious waiting game. It’s so distant now and it fades with time, like a dream in the Fade.

Cullen walks the now familiar footpaths through the Hinterlands. It’s a quiet morning and he’s only passed one or two other travellers who nod a greeting, not knowing who he is. It sets him at ease, walking casually, hand not even tempted to rest on the pommel of the short-sword on his belt. He can’t remember the last time he used his sword other than to spar and practice with - he keeps up his training (helps distract from the occasional headaches) but other than that, his sword stays sheathed in the scabbard.

And he doesn’t mind that. It’s a relief to not always be leaning on it. He used to grip the hilt to keep his hands steady. Curiously, as he walks, he spreads his hands in front of him, noting the calloused skin from the good and honest farm work. But they do not shake anymore.

A playful bark brings his attention back to the path he walks. As always, his faithful companion Dusty is by his side, keeping in perfect step with him. The grey Mabari looks up at him hopefully, large eyes round and playful. Cullen leans down and picks up a stick, twirling it in his fingers.

“You want it, boy?” he says.

Dusty barks once in reply, tail wagging so hard, it slaps continuously against the back of Cullen’s leg. Cullen leans back and throws the stick far along the path, Dusty galloping after it, head held high and tongue flapping. He smothers a chuckle as Dusty returns, clearly proud of retrieving the stick and presents it to Cullen, who promptly throws it again - it’s a routine that keeps Dusty entertained and Cullen distracted until they arrive at the Crossroads.

Market stalls and trader’s caravans bustle for space, shouting offers to potential customers who weave in and out of one another, clutching baskets or carrying children. There are dwarven tradesmen and women selling crafts from Orzammar. Elven families smiling and laughing, children running around their legs. The little village has grown since the mage and templar conflict. Now there are no Inquisition scouts in sight, no scorch marks of magic and no refugees. Instead, it’s a busy trading centre - a hub of the Hinterlands. Cullen pauses by a stall full of fresh food and carefully selects a warm bread roll, a cut of meat and some fruit. He hands over some silver to the owner, whos eyes widen at Cullen’s overspending. He turns to leave, waving a hand to brush away the thanks from the merchant and pauses.

There’s an old banner flying in the centre of the Crossroads and Cullen smiles fondly at the flag which reads ‘Under the protection of the Inquisition.’ He walks towards it, Dusty peering up at him, head cocked.

“Not sure why this is still here,” he mutters to himself, leaning against the low wall. It’s strange seeing the Inquisition mark on a banner when he’s not seen it for years now. He muses on the banner whilst nibbling his on his bread and meat. A small whimper at his feet pulls him out of his thoughts.

Dusty lies on the ground, head in paws, looking up at him with round, mournful eyes. Cullen stops chewing and rips off a piece of meat. The mabari instantly sits up, tail wagging, face hopeful.

“You want some?” A small bark in response makes him grin. He leans down where Dusty gobbles up the meat from his hands, licking his fingers. “Make sure you don’t tell your mum,” he chuckles. Dusty barks in return, jumps up at Cullen, paws on his shoulders and licks his face, making him laugh, almost knocking him over if it hadn’t been for the low wall.

“I saw that, you know,” a light voice from behind says.

Cullen turns in surprise, blinded by the sun. Sat astride a white mare is his wife, smiling from ear to ear, holding the reigns comfortably despite the lack of her left hand. To many, she’s been known as the Blessed Herald of Andraste or the Inquisitor, but not to him, not anymore: she’s just his love; his wife. She dismounts, flicking her hair over her shoulders and stands before him. Dusty jumps up and barks at her, resting his paws on her shoulders as she throws her head back, laughing in delight. His pink tongue slobbers all over her cheeks and Cullen’s chest swells with happiness.

“Come now, boy - don’t keep her all to yourself,” he reprimands with a smile. Dusty obliges and instead circles around the couple, ignoring the curious by-passers.

Cullen immediately takes her in his arms, remembering her scent, feeling her hair brush his chin. He’s reluctant to let go, running his hands up and down her back until she laughs again, tickled through her travel leathers. She plants a gentle kiss on his cheek, but recoils.

“You taste of dog,” she chuckles, scrunching up her nose.

He pecks her cheek. “So do you,” he grins as Dusty barks, still circling them, tail wagging. “I was expecting to meet you at Redcliffe,” he says, pulling away only a little so he can look down at her properly, casually checking for any signs of injury from her journey. An old and natural reflex from when she was the Inquisitor and he the Commander.

“There was a good wind so the ship was early,” she shrugs.

“And your journey? All ok? No dragon-slaying?”

“No dragon-slaying,” she nods. “Although, Bull and The Chargers were disappointed to hear I won’t be doing any journeying with them or Sera anytime soon…”

Cullen frowns. “Why’s that?”

She avoids his gaze, but a smile teases her lips. “Oh… I don’t know. I just think we might be a little preoccupied and have our, ah, hands full…” she trails off, watching his face closely.

His mind is blank as he struggles to take in her words. “What are you…wait…” his eyes widen.

She takes his hands in her own, entwining their fingers. Her face flushes before saying the words that will change their lives forever. “There’s going to be a little addition to the Rutherford clan…”

Dusty barks excitedly as Cullen pulls his wife into a crushing hug, burying his head in the crook of her neck, hiding the tears of joy. Here, he thinks that happiness like this would never have been possible for him: he doesn’t deserve it, after the life he’s led. But he holds his wife tight, ignoring all around him, save for his growing family.

Thanks for reading! Reblogs, comments and likes are LOVE <33

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hottytoddynews · 6 years

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Tad Wilkes, aka Moon Pie Curtis

Oxford singer-songwriter Tad Wilkes is living proof that good things come to those who wait. Some just have to wait a good while longer than they ever imagined.

After more than 25 years of honing his craft and polishing his riffs in local bars and cafés, Wilkes has scored his first win in a national competition, beating out more than 600 fellow tunesmiths for first place in the prestigious bimonthly American Songwriter Lyric Contest, sponsored by American Songwriter magazine.

“I still don’t really believe it happened,” said Wilkes, a longtime journalist and the Oxford-based editor of Hotel F&B Magazine.

Wilkes’ winning entry, “Be Good To Your Woman,” will be featured in American Songwriter’s upcoming March-April issue. It will also be one of six finalists for the magazine’s grand-prize competition at the end of 2018.

“I’ve entered their contest a few times in the past, but I never placed or anything,” Wilkes said. “You’re going up against songwriters from all over the country and maybe internationally. I had actually submitted a different song to the previous issue and didn’t get anywhere. I’m not even sure why I decided to submit another one. It was only a $15 fee, and I figured I could spend that. But I had no hope that I’d win.”

Wilkes received a new PRS acoustic guitar and a Sennheiser microphone, but the real prize is the exposure—including a Q&A interview with photographs—in one of the music industry’s top magazines. Recent issues have spotlighted acclaimed artists like Willie Nelson (the January-February cover subject), Chris Hillman, Kenny Chesney and Nicky Mehta of The Wailin’ Jennys.

The magazine’s lyric contests are judged by some of the leading songwriters in the business, including Charlie Worsham, whose album, “Beginning of Things,” was named one of the “25 Best Country and Americana Albums of 2017” by Rolling Stone; Grammy and Oscar nominee Allison Moorer; Taylor Goldsmith, the frontman of indie rock band Dawes; and Austin-based Slaid Cleaves, hailed by Rolling Stone as “Americana’s most underappreciated songwriter.”

“These are all songwriters’ songwriters,” Wilkes notes.

Like a lot of those masters of the craft, Wilkes’ own musical style defies easy labels. It owes a little bit to the likes of Guy Clark, John Prine and Kris Kristofferson and a lot to no one you’ve ever heard before. Peppered with raunchy wit and piercing self-deprecation, his songs manage to be intensely personal and universal at the same time, filled with longing and laugh-out-loud one-liners. Even the saddest and sweetest of his songs will make you guffaw when you least expect it.

His debut CD, “Enter the Fool,” released in 2015 and co-produced by his good friend and former songwriting partner Joshua Cooker of the Nashville-based Captain Midnight Band, features both a comedic paean to sexy soccer moms in yoga pants (“Your Mama and Them”) and a snappy, bluesy-rock rumination on the bitter aftermath of a failed marriage (“It’s Called Divorce”).

“Enter the Fool” is available for purchase at Apple Music and on Spotify.

The cleverly metaphorical and immensely catchy “Be Kind, Rewind,” meanwhile, portrays a doomed romance in terms of Hollywood artifice:

Remember the opening credits We were both billed as stars The director yelled ‘action’ And we made out in my car But somewhere in the second act The storyline went south Some hack writer put some crappy dialogue In my mouth It all came out And I don’t even know what I was talking about

It’s a style that Wilkes has been fine-tuning since he was a teenager. “In high school, I made up what I would call novelty songs—silly, juvenile kind of stuff,” he recalled. “Songs with titles like ‘Booger on the Bronco’ and ‘Eatin’ Dog Food.’ My friend Ayers Spencer and I had a band called The Dingleberries—I sort of dragged him into it.”

At Ole Miss, Wilkes and Cooker went on to form the hard-partying band Cardinal Fluff and began taking songwriting more seriously. “Josh and I started writing songs together—even though they were still funny, they were real songs,” he said. “We were serious about being funny, sort of like Frank Zappa. I got my first real acoustic guitar at that time and then started listening to old country music and writing my own songs.”

Delving into the roots of what would later become known as the Americana genre, he immersed himself in the works of country- and folk-music storytellers like Prine, Clark, Steve Goodman, Jerry Jeff Walker and Willie Nelson. He also absorbed a lesson or two from another master raconteur, his own father, the late Dr. Thurston Wilkes. “He could tell a joke better than anybody,” Wilkes recalled. “From my dad I think I learned to add a little humor to complement the darkness and the deep thoughts—or what qualify as deep thoughts for me, anyway. Like George Carlin or Richard Pryor, he chose every word carefully, knew how to put each word in exactly the right place with the right emphasis. The first line of any song is the first impression, so I always believed in having a great first line. You add a little humor to see if they’re paying attention. That’s what my dad would do—he would throw some off-color joke into the conversation just to see if you were listening.”

Wilkes’ father, Dr. Thurston Wilkes, known for his hilarious off-color jokes and anecdotes, influenced his son’s songwriting style.

In Cardinal Fluff, Wilkes invented an off-color persona of his own, a bewigged, madcap character called Moon Pie Curtis, a name that he still performs under today (minus the wig and the wacky wordplay), while Cooker re-christened himself Captain Midnight. Cardinal Fluff lasted six or seven years, performing hilariously dirty-minded ditties with titles like “Position Impossible” and “Proud Totem.” But the bandmates parted ways when Cooker moved to New Orleans and then to Nashville, where the guitar-slinging Captain Midnight still fronts his own jam band and describes himself as “an internationally ignored superstar … (and) the world’s only purveyor of waterbed rock-and-roll.”

Wilkes, meanwhile, opted for a quieter, more domesticated life. “I thought, ‘Well, I want to have a family, so I should have a real job and keep living in Oxford.’ Songwriting was something I could still do here whenever I wanted. I figured it’s not like being a stand-up comic where you have to live in L.A. But, while that’s technically true, your chances of success in songwriting are much lower if you don’t live in Nashville and you’re not networking and co-writing and working with other musicians every day. I don’t think I really appreciated the magnitude of that at the time.”

Not that he has any regrets about opting for the joys of hometown domestication. He and his wife, Amy, have two adorable young daughters, and, in addition to his job with Hotel F&B, he founded Roxford University, a unique music school for children that offers both individual lessons in various instruments and a live-performance track, giving kids the experience of starting their own bands and putting on concerts twice a year.

In the meantime, Wilkes’ songwriting and musicianship have continued to evolve and mature. “Be Good to Your Woman,” the song that won the American Songwriter contest, was inspired by a piece of advice given to him years ago by his grandmother on her deathbed. “She had heart disease, and even breathing had become painful for her,” he said. “One day she told me, ‘Make sure to be good to your woman because they think real deep, and they hurt real easy.’ That just stuck in my head for years. But it’s hard for me to write a song like that—something that’s so heavy and deep. That was a tall order.”

The last thing Wilkes wanted to write was some maudlin, cliché-ridden tear-jerker, so he took his time with it—a lot of time. “I thought the first version was the best song I’d ever written,” he said. “That was about 10 years ago. Then, I realized the second verse was throwing the whole vibe off-course. It reflected my own distinctly male point of view, and that wasn’t what I wanted the song to be about. I knew I had to redo it. Looking back, it’s probably a good thing that I put so much thought into this one song, making all those revisions. I guess I always thought somebody would hear it eventually, and I wanted it to be perfect.”

“Be Good to Your Woman” will likely appear on Wilkes’ next CD, which he plans to cut with Cooker later this year. Although Wilkes, in his Moon Pie Curtis gigs, usually plays solo and unplugged, full studio instrumentation and Cooker’s sure hand on the production side bring glossy new life to his tunes while preserving the raw, throbbing ache that lies just underneath the wryly funny lyrics.

And winning the American Songwriter contest proved that Wilkes can still get his songs heard in Nashville without living there.

“It means that I haven’t been wasting my time doing some silly creative endeavor all these years,” he said. “I don’t feel discouraged about writing songs anymore. Now I know I’m not just doing it for myself.”

By Rick Hynum

The post Oxford’s Tad Wilkes Wins National Lyrics Contest with American Songwriter Magazine appeared first on HottyToddy.com.

#hottytoddy #olemiss #oxfordms #oxford ms #mississippi #university of mississippi #the grove

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hottytoddynews · 6 years

Link

Tad Wilkes, aka Moon Pie Curtis

Oxford singer-songwriter Tad Wilkes is living proof that good things come to those who wait. Some just have to wait a good while longer than they ever imagined.

“I still don’t really believe it happened,” said Wilkes, a longtime journalist and the Oxford-based editor of Hotel F&B Magazine.

“These are all songwriters’ songwriters,” Wilkes notes.

The cleverly metaphorical and immensely catchy “Be Kind, Rewind,” meanwhile, portrays a doomed romance in terms of Hollywood artifice:

Wilkes’ father, Dr. Thurston Wilkes, known for his hilarious off-color jokes and anecdotes, influenced his son’s songwriting style.

And winning the American Songwriter contest proved that Wilkes can still get his songs heard in Nashville without living there.

By Rick Hynum

The post Oxford’s Tad Wilkes Wins National Lyrics Contest with American Songwriter Magazine appeared first on HottyToddy.com.

#hottytoddy #olemiss #oxfordms #oxford ms #mississippi #university of mississippi #the grove

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