Insp.

TW: animal death / animal neglect

I wanted to draw this comic for a long time, but I never knew how to approach this issue. In my childhood all my friends had budgies, all of them were put aside somewhere and left alone. Treated like “annoying” decoration. Don’t get a bird if you can’t meet its needs.

I made a field guide about the Korok Forest (but it’s magical!)

Hello 🙂 for the one hundred ways to say I love you I’ll ask you number 99! Thank you!

100 Ways to Say I Love you - "Be Careful" (Supercorp)

Maybe one of my shortest ficlets. A little Post-Phantom Zone reunion with a touch of angst.

Lena’s voice had been noticeably absent from the chorus of goodbyes from everyone gathered at the Watchtower as Kara prepared to head out on patrol. Something that she had tried not to notice, tried not to allow her mind to spin into some hurtful bit of fiction but as she prepared to head out on patrol she could feel herself doing just that. It didn’t surprise her... Not only did Kara have a way with words but she had months of incredibly painful memories to draw from back when she and Lena had been estranged, a deep well to draw fetid water from.. . Despite the careful progress the two had made since her return from the Phantom Zone, maybe they weren’t as okay as she thought they were… “Kara…” Lena’s voice floated to her from down the hall from the direction she had just come. There was the measured staccato click of her heels as she approached and when Lena drew closer the unmistakable beating of her heart, the tempo increasing ever so slightly when their eyes met... “Lena… Is something wrong?” Lena smiled shyly and shook her head., eyes trained momentarily on the ground before she looked up again and Kara was almost overcome with just how green Lena’s eyes truly were. The verdant green of some unending grassy meadow or the glittering ethereal beauty of delicately cut emeralds. “Nothing’s wrong,” Lena assured her. “I just…” She exhaled slowly and Kara took a step closer, concerned. “Promise me something?” she asked and before Kara could agree to Lena’s terms, she spoke again. “Be careful… Promise me that you’ll be careful, Kara.” Kara might have told her that she was just going out on patrol, that she had a better chance of being hounded for a picture than happening across an actual crime in progress but she saw the poorly masked fear on Lena’s face, the slight tremble in her hands and couldn’t get the words out. “I just got you back,” Lena whispered, throwing back the curtain on the root of her fear. “And I can’t…” She clamped her mouth shut and shook her head, dropping her gaze again as her shoulders started to hitch. “I can’t…” She trailed off again and shook her head, unable to get the words out but she didn’t need to. Kara already knew what she wanted to say. “I can’t lose you, Lena,” Kara said and took Lena gently by the shoulders and pulled her into a hug that Lena melted into, arms wrapping tightly around Kara’s back, her head coming to rest against her shoulder. “I promise that I’ll be careful,” Kara whispered, pressing her lips to Lena’s temple, still holding onto her tight, tight. “And you’re here now,” she whispered and felt her eyes mist over. There were no more secrets between them, no more lies, and now all that remained was the simple fact that they were two people who loved one another very much. “Right here with me,” Kara whispered. “Right where I always wanted you to be.” Lena nodded earnestly against Kara's shoulder and nuzzled closer, tears sliding down her cheeks that Kara did her best to brush away as gently as she could. She tilted her head slightly to the side and Kara felt Lena's hands glide down her sides sending a rush of blood to her head that made her feel the slightest bit dizzy. Her hands settled securely around Kara's waist and she lifted her head up from Kara's shoulder, eyes sparkling. "I'll be here," Lena said and pointed back towards the room in the Watchtower they had both just vacated. "And here." She pointed to Kara's ear. "And here," she whispered and pressed her hand over Kara's heart. She rose up half an inch onto the tips of her toes, lips brushing dangerously close against Kara's ear that got her heart racing. "Go get 'em, Supergirl."

A smile as bright as the rising sun lit up Kara's face and while she would have liked nothing more than to scoop Lena up into her arms and fly somewhere private... somewhere romantic, she knew that there would be time for that later, tonight maybe if all was quiet. "Dinner later? If you don't mind waiting," Kara said, giving Lena an out. "As long as you let me pay," Lena said and while her eyes were still damp, she looked like she was more than ready to dig her heels in if needed. "Deal," Kara said, rising a couple of inches off the ground, feeling so deliriously happy that she might have been able to fly on just that feeling alone and flew backwards, not wanting to take her eyes off of Lena, nearly flying into a water cooler before she finally turned around and put on a burst of speed, flying out and over the city. She couldn't remember the view ever looking so magnificent. "You both left your comms on," Alex said her voice filtering in through her suit's comms. "Next time maybe switch to a private channel," she suggested, her voice brimming with poorly restrained glee.

Omg can you write a one shot where Lexa is paid by her college peers to write love letters to their gfs/ppl they want to date. So Finn asks her to write for Clarke and it becomes a constant. Until one day clarke goes up to her and says I know its you

OKAY. So this has been sitting in my asks for like a year. There will be a few (but short-ish) parts to this. And before anyone asks, this is not based off of “The Half of It” ... but here ya go.

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Letters

PART 1

It was Polis Record’s fault. Lexa’s atrocious week was definitely Polis Record’s fault. Had Titus not been a complete asshat of a manager and dicked the schedule around, Lexa certainly wouldn’t be having this predicament. Had Lexa’s hours not have been cut back, she wouldn’t be where she was. Had Lexa not known that her next paycheck would be half of what it normally was, she wouldn’t be writing a fake love letter to the devastatingly beautiful girl in her Astronomy class. Had Finn Collins not offered her cash to do so, she wouldn’t be writing this letter on his behalf, even though she was the one that’s had an earth-shattering crush on the recipient ever since their Freshmen orientation, four long years ago.

Let’s rewind.

“Titus, are you kidding me?” Lexa huffed at the bald-headed man who was scurrying around the break room like a headless chicken. “You did what?”

“Lexa, listen,” he tried to calm her down. “The schedule will be back to normal before you know it. I had to hire her. There wasn’t another way around it.”

She was mad. No. More than mad, “There was. But you just didn’t have the balls to tell your mistress’ best friend that you already had a full roster of people on your fucking schedule.”

“Can you keep it down!” He hissed. “This is temporary. I’m sorry. I couldn’t dock my cousin, okay? The schedule will even itself back out. You’ll be back to selling these shitty, scratched up vinyls in no time. Ride it out for two weeks, it won’t kill you.”

What he didn’t realize was that two weeks of half-pay because of shitty scheduling could actually kill her. He just didn’t realize that. There was the pressure of doing well in school, that was one thing. But there was also the pressure of doing well enough to keep her GPA high enough to keep her partial scholarship. And then the pressure of her shitty part-time job at the local record store to help make early payments to her student loans so she wouldn’t have to worry about crippling herself into debt once she figured out what to do with a fucking degree in Geology.

“Two weeks,” she warned him as she started to storm out. “This better be fixed in two weeks, Titus.”

Spoiler alert: Two weeks had come and gone, and Lexa was still screwed off of her work schedule.

“C’mon,” Finn pleaded at Lexa’s side. He had managed to weasel his way into the vestibule of Lexa’s apartment building. “I took that writing class with you last year. I know you’re good. I just need one letter. Typed. That’s it.”

She was already on the verge of a massive outburst after her conversation with Titus. The dickwad that he was, managed to screw her hours up for another week, even though he promised he wouldn’t, “This is not a good time, Finn. Seriously.”

“$200.” He stood tall in front of her. “$200 in cash right now, and all you need to do is type up a page of words that will have her vaguely interested in the person who wrote it, and that’s it. $200 right now. If you do this, then I’ll never bother you for anything again.” He scratched the back of his neck, “Listen, I just need a good way in. I can take the rest from there, okay?”

$200 was enough to cover a good portion of what she would be missing out on for the week. $200 was enough to get by. $200 was enough to get her mind to start churning.

“$300 and it’s a deal,” she tried to match his height. She straightened her back and broadened her shoulders as far as she could.

He laughed at the request, “You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“You’re the one that needs me,” she reminded me.

He let out a huff and pulled another Benjamin out of his leather wallet and clumped it with the other two. “Fine,” he shook his head as he handed her the wad of cash.

Lexa nodded as she took the money. She buried the pang of guilt she felt into her pocket, alongside the earnings she just made and was ready to make way up the two flights of stairs when she felt Finn grab her arm.

“Hey,” he called out. “Wait a sec. I started a letter already, but didn’t get very far. You can just go off of this,” he handed her a folded piece of paper.

She opened it and read it aloud, “Have you ever felt like you couldn’t breathe? Like the weight of everything you’ve been carrying has amounted to this one moment in your life? Like there’s this burden placed so heavy on your chest that has left your lungs struggling for any ounce of air?”

Finn nodded as the words poured out of Lexa’s mouth. He was more than proud of what he thought was eloquently poetic. Lexa’s look of confusion went missed by him as he crossed his arms over his chest, “Pretty good, right?”

“Finn,” she deadpanned. “It sounds like you just described having the fucking Spanish Flu. I’m not using this. You sound like a serial killer.”

“What?” he yelped. “It’s poetic!”

“It’s a terrifying beginning to what’s supposed to be a love letter,” she deadpanned again. She shook her head as she finally made her way to the flight of stairs, “Give me a few days, I’ll come up with what we need.”

He rolled his eyes, “Fine. But you better make it good.”

She made it good. She made it really fucking good.

Clarke ran her fingertips over the paper as she scanned the words again. She had no idea who had left it for her—she walked into the lecture hall a few minutes early, as she normally did, and saw an envelope pinned to the corkboard with “Clarke” scribbled on it. She looked around, wanted to see if anyone in particular was looking in her direction. It was the usual suspects that always got to class a little bit early. Monty, the one who was always quiet in class but loudest at the neighborhood bar during happy hour. Echo, the girl who always sat in the back row and snoozed as soon as the professor opened her mouth. Finn, the boy who always found a way to have an uncalled for argument with the professor. Lexa, the one who was always in the front row and tended to herself.

Not a single one of them was paying her a piece of mind, so she let her eyes scan the letter one last time before the room filled up.

Clarke,

I was sitting on the lawn behind the library catching up on reading for a class last week. I was skimming through Voltaire’s words:

“Sensual pleasure passes and vanishes, but the friendship between us, the mutual confidence, the delight of the heart, the enchantment of the soul, these things do not perish and can never be destroyed.”

This particular passage struck a chord with me, and it was mostly because when I looked up after reading it, I immediately saw you consoling who I’d assume to be a friend of yours. I’m not sure what had happened, but she looked like she was crying and you showed up with a blanket to sit on, a bowl of fresh fruit, and sat with her and listened intently while she spoke. It was life imitating art, right before my eyes.

Voltaire’s writing is mostly straight and to the point. It isn’t hard to decipher the messages he often tries to relay, but it was most certainly a breath of fresh air to finish that passage to find a parallel to present day. Your actions on that lawn helped me see things a little clearer.

I suppose I just wanted to thank you for that. SO, thank you for being the catalyst for making something in my brain click.

Before I close this letter off, I do have a question for you. And if you feel so inclined to indulge and answer it, you can drop it back into the envelope where you found this one and pin it back to the board.

Has anything happened to you recently that struck a chord? Something that stood out to you, but you haven’t had a chance to dive deeper into it? I’d like to know.

Enjoy your week, Clarke.

Upon tucking the printed note under her laptop, she took another look around the hall, which was now practically full. She moved her computer to the side and pulled a notepad out of her bag. The professor had started her lecture, but Clarke’s mind wandered from the images pulled up on the projector from the Spritzer space telescope as her pen started to move across the page.

Hello,

I believe you’re at an unfair advantage here. You know my name. You know what I look like. Yet I have absolutely no idea who you are. So if you write back to this, I’m hoping you’ll share some insight on the person behind the pen (or keyboard, in your instance).

I’m happy that the interaction you saw helped bring better insight into what you were working on. Coincidentally, the friend that I was with when you saw me is also reading a Voltaire piece for an assignment. I wonder if you’re in the same class?

She’s taking “Romance Studies” as an elective. I tried to convince her that there was no point harping on what was considered to be “romantic” through archaic literary pieces that are now long gone, and replaced with mediocre-at-best Netflix series about teenage love.

It always seemed that with the way things were going in our lifetime… that all “romance” really was, was when two people swiped right on Tinder.

With that said… I guess I can honestly say that your letter is what struck a chord with me. Especially after freshly coming out of that conversation with my friend.

I don’t want to be presumptuous. But it seems that this gesture of yours, whether it was meant to be platonic, or if it was meant to imply a sense of something more, is making me realize that maybe—just maybe—the practice of sharing words on a page isn’t so archaic after all.

-Clarke

She was happy with the end result of what was hurriedly committed to the page. Clarke quickly tore it from her notebook and tucked the loose piece of paper back into the envelope. She scanned her fellow students to see if anyone was watching her. She slunk further into her seat and wondered if the recipient was there, sitting in that very room. Unfortunately for her, the lecture that was being given on the Nebular Theory kept the attention of every other person in the hall, so she quickly reached for her computer to start typing notes on the theory’s premise of how every planet in the system was formed.

A tedious hour later, her fellow classmates started packing up and rushed towards the exit door. Clarke took her time shutting her computer down and tucking things away into her bag. She was suddenly aware that the person who wrote to her—the person she now wrote to—could be in the room watching her to see if she had a written response back.

She waited a few more minutes, and finally deemed it safe when the last few people in the room seemed to be chatting with one another or finishing up straightening their notes from the lecture. With a big exhale, she pinned the envelope back onto the board and made a swift exit.

Lexa felt a tap to her shoulder, which caused her to look up, “What do you want?”

“I think it worked. She put the envelope back!” the excitement in Finn’s face didn’t go unnoticed.

“Okay,” Lexa lowered her head to finish writing out her notes from the class. “Job’s done.”

“I’m gonna go get it so we can read it and figure out what to do next,” he giddily let out before darting out of Lexa’s peripheral.

She let out a sigh of distaste when he came back half a minute later and pulled a chair close to where she was sitting. “Finn, you said one letter. I did it. This is on you now. And if you don’t mind, I need to finish up here,” she raised her hand, showing she was still trying to get some of her notes done.

“Fine, suit yourself,” he propped his feet onto the table in front of them while he silently read Clarke’s reply. “Hmm, Voltaire?”

The author’s name caught Lexa’s attention. She suddenly looked up to where he was sitting, “What about him?”

“I don’t know. Clarke said something about him. That’s the bad dude from Harry Potter, right?” Finn brought his attention back to the letter. “What did our letter even say? You never even showed me.”

He handed Lexa the notebook page with loopy and wide writing on it. The edges were jagged, as if Clarke did the whole thing in haste.

“What do you want me to do with that?” Lexa eyed the piece of paper.

“Read it and let me know if you think she likes me,” Finn shrugged. “But also, why didn’t you put my number or something on it?”

“Because it’ll probably take more than one letter for her to even be open to the idea of you,” Lexa chided in her reply. She let her eyes quickly scan the girlish handwriting and folded the paper back up. “She’s definitely intrigued.”

Finn finally set his feet on the floor as he leaned forward and rubbed his hands together, “Okay, great! So what do we do now?”

“We,” Lexa pointed her pen between the two of them. “Do nothing. You can write another letter and see if she wants anything to do with you, Finn.”

“C’mon,” he nudged her shoulder. “I’ll pay ya for another one. Another $300. But we need an exit plan for when we move this from letters to texting or something.”

“Her reply literally just said that we’ve opened the idea to her that letters are romantic,” Lexa shook her head. “Your take on that was to immediately turn this to a texting conversation?”

He grabbed the letter from Lexa, “What? Where’d she said that? It doesn’t say that, Lexa.” He scratched his head.

Lexa let out a defeated sigh, “Finn. She literally said something like, ‘maybe the practice of sharing words on a page isn’t so archaic’ or something. Did we not just read the same piece of paper?”

“See, Lexa,” he smiled as he patted her shoulder. “This is why I need you. Just one or two more. Same price per letter. I just need a little more help and then I’ll be outta your hair. Promise.”

She took her palm to her forehead and rubbed her thumb into her temple. One more wouldn’t hurt. Mostly because the $300 definitely wouldn’t hurt.

“Fine,” she finally let out. “One more. Give me her letter back. I’ll have our reply ready for this same class next week.”

“Excellent,” he grinned as he handed the piece of paper over to her. “You’re a lifesaver, Lexa.”

She felt anything but that. But at least it meant she’d be able to get by for the next week or two, while Titus still screwed around with her hours at the record store.

Cape.

is it possible to fall in love with tiny wisps of hair on the back of a neck? or would it make more sense to say that she’s in love with the owner of the neck with the tiny wisps of hair swaying ever so slowly as the evening breeze waltzes through the open windows of her apartment. 

kara can’t seem to take her eyes off of them.

it’s as if they’re coaxing her to touch them — calling out to her in a tiny voice that says come here, come closer, touch us with your gentle fingers — and kara does, kara really wants to, but alex is here and sitting next to her is kelly. sam is on the other side of lena, engaged in a lively conversation with the only couple in the room, and kara is just… staring, facing lena, one arm propped on the back of the couch, elbow bent so her fist is resting against the side of her head, and chin resting on her bicep.

it can’t be the alien alcoholic beverage that sam brought along with her nor is it the fact that she’s just recently recovered from another solar flare. it just doesn’t make sense. it wouldn’t explain the one time she caught herself looking at the back of lena’s neck during their first game night with her; not the one where she’s standing behind lena, saying things about wanting to rebuild their trust, momentarily distracted by those tiny wisps of hair before lena inevitably turned to her with a curious frown. 

none of those moments had involved alcohol or… or solar flare. 

it just… is. it’s just because of lena and her slender neck, her soft-looking skin, those tiny—

“what?”

in her distracted state, kara misses the moment when lena finally feels the weight of her stare and turns to her with a small smile, bordering confused — her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink under kara’s gaze. 

she’s so close.

kara meets her eyes and… she doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t make a single sound. merely shrugs her shoulders, eyes searching lena’s green ones, dropping briefly on her red lips, slightly parted and wet from the red wine, then back up at her green eyes. 

“what’s wrong?” lena asks again, tilting her body towards her this time, but only just enough that it doesn’t rouse other guests. it brings her even closer to kara, effectively stealing the air from her lungs.

kara shakes her head again, incapable of words now that lena’s facing her; tiny, wispy, little hairs now gone but replaced by the mesmerizing sight her eyes. she sighs longingly, stretching her arm so her hand lands near lena’s neck, fingers brushing ever so lightly on those tiny, little strands of hair. lena shudders, a natural reaction, especially in that particular area, but it affects kara in a way that makes her want to do it again and again, and again, and again—

alex, kelly, and sam be damned.

she just wants to touch her there forever, caress her slowly and lull her to sleep. she wants to see those eyelashes fluttering shut, wants to be the reason why lena is comfortable and sleepy and—

kara’s heart aches.

“darling?”

kara breathes out, slowly but steady, and before she chickens out, she moves forward and presses her lips so, so lightly against lena’s. it’s the softest kiss she’s ever had and ever given someone; the bravest kiss she’s ever pursued, uncaring of the sudden silence in her living room, of the shuffling of feet and the crumpling of paper bags to be disposed of. kara barely hears alex’s goodbye before she pulls away, pressing her forehead against lena’s with a nervous sigh.

“was that okay?” kara asks, heart beating loud and fast against her ribs as she brushes her thumb across lena’s neck, urging — begging — her to open those beautiful eyes of hers. “lena?”

lena lets out a watery laugh, finally meeting kara’s gaze with so much love in those pools of green. 

“more than okay, my love.” 

—

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Korrasami Week Day Eight

Because apparently there’s an eight day...? Oooh, I’m so happy there is. Well, here’s the last one (a little bit shorter, a little bit sadder), hopefully you’ll enjoy this one, too. It’s been a blast to take part in this fun little week, go check out other people’s works: I saw many others share their art in honor of Korrasami Week.

Without further ado, here’s my last, and thanks to everyone who read :)

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Prompt: free day (unspoken)

Even if you aren't completely healed, Asami writes, even if you can't walk, ever again, the paper scars under the ink, please.

She retraces the word until the page wrinkles around the curls of the letters.

Please, please, she writes and struggles and flails and drowns in the river of her emotions.

A drop of ink splashes on the last words, don't give in, I know you think yourself useless, but I don't want the next Avatar, I want you. Don't give in.

The blare of a faraway siren pierces the stillness of her office

Asami tries to breath, I can be strong enough for both of us, I can hope for both of us she lies and even if I can't, I can be strong for you. Maybe not for me, but I will give up all of my strength for you.

A log sparks in the hearth, cleaves in two.

Until there's nothing left for me she tries to figure out how to stop the life bleeding out from her beating heart I know what it feels to be broken, in shards and splinters, I can rebuild myself, I already did, I know what to do to feel whole again.

I'm a builder she writes I replaced that mirror you broke at the Air Temple, her little finger itches, the puckered line of new tissue itching, but I'm not brave enough to face its reflection alone.

Asami's vision swims, and the letter seems endless. A rattle of thorn and teeth, a desire. I love you the words plunge in the space beneath her ribs I love you. Please come back to me. Please

There is a twitch of movement at the edge of her spotted vision. A flicker.

Do you still have my brooch? her smile aches It was selfish of me, but I wanted you to have a piece of me she confesses and the shine in her eyes burns to unshed tears.

And if you don't like it, she bleeds, even if you don't know it's from me-

The thought flashes in her mind like the rotating blink of a lighthouse.

Toss it in the ocean. But please. Come back. Or I can come to the South Pole, it's just a matter of hours. I-

She crosses out everything thrice, then crumples up the paper.

Dear Korra, she writes again, and let the words spiral in a whirlwind of calm, undamaged sentences about her week I went to the park yesterday after lunch because my assistant insisted I was spending too much time holed up in my office. So I did some cloudgazing, feeling like a child again and I saw a big long cloud that definitely looked like Naga.

Her words are perfectly aligned, each letter curling upwards on the blank page in a way that makes Asami want to cry. Her voice is raw, her body broken.

Korrasami Week Day Two

This idea spiraled into a direction I hadn’t predicted. Hope you’ll enjoy. Cheers :)

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Prompt: physical touch

Korra is six and likes to run her arms over Naga's fur, especially when they are huddled up in front of the fireplace and there's a storm howling outside.

Naga's white wool feels fuzzy on her bare skin, a ticklish sensation that leaves patches of shedding fur during the summer. She doesn't like it. Naga's thin hairs stick to her fingers, making it difficult for her to brush them away.

She prefers to be wrapped in a warm hug by her mother instead, and let Senna slowly run her fingers over her arms. They travel on the inside of her forearms before rising upwards, until they tickle her elbows and the nape of her shoulders.

Korra is eight and she's holding onto her father, standing outside the perimeter of the White Lotus Compound. She doesn't know what's waiting for her behind those metal doors, but she knows her father's touch intimately. Tonraq's huge hands envelop hers completely, leaving his thumb free to brush over her wrist.

She wonders if one day her hands will become like his, callous and hard and impossibly warm even in the snow. She recalls her mother's touch always feels cooler and dry on her skin. She wonders if that's the reason her parents often hold hands, to share warmth and coolness between each other.

The training white tape itches the first time she wraps it around her hands, but she's grateful she has taken the time to tighten it when she punches a wooden pole.

Korra is eleven and stubborn and angry. Master Katara had told her how Aang and her used to go penguin sledding together but the elders won't let her out of the compound in search for an otter penguin. So she decides to sneak out on her own to look for one.

The wind bites at her ears so she wraps one arm around her middle to keep warm. She conjures a small ball of fire on the palm of her hand, focusing on the burst that flows insides her. Her arms tingle in its wake and Korra relishes in the feeling.

Korra is twelve and Ikki's hands feel soft and wet as she grabs her wrist. The child is small and rosy cheeked, bundled up in a pile of furs. Her mother and Master Katara smile and coo at the two of them, while Korra grimaces a smile, wishing she could go back to practice waterbending instead of holding a baby's chubby fingers.

A year later, Korra feels a painful snap as something gives in her arm. She breaks an earthbending stance to curl on the ground, wailing in pain. Master Katara's face is bathed in light as she expertly bends a basin of warm water into a little disk, barely bigger than her wiry hand. The water coats Korra's arm and washes away the tears and the splitting pain, leaving behind a deep coolness in her bones that warms quickly.

Korra is fourteen when she dreams of rough hands that bind her legs together and force a piece of cloth inside her mouth, leaving painful bruises on her arms. A tight hold hauls her out of the bedroom window in her home and pushes her inside a cramped box that reeks of sweat and tears.

It feels like a nightmare on her waking skin, but it shakes her insides like a memory.

Korra is seventeen and her arms burn deliciously under the strain of Naga's pulling reins as the two of them escape the compound in the silent night.

The traditional Air Nomads robes itch her skin, but not as much as the Fire Ferret's uniform does. She always struggles with the protections. The ones with the Future Industries logo are softer, but made of a sturdier material. She feels the urge of scratching nonetheless, if only to chase away the annoyance with the dazzling smile and the emerald eyes.

The eerie mask of Amon glints under the shadow of Avatar Aang's statue. Her arms feel leaden, legs like wood as the chi blockers easily block her attacks. And when Amon takes her bending away, a coil of energy springs forward in her loose limbs, followed by a powerful surge of airbending that leaves her body singing.

Aang's touch is frigid like a ghost's, but warm like a cup of noodles.

Korra is seventeen and the cold of the sea bites at her fingers as they travel towards the South Pole, but Mako's pockets are warm. His hands run almost as hot as hers.

In the dull nights passed on the ship, Korra paces the tight hallways and feels like a caged animal. Asami's light is often lit in her cabin, the girl pouring over documents and numbers until late in the night. Korra watches her rubbing her hands together before offering to make some tea. When their hands brush over traded words and tea cups, Korra notices how cool Asami's feel.

Korra laughs and spills a bowl of popcorn over her shirt as Bolin nudges her from his seat during a thrilling scene of his last mover. The four of them are sitting in the last row of a darkened room with a huge image of Bolin staring down from the screen. The popcorn feels sticky on her bare skin and while trying to clean herself, she ends up making a mess all over Asami's silk shirt. The heiress laughs delightfully as she splutters an apology.

The energy of the spirit portal rumbles under her fingertips and for a moment she fears she won't be able to grasp it, let alone bend it.

Korra is eighteen when she loses the connection to her past lives. Her body shakes emptily, a low drumming that spreads to her core. Each touch is a numb print on her skin and for the first time her hands feel cold.

As she prepares to board the airship with a renewed skip in her steps, she chases down the excitement she feels at the dawn of a new adventure. She lets it collect in her belly and blames it when she can't fall asleep during the first night. Her shoulder is brushing Asami's under the covers, the two of them sharing a bed because of the cramped numbers of bedroom on the airship. Asami's feet are cold as her hands.

Korra is in Zaofu when she dreams about the same sets of rough hands, and the same bruising hold from her childhood nightmares.

The dream shakes her insides like the present.

Hazy and mellow, ready to slip into unconsciousness after the failed kidnapping attempt, Korra imagines Asami's shaking hand hovering over the top of her head. The image evokes a similar memory, one that involves her meditating into the spirit world under Asami's watchful eye.

The sand bites her cheeks as she watches Asami dabs at her sweaty forehead. Her hands are nimble and skilled even with a rusty welding torch, hanging precariously from a swing she had rigged up from scraps.

The same hands pry her fingers loose from the white knuckled grip she has on the phone after her surrender to Zaheer.

Korra is eighteen when poison travels up her limbs. It seeps into her arms and legs, spreading from the frozen circles of her shackles. It burns and burns and aches and burns, leaving a trail of boiling under her skin.

But Korra roars and rises over the pain.

She buckles and trembles and collapses in her wheelchair, armrest padded with a woolen lining. And when she tosses and turns in her bed, she swears she can still feel the poison burning her veins, despite having seen Su removing it from her body.

Asami touches her hands, following the lines of her palms. Korra can't tell if they feel cool to the touch.

Her arms stop hurting after two weeks, but they feel nothing compared to the aching numbness in her legs. Her thoughts are splintered, riddled with pain that freeze and fracture.

She welcomes the biting cold of the South Pole on her twitching fingers with a tired sigh.

Korra is twenty-one when she discovers the poison hadn't completely left her body. She cuts her hair and trudges forward, feeling the mud dampen her socks through the holes in her shoes. She covers her arms with white training tape.

The air of Republic City hangs ominously over her head, but Asami welcomes her back with a warm hug, hands coming to a rest over her shoulders. She's glad she's left her shoulders bare.

She tumbles and bruises in the Air Temple yard, and it feels good to train properly again. After each session of training, Asami's hand brushes hers while she hands her a tea cup.

Korra keeps her arms covered, not feeling brave enough to bare them.

Korra is twenty-one and Asami's body feels small as she curls beneath Korra's chin. The golden light of the new spirit portal hums and glows. In the darkness, Asami holds onto Korra's hands, clutching at her like a lifeline. They are still holding hands when they step into the spirit world.

Hello. Feel free to not post this if you feel it doesnt belong on your blog. Its just, I barely have any followers and I just want people to know. This is about Beirut. Lebanon was already on the brink of a famine, and in the midst of hyperinflation and economic disaster. This explosion.. its devastating. The word is not big enough. The ruling elite have completely murdered us and destroyed the city. Theyre blocking international aid. You read that right. They let ppl die waiting under debris fo

for days. They blocked rescue missions into the port to help. they didnt even move a finger to help clean up the city - the ppl went down and did it themselves. we need help. there militias are brainwashed and tomorrow the protests start (the mournign period ends today). it is going to be bloody. we have no one but each other, and the international community. People are dying still and everyone feels dead. I am not exagerrating. Everyone is afraid of what tomorrow will bring but we dont care. we have to take to the streets. they have to pay. and we need the world to watch over us because they refuse accountability and have weapons that we dont. But we have to do this, and we will do this, but we need your help. your donations, your push against them by condemning them on social media, we need it. Theyre BLOCKING INTERNATIONAL AID! that news broke me, but then i though of hanging them and felt better. I'm not violent. This is where I've reached. Help us, keep us in the news.

🙏🙏🙏

Well, according to physics, he's liquid

wait then what shape does sir mochi think his ears are

Mochi thinks he's pocket-sized, always trying to hide in small places. if he fits he sits - the real q is if he's aware he even has a physical form 😱