#fotm

[setzeri]

Looking back on the memes and trends of 2024. Full illustration collection on Pixiv.

[chaoticevilbean]

Spirit-Touched, Spirit-Keen

The South Pole is a dangerous place. Between polar bear dogs and mink snakes, ice and snow covering everything, and the Polar Night, life is difficult to sustain.

For the Water Tribe, they acknowledged the dangers of their world long ago, and never looked back. Methods were developed, traditions formed, and life kept on regardless of the harsh winds trying to blow it all away.

Waterbenders made it easier. They built homes out of the ice, kept boats out of currents, and were mighty hunters in the world built for their gifts.

The Fire Nation attacked.

Again and again, until there were few waterbenders left, and few warriors, and fewer of everything.

Born in one of the worst storms they’d had in a long while, Sokka was told he was their hope. All children are, but his birth was a sign. They would survive the cold, and the winds, and the strain of existing, and would adapt to the new way of living, just as he did.

He thought that it was nice they found a sign in his birth. It might not be a sign from the Spirits, a single child born in a harsh Polar Night storm, but it didn’t have to be. It provided hope.

Katara was born during the warmest time they’d had the entire Midnight Sun of that year, with nearly clear skies for hours on either side.

Sokka asked what that meant, when he could. They said it didn’t really mean anything. He asked how his birth meant something, but his little sister’s didn’t.

Gran Gran spoke over the others.

“She will have a difficult life, but she will overcome it. We all will.” His father looked confused, he remembered. He didn’t know his father could be confused. “She’s a waterbender. The warmest of our times, with the most Sun, those are her hardest hours. But she is here, and she will make it.”

That made sense to him. Maybe Gran Gran just made it up on the spot, but the same could be said for his own “sign”.

~

He is different, he learns. He is different like the tiger seal is to the turtle seal.

At a year old, he was able to understand his family and tribe better than he later found he should’ve - Gran Gran never hesitates to answer his questions. Yet he never once spoke, instead finding that he could signal what he needed easily. 

His father claims that the most shocking moment in that year was when Sokka used a piece of bone he found to “whistle” a long, high tone: ‘Come’, to a seasoned hunter. He had come, and found that the toddler needed help with his coat.

When Katara was born, Sokka spoke aloud for the first time.

“This is mine. I will die for you,” he had said to the smaller child.

She’d gurgled at him. He had nodded seriously and patted her head as gently as possible.

“Yes. I will live for you, too.”

But just waiting to speak aloud isn’t enough to be as different as he is. He knows this. It shows in other ways. He asks questions, ones that no one else seems to think about. He plays only when his father tells him the game will prepare him for hunting, or when Bato jokes that running will help keep him warm - it will keep him warm, joke or not.

He has dreams, ones that bring more questions to ask, but they are always the right ones to solve the great mystery he’d found the day before. He hears things on the wind, voices carried around that no one else pays attention to.

He is different, and no one says anything against it. Why would they?

~

He was five.

It was the Polar Night. The village was ill-prepared, regardless of their efforts. Resources were short before it ever darkened.

The men went out. Again and again, they went to gather food, fuel, anything and everything.

A blizzard trapped them out. They could only hunker down and hope for the best, or they would become lost to the storm.

The villagers left behind crowded into their largest tent. They managed to fit. Some sighed. They remembered when it would be impossible to fit even a hunterless village in this tent.

Fuel was running out. Body heat only did so much, and the blizzard showed no signs of stopping soon.

They had two hours left. Two hours before the fire died, Gran Gran said.

“Let us pray,” an elder suggested. “Pray to the Spirits that we may survive.”

There was an agreement. The children wondered what to do, those that could. Their mothers guided them into positions, gently telling them what to do.

“Mom, who do we pray to?” Katara asked, ready before any of the others.

“To the Moon, and to the Ocean. Tui and La. Pray to Tui and La for the storm to end.”

Sokka watched as the other members of his tribe closed their eyes, watched the little ones curl closer to their parents and the slightly less little ones peeking out every few seconds. He watched his sister and mother and grandmother stay serene and serious.

He couldn’t help that his thoughts were overwhelmed with questions, ones he didn’t want in the way if he prayed. Why Tui and La? They protected the tribe, but did they control blizzards? What if stopping the storm in one place meant it reappeared in a different place. Tui and La keep the balance. There has to be a give and take.

He shook his head and tried to pray.

It sounded like he was just speaking in his head. He ignored how weird it felt. The Spirits were there, even if he couldn’t see them. Like the Sun.

‘Tui and La-’ He stopped. No.

‘Spirits. All of you. Any of you. We need help. We’re in a blizzard. It’s bad. Really bad. If you can help- if you can give us anything, anything that will help us survive this, we will accept it. I don’t want the balance of the world ruined. I just want something to help.

Any of you. Whatever you can give. Please. I know we’re small, and we don’t have anything to give that we don’t need. But we believe. Is that enough? We believe in you. Can you help us? Please?’ He paused. ‘Pretty please with a polar berry on top?’

For a long moment, he sat there, his head empty as he just breathed and waited. A thought interrupted the silence of his mind, saying he should open his eyes. Clearly, nothing more would happen.

Only he couldn’t.

Trying to move his hands, trying to move his head, trying to just open his eyes. All of it failed, as though his body just didn’t want to listen. It didn’t hurt, or feel like he should be moving and wasn’t. His body heard him, and decided to ignore him.

He breathed again, feeling that his chest moved fine and his body moved in the motion.

He let his mind go empty again.

It wasn’t empty. There was something in it now, that wasn’t his.

Help? Why, child? You are not mine.

He didn’t know who the words were. But he knew the answer.

‘Is that all that matters? We need help.’

You are not mine.

‘And I don’t even know your name. But I am still asking for help. Help from you, from anyone and everyone willing to help.’

Anyone?

‘And everyone.’

A good answer, child. Even without it, I would help-

‘But it’s nice to talk to people?’

The chuckle was deep, warm. Sokka felt like when his dad patted his head.

Yes, child. It is good to talk.

There was another pause, one that felt like when his mom was talking to someone else shortly before coming back to their conversation. The Spirit was probably talking to someone.

Help is on the way.

‘Thank you. Thank you, Spirit.’

Agni. Worry not, child, for we will keep you safe.

‘Sokka.’

There was another chuckle, and then the voice was gone, gone back to wherever they came from. The warmth faded, leaving only the heat of his tribe to keep the chill away.

He still couldn’t move. So he focused on breathing deeply instead. Gran Gran said that breathing deeply cleared the mind.

He could hear his people. They began breaking their prayers, muttering amongst themselves. He heard someone put fuel in the fire.

He heard Katara whisper to their mother. He heard the muttering getting louder as more people opened their eyes. There was more fuel added to the fire.

Was it really that long? He couldn’t tell.

He could tell that there were many people speaking now. He could hear their voices, though the words were somehow unknown, a different language to him. He heard the fuel get added again and again.

Someone touched his shoulder. His body didn’t respond.

Voices got closer, then further. He heard the tent go quiet. Gran Gran’s voice was the only one, speaking soft and strong, before fading. The fire cracked. Fuel was added.

He felt the fire weaken. He felt it start to die. The heat faded, slowly and surely.

He felt it go out.

The tent was only heated by the people within, now. A chill swept in from the doorway. A child whimpered, then fell silent.

Sokka breathed.

There was something in him.

He breathed more deeply.

It grew bigger. It was warm, like the Spirit. Big, warm, full. It traveled through his body, pooling in several places, following paths he couldn’t figure out. Yet.

The cold lost its bite. It was there, but no longer did it hurt. Like how fur could feel rough and coarse one moment and soft the next.

Then that new warmth spread beyond him, traveling through the air. He felt his sister move closer, stop, and then lean into his side. Puchi did the same on his right.

He finally opened his eyes. He took a deep breath and looked at his grandmother.

“Gran Gran, who is Agni?”

The room was still, waiting. Gran Gran looked at him, then smiled lightly.

“Agni is the Sun, the brother of Tui. He gives us fire, and it is through him that firebenders have power.”

“Fire?”

“Yes, Sokka. Fire.”

He nodded. His gaze moved to the smoking pit, empty of Agni’s gift.

But Sokka was full of it.

He reached out a hand, clenched in a fist. Slowly but firmly, letting his instincts guide him like a true hunter, he turned the fist over. When his fingertips faced the roof, he stopped.

The fire ignited as he opened his hand.

It stayed there the entire time. Not once did it waver, not even when the storm faded.

When the men arrived, calling out in panic and worry, their voices hoping that the others made it, his mother closed his hand again. He looked in concern at his lap, wondering why she did it. His arm wasn’t tired in his lap.

“Don’t let the men see,” she told him, rubbing his arms in reassurance. Katara was crawling back into their mother’s jacket, but glanced at him in worry. She didn’t understand what she saw, then.

“Not even Dad?”

“No. Not yet. We have lost much to fire, even as it gives us life. Anger can blind people, can cause them to act in ways they normally wouldn’t.”

“You don’t want them to be angry at me?”

“I don’t want them to turn their anger at the Fire Nation on you.”

Sokka understood. He thinks a child shouldn’t have, but he is different.

“Okay. Okay.”

[somelonelywordmonger]

Trying to live, but feeling so damaged And all shall be well, all shall be well...

"Perfume and Milk" by Florence + the Machine

[heartswillbindyou]

[tagedeszorns]

In the light of recent events ... 😁

[btswritingcafe]

monthly picks by our network’s coffeehouse chat members to you!

americano kisses | myg — @sunshinejunghoseokie

The best part about working at Minju’s Perfect Cup had been the man with the gummy smile. When you come home after spending three years abroad, you find yourself wondering what could have been if only you had stayed.

• pairing: barista yoongi x

• genre: fluff, angst, coffee shop au, f2l

• word count: 4.2k

read here

— sarah @stopeatingwhales

Here are some of my favourite parts: Second paragraph is really beautifully written and described - love it! Paragraph 5: really beautifully written again :) ‘You found solace in the lingering smell of coffee and steamed milk stains littering your apron at the end of a long shift as you rode the bus back to your dorm, feet aching and eyelids heavy.’ I LOVE THIS I really like how Yoongi wasn’t introduced straight away, it provides more context and also creates a warm feeling overall throughout the story! :) ‘His dark eyes - the same color as melted chocolate, the sight of them leaving you as jittery as a cup of fresh coffee - were deeper than any valley or canyon you had ever seen and you often found yourself drowning in them. The deep timber of his voice easily became your favorite sound, the chime of his laughter your favorite song.’ BEAUTIFUL!!! ‘The last person you expect to find standing behind you is none other than Min Yoongi, plastic grocery bags in hand. His face is unreadable, void of any indication of what’s going on inside of his mind, or what’s going on inside of his heart.’ My heart broke I swear ‘You want him to know that for the past three years, your heart has stayed in Seoul with him.’ I can’t handle this what the hell ‘Paying it attention only seems to feed the ill feeling, the discomfort growing until it threatens to consume everything that happened to be in its path.’ Do you mean ‘paying attention to it’? ‘spreading until every last one of your nerve endings is alive and buzzing with energy’ love this

Yoongi and his refusal to let you see yourself home after you had closed up the cafe for the night, even if the sun was still making its descent in the sky, leaving the moon and stars in their wake.’ I love the repetition of ‘Yoongi’ for each paragraph - creates a really heartfelt effect ‘Some people are artists, others are the art themselves.’ IM CRYING THIS IS SUCH A BEAUTIFUL PHRASE ‘It’s impossible to tell where you end and Yoongi begins.’ So cute overall, this fit was so cute and I loved every part of it ! you are a beautiful writer, i'm so astounded by your writing!

— dae @toikiii​

This was very cute!! You do an amazing job of describing the scenery and it makes me feel like i've just been dropped of into the middle of the fic. I really enjoyed the tidbits of insight to the mc's life before she moved to the US. The 8 paragraphs after "It’s easy to fall back into a rhythm" is one of my favourite sections in the fic ever. Your word choice really helps sell the atmosphere and tone of the fic.

— mei @meirkive​

I'm going to start this feedback by saying how much I loved the little metaphor related to coffee in the first paragraphs (“leaving you as jittery as a cup of fresh coffee), because it really sets the cute feeling that usually surrounds a coffee shop AU and adds to the whole atmosphere. Loved it! I think I found a couple of typos (literally two, I think), but the grammar and sentences are very good and the dialogues between characters all have a good flow. Perhaps things are written as too perfect and with little to none struggles for this story to feel 100% realistic, but in this case it works and it's very fluffy and cute. The way you described the cafe itself was just * chef's kiss * There were so many small details and you used all senses to introduce the place (what it smells like, how the baristas move around, the sounds) and THAT's how it should always be. I could perfectly visualize it, it all felt very real. Another thing I really appreciated is how you embed bits of the past and the characters memories without actually jumping in whole flashback paragraphs that may distract the reader from the main plot and just ruin the flow of the story. Especially loved how you naturally introduced some of the costumers.

On a more negative note (but that's really just my personal taste), I don't think this story should be considered as a reader insert and the constant use of Y/N kept sort of taking me out of the plot. It's really a personal matter and I don't intend on offending nor insulting your work in any way, but this “You” is too specific to be considered as an actual, generic and neutral reader insert. They have a tattoo, they have straight short hair with bangs and they're an artist. So, to me personally, it's an original character done and finished, but with no first name. Which, mind you, is far from being a bad thing (I prefer ocs over reader inserts), but I think that for somebody that doesn't have said specific characteristics, it would be hard to get into the story and relate to reader. Then again, this is a problem of about 90% of Y/N and I am very biased, since I prefer stories with proper original characters, and my intention was not to undermine your writing.

[ezravogel-artfeed]

Nuleire from Fate of the Mediel

[halohamilton]

Fic of the month: March

Just like a woman by superglass @gaymoustache

Rating: Not Rated

Words: 16.6k

“Hey!”

The man startles up, blinking around before tilting his head up to catch Louis’ gaze. His eyes are wide and innocuous, like a child, and he parts his cherry lips in search of the words on his tongue. In French, jumbled conjugations and a smidge too much of an English accent:  “Oui? Tout va bien?”

He shakes his head. And responds, in English: “Yeah, erm— what are you?”

An even more frightened look in return; even the little old landlord passing through the courtyard glances up at him like he’s gone crazy. “ Est-ce que tout se passe bien, Mr Tomlinson?”

“Oui, oui,” Louis says, waving him off with a flick of his wrist before focusing his attention back on the man and his daughters. Come on, he thinks, I’ve got to get this down before I forget. He repeats himself: “What are you?”

Lips spreading into an amused smile now, something sensational, an unbelievably charming smile. Oh god, Louis thinks. He’s probably too charming for his own good. “I’m… um… a person? Is this a trick question?”

or

Louis is a writer living in Paris for the year. Harry is the charming art student and au pair of the family across the courtyard. Paris 1970s au.