/ficlet blog (aka. an exercise in futility). will do my best to make it quality. *disclaimer: no guarantees of actual quality. //about me: master of avoiding work! thief in the night! enjoys sitting and lying down!! ///currently: a lot of Teen Wolf, Avatar & Korra, and Thor.
I miss your fics here so much D: Do you have an AO3?
Yes I do! It hasn't been updated in a long time, though, sorry :( Here!
But aahhh thank you very much T_T I'm actually trying to get back to writing for this blog, as soon as I catch up on some shows, lol--it definitely hasn't been abandoned!!
1. Two milestones for this humble ficlet blog have come and passed: the one year anniversary (May 18), and my 150th post! (I stopped caring about number of posts though; because I posted WIPs, art, etc., it doesn't correspond to the number of fics I write. BTW this is now post number 161!) If you are following me, thank you for doing so and reading my silly drabbles. :) I started this ficlet blog as an exercise just to keep my fic-muscles going, but I've had a lot of fun with it, and it makes me really happy that some others might be enjoying it too! So thanks! :D
2. Things have been slowing down for this blog lately. Sorry about this! It's because I am trying to finish some long!fic commitments I really need to get done, and also the perpetual twin curses of school and life, clawing at me. I'll be on vacation and afk for the next week, too, so I can't post. (I never queue posts for this blog because I like the fun of writing these things spontaneously.) Once I get back and get some shit done, hopefully I can once again start posting regularly!! You can call this a semi-hiatus, I guess, sigh.
3. I've signed up for a Teen Wolf fic auction to raise money for DashCon 2014. I've only written 2 "real" fics for Teen Wolf, however, so I'm not sure if I'll raise much money, but ANYWAY I'm happy to (try to) help out :) I've been told the auction will run from June 23 to 30. Check out the details here! I think right now Sherlock fic bidding is going strong. Not sure when TW will be announced, but I guess closer to next week! Keep your eyes peeled haha. (PS I'll be listed under primroseshows, not primulavulgarises, just FYI!)
TL;DR: check bolded words
That's it! Thanks again for indulging me, guys. xoxoxo
Avatar, the Last Airbender: Dark!Katara AU; PG. (174 words)
The Avatar was the one with power, but it was his wife the people feared. She was no ruler, but wherever she travelled, people bowed to her and swept the path in front of her as if she were a queen. After she moved on, the whispers would start again, wafting through the villages as if they'd been waiting, in hiding—stories about her strength, of her mercilessness, about what she had done to reclaim the Avatar from his Fire Nation prison. There were reports of rice fields completely sapped dry, green grass turned into limping brown strands, entire forests that shriveled like grapes in the sun—tales of an endless night where entire armies went silent. There was ice in her eyes and people cowered in her gaze, lowered their heads as she passed; they struggled not to draw attention to themselves, not to choke in her presence. She smelled of salt water, but there was a tang of iron there too that would linger in the air behind her footsteps. Blood, diluted.
The human boy who tagged after Scott McCall like a puppy, what was his name? He smelled like gasoline, laundry detergent, and gunpowder, and he had a connection to the local police department—when they took Deucalion in for his statement about the accident, he could hear the boy there too, in another room—supposed to be soundproof, but—yelling about danger and clues and the pattern in the victims. Deucalion was sitting in another questioning room so the boy didn't know he was there, didn't know he was being listened to as he stomped out down the hall muttering about killing Scott and fucking Douchecalion.
Deucalion smiled. Humans were such interesting creatures. That slayer girl, who thought it noble to fight outnumbered and outclassed; Gerard, who thought it noble to cling to life despite death eating at his skin like frost; the vet, who thought it noble to watch everything from the sidelines and help only when he had no choice—they all made Deucalion laugh. Something that werewolves understood from birth was that there was no such thing as nobility, as morality, as right or wrong. There was strength, and that was all. Power is the means, power is the ends.
That child might understand this, since he was spitting out a crude nickname with such vehemence. Perhaps he thought he had power in his words. Douchecalion. As if making a comical slur of his aggressor's name somehow made him feel stronger. That child would go running off to Scott now, or perhaps the Argent brat and her redheaded bitch, and maybe they'd all have a little giggle poking fun at the big bad wolves. Perhaps it'd help them forget, for that one second, that they were all trapped in a very small, locked cell, and right outside, the pack lay waiting to spill their blood. Perhaps that boy believed that naming the monsters would make them less frightening.
It is late at night, a typical Beacon Hills night, which means spilled blood and dead bodies and all those great things, and though they don't really have time for it, they are having an argument. It is one of those straw-on-the-camel's-back arguments, which means it has been avoided and eschewed for too long, and now, even though the timing couldn't be worse, it's coming out, overflowing, like a geyser, surprising them both, but it's too late for precaution because it can't be stopped.
The argument is about Stiles' role in their team efforts lately. Three times is a pattern, but this is past three, this is past four, five, six times, this is nearing the area where Stiles wants to stop counting because it's like another nail into his coffin every time, and after that last fight at the cemetery, he really can't stand coffin references, so you can imagine how much he's hating this. What he hates is that his role in the team lately has been relegated to Car. Jeep, specifically. Transportation. Stiles is the getaway driver, the Happy Hogan, the minor side character, the only-one-foot-out guy, speed dial two, and Scott is not making it any better by telling him, "But who else can drive us around?"
"What about Derek?" Stiles shouts. "Derek has a fucking Camaro! Which we've driven before! You've literally seen it and been in it tens of times!" It is late at night and they're in the middle of the forest and they shouldn't be making this much noise, but Scott has been on a roll with bad decisions lately and Stiles, well, he doesn't want to miss out on all the fun.
"Yeah, but Derek's car—Derek's busy with other things, it's not like his job is to be our—oh, come on, I didn't mean it like that, don't make that face, Stiles—"
And now Stiles is stomping away, also loudly, also unadvisedly, but he is so past this bullshit he doesn't care. Half of him, the petty side of him, wishes that he would get fucking mauled right now, here, out in the open, with Scott right there behind him. And Stiles hopes that whatever does him in also steals his car keys because then who'll be laughing? It'll be ghost Stiles. Scott having to get home himself for once, oh no, god forbid.
"Stiles, stop," Scott says.
"Do you know how much I slave over the computer for you?" Stiles says. "I have blisters on my fingers. My track pad has worn down past the silver layer, now it's just white plastic. I research everything. Who was the one who figured out that the animals could lead us to the alpha den? Who figured out that Deucalion could see when he touches people's skin? Who figured out that hurting one of those asshole twins will hurt the other?" Stiles whirls around, jabbing at his chest. "Me, it was me, I did all that."
"Everyone knows you did all that! What do you want, a medal?" Scott says.
"I want to not be told to stay in the fucking car when you and your precious little pack go out and do awesome and dangerous stuff!"
"It's because it's dangerous that I don't want you getting out there! You're not a werewolf, you're—"
"Oh, real funny, because you seem to have no problem with Allison participating—"
"Allison's not—we broke up, I don't control Allison, she's—"
"Woah, are you saying you control me?"
"Stiles, oh my god, no, listen to me. You're my best friend and I have to protect you—"
"Leaving me by myself in a large blue car in the middle of an empty highway isn't exactly protection, you know—"
"But it is and you know it! You don't belong out in—in—out there! You don't have good night vision, you can't smell danger, you can't run as fast as us, you have no weapons, and, and, Derek and Isaac and I, we can't afford to spend every little second making sure you're all right! Even Peter told us to leave you behind!"
Stiles goes silent.
Scott lets out a large sigh and scrubs his face. Somewhere in the treetops, a crow screeches and flies away.
Stiles' face is wooden when he says, "Peter said that, huh."
"Yeah."
"Peter told me that I was being wasted by sitting behind the wheel all the time."
Scott looks up. Looks at Stiles, whose eyes are wide and brain is churning. "When did he say that?"
"Yesterday."
They are not having an argument anymore. They are coming to a conclusion. It is not the right time for this, or maybe it is, even if it's too late, because better late than never, but they are seeing that this argument that they have tried not to have for so long that it has become a time bomb, is a bomb that has been lit by someone else, that they are one head of a hydra. This is what Stiles realizes after he thinks about how convincing Peter had been when he slid into the passenger seat of Stiles' jeep last night, while Stiles was wasting time playing Tetris on his phone, while Stiles was cursing Scott and Isaac being buddy-buddy, while Stiles was checking his watch every fifteen seconds hoping more than fifteen seconds had passed, and told Stiles, "My, aren't we having a productive evening."
The reason why Stiles has held off on confronting Scott about being tied to a car night after night, and the reason why Scott is so desperate to keep Stiles inside that car night after night, is because there is a bloodthirsty alpha pack on the loose that is out for Scott's head and they must know that Scott's biggest weaknesses are, in order: his mother, Allison Argent, and Stiles Stilinski. Melissa is with the Sheriff and presumably safe, Allison wears a necklace made of silver and perfume made of wolfsbane flower, but Stiles—Stiles refuses to be left behind when his best friend goes out howling in the middle of the night. Deaton had placed protective runes around Stiles' jeep so Stiles must be lured out of it to be hurt, but here's the kicker and the reason that Stiles gets angry at Scott sometimes, a lot of the time, maybe all the time: Stiles is not easily fooled. He wouldn't come out if he was called by a stranger with sharp teeth hidden behind a well-meaning smile, but he would if you told him that Scott McCall doesn't appreciate him and does not realize he might die without Stiles' help. The alpha pack knows their names, faces, scents, but they don't know their personalities—Peter does, though. Peter does know them, and Stiles has always tried to warn Scott, Isaac, Derek, that Peter has other plans, his own motives, is not to be trusted, he's said this so many times, even to his own reflection in the rear view mirror, but to no avail, until now apparently, right now, right here, because when Stiles asks, urgently, as Scott's eyes widen and flash yellow, "Where is Peter right now?" Scott answers in a fang-slurred growl:
"He's behind you. And he's not alone."
When Stiles turns around, Peter is smiling, and so is Deucalion.
1. As they're leaving the radio station, Junmyeon feels Sehun's fingers wrap around his wrist and give a little tug. Junmyeon turns around and Sehun ducks towards him, face tilted low, and he whispers, "Thanks, hyung," and squeezes Junmyeon's wrist before darting ahead to catch up to Jongin. Junmyeon turns back to Tao, about to apologize for interrupting him, but Tao is grinning.
"Sehuna's a good boy, isn't he," Tao says.
"You are too," says Junmyeon, because he likes complimenting Tao just as much as Tao likes getting compliments.
"That's because I have such a good mom," says Tao, cuffing Junmyeon around the neck.
2. As they're piling into the car, Junmyeon gets shoved in between Kyungsoo and Jongin. Kyungsoo takes one look at him and says, "You know, I really was touched. We all were."
"Thanks," says Junmyeon. He feels a little embarrassed that they're still talking about this, but he feels happy about it too. "I just spoke honestly from my heart."
It's always a prize to get this kind of smile from Kyungsoo, who can show the world on his face: a small, warm, pleased smile, as if he's proud.
"Are you proud of me?" Junmyeon blurts, shocked.
Jongin snorts and says, "Wow. As if you couldn't tell." He sprawls out in his seat and his knee knocks into Junmyeon's; their thighs are touching and Jongin doesn't pull away.
3. The elevator ride up to the dorm is five stories but feels like a daunting five hundred kilometres right now. They're all dead on their feet so Junmyeon offers to take the second trip since twelve of them can't fit in one tiny box. Kris and Yixing stay behind too, and while waiting, Yixing seems to weigh his options for a long moment before reaching over to give Junmyeon an one-armed hug. Softly, he says, "I love you," just like he said during the show, and when he pulls away, his dimple is showing.
Junmyeon feels himself flush. "Um," he starts, but the next elevator pings and Kris ushers the two of them inside.
Kris presses the button for level five and glances over at Junmyeon. Junmyeon's heart leaps.
Kris says, "I don't tell you this enough, but you're a better leader than I am."
"Oh—no, no, I'm not—" Junmyeon says hastily, waving his hands. "That's—hyung, you're—"
"Stop," says Kris. Junmyeon pauses. Kris continues, "What you said today, to us—thank you. I won't forget it."
Everything Kris says is always sounds so absolute, so inarguable; he could halt wars with his voice, in all probability, but right now he's halting Junmyeon's brain function.
"T-thanks," Junmyeon stutters, and Kris nods at him, half-smiling, as the elevator doors slide open on their floor.
4. Chanyeol is raiding the cupboard for snacks when Junmyeon pours himself a cup of water.
"Don't eat that this late at night," Junmyeon says, pointing to the chips Chanyeol's holding. Chanyeol's eyebrows rise, and Junmyeon stumbles. "I mean, I won't stop you, but unless you're super hungry, you should eat some fruit instead or something. It's healthier."
Chanyeol opens his mouth, expression flickering sullen. But then he sighs, resigned, and returns the chips to the cupboard. "Okay," he says.
"Just like that?" Junmyeon asks. Chanyeol never gives in this easily.
Chanyeol shrugs. "You make good points," he says, and ruffles Junmyeon's hair as he leaves the kitchen.
Lu Han walks in and says, "Can I have a glass of water too?"
Junmyeon catches himself and almost shouts, "Chanyeol just listened to me. Hyung, I'm amazed."
Lu Han gives him a weird look. "Well, of course he would."
"No, that's just it, he doesn't usually. He can get stubborn about really strange things and I always feel like I'm bullying him to get him to act a certain way. Before debut, there was this time when he—"
Lu Han claps Junmyeon on the shoulder, beaming. "Didn't you say it yourself, leader-sshi? Chanyeol's matured a lot since he's been in EXO. Good job! It's thanks to you."
"Oh." Junmyeon's flustered again. All of these compliments coming in such a short time frame are wrecking him. "It's of course not all thanks to me, that's just—"
"You can take a little credit," laughs Lu Han. "You deserve much more than you get." Then he steals Junmyeon's cup.
5. Junmyeon's turn for the shower tonight comes after Minseok, so he sees Minseok coming out of the bathroom with a towel around his neck and strips of dark red hair jailing his eyes. Minseok threads a hand through them, pulling them back, and they slick into salon perfect formation.
"So cool, hyung," says Junmyeon.
"Hm?" says Minseok. "Hah. Don't you dare take lessons from me about being cool."
"But you are!"
"The most handsomest of men are those who are pure of heart," says Minseok cheekily, and pats Junmyeon's cheek as he passes.
Junmyeon locks the bathroom door and stares at himself in the slightly-fogged mirror. He looks ragged, his eyes are red at the edges, his hair is limp, his makeup looks like rubber. But he's smiling. Glowing.
"Huh," he murmurs. He had no idea.
Someone knocks on the door. "YO!" Baekhyun's voice calls. "You in there?"
"I just got in!" Junmyeon shouts. "Wait a few minutes!"
"I don't need it, I just wanted to tell you that I'm glad you're our leader! You were really awesome today, okay? Okay great! Good night!"
Junmyeon's still staring at his own reflection. "Wait, Baekhyunnie, thanks, but you—" He rushes to the door, but the hallway's empty. Kris walks by, head turned backwards as if Baekhyun had just run passed him. He sees Junmyeon leaning out of the bathroom with who knows what expression on his face.
"We're men, huh," Kris says sagely.
6. Jongin's already asleep by the time Junmyeon finally gets to their room, but Jongdae is propped up against his headboard, flipping through a manga—obviously not reading it.
"I've been thinking," he says, quite loudly.
"What?" says Junmyeon, not quite so loudly. Not like Jongin will wake up, but still.
Jongdae tosses his book away and points at Junmyeon, his fingers in the shape of a gun. Did he pick up that habit from Jongin?
"We're pretty lucky you decided to debut with us," says Jongdae. He makes a shooting sound and his smile is completely self-satisfied. "Can you imagine if you ended up in SHINee?"
That Jongdae thinks it's even possible that Junmyeon could have debuted with SHINee kind of makes Junmyeon want to cry. He's been in the company seven years. He has seen so many people move up, move on, leave and never come back, enter in the building's frosted doors with sparkling eyes full of joy and wonder, have that light dull over time and tears. Junmyeon remembers each member's face the first time they met and he was introduced as a sunbae. He had three years of training under his belt by the time Kris and Jongin, who had the next longest training periods, came in. They didn't expect him to debut with them. Neither did Junmyeon, if he was being honest.
But he's glad he did. He's really, really glad.
"I completely can't," says Junmyeon, blinking fast, and Jongdae's smile smooths into something gentler, more beautiful, and Junmyeon realizes again that Jongdae has always been his biggest and staunchest supporter, despite how late Jongdae entered the group.
Every last word Junmyeon said in that sappy little letter of his was true. "I think I'm the lucky one," Junmyeon says, because this is true too.
On her walls hang the frozen heads of wolves, grizzled, snarling, scarred, cut off mid-neck, their unresolved fury framed as a trophy. She has pelts made of grey, brown, black fur, streaked white with experience, and she carpets her floors with them; inside the house she is always barefoot. She has a necklace of canine teeth as long as her little finger. There is a smell of metal around her that cannot be washed out or covered with perfume—weapons, blood, pride, she immerses herself in all three. Her first kill was her boyfriend at age eighteen, and they say it was a turning point. The strongest hunter from her family in over a century, the bird of prey, the executioner, the warbringer, the silver omen, her heart is cold and small and does not know mercy because once upon a time it got broken, and she destroyed her chance to get it repaired. It is her biggest secret: the first kill that damned her and marked her as an enemy forever was a mistake; she hadn't known that he was the alpha, that he was trying to warn her, that he would have called her name, if he could.
"Stiles," says Scott. "If I ever—just, if you ever see me lose control, and there's, like, no way out, you've gotta—" he swallows, hard. It's impossible to get the words out. Not because Scott is afraid, although he is, but because he doesn't want to ask Stiles to do it. But it can only be Stiles. Scott doesn't trust anyone else, least of all himself.
"You can't ask me that, Scotty," says Stiles. He's staring at the leather pouch Scott's holding out. He's got a sheen of wet on his eyes, and Scott has to look away because that always does him in.
"It's not like I want to, dude," says Scott. "But if—if you love me," he stutters, "then you have to do this for me. You know it makes sense. Superman and Batman did the exact same thing."
He can see the exact moment when Stiles lets himself accept it. It's like a little light has been snuffed out of Stiles' eyes, and it's almost enough to make Scott take it all back. But he'd rather have Stiles hate him than Stiles dead, and he'd rather be dead than have Stiles hate him.
The most unfair part of this pact is that it's Scott who has it easy.
He offers the pouch again and Stiles takes it with slow, hesitant fingers. Stiles pulls the drawstring and tips out the silver-capped bullets into his palm, rolling them around and letting them catch the evening sunlight. Six emergency measures.
"I'll never forgive you for this," says Stiles, not looking at Scott.
"That's the one thing I'd never ask you to do," says Scott, smiling grimly as Stiles closes his fingers around the bullets.
These days you turn your head and a day passes. A blink of an eye and you miss an explosion, then within your next breath half the house disappears, blown to smithereens. You used to live fast, maybe you still do, but it's because you never expected to be here for this long. When you were young you didn't think of ways that you could die and now you see reasons everywhere: you, with the mechanic's mechanical mind, can make anything into a tool and now your world is littered with instruments of death. You don't want to die. Sometimes you don't want to be alive, but you don't want to die. Even more than the fact that she'd be alone, that the Avengers need you, that the world needs you, there is a kernel of hard alloy in the centre of your chest, past the literal pieces of shrapnel and hidden underneath the metaphorical ones, that skitters like a breaking engine every time you feel like giving up. It's fed your ego all these years, telling you you're better than everyone else, and now it still does, reminding you that you're Iron Man, you're Tony Fucking Stark, and you deserve a death so grand that even you can't imagine it, and until you get that, you're going to stay up, kicking and screaming. The wormhole didn't do you in; how can anything else hope to compare?
Except your brain is more rational, and it's saying, Don't worry about it. Your new part-time job will definitely find something suitable.
The days are ticking away and you're not immortal. You're already on borrowed time; this is why you've got to make every second you have left count. If you're not creating more than you're burning, then what good are you? You've got decades of bullshit to make up for, and it's not like the future is going to be clear skies and good weather. Time is too much of a problem. You can't seem to keep track of it and yourself at the same time, and as Pepper can attest, dealing with you is a full-time job. But this is a new you, where you're trying to be better. You won't let yourself go out like a snuffed candle, afraid, unaccomplished, unworthy of your own last name.
Your dreams are plagued with explosions and rushing cosmic light.
[WIP: AA of S&S] Teen Wolf: Scott, Stiles; PG. (863 words)
More from this.
-----
Rewind a bit. Maybe more than a bit.
The last time Stiles had seen Scott, Scott was a half-mangled and gibbering mess. He was speaking in fairy tales, vowing that they'd get through this, that they were almost to safety, that it was all going to be okay, as long as Stiles stayed awake, did you hear me, Stiles? Stay awake, buddy, please, stay with me. And Stiles was doing his best—he always did his best for Scott—but he'd lost too much blood and his vision kept blurring in and out of focus. Duh, he wanted to live, but he was so tired. He felt like he was trying to fly against the pull of gravity. Technically, people who'd sustained a recent blow to the head shouldn't even be moved from wherever they were hit because they might have a spinal cord injury, but Stiles appreciated Scott's initiative to pull him away from the vampires towards an area of no vampires. Being alive in that moment, two-thirds-sprawled over Scott's left shoulder as Scott practically dragged him through the foggy patches of forest, Stiles' head lolling and getting red-tinted spit all over the front of his shirt, and Scott's exhausted pants hitting Stiles' right ear—that'd been a huge deal for Stiles, just to make it that far. It was nice that Stiles would get to die in the arms of someone who cared about him and who was actively trying to keep in alive, rather than the alternative, which was—well, murderous vampires, out for Stiles' delicious human blood, apparently made even more delicious because Stiles had ruined their world domination plans—they had vindictive appetites.
All these emotions were deciphered by Stiles in retrospect. At the time, he could barely keep a coherent thought in his head amidst the dizziness, thudding pain, and lessening consciousness. He did remember being relieved that Scott seemed in relatively alive condition. That meant that Stiles had done his job successfully. And it meant that if he closed his eyes for the big finale, he could do so with a lot less regret than he'd set off with at the start of that evening, which wasn't the worst way to go, all things considered.
Stiles' life had been really sucky lately. He could admit that.
Awareness drifted in and out of him, hazing the seconds into undecipherable dregs, but he ended up passing out sometime after Scott had exclaimed, "There! There's Derek and Deaton, Stiles, we're almost there!" He'd been too far gone for even a boost of hopeful energy. The darkness had almost taken over everything by this point, numbing out the pain and even leeching away the fear, so he forced himself to say Scott's name one more time before he entirely submitted himself to what lay after it.
"Stiles—" Scott said, heaved at the end of an exhalation. "Stiles." The hands clutching onto him turned newly painful; Stiles felt the pricks of claws into his skin. If Stiles squinted, he could just barely see a sheen of tears covering Scott's red eyes—or was it sweat? Or was it a trick of Stiles' failing sight?
"It's cool," Stiles breathed. He tried for a smile, but it probably didn't show. "You're good."
He'd meant to add, Take care of yourself—now that I won't be there to save your sorry ass anymore, but he didn't know how much of it made it out of him before he was going, going, gone.
Temporarily.
When he opened his eyes to an overly bright world of fluorescent overhead lights, his head and chest were killing him all over again, Derek was staring down at him, and Scott wasn't there.
"He left," Derek told him, his eyes dark and mouth pressed tight, when Stiles finally managed to sputter out that first questionable syllable, scaw. "He said he doesn't know when he's coming back."
"Wha' th' fuuuu—" Stiles slurred, before unconsciousness pulled him away again.
But when he reawoke, with considerably higher lucidity and a more reasonable level of pain, Derek was still there, and Scott still wasn't.
"Please, please, please do not tell me he did what I think he did," mumbled Stiles through the scrunch of his face—it was too damn presumptuous of him to start crying, but his body was apparently being proactive.
Derek said, "We'll talk when you're feeling better," which wasn't an answer to the same degree that it really, really was.
"I'm going to kill him," Stiles said, voice cracking. "Fuck." He blinked fast enough that Derek looked away, uncomfortable, and eventually found Stiles a box of tissues—which Stiles' arms didn't have the strength to use. Derek had to awkwardly dab at Stiles' wet face with kleenex while Stiles blubbered apologies, curses, and laments about supernatural creatures ruining his life. (Later, Stiles would blame the morphine Deaton had given him, and Derek would just pretend it never happened.) It wasn't a pleasant situation for anyone, so when Stiles' frustration dried up, he repeated his threat with more vigour: "I'm going find Scott, and I'm going to destroy him," and Derek nodded grimly, "Good."
Junmyeon hadn't even gotten the chance to classify them yet before Kris was pulling him aside to his miraculously empty bedroom and telling him, "I feel like you've got the wrong idea about me."
Within the span of one shocked breath, Junmyeon's stomach dug a hole out of his body and dropped out of existence. It must have shown on his face because Kris' eyes widened comically like a Chanyeol impression and he said, "No, not like—shit, I didn't mean it like that." And then he said, "I meant it like, how you—think of me as someone, and this person—I'm not that person. Once you realize that... I don't want you disappointed." And then he said, "Yesterday during the interview you said that you admired me."
And then Junmyeon understood. Yesterday he did say to the interviewer that he looked up to Kris. They were both leaders and had the same responsibilities, but there was no denying that Kris fit the role much better than Junmyeon. Kris was good at leading like he was good at breathing, and Junmyeon was far from the only one to have noticed this. But the unwavering spotlight of debut had affected all the members differently; with Kris it shed notice on how he wasn't necessarily good at singing or rapping or dancing, and yet the fans still came to him in droves. There was a hard, fist-sized centre in Kris that Junmyeon couldn't reach and it told Kris that he was undeserving of such idolization. For fans he repaid them back in fanservice and real smiles, the best he could do, but he once told Junmyeon that he sometimes felt like he was waiting for a death sentence. Like he was counting down the days until someone would leap out of his adoring crowd and accuse him of everything he actually was instead of loving him for everything he claimed to be but actually wasn't.
"You shouldn't like me for the wrong reasons," said Kris. "If you look at me like I'm someone who's put-together, like I know what I'm doing or something—you should maybe re-evaluate."
"But I don't need to," said Junmyeon.
So Kris didn't think he was worthy of Junmyeon's esteem or was going through paranoia about what they'd started or maybe he couldn't stand the thought of Junmyeon looking up at him like a fan would, like Tao used to until he learned better—to a Kris that only existed on camera, and even then, not always.
He didn't need to worry.
Junmyeon had seen Kris build himself from the ground up. They'd met when he'd still gone by Kevin, a Chinese-faced too-tall kid with the Western sensibilities and the elusive smile, and that first year in SM was hard for Kevin, everyone knew it. He couldn't speak Korean so couldn't talk back against the rumours and names whispered behind him, but he fought back in other ways: a steely, unafraid gaze; walking through the company halls like he belonged there; reading Korean workbooks through lunch break instead of making friends—he gave the air of being untouchable, unpenetrable, and eventually the usual bullying just trickled off, like a dying stream. He let his actions speak for him, holding open doors and helping people to their feet without any expression on his face, like he knew it was expected of him. His dormmates said he was actually kind and told stories about how if one of them was going through a tough time, he would sit with them until they talked their worries out, and about his daily phone calls to his mother, and how once when someone asked him what the hell he was doing in this business, Kris had answered, "I have dreams just like the rest of you." There were the relationships he started with Yixing and Lu Han and Tao, how he made sure that they had an easier time in Korea than he did without explicitly drawing attention to it, but Junmyeon had been there from the start and he saw. Kris wasn't the most talented in their group and he wasn't their official leader but there was a grace in the way he held himself that Junmyeon thirsted for, wanted to taste himself. The cameras and fancams made Kris look cooler, taller, more stylish, more mature, self-assured, and maybe Kris saw that as a veneer that would one day crack open to reveal his true nature—but they were idols, they all had fronts, and Kris was good-hearted, through and through. And Junmyeon didn't care about what Kris looked like to the world because he had seen Kris when he waited for all eleven members to walk in front of him before following them to the stage, when he spoke for them when they ran out of words, when he let everyone lean on him in the late-night practise rooms, when he stored away his fan letters more neatly than he took care of any of his own belongings, when he quietly encouraged members at their most tired, when he made every effort to speak Korean backstage even in China, when he picked up Junmyeon's desperate calls and told him that they were doing fine, when he smiled at Junmyeon from the other end of the line as Junmyeon bumbled through another introduction, making Junmyeon feel like he could do anything as long as Kris was there behind him, a pillar to draw strength from, something to shield him, a net to catch him carefully should Junmyeon fall backwards, and how could Kris ever think that he wasn't worthy of admiration?
"I really think you—" Kris started, looking pained.
"No," Junymeon said, holding out his hand. Kris took it, helplessly. "I don't."
Avatar the Last Airbender: Katara/Zuko; PG-13. (522 words)
One year after Aang's passing, she comes to him and asks him for a favour. He says no at first, he says no for a long time afterwards, but the moon only grows brighter in the sky as she doesn't leave, and he is lonely too, and so eventually he hears himself say yes.
They touch each other like blind people granted new sight, with greedy fingers and too-tight grips, desperate to clutch at these darkened moments as if they might dissolve away, as if it's their last night alive. Sometimes the loss makes it feel like that, like the night stretches on and on until even the stars dim and you lose track of if you've closed your eyes or not, and if you have, if it's worth it to reopen them. He is a raw, sad fool as he tracks the heat of her body with his mouth, tasting her own brand of sorrow.
She is not gentle with him, though he tries to soothe her. Soon he stops trying, and she nods in satisfaction before pushing him onto his back.
The first push inside her hurts, and she gasps, but when he says her name, she shakes her head, eyes glistening like sunlight on ocean water. He tries again, going slower, and it doesn't hurt his body this time; the ache moves, spreading upwards like a poison, to settle in his chest. He finds it hard to breathe, and he loses his rhythm multiple times. She touches his chin, his scars, his neck, his shoulders; she says it's okay and it's all right and keep going please. She doesn't put her arms around him and he never asks.
It is not pleasure they are after here. Their hearts have pieces of each other splintered inside, but they are not the other's master. They are distorted reflections of each other, both broken, and they understand the same losses, so here they can achieve empathy and nothing else. It is to dull the pain. It is weakness. She asked, he said yes, now they clutch and hiss and avoid eye contact and hold back dead names from their tongues.
They kiss once. It too is painful, so they do not try again.
It takes effort, but he gets to the end; pulling out of her, he finishes on her body while she stares passively at him, not smiling, not frowning. She looks as if she is contemplating regret and if she ought to be suffering it. He doesn't want that expression, so he ducks down and places his lips on her entrance, whispering apologies into her, as if she could take them inside and birth out forgiveness belonging to him.
A hand sifts like a cool breeze through his greying hair and she says thank you, but when he raises his gaze to her face, she has her eyes closed.
She is still beautiful to him, and he loves her as he knows she loves him, and it may not be the love they both are mourning, but tonight it is sufficient. Tomorrow they will pick themselves up and walk on.
Avatar the Last Airbender: Toph, Sokka; G. (416 words)
Katara delivers the baby; Sokka doesn't let himself look. He doesn't want to faint because Toph needs him right now. That dickface had fucked off to god knows where and though she'd said in typical Toph brashness that she didn't care if he showed up for the big event or not, her bone-crushing grip on Sokka's hand reveals the truth—that she does need someone here with her as she gives birth. Not just Katara, doing her job. A friend. A buffer. Someone who cares enough for her that they're willing to risk broken hands for Toph. Sokka holds tight; he hums soft songs into Toph's hair when Toph screams, he tells bad jokes when Toph curses streams of vitriol—he hangs in there. It's not the most fun experience.
He keeps his eyes shut for minutes at a time in order to picture this war-torn scene from her perspective. With her legs raised on the pillows Aang had brought, feet in the air, Toph is blind; all she has to go on is Katara's firm voice and what her own body is telling her. It must be scary as hell, but Toph is powering through it the same way she does everything—mercilessly. When Sokka thinks about it, this is not the first time he's pitied Toph's future offspring, but this is the first time he's done it when the offspring was so close to a reality.
Finally, when the baby comes out entirely and her newborn cries being to screech through Toph's green-walled bedroom, Toph pulls at Sokka's hand. "Sokka," she says, voice hoarse. "Is—"
"A girl," says Katara, delighted. "She's beautiful."
Toph pushes herself up in the bed. Sokka says, "Woah lady, hold on," and Toph bats his hands away.
She says urgently, "Tell me, is she—" Her face is tight.
Katara interrupts and says, "She looks perfectly fine to me. Here. Hold out your arms."
A crying, red, ugly lump of potato turd is transferred to Toph's chest, and Toph's expression just—eases, like cloth under an iron. It's not quite a look of bliss, even, there's no smile. It's more like a look of grim accomplishment, but tempered by pride, relief, maybe a little fearful hope. Toph's eyes have always been the most truthful part of her, and her few scant traces of tears say novels. For once Sokka finds himself speechless as he watches as Toph, with a touch he's never seen so gentle, stroke her baby's face.
[WIP: AA of S&S] Teen Wolf: Scott, Stiles; G. (403 words)
The beginning of a much longer fic, rated PG-13 overall; inspired by (but not in any way based on) Michael Chabon's The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.
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When he first picked up the call, Stiles thought he was dreaming. Dreams of this specific variety used to be a nightly plague, in which he would say hello and hear a too-familiar voice on the other end of the line blurting his name, excitedly asking him how he'd been, promising to be home soon. It'd be their teenage years all over again, when they were number one on each other's speed dials and number two (in an PS below their respective parent's names) on each other's emergency contact forms. It'd feel so natural, and he'd be so convinced that it was really happening—then when Stiles woke up, the only sound in his ears would be the hollow, dead ringing of a silent room, cottoned by the diffuse hum of electronics.
The length of the dreams varied, and so did the subject matter, so Stiles didn't exactly think of the dreams as recurring. But it always started with a phone call, and the caller always stayed constant. Sometimes Stiles would get through an entire conversation with Scott before he opened his eyes to reality.
They stopped coming though. Stiles had a reputation for being tenacious and his subconscious was the most shameless part of him, so they lasted much longer than Stiles would have preferred, but even he—he who could nurse a ten-year crush based on nothing but a whiff of strawberry lip gloss and a flicker of red hair turning the corner—had his limits. The dreams died off in the slow way that pain resulting from a major accident died off: unwillingly, unkindly, but irrefutably—even for life-changing wounds, drugs and physical therapy could only do so much; the best cure was simply time.
Stiles was around two years and three months clean from this particular strain of nightmare when he was jolted awake in the middle of the night by his cell playing The Who's Who Are You at volume level 3. It'd been a long day and it took him two tries to pick up the phone from his nightstand, then two more tries to hit the correct buttons to take the call. If it was his dad, worrying about next week's check-up, then Stiles was going to hurl the phone into the trash.
"Hello," he croaked, half his face still smashed in his pillow.
"Hey. Stiles," said Scott's voice. "It's, uh. It's me. How've you been?"
Teen Wolf: Isaac/Scott, Stiles/Scott; G. (451 words)
The easy way your lips open when they say Scott, you'd think it was the first word you'd ever spoken. Scott comes to you as instinctually as your own name; you respond to it too. It gives people the right idea about you two, that you're co-dependent, obnoxiously so—the gayest pair of straight boys to ever grace Beacon Hills. I watched from the bench and memorized the way your silhouettes molded together in the glare of the sun. You two were a world unto yourselves, until your eggshell reality cracked down the middle. But there's more to it than that these days, and it's funny how one-sided it is. It's funny the way Scott will hold out something and you will reach for it almost possessively, how when Scott touches his wounds you are the one who winces, how when Scott howls you will freeze with your sentence in your throat, how when I am the one to say Scott's name, you narrow your eyes, like I've offended you. I should say nothing but Scott's name, then. I should scream it into you face, as loud as I can, if it would get you to even take a single step back.
Peter smiles in his mocking way and tells me that jealously is not a good look for anyone, but what I feel isn't jealousy. You're a human, an unrepentant reminder of what we used to be, and you are not wanted. Derek finds you frustrating because Scott needs you and therefore we need you, but Scott doesn't have to need you. Your entire life, you and Scott must have kept pace with each other, one of you reaching to pull the other forward when the distance between you two widened too much, but now things are different: Scott is lapping you, leaving you in the dust, and if Scott reaches behind for you, the only result is you with a bleeding wrist. Scott doesn't belong with you anymore. He is not yours anymore.
Soon I'll tell you that I can take care of things from here and it's going to make you hate me, but I won't care. We both crushed on the same person once, and I've learned from my mistakes. I know how to win now. I even have a boosted start, because Scott and I are no longer what you are. I like you as a person and don't hate you for being Scott's friend, but werewolves need to stake their claim. Either you admit that you are no longer what's best for Scott or I will ask Scott to tell you himself. We both just want what's best for him, right?
Jane wiped her face and asked what Thor all along knew she'd wanted to know: "If it was the only thing left, would you be able to kill him?"
Him being Loki; him being his brother Loki.
"Yes," answered Thor, and pulled Jane into his chest before he could catch sight of her relief.
She was delicate in his arms, a tiny thing, a flightless baby bird with the hummingbird heart to match. It wasn't her size as much as it was her mortality. She was so human. And humans were some of the strongest creatures in the Nine Realms, and they earned Thor's love, but human were so limited by the short reach of their years. Sif would never have asked him if he would be able to kill Loki, nor the Warriors Three. The question would never cross their minds—if Loki had to be eliminated, it would have to be by their sword or spear, not Thor's. Never Thor's.
There was a term held very highly in Asgardian society called shield brothers. It signified the depth of a relationship between a pair of soldiers who had learned how to fight together, who had been through hell together, who had become men together. It meant that if you were missing a shield, your brother wouldn't hesitate to use his own for your sake—even to the point of sacrificing his own body. A swearing such as this was not something taken lightly. It was not something that could be redacted, forgotten, or thrust aside for ambitions of greed. Nothing was so powerful that it could erase centuries of this soul-deep partnership. It was something that lasted until eternal death. Only an enemy without mercy would ask a man to kill his shield brother.
Thor and Loki had made a secret oath, long, long ago, that they weren't shield brothers—they were something greater. And any name they used as a definition inevitably fell flat, was lacking, mocked what they felt in their hearts the two of them stood for. Loki ended up calling the two of them the Sons of Odin, which was in his view, all-encompassing. Thor was more straightforward—he called Loki Brother, and that was enough.
Loki had turned his back on their oath, pulling taut the golden strings of fate between them, but Thor had to be the one to cut it through, if he was willing. And he was not willing. He could no more stab a sword into his own father's back, or throw down his hammer on his mother's chest. These were the terrible, forbidden deeds that defied a person's morals and would colour a soul black—they were never to be done, no matter how painful the alternatives were.
What Thor loved in Loki would always outweigh his hate for the crimes Loki committed. This was the brother who would correct Thor's childhood posture, who would help Thor with his lessons, who would be at Thor's side the moment any trouble struck (even if it was caused by his own hands), who taught Thor the difference between a true smile and a fake one, who taught Thor the names of the stars in their universe. He'd been the one who'd pointed out the dim glimmer of Earth, so many years before. Loki may've forgotten by now, but Thor remembered. Thor kept.
"Thor," said Jane, her fragile hand clutching at his armor, right above his family sigil.
"Shhh," Thor whispered, not able to feel her touch at all.
Loki had taught Thor the meaning of brother, and the power of lies.
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