Studio BeauTea

writer | dreamer | artistpfp by @shaeru.in

About ME

Hello! My name is Kup.I'm a university student looking to expand my experience and portfolio through written commissions. I aspire to one day become a published author!I've had a passion for creative writing and storytelling since early childhood, manifesting primarily as shorter prose, poetry, and unecessarily eloquent wording inserted into the most casual of conversations. My love of fantasy, adventure, and romance genres has developed into a vividly descriptive and poetic writing style. I deliver engaging storytelling, evocative imagery, and an excellent grasp of pacing, diction, and tone.

Experience

Writer for Cosmiccowzine's 3rd Edition "Elements" FanzineWriter for Ode to the Blade's Technoblade memorial fanzine6+ years writing short stories and poetry5+ years editing and proofreading, 1 year proofreading for the
Hatigarm scanlation group

Contact

Email: [email protected]
Discord: teakuppi (faster responses)

Writing Portfolio

Original Works

(Do not use, reproduce, or repost.)

Fan Works

(Revelant characters and concepts in the following fan works belong to their respective owners.)

Avatar the Last Airbender:

Commissions

Commissions Status: OpenPayment: PayPal only, with a 50% upfront payment. Prices are negotiable depending on your budget!Refund Policy:
No refunds for client-side cancellations after a commission has been started. If I cancel a commission, a refund will be provided (negotiable depending on your preference for recieving a WIP in return for a partial refund).Turnaround Time:
As I am currently a working student, turnaround time can be subject to unreliability. I will do my best to complete commissions quickly, but things may come up in my personal life that take precedence over my ability to.The client can also expect a longer wait time if their request requires research, or if the complexity of the request is high.Story Edits:
I’m willing to make edits! Requests can be made at any time between when you submit the form and when I deliver the final story. After that, you’ll have a week to request new (simple) changes. Larger edits that greatly alter the content/plot/etc of the story might incur an additional fee.Style:
- First, Second, or Third POV
- Present (preferred) or Past tenseWill Write:- Original or Fanfic
- Mature content
- Non-canon ships
- Darker themes
- Mild violenceWon’t Write:- Explicit NSFW
- Excessive gore/violence
- Coursework (though I am open to proofreading)Anything not on these lists is up to my discretion. I reserve the right to refuse any commission without explanation.(Most Proficient) Fandoms:- Harry Potter / Fantastic Beasts
- Avatar the Last Airbender / Legend of Korra
- Ghibli
- Voltron
- Magnus Chase
- DND
- Dream SMP (Characters only)
- School of Good and Evil
- Various animated films (Disney, Pixar, etc.)
- Various anime/manga/webcomicsDon't hesitate to ask about my familarity with or willingness to research any fandoms not on this list!

Terms of Service

PLEASE READ!!This commission sheet, including but not limited to the prices, TOS, information, and products, is subject to change without announcement. Please read through the most current version before placing a commission!RIGHTS:The commission is only for the Client's personal and non-profit use unless discussed before the commission is accepted. I retain the right to use the commission in future examples of my writing (unless requested otherwise).If the client intends to use my writing as a part of a project they intend to monetize, or on a platform that the client intends to receive profit from, I am willing to License those rights for an additional (negotiable) fee of 150% of the original commission price.The ideas/concepts provided by the client (characters, plot, etc) remain theirs.OTHER:While my commissions are important to me, they do not take precedence over my personal life. This may extend to a period of inactivity from me, but I will try my utmost best to communicate to you if any incident arises that may hinder my ability to deliver your commission.

Products

(All prices are in USD)SHORT STORY
- 500 to 6,000 words
- $0.03 per word, or $30 for 1,000 wordsLONGER STORY Currently unavailable
- 7,000 to 15,000 words
- $0.04 per word, or $40 for 1,000 wordsSTORY/CHARACTER DESCRIPTION
- Around 300 to 500 words (length is flexible)
- $10 per description
- A summary of a story or a character backstory that can be posted anywhere online (preferrably with credit) without an additional chargePROOFREADING/EDITING
- Maximum of 30,000 words
- $20 per hour, minimum 1 hour

Other

RESEARCH: +$5 - $20 (Depending on complexity)ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS: +$8 for every additional main/consistently featured character past an initial fiveRUSH REQUEST: An additional +50% fee to deliver the request within two weeks (Depending on availability and complexity)EDITS: +$10 - $30 (Depending on complexity). These are for fairly large/time-consuming edits that greatly alter the existing story. Simple edits are free up to a week after the story is delivered!

Commission Form

Read the entire TOS and Commission Sheet before filling out the form!Please email your responses with any additional comments/inquires to [email protected], or to teakuppi on Discord. The more detailed you are, the better!

Email:Name/Pseudonym:Product & Word Count:Character sheet(s) (Names, physical descriptions, personality traits, etc):Plot Summary/Description:Point of View and Tense:Commission for Personal or Commercial Use:Additional Notes:

Extinguish

January 9, 2023

Smoke twines lazily around her fingers, ribbons of grey that soon fade into the dim haze of the cold bathroom.The burnt match drops into the bathtub.She fumbles for the matchbox where it’s shoved hastily into the corner of the tub. Its corners crush under clumsy fingers, waterlogged, crumbling into bits of white paper that she brushes off absentmindedly into her shirt.The next one she tries sparks just as quickly as it hisses out, and it joins the ones littering the bottom of the tub. Another blooms rapidly to life. Shadows tumble into view, distorting when her breath disturbs the flame. She cups a hand around it and the shiver calms. It illuminates the grooves and dips of her palm, darkening the gaps in her fingers.The black smear in the center of the fire wobbles when she brings it closer to her face. It’s like an eye, gazing back at her, no matter which way she turns the match. She breathes the heat in, feeling it swirling down her trachea, molten in her lungs and pooling somewhere deep in her chest. The edges of the wooden stick bite into her fingers when she squeezes it to ward off the trembling that spasms up her arm.The water has long since cooled from the lukewarmness she’d filled the bath with. Even then, the chill across her legs and dragging elbows weren’t enough to rouse her to change the temperature. The stream from the frozen faucet had felt hot to her frozen fingers before she’d gotten in, and she clings now to the feeling of that strange ice-hot burn of being too cold for too long.Now, the tremors have faded to a manageable, pervasive chill. It's heavy in her bones and through the splay of gooseflesh on her arms.Fully blackened, the tip of her match folds and breaks off. She watches the flame sink lower and lower until it sits just above her fingers, so searingly hot that her skin flushes at the heat.A sigh extinguishes the flame, and she lets the smoke ebb for a silent moment before drowning the match in water. Water drips down her arms when she lifts them, cool tracks of barely-there pressure that fall softly back into the tub.She peers into the darkened room. It’s dappled with dark spots, the match's light having burned into her eyes. Another one rolls into her fingers before she even registers reaching for it. It lights after two swipes.Something outside (an idea so far away, so alien—she’d forgotten there was something beyond her world of smoke and flame and dark water) creaks. A shuffle of feet patters down the hallway, pausing outside of the door. There’s a click when a hand falls heavily on the doorknob, and after a pause, it twists.The door creaks open. A thin sheet of yellow light spills into the room and across the white-blue tiles. The illuminated air glows amber, still hazy with coiling smoke. A figure stands in the doorway, features thrown into darkness by the hallway light behind him.“Cass,” he whispers, voice a dry, sleepy rasp, eyes narrowed against the smoky tang of the air.The water sloshes as she shifts.“I couldn’t,” she starts, flushed with a sudden shameful need to defend, to explain. The words sour on her tongue. Couldn’t what? Eat? Breathe? Sleep, with the swell of static in her ears because she can’t stop thinking? Couldn’t bear the feeling of slipping into bed and the suffocating warmth of heavy blankets, yet couldn’t either sit in the frigid silence of the bathroom without some spark of heat?“I just couldn’t,” she finishes lamely.He considers her like he’s seeing all the seams and tears and jagged edges.“Okay,” he says.The door clicks shut.He shuffles forward, arms outstretched, feeling blindly until his shins knock into the tub. He makes a move to step over the edge before pausing and pulling off his socks, throwing them somewhere at the foot of the sink.When he returns, he nudges her until she edges to one end of the tub blinking at him. “Your clothes,” she tries, quieting when he tosses a pointed look at her own shirt. His feet squeak against the porcelain as he maneuvers himself down. Hissing as he sinks into the cold water, he splashes her as he tries to cross his legs, knees knocking into the side of the tub.He settles for stretching his legs out instead. Her toes bump the inside of his ankle. When he scoots forward, his hands send the scattering of spent matches spinning away at the little currents.“Cass.”She doesn’t respond. She can’t respond. The absurd urge to laugh and then maybe cry has her gathering her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly, uncertain which one she’s more afraid of letting pierce the air.He crosses his arms over his knees to mirror her, peering over the nest of his arms to catch her eyes.She looks away. He doesn’t.Her averted gaze lingers on the matchbox in the corner behind him. Something thick and condemning rises in her throat and the corner of her eyes, and this time, it’s definitely not laughter. She swipes an arm out in front of her as if to bat the sensation away and finds herself reaching for the matchbox, feeling his breath skim across her shoulder as she leans past him.Falling back into her end of the tub once the box is crushed in a wavering grasp, she shoves out the little tray, grabs a match, and lights it, movements quick with familiarity. They watch it burn down, slower than she remembers, the flame flickering in tandem with her heartbeat.A moment before it can reach her fingertips he plucks it from her hand and extinguishes it with a puff of air.When she reaches for another, he catches her wrist. The matchbox hovers between them, the red design ghostly in the blue-grey light that glows dimly through the curtained window. He squeezes, just barely, fingers pressing into the tendons of her wrist, and the box drops into the water.Her other hand falls after it, trance-like, but he snatches it too, bringing her hands together in between his like a prayer. His skin is also ice cold, but as he squeezes her hands, a deeper heat blooms across the back of her hands.“Cass,” he says.She looks up. His irises are dilated in the darkness. They’re like the dark center of a flame, but unwaveringly sincere the more she gazes at them. They do not burn her.“It’s cold.”He’s right. Her teeth would be chattering if she let them. He squeezes her hands harder, and she wonders briefly how her coldness hasn’t at all diluted the heat that he rubs into singed and trembling fingers.“It’s cold, so let’s go.” His eyes are so open, so steady. She’s on her feet before she registers standing, wobbling across the tiles with the curl of an arm across her shoulders, grounding and warm.The ribbon of light returns when he twists the handle again, expanding into a river of warm yellow that floods the room. She screws her eyes against the sudden light, shuffling forward blindly, pulled away from bumping into the doorframe and then into the bright hallway outside.The bathroom door shuts, the matches behind it forgotten.

Searching Clocks

January 28, 2020

The hospital room reminds Katie of the suffocating silence before a storm. There’s something too pristine about the orderliness of the place, sterilized metal gleaming and spotless against empty cream walls. Everything is so vividly different from the twisting mass of frustration and confusion lodged in Katie’s throat, a heavy weight in her mind that leadens her limbs with anxiety.A month ago, the tick of brass would be racing frantically against the confines of her chest, fast and restless, filling the air with a cadence of metallic harmony. But now, Katie’s clock is slow, droning on and on with painful weariness.The doctor knocks and enters, but Katie doesn’t have to read the papers in his hands or see the grave, confused furrow of his brow to know his answer is identical to the one she’s heard from countless others. He explains anyways, with the practiced ease of a professional accustomed to delivering less than satisfactory news.“Normally, symptoms of slowed ticks would indicate imminent death, but all our tests show that you are... perfectly healthy.”Katie wants to sigh and kick her feet like a child. Their answers are like a steady mantra, painting Katie as a conundrum, unsolved and passed around like a silver tray of hors d'oeuvres. The doctor continues, oblivious to Katie’s exasperation.Much later, Katie leaves the room with a stack of papers she knows she’ll never read. The trash can seems the best place to vent her anger against the world in a petty act of wastefulness, and it’s with immature delight that Katie drops the files inside. A smaller slip of paper flutters out, which Katie scoops up and regards with disdain. The feeling quickly turns into confusion and then astonishment at the swirly lettering that cheerily invites her to the newly opened “clock shop” by the pier.The very concept should be strange and bordering on morbid, but seconds later Katie is running outside, ticks starkly slow against the rapid pounding of her feet on the pavement. Excitement and apprehension thrums in her veins, sullenly unreflected by the brass vessel inside her chest.Her sneakers skid to a stop and Katie gasps for air, once, twice, before looking up, greeted by the front stoop of her destination. The store could be described as quaint, but to Katie even the light tinkle of the bell sang with possibility. Inside, clocks of all shapes and colors greeted her with chimes of copper and tin, polished and glinting on the walls in the warm light. She reaches out to touch one.“May I help you?”Katie whirls around guiltily, fingers still outstretched in curiosity. “Um,” she says, and stops. The man is tall and weathered, his wispy whiskers framed by smile lines, brown hair dappled with grey. “Dad?” she whispers.“I’m afraid not,” he smiles kindly, turning and setting down a clock she didn’t notice he’d been holding. “Though, customers do tell me that I seem to resemble whom their clock desires the most to see.” She puzzles over this for a moment before straightening up, explaining her story with halting words.“I see,” he muses, conflict marring his brow. Katie is ready to apologize and run, but something in his gaze stops her. “What did the doctors say?”“They don’t know,” she says miserably, “They only said I’m not dying.”This seems to relieve the man somewhat. “Indeed, though you’re not really living, are you?” He turns his attention to the battered bronze clock by her elbow, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. It’s worn, faded and green in some places, but well loved.“I’m alive,” Katie insists.“Ah yes, but there’s a difference, you know.” He shows her the clock. “Look here. It’s not ticking, but still shows the time. This clock belonged to someone like you, who wasn’t… living life anymore.”“But they were alive?”He smiles. “He’s still alive, my dear. Traveling. I believe he’s currently in Japan, but tomorrow he could be as far as the moon.”“Well, what’s he doing?” Katie leans forward, curiosity pushing down her skepticism.“Searching,” he says quietly, light enough that Katie thinks she wasn’t meant to hear. He sets down the clock and turns to the door. Katie trails after him and they stand outside the shop, looking up to where dusk darkens the sky with streaks of deep indigo and velvet. The man takes a deep breath and begins to walk, looking back only once to ensure she’s following. They stop again at the edge of a pier, the gentle lap of waves and rush of wind accompanying the solitary tick of brass.Katie looks to the man in surprise. “Where’s your clock?” He lifts a finger to his lips. Minutes pass and suddenly there’s a small clank of copper.“There it is,” he grins. She stares back at him with concern.“Are you dying?”He laughs this time. “Not yet, I’ve still got a few years ahead of me.” His eyes twinkle, irises glowing copper in the blaze of the setting sun. “There’s nothing wrong with my clock, nor is there anything wrong with yours.”“Are you alive?”His smile turns wry. “Well I’d hope so.”She waves off his sarcasm with a quick flap of her hand. “Are you living?”He straightens with a hint of pride. “No. Quite the opposite actually. I’m still searching, you see.”“What if you don’t find what you’re looking for?”“That’s for time to tell… though you’ve been searching and you’ve found me quite all right, so I daresay I’ve got some hope of finding something too.”“Me? Searching?” Something seems to settle in Katie’s chest, the wayward bird in her chest finally resting.“Seems like it,” he responds jovially. “But it’s not that bad, is it?”“I suppose not,” she says slowly. The conversation fades into silence as the two watch the sun slip below the horizon, joined by the slow brass and copper ticks of two searching clocks.

Wonderlost

January 25, 2021

“You really ought to sleep,” Margaret whispers, peering into the small room. When Alice barely spares her sister a glance, Margaret sighs and nudges the door wide enough to slip inside. “Alice,” she chides, voice soft with fondness. “Surely the fairy tales won’t disappear even if you sleep at any semblance of a godly hour.”“It’s not a fairy tale,” Alice corrects, finally shifting to face Margaret.“Oh?” Margaret leans over Alice’s shoulder, strands of her brown hair mixing in with Alice’s golden locks. “Arithmetic! You’re studying arithmetic?”The younger girl nods, stifling a yawn. “I’m fifteen now, Mara. I’ve no time for silly things like make-believe.” Alice stands, slipping a bookmark into the textbook. With a murmured goodnight, she swivels a bit unsteadily on her heel before shuffling out the room.Margaret returns the farewell and reaches down to snuff out the candle, only to pause as familiar red leather catches her gaze. A fine layer of dust coats the book of fairy tales, and Margaret drags the end of her shawl across it until the leather regains its muted glow.She starts towards the doorway, but an odd sense of bittersweetness prompts her to look back. To her astonishment, the eyes of the cat on the book seem to flicker to meet her own. With a shiver, Margaret hurries out, slamming the door in her haste.That night, Alice cracks open her eyes, blinking blearily in the dazzling sunlight.“You’re dreaming,” a voice observes, disconcertingly close to her ear. Alice startles, flailing her limbs every which-way until she’s able to sit up, heart racing in her chest at the familiarity of the gravelly timbre.She smiles a little timidly at the head of the Cheshire Cat. “Good morning,” she offers, and the Cat grins widely.“Is it morning?” it asks. “And if we were to presume it was morning, would noon then follow?”“I suppose,” Alice says, struggling to her feet. “Am I—is this Wonderland?”The grin melts off the Cat’s face, and in a purple flicker, it's gone. “No,” it hisses behind her. Alice whirls around, heart jolting. A light prickle of claws feather across her ankle and Alice drops to her knees with a soft cry.“This is not Wonderland. You left. You left Wonderland.”The Cat appears mere inches away from Alice’s face. “Wake up,” it urges, interrupting her startled exclamation. Alice tries to protest, but her lips are sealed together, and she can only watch the Cat mirror her frown as the dream fades around her.Years later, Margaret offers the book of fairytales to Alice. “You’re not taking this with you?”Alice chuckles, folding another dress into her small suitcase. “I’m going to college, Mara. I won’t need it.”She doesn’t explain the real reason she isn’t taking the book, doesn’t mention the years filled with dreams where she’s struck mute and paralyzed, watching shadowy figures with wide, frightened eyes. She doesn’t speak of how she wakes, drenched in sweat, vivid images seared into her mind of the Mad Hatter with milky, unseeing eyes; of the Queen of Hearts, fiery crimson hair dulled to a bleak grey; and of a silent, frowning Cheshire Cat.As the carriage clatters down the cobblestones, Alice tugs at her braid, trying to convince herself that she isn’t running away, merely moving on.It’s one particular afternoon years later, when trepidation blossoms into an inferno that cleaves through Alice’s mind, does she realize that it isn’t the presence of nightmares that clouds her thoughts. Rather, it’s the lack thereof, like the voices that had clamoured desperately for her attention had been altogether silenced.Alice is hailing down a cab and directing the driver to the nearest clinic before she can even begin to comprehend her profound sense of loss.The doctor listens, perplexed, to Alice’s stammer about how her dreams had abruptly ceased. By the time she looks up, however, half-moons dug into her palm from how hard she’d been clenching her hands, he’s waiting with the patient expectancy of a teacher.“Well,” he offers kindly. “Adults tend to recall dreams far less than children do. You’ve nothing to worry about, so you needn’t frown so pitifully. Best on your way now, Miss Alice. If you don’t hurry, you’ll be too late to catch a cab.”Alice pales at his words. “...too late,” she echoes.“Pardon?”“I-it was nothing. Thank you for your time, doctor.” She scarcely registers his wave. Instead, the Cat’s cold snarl rips into her memory like a fresh wound.You left. You left Wonderland.It’s too late.Her legs give out and she stumbles, collapsing inelegantly on the grass. The damp green strands remind her of another time, and Alice cards her fingers through them, wondering detachedly about flower crowns.As minutes whisper by, the indigo sky bleeds into the bruised purple of dusk. The park is silent but for the soft murmur of wind and Alice’s own heartbeat, a ragged ba-dum that sings in time with the brass ticks of a watch—Alice flushes hot and cold all in the same instant, gooseflesh creeping across her arms. Chest thrumming, she whirls around. When she sees nothing, her heart stutters, but a flash of white catches her eye and she shoots to her feet.“Oh dear,” the White Rabbit cries, shoving his pocket watch back into his waistcoat. “I shall be oh so late!”Alice gasps and the Rabbit swivels around. “Why Miss Alice!” he exclaims. “Whatever are you doing here? We must be off to the tea party, or the Queen shall have our heads!” He rushes several paces forward, then stops when he realizes she isn’t following. “What are you waiting for?” he demands, foot thumping impatiently. “You don’t want to be too late, do you?”“No,” Alice whispers, lightheaded and giddy. “No, we mustn’t be too late.”A cat watches the pair disappear into the rabbit hole. With a flick of an ear, it disappears, leaving only a wide grin behind.

of scars and fireworks

June 23, 2021

They’ve won.Really and truly won.Zuko staggers back against Appa. Sokka hollers, throwing a fist into the air. Fireworks shriek into the sky, blazing rockets of every color, crackling across the hastily constructed festival that roars its approval with frantic applause and heads thrown back in careless, carefree laugher.Aang sidles up to them where they stand on a hill overlooking the festivities. His cheeks bloom red, face glowing with triumph, wide eyes following the reds, blues and yellows of the fireworks. He calls something to Zuko, the sound lost in the mirth that swells up around them when a large firework sends tumbling stars across a sky nearly as bright as day. From the elation in his grin and the joyful raise of eyebrows once furrowed with the weight of a million lives, it’s not hard to guess his words, and Zuko cheers back.Katara soon joins them, hair cascading in loose waves around her shoulders, pendant glimmering at the hollow of her throat.A sharp jab to his side has Zuko twisting away, fingers sparking. He relaxes when it’s only Toph, arms full of kebabs and fruit. She shoves several at him, cackling out a “you’re such a scaredy-cat” before dumping the rest on Sokka.Zuko drags the pad of his thumb down the rough skin of a pear, trying to calm his thundering heartbeat. We’ve won, he reminds himself, sticky juice running down his hands when he clenches them too hard. Another firework soars into the air, the resounding pop accompanied by the crowd’s fervent cheer. The crest of noise crashes over Zuko and he lets himself be swept away, swaying in time with the current of sound and the drumming of his own pulse, alight with what he tells himself is just excitement.The night sings with merriment as a phantom fear drags icy fingers down Zuko’s spine. The contrast is startling, sickening. His nerves thrum with anticipation of something going terribly, irreversibly wrong. He tightens his hands at a scream that might be too shrill to be one of joy, eyes searching for an explosion of fire and ash because surely this can’t be the end of it.Even with Aang’s arms thrown haphazardly over his shoulders and Toph’s elbow digging into his cheek as she clambers onto Appa, Zuko can’t battle down a sinking feeling of solidarity. A shameful sort of envy seeps into his bones at how easily his friends relax, basking in the life and light of the festival even as Zuko’s worry sours the taste of the fruit he forces himself to take a bite of.Just tired, he mouths to Sokka when he notices Zuko’s frown. Face awash with the brilliant red of a firework, Sokka watches him for a moment more, eyes glinting with an understanding that stretches perplexingly beyond Zuko’s simple ruse. It vanishes when he turns to lob a banana at Toph in response to the handful of grapes that descend on them from above.Another firework spirals into the sky. Zuko closes his eyes, the bright green of the rocket bleeding through his eyelids. Green like leaves, like cabbages and Toph’s headband. Green like poison.Zuko snaps his eyes open. This time, it’s Katara who levels a concerned stare at him.“Do you want to retire for the night?” she asks carefully. It’s a way out, one Zuko takes gratefully.“I… I think I will. Goodnight, then.”The others chime their goodbyes. Katara’s eyes stay fixed on Zuko’s until a grape hits her square on the forehead. He shuffles away, the sound of lighthearted squabbling and Toph’s peals of laughter urging him to turn around, to rejoin the circle of light and joy. The unrest in his chest is louder, ordering him away, growing ever larger as the voices of his friends fade.A group of children runs past him, red ribbons fixed to long hair and swinging arms. One of them bumps into Zuko in her haste, only pausing for a second to grin up at him before rejoining the group. Zuko stares after her, an instinctual apology already halfway to his lips. Had he been the one to crash into someone else as a child, a flurry of apologies and a cautious hand raised to protect his face would be the only thing between him and the ire of the victim.The change is wholly welcome, though it alienates Zuko as much as it reassures him.A week after the festival Zuko stands before a painting, arms clasped loosely behind his back, an ironic testament to his uncle’s signature posture. The canvas is a splash of red and brown that, if he tilts his head and squints enough, just barely resembles a temple. It’s admittedly better than the ornamental swords his father had previously chosen, but Zuko can’t say it’s much of an improvement.There’s a knock on the door.“Come in,” he says with an importance he doesn’t feel, relaxing when it’s only Sokka who enters.“You’re not okay,” Sokka comments mildly, leaning against the door till it clicks shut.Zuko blinks. “...that’s a rather bizarre greeting. A hello would have sufficed. Or a good afternoon. Or anything else, really.”Sokka’s answering grin is familiar in its laziness. “I’ve been sent to deal with your problems. It’s Big Brother Sokka to the rescue once again. Hip hip, hooray!”“I don’t have—”“You’re lying,” Sokka interrupts, wiggling his eyebrows at Zuko.“I didn’t even finish my sentence.”“No need! I am Sokka, Master of Words and Lies.” He puffs out his chest. “And I know you’re not okay so you’re going to tell me why or else I will set that painting on fire and replace it with the one Aang did of Appa.” Voice dropping to a conspiring whisper, he leans closer in mock seriousness. “You better believe me when I say it’s a lot worse. Somehow.”Zuko sighs. “Really, Sokka, there’s nothing wro—”“A lie!” Sokka shrieks. Zuko jumps. “That’s two strikes, two strikes, ladies and gentlemen! And remember, three strikes and you’re out!”Zuko groans, rubbing at his temples. Sokka grins at him victoriously.“It’s not very important,” he tries, rolling his eyes at Sokka’s disbelieving grunt. “Everything just feels kind of weird, you know? One moment we’re on the run and then the next I’m the Fire Lord and we’re at a festival in the very place that was trying to kill us only several days before.”He threads his fingers together. “And of course I much prefer this and I’m happy everything’s finally over but,” he chances a look at Sokka, who nods encouragingly, “But I keep on expecting it not to be. Every time I turn around a corner and someone is right on the other side I think it’s an—an assassin or something stupid like that.”“It’s like everyone is content and I’m stuck feeling like an absolute fool because no matter how I try, I just can’t move on. I feel so… so out of place.”Zuko hadn’t realized his heart was racing until his pulse floods his ears in the silence that follows. He glues his eyes to his intertwined hands, waiting for rejection, ridicule—“Let’s spar,” Sokka offers, and Zuko’s eyes cut to his face, startled by both the invitation and his own immediate urge to accept.“...what?”“Let’s spar,” Sokka repeats, and he’s on his feet and halting Zuko up by the arm in a flash.“What? We were, I mean, I was—why do you want to—”Sokka only laughs as he yanks Zuko out of the room. Officers and attendants alike veer out of their way as Zuko stumbles down the hallway with Sokka all but skipping next to him. He screeches to a halt at a seemingly random pair of double doors, the sudden stop almost sending Zuko toppling over.“What in the world are you doing?” Advisor Su-Li demands, and Zuko’s head snaps up. She’s standing a little further down the hallway, bemusement in her otherwise cold expression.“Gotta keep our Fire Lord exercised,” Sokka offers lightly. “I nearly beat him in arm wrestling this morning. Can’t have him affording me a single win after my six hundred and seventy-two losses, can we?” She sighs, motioning for the attendants to open the courtyard doors. Zuko blanches at the sheer ease of the exchange but doesn’t comment on it, allowing Sokka to steer him outside. The doors shut with a resounding thud, and then they are alone.“Six hundred and seventy-two?” Zuko asks.“Don’t remind me,” Sokka mutters, the half-hearted slap directed at Zuko’s shoulder missing by a comical distance. “I swear I’ll beat you yet.”“You’ve been counting?”“Not another word, Mr. 'I sign paperwork all day and still manage to keep fit'."Zuko muffles a snort at the rueful stare he throws his way. Sokka crosses over to the wall, grabbing a pair of broadswords not unlike the pair Zuko had left in his quarters. He catches them when Sokka tosses them over, his own sword unsheathed a moment later.“Are we actually doing this?” Zuko asks. Sokka assumes a fighting stance in response. “Why?” Zuko breathes, one last attempt at conversation even as his own feet slip into position, fingers fitting perfectly in the grooves of the broadswords’ handles.“We both need it,” is Sokka’s response. “No firebending,” he adds. “I rather like this shirt.” He darts at Zuko with no further preamble, the black metal of his sword glinting in the sun.Zuko breathes, fire in his blood, in his mind, in his lungs. He ducks to what he knows is Sokka’s weaker side. The water tribe warrior mirrors his action, a delighted smile mirroring Zuko’s own.He fights, just as Iroh taught him, just as the past week of mounting tension and insecurity had urged him to do, just as life during the war had required of him. He fights and sweat soaks his back, searing paths of heat down his skin. He fights and the world rushes up around him, singing with every bruise that blooms when Sokka lands a hit, every hissed breath, every jolt down Zuko’s arms when their blades clash.Sometime after the sun blazes across their clearing, hanging low enough in the sky to paint long shadows behind them, Sokka drops his sword, hands raised in light-hearted surrender. Zuko collapses next to him, breathing heavily, eyes stinging with dust and sweat. He grins at Sokka, mind wiped blank of everything except the feeling of the broadsword still in his grip.“Better?” Sokka manages between heaving breaths. His skin is flushed bronze in the sun.Zuko looks at him in growing wonder. “Yeah.” He inhales deeply. ”How?”“I dunno,” Sokka chuckles, a little sheepishly. “I have the same—” he pauses for a breath, “—issue, so Suki told me to spar with her. It worked. She did try to explain, but I... don’t remember any of it. It’s probably something like going at your own pace? The transition is different from person to person. Some have it easy, and some need an outlet to cope, I guess.”“You don’t need to adjust at the same time as everyone else ‘cause the fighting and everything affects you differently from them.” He pauses. “Does that make any sense? Because it doesn’t to me and I’m the one who’s talking. I just kind of hoped that after we sparred it’d all make sense and I wouldn’t need to explain anything.”“It did,” laughs Zuko.Sokka claps. “Of course it did. I’m the Master of Wise Words, after all.”“Wasn’t it ‘Master of Words and Lies’?”“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”Zuko snorts. “Thank you,” he murmurs after a beat.“You’re so very welcome, my young disciple.” Sokka yelps when a pebble flies towards his nose.Zuko grins in response, shielding his eyes from the sun. Exhaustion and battle-won contentment swirl into one, blanketing him with an easy peace.

fire (that longs to be free)

June 24, 2021Read on Ao3

The last of the morning fog whispers away with the gentle warmth of the midday sun. Zuko leans against a large rocky outcrop, the cool stone digging into his shoulder blades. A breeze dances across their humble camp, snatching a few fallen leaves and tossing them into the sky. Appa lays on his side, basking in the watery sunlight. The leaves careen over him, soon lost among the crackled pillars of the abandoned air temple.Zuko can hear voices from deeper in the temple, Sokka’s raucous laughter and the groan of centuries-old rock as Toph earthbends. The air is serene, and Zuko closes his eyes.Inside his veins, a fire burns.He wills his hands steady, but they still tremble, and he hides them away in the folds of his robes. Zuko’s blood sings with power, desperate to be freed. Every instinct screams at him to oblige it, to unclench shaking fists and let fire bloom to life in his palms.Several strides away from him, Katara shifts. He looks up in her direction, only to quickly turn away when she catches his eye and her expression darkens. She’s made no secret of her distrust and lingers near enough to keep a watchful, disdainful eye on him, but always far enough to discourage any hopeful conversation, let alone an apology. He’s tried.Katara’s hand is almost permanently on her water flask, a barely concealed threat. It’s one Zuko tries to remedy by staying quiet, unarmed, as far away from Aang as politeness would permit. Even when it feels as if his chest will rupture with the promise of fire that he refuses to bring into being, Zuko forces himself to keep his hands clenched, fingernails bruising half-moons into his palms. Sometimes when he draws blood he lets the wounds sting, a shallow echo of the brilliant heat of the flames that twist just below his skin.The only times Zuko allows himself to firebend is during his lessons with Aang, but his flames are controlled, a ghost of the ones that want to escape. While Katara normally makes an effort to conceal her suspicion, she does little to hide it whenever Zuko and his fire are near Aang.You make one step backward, one slip-up, give me one reason to think you might hurt Aang—Zuko screws his eyes shut, leaning more heavily on the outcrop behind him. He digs his fingers into the rock, stomach twisting at how wrong it feels for his hands to be cold despite the feverish heat snarling at his fingertips—and you won't have to worry about your destiny anymore. Because I'll make sure your destiny ends ... right then and there. Permanently.“What are you doing?” Katara asks, words clipped.Zuko startles. His fingers throb and he looks down to see prickles of blood seeping to the surface of his skin. Embarrassed, he scrubs them against his robes. “I—nothing, sorry. I was just,” he gives a weak wave of his hand, snapping it back to his side when Katara’s eyes flash down to follow the motion.“Just?” she demands.“Just thinking,” he offers lamely.Something ghosts across her face and Zuko nearly mistakes it for concern until her lip curls and she turns away. “Of all excuses to give, that’s what you came up with?”Zuko looks away. He wonders when his rage at her snide comments had dwindled into meager avoidance, but can’t seem to summon up the anger that had been so eager to spring up before. I’m just tired, he thinks. Trying to suppress his firebending while everything in him screams otherwise is exhausting, far more taxing than any training he’d had as a child.The thought brings up unwanted scenes of familiar hallways of crimson and gold, of his mother’s embrace, of turtle ducks and Azula and Mai.Stoic, impassive, monotone Mai. The determination on her face as she stood among the incapacitated prison guards haunts him with a mixture of guilt and gratefulness.He stays there, back pressed against rock that remains stubbornly cold until fatigue laps at him like waves, dragging him down until Zuko realizes he’s seated, shoulders bowed to mold to the unyielding boulder. He’s still there when the four others return, flushed with laughter and sunlight. Only Sokka and Suki move to greet Zuko, Toph having already collapsed against Appa’s thick fur, complaining about the winds and bugs and Sokka’s smelly sandals.Aang seems to want to speak to Zuko as well, but he holds back, most likely remembering Katara’s previous warnings of caution, spoken just loudly enough for Zuko to know he was meant to hear. He’s not surprised. It’s the open friendliness from Sokka and Suki that’s shocking, but Zuko is afraid to query about it, worried that the kindness is unconscious and that if he pointed it out, they would stop entirely.It’s… nice, in a way, not to be entirely alone, however accidental the amicable mood is.“You gonna eat?” Toph asks. Zuko all but falls over. Toph, unimpressed, offers him a bowl of stew, retreating to her spot by Aang when Zuko takes it with a mumbled thank-you. He sips from it tersely, hyper-aware of Katara’s pointed glare. Carefully avoiding her eyes, he glances out, surprised at the dimness of the sky. It’s dusk, pale streaks of yellow fading into a light purple.His stew is cold by the time Zuko tears his eyes away from the now indigo twilight. The rest are murmuring good nights, shuffling to their respective tents. Even Katara yawns from where she’s rummaging through Appa’s pile of bags.Zuko’s eyes widen with an idea. He looks around, once, twice, before he’s on his feet, ducking silently around the outcrop. Wincing as his muscles protest the sudden shift, he creeps into the night, aiming for the large stone courtyard he had discovered some ways away from their camp.The stone bricks are smooth despite the toll of time and weather, and Zuko marvels at the dry arches of a fountain, not for the first time impressed by the careful craftsmanship of the temple.It’s sobering, in a way, to admire only the ruins of what used to be a majestic temple, but his fire is singing as if it realizes his intentions, tearing his attention away from the grandeur of the courtyard.Almost trance-like, Zuko extends his arms, conscious of the wind and the earth and his breath which trembles in his lungs with every inhale.Fire blooms to life above his palm.It’s as if something inside Zuko’s chest shatters, pieces thrown to the winds, torn away and scattered where nothing matters.The relief that shudders through him would be embarrassing if not for the clarity it brings, and Zuko can’t find it in himself to care, not now, not anymore. His blood surges, heart thundering like it wants to break free with the flames that arch in the air, dancing red and yellow and white heat.Zuko breathes, really breathes for the first time in weeks.Fire spirals around him like a dragon, golden scales and sharp teeth emerging as Zuko twists his wrist. As if with a mind of its own, the dragon twists higher and higher until even the highest stone columns are bathed in light, shadows flickering, dancing in time with the dragon’s fluid movements.Zuko grins despite himself, childishly giddy.The dragon soon dips down, losing form until it becomes a rippling canvas of shimmering air and fire. He drags his hand across it and the fire becomes a phoenix, beak parted in a silent call before it twists into a dragonfly flitting across the clearing, then a ship on violent waves, then a rosebud that spills out wine-red petals as it opens.Thoughts lost in the whirlwind of shapes and creatures, he basks in the welcome heat, eyes chasing a stray fire moth before lazily turning to see—His uncle smiles back at him.Zuko’s heart stutters. The night rushes back to envelop him, shadows bleeding into a mass of darkness that settles cold and suffocatingly over him.Uncle Iroh’s face remains suspended in the air before him, every smile line, every detail on his face perfectly replicated by Zuko’s fire. His eyes glitter, too knowingly for a mere phantom of the man, too fragile as the fire weakens and Iroh disappears into a few lingering flames—the soft slant to his eyes, the amused lift of his brow.Zuko’s legs nearly buckle under the weight of the exhaustion that rushes in like a freezing wave.There’s a shuffle behind him and Zuko flinches around, a name rising to his lips, one that dies in a sinking feeling of grief and longing when the figure freezes in the light of the dying flames. Too short, too slim, hair a dark brown as opposed to a familiar silver-grey.“Katara,” he whispers, an acknowledgment, a concession. A reminder.“Zuko,” she says curtly.“What are you doing here?” Zuko asks, even as the answer becomes clear to him as her eyes narrow with suspicion tempered by weeks, months, maybe, of distrust. Memories of the cave in Ba Sing Se flicker into his mind, persisting even as Zuko tries to shake them away.“I thought you would be sneaking away to report back to your fellow fire nations snakes,” Katara spits, cheeks red from being caught but still unapologetic in the way her eyes blaze with righteous anger. Their eyes meet, and while Zuko manages to hold her gaze for a few, tremorous seconds, he’s still the first to look away. He catches sight of burn scars on her hands, dark patches of marred skin. Guilt bows his head with the memory of Toph’s own burns, still angrily red despite Katara’s daily ministrations of healing and Toph’s insistence that “I’m alright, really.”Did I do that too? Zuko wonders, heart pounding. Shame courses hot and condemning through him when he can’t even remember. The side of his face where his own scar is carved into his flesh aches in sympathy, a pain that throbs though it’s more memory than anything else.“I wasn’t,” Zuko murmurs. “I’m not, I wouldn’t—” He can’t bring himself to look at her this time. “I’m sorry,” he says finally.Silence answers him.Just as he’s about to stammer another apology and flee, Katara sighs, sagging against a stone pillar.“I didn’t know you could do that.”He stares at her uncomprehendingly. “Do…?”“With the fire, I mean. Making pictures and creatures. Your—your dragon was cool.”“O-oh. Thank you.” It’s a skill he’d learned during the quiet moments of too-long days spent in the tiny quarters of fire nation ships.To be complimented for his bending, by Katara, especially, is… odd.His father had scoffed at the use of fire as fickle entertainment, instructing Zuko’s childhood tutors not to waste time on such fruitless activities. Zuko is beginning to learn, however, that there are many things his father was wrong about.“Is there… anything else you can make?” Katara asks haltingly.“I… yes. I mean, is there something you want to… see?” Zuko asks, equally uncertain.“An otter penguin?”“Yeah,” he says quietly, “That’s—yeah. I can make one.”There’s a strange feeling in the air, not of forgiveness but of something comfortingly close. As his fire blossoms to life once again and Katara leans in to study it with barely hidden interest, a different sort of warmth gathers in Zuko’s chest. He searches for a name in the gentle sway of a few hanging vines, in the soft hiss of wind and the tumble of fallen leaves.At Katara’s surprised laugh when the otter penguin does a little flip, Zuko decides that the feeling is hope, unsteady and flickering, but still undeniably there. He settles down as well, far enough to maintain their careful distance, but close enough for the warm feeling to spread, chasing away the chill of the night.