#laiba

Every Saturday, A New Disaster

Dhurandhar Characters x Reader [EP1]

Contents may include: poor decision making, unnecessary arguments, emotional support chai, missing household items, public and second-hand embarrassment, petty arguments, loud opinions, unsolicited advice, recurring disasters, kalesh, chugli, jhoot, questionable life choices, adults behaving like unsupervised children, temporary common-sense outages, and absolutely zero lessons learned.

[Masterlist] [Next Episode]

Namaskar, satshirakal, aur adaab. Main hoon K.Kaur. Aur aaj ke es episode mein hum jaanenge ki ek aadmi washroom mein kitni der tak reh saka hai.

Chaliye shuru karte hain.

The middle of May was not a time meant for human survival.

The sun had been beating down on the city since morning, the electricity had disappeared sometime before breakfast, and by noon, the entire house felt less like a home and more like a slow-cooking oven.

Unfortunately, none of this stopped Uzair from taking his sweet time in the washroom. It was worth mentioning that despite being a ridiculously large house, it had exactly one functional washroom.

One.

There was technically another one on the roof, but nobody had used it in years. There was no water connection, the door didn't close properly, and it was widely believed to contain at least three generations of monkey droppings.

As a result, everyone simply pretended it didn't exist.

Currently, Uzair was sitting on the toilet, drenched in sweat, scrolling through reels with the concentration of a man studying for an important exam. The spicy biryani he'd confidently devoured the previous night was now demanding revenge. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. Another followed. And another. The air in the washroom felt thick enough to chew. Yet somehow, he continued scrolling.

A cat video.

A cooking video.

A people falling compilation video.

A motivational quote.

An ai cat video.

Life was moving on.

Uzair was not.

Elsewhere in the house, Yalina, y/n, and Ulfat had gathered in the only place that offered even the slightest breeze. Which was to say, none. All three women sat sprawled on the bed, looking as if they had personally survived a desert crossing. Yalina lazily waved a hand fan at herself. Y/n stole it.

Yalina stole it back. Neither of them had enough energy to argue properly. "Mujhe lagta hai Hamza ka kisi aur ke sath kuch chal rha hai."

Y/n blinked. "Kyu?"

Yelina sighed dramatically. "Main serious hoon. Kal do ghante baad reply kiya usne."

"Shayad busy hoga."

"Do ghante koi itna busy nahi hota. Juice ki dukam par kaam karta hai."

From beside them, Ulfaat looked up from inspecting her nails. "Tumhein pata hai, Rehman kabhi aisa nahi karta."

Yalina closed her eyes.

Here we go.

"Main usse message karun," Ulfat continued proudly, "toh foran reply karta hai."

"Congratulations."

"Heart wale emoji bhi bhejta hai."

"Wah."

"Kal teen dafa call kiya tha."

Y/n rubbed her forehead. "Bhabhi, kisi ne pucha?"

"Main bas keh rahi hoon. Acha shohar waqt nikal leta hai."

Yalina looked like she wanted to throw herself into traffic. Unfortunately, it was too hot to move.

Outside in the courtyard, Major Iqbal, Jameel Jamali, and Rehman sat on a manja beneath a patch of shade that was rapidly disappearing. A deck of cards lay between them. All three men were sweating. Nobody acknowledged it. Because acknowledging the heat somehow made it worse. "Teri baari," Jameel said.

Major Iqbal threw down a card.

Rehman immediately frowned. "Tum cheating kar rahe ho."

"Nhi toh."

"Phir yeh kya hai?"

"Kya kya hai?"

"Tu humesha aise karta hai."

"Kaise karta hu?"

"Aise."

"Aise kya?"

"Aise." The argument continued. The cards remained forgotten.

Back in the washroom, Uzair finally put his phone away. His suffering was over. Or so he thought. He reached for the water tap. The second the water hit him, he nearly launched himself through the ceiling. "Ya allah!"

The water was boiling. Not literally. But close enough. He jerked away. Waited. Tried again. Still hot. He hissed. Cursed the weather. Cursed the sun. Cursed whoever invented summer.

Eventually, after much suffering and several dramatic complaints directed at nobody in particular, he managed to finish.

Then he turned around and pressed the flush. Nothing happened. Uzair stared. Pressed it again. Nothing. A third time. Still nothing. Silence. For a moment he simply stood there. Then— "HELLO?"

Nothing.

"OI!"

No response.

"PANI KISNE KHATAM KARA?"

Still nothing.

He banged on the door. "TANKI CHECK KARO!"

No answer. "TANKI KHALI HAI!"

Somewhere upstairs, Y/n paused. "Tumne kuch sunna?"

Yalina didn't even open her eyes. "Padosi honge."

"Bada shor matchate hai." The conversation continued.

Meanwhile, Uzair was slowly losing his mind.

"TANKI BHARO!"

He yelled again. Nobody came. Nobody answered. Nobody cared. The entire household carried on with their lives while he remained trapped in a tiny, humid washroom.

Sweating.

Waiting.

Suffering.

Then salvation appeared. Or so he thought. Laiba skipped past the washroom door. Uzair immediately straightened. "Laiba!"

The little girl stopped. "Huh?"

"Laiba, jao kisi ko bolo paani nahi aa raha."

She stared. "Kisko?"

"Kisiko bhi."

"Kisiko kisko?"

"Jo bhi jahan rehta hai!"

She considered this carefully. "Kon rehta hai?."

Uzair closed his eyes. "Laiba."

"Ji?"

"Jao kisi ko bolo tanki check kare."

"Kisko?"

"Apne papa ko." A pause. "Nhi ruko." He immediately changed his mind. "Tunhare papa ko nhi."

Laiba nodded. "Okay."

"Ulfaat Chachi ko bolo."

"Vo kahan hai?"

"Mujhe nhi pata!"

"Aap batado na."

"Laiba, meri gudiya, meri laddo, main washroom se bahar nahi aa sakta!"

"Oh."

Uzair took a deep breath. "Laiba."

"Ji?"

"Agar tum Ulfat Chachi ko bata dogi na, main tumhein chocolate dilwaunga."

Her eyes lit up. "Do?"

"Haan."

"Panch kinder joy?"

"Haan."

"Hmm."

She thought about it. Then nodded. "Theek hai." And off she went. Skipping happily through the house. "Ulfat chachi ko bolo pani chalade..."

Skip.

"Ulfat chachi ko pani chalagya..."

Skip.

"Ulfat chachi ko bolo pani..."

Skip.

By the time she reached the sitting room, she had completely forgotten why she was there. Everyone looked at her. "Laiba?"

"Hmm?"

"Kya hua?"

She blinked. Then gasped. "Ulfat chachi kuch bolna tha."

"Kya?" Silence. Laiba frowned.

Thinking.

Thinking.

Thinking.

Then—"chachi pani dedo." There was a jug sitting right beside her. "Oh." She poured herself a glass. Drank it. Sat down. And immediately forgot everything else.

Back in the washroom, Uzair slowly slid down against the wall. The tiles were warm. The air was hot. The sweat wouldn't stop. No water. No help. No rescue. Just suffering. He stared at the ceiling. "Aur nhi seh sakta main." Outside, life continued as normal. Inside, Uzair prepared to meet his ancestors. Uzair had reached the acceptance stage. Not acceptance of death. Acceptance of humiliation. Those were two very different things. Sweat dripped down his neck as he sat miserably on the washroom floor, one hand clutching his phone. The air was thick. The smell was worse. And the worst part? The evidence was still there. Staring at him. Mocking him. Waiting. Uzair looked away. "Nhi." He pointed a finger at the toilet. "Esko nhi chhor sakta."

The toilet, unfortunately, had no opinion on the matter. The last time he'd forgotten to flush, the entire household had somehow found out within ten minutes. To this day, nobody knew who had discovered it first. What everyone did know was that he'd suffered for it. Mercilessly. For three weeks. Every conversation somehow came back to it. Every argument. Every meal. Every family gathering. Someone would eventually say "kam se kam hum flush toh karte hai."

And everyone would look at Uzair. Never again. He would die here before making the same mistake twice. His phone buzzed weakly. 8%. He immediately sat up. Hope. Technology. Civilisation. Rescue. He opened his contacts. Who would help him? Not Rehman. Absolutely not Rehman. Rehman would save him. Then tell everybody. Then tell them again. Then tell future generations. Major Iqbal? Worse. Jameel Jamali? Even worse. Jameel would turn it into a story. A story that would somehow become funnier every time he told it.

No.

No men.

Men couldn't be trusted. Women had empathy. Women understood suffering. Hopefully. He called Ulfat. The call rang. And rang. And rang. No answer.

Upstairs, Ulfat's phone was in hands of laiba. Laiba was lying on her stomach watching videos. Specifically, a video titled:

GANJI CHUDAIL SPOTTED AT 3:17 AM 😱 REAL FOOTAGE 😱

The thumbnail alone was enough to hold her attention hostage. A call flashed across the screen.

UZAIR REHMAN BRO CALLING

Without looking, she swiped it away. The bald ghost lady was currently chasing a man named Mukesh through a field. This was important.

Back in the washroom— Call ended. Uzair stared. Then called again.

Upstairs— Swipe. Gone.

Again. Swipe. Gone.

Again. Swipe. Gone.

The heat had somehow become worse. Everyone looked half-melted. Y/N rolling on bed dramatically. "Meri rooh jism chhor rahi ."

"Acha," said Yalina. "Meri bhi sath leja."

Ulfat nodded solemnly. "Rehman keh raha tha is saal ki garmi kuch alag hi hai." Nobody replied. Because somehow every year someone said that.

Y/N glanced at the phone. "Oh."

"Kya?"

"Uzair call kar rha hai."

Immediately, Yalina snorted. "Ignore maar."

"Haan?"

"Call kuch na kuch mange ke liye karta hai vo mangta."

"Sach mein."

"Kabhi pani mangega."

"Ya khana."

"Ya charger."

"Ya eska dusra charger."

"Ya eska teesra charger jo kudh esne khoya. Saala charger chor."

Y/N considered this. That sounded accurate. Very accurate. Ulfat adjusted her dupatta. "Vaise kehne ki toh dono bhai hai par Rehman aisa kabhi nhi karta."

There it was. Yalina immediately groaned. "Bhabhi."

"Sunn toh."

"Nhi."

"Mujhe kabhi kuch karne ko nhi kehta."

"Acha."

"Kambal ki teh lagata hai."

"Wow."

"Kudhka kacha bhi dhota hai."

Yalina blinked. "Literally bare minimum hai."

Ulfat rolled her eyes. "Kuch logo ko vo bhi nhi milta."

Yalina sat up. "Mereko kyu attack kar rhi ho?"

"Main sirf bol rhi hu."

"Mujhe pata hai kis par direct kar rhi ho."

"Arey kisi na naam bhi nhi liya maine."

"Haan haan."

"Kuch bhi." The argument continued.

Meanwhile. Back in hell. Also known as the washroom. Uzair's phone battery had dropped to 2%.

Two.

Percent.

He stared at it in horror. His last connection to the outside world was dying. He tried calling Y/N. No answer. Again. No answer. Again. No answer. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The betrayal hurt. Sweat soaked through his shirt. The smell in the washroom had become a physical presence. A roommate. A roommate he did not want. Uzair covered his face. "Ya Allah."

Silence.

"Please."

Nothing.

"Please yahan se nikaldo." His phone buzzed.

1%.

Uzair's eyes widened. "No no no no no—"

The screen dimmed. Then darkened. Then died.

Uzair stared at his reflection in the black screen. For a long moment, neither moved. Then he slowly leaned his head back against the wall. Outside, the household continued their arguments. Inside, Uzair finally realized something horrifying. Nobody knew he was trapped. And nobody was coming to save him.

Uzair slowly lifted his head. Sweat dripped from his jaw. The heat was making him hallucinate. Or perhaps he was receiving divine inspiration. His eyes landed on the tiny washroom window. He froze. A way out. A way to communicate with civilization. A way to survive. Unfortunately, the window was too high. He stared at it. The window stared back. Five minutes later. Uzair had conducted a thorough inspection of the washroom. The stool? Too short. The broken plastic chair? Even shorter. The bucket? Now that had potential.

"Bismillah."

Sweat sticking to every inch of his body, he yanked off his kurta and tossed it onto the sink. Immediately, life improved by approximately two percent. Not much. But enough. Now shirtless and desperate, he flipped the bucket upside down and carefully climbed onto it. The plastic groaned ominously. "Bas thori der aur."

He stretched. Still not enough. Stretched further. Finally his fingers reached the window frame.

Victory.

Outside, a group of neighbourhood children were playing cricket. The bat looked suspiciously like a laundry paddle. Nobody questioned it. Uzair shoved half his face through the tiny opening.

"OYE!"

Nobody heard.

"OYE BACHO!"

Nothing.

"ABE MOTE JISKI LAAL T-SHIRT HAI!"

The boy stopped. The others looked up. The game paused. All five children stared. A shirtless man was sticking out of a bathroom window. The children exchanged glances. Then casually walked over. Not because they were concerned. Because they were curious. "Veere?"

"Ji?"

"Nange kyu ho?"

Uzair ignored the question. "Ghar ke andar aa—"

Before he could continue— "Astaghfirullah!"

A horrified voice rang out. Everyone turned. A middle-aged aunty carrying a vegetable bag stood frozen in shock. Her eyes widened. Then widened some more. Then nearly left her face entirely.

"HAYE RABBA!"

She dropped the bag. Potatoes rolled everywhere.

"Haye aa ki karandae oh?!" The children blinked. Uzair blinked. The aunty immediately marched forward and grabbed one of the kids. "Urae mar!" [haye ye kya kar rhe ho?! Edhar aa]

"Aunty kya hua?"

"Akhan meech!" [ankhan band karo]

"Kyuuun?"

"Ankhan meech!" [ankhe bandh karo]

She slapped a hand dramatically over the child's eyes.

"Aunty!" Uzair cried. "Ghalat samajh rahi hain!"

"Sharam kar, marne. Ek tog nanga khada hai upar se mereko aunty bol rha hai!"

"Aunty meri baat toh sunne!"

"Haye Allah!"

The woman looked ready to faint.

The children were now thoroughly entertained. One of them pointed. "Ammi, woh toh washroom mein fasa hua lag raha hai."

"Chup!"

Another child squinted. "Nahi sach mein."

"Main ne kaha chup!"

The aunty began dragging the children away. "Chalo sab!"

"Nahi."

"Haye aunty kisko bola-?"

"Andar batana hai!"

"Nahi!"

"Main fasa hua hoon!"

"Nahi!" And just as the last child disappeared around the corner—

CRACK.

Uzair froze. The bucket froze. The laws of physics smiled. "Ya Allah."

CRAAACK.

The plastic bucket exploded beneath him. "AAAAAAAAAAH!" Inside the washroom, a loud crash echoed. A bucket died. Uzair survived. Barely.

Meanwhile. In the courtyard. Nobody knew any of this was happening.  Major Iqbal, Jameel Jamali and Rehman remained gathered around the cards.

Sweaty.

Irritated.

Committed.

Jameel fanned himself with a newspaper. "Yaar yeh bijli walon ne had kar di hai." Jameel's constant release of gas did not help with heat either

Rehman grunted. "Call karo."

Jameel immediately pulled out his phone. A few moments later— "Assalamwalaikum."

"Waalaikumassalam, Janab."

"Bhai sahab bijli kab ayegi?"

The man on the other side sounded exhausted. "Humein nahi pata."

"Dekho mere chote chote bache hai bichare ro rhe hai thoda jaldi karo thoda andaza hoga kab tak aayegi?" Jameel tried to look bichara for light.

"Humein nahi pata."

"Saale kutte ki aulad pata kya hai tereko bijli vibhag mein tu ga-?" The line disconnected. Jameel stared at the screen. "Bad-tameez."

Meanwhile Rehman narrowed his eyes at Major Iqbal. "Ek minute."

"Kya?"

"Tu phir cheating kar raha hai."

Major Iqbal laughed. "Main nahi kar raha."

"Kar raha hai."

"Nahi kar raha."

"Kar raha hai."

Jameel sighed. "Phir shuru ho gaye."

Rehman pointed at the cards. "Yeh card pehle idhar tha."

"Tha hi nahi."

"Tha."

"Nahi tha."

"Tha."

"Nahi tha."

Major Iqbal chuckled. "Rehman, baksh ko mujhe."

At that moment all three men looked toward the street. The same aunty was dragging three protesting children away. One potato was still rolling behind her.

Jameel burst out laughing. "Lagta hai kisi ne phir ammi ke purse se paise chori kare."

Major Iqbal laughed too. "Haan, aaj kal ke bachay."

The three men continued laughing. Completely unaware that somewhere inside the house— Uzair lay on a washroom floor. Shirtless. Sweaty. Surrounded by broken bucket pieces. And rapidly losing faith in humanity.

The return of electricity was met with the same enthusiasm usually reserved for weddings and miraculous recoveries. One second the house was melting. The next—

WHIRRRRRRRRRRR.

Every fan came back to life. For a moment nobody moved. Then a collective sigh swept through the house. In the courtyard, Jameel actually put a hand over his heart. "Ye jab tak un haramiyo ko gali na do na light nhi dete."

Rehman leaned back on the manja. "Qasam se lag raha tha aaj zinda nahi bachenge."

Major Iqbal picked up his cards again. "Ab chai banti hai." Immediately. Because some things were more important than survival.

Upstairs, Y/N had spread herself across the bed like a crime scene victim. The moment the fan started spinning she closed her eyes. "Meri rooh wapas aa gayi."

Yalina nodded. "Main toh bijli vibag wale ko kiss karne wali hu."

Beside them, Ulfat smiled. "Rehman keh raha tha 7 baje tak aa jayegi light."

Yalina stared at the ceiling. "Rehman hi toh lekar aaya haina light."

Meanwhile. In a completely different world. Laiba sat against the headboard. One leg over other. A giant Kurkure packet balanced in her lap. Ulfat's phone in her hand. Her full attention captured by the most important thing currently happening on Earth.

A Shinchan edit.

The song played dramatically. 'Yaara teri yaari ko maine toh khuda maana...' On screen. Kazama was running beside the train. Shinchan was leaving. The Kasukabe Defence Force badge was held out dramatically. Slow motion. Sparkles. Sad transitions. Laiba's lower lip trembled. She stuffed another Kurkure into her mouth. The edit ended. She immediately replayed it. Y/N looked over concerned.

"Laiba."

No response.

"Laiba."

Nothing.

"Laiba!"

"Haan?" Without looking away from the screen.

"Kya dekh rahi ho?"

Laiba pointed dramatically. "Kazama aur shinchan."

Nobody knew what that meant. The edit replayed for the fourth time.

Suddenly. Laiba froze. The Kurkure stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes widened. "OH!"

Everybody jumped. Yalina nearly dropped her phone. "Ab kya hua?"

Laiba sat upright. "Uzair Chachu!"

Everyone turned. "Kya Uzair Chachu?" asked Y/N.

"Unhon ne mujhe kuch bola tha."

Silence. Everybody stared. "Kya bola tha?"

Laiba thought. She took one kurkura in her mouth and thought, One kurkura and thought. "Shayad unko..." Another pause. "Unko bhook lagi thi."

Immediately. Yalina pointed. "Dekha?"

"Dekha kya?"

"Maine kaha tha na."

"Kya kaha tha?"

"Call isi liye kar raha hoga."

Laiba frowned. "Nahi." Another Kurkure. Another pause. "Paani."

Everyone looked at her. "Paani?"

"Haan."

"Pani kya?"

Laiba blinked. "Mujhe paani chahiye mirchi hai." Ulfat handed her a bottle. Laiba drank half of it. Her eyes widened suddenly remembering, "Haan chachu ne kaha tha laiba ko chocolate de dena." All three ignored Laiba and went back to their gossip. Then laiba went back to watching Shinchan. The crisis was forgotten. Again. Several minutes passed. Downstairs.

Yalina finally dragged herself into the kitchen. Because the men would inevitably ask for tea. They always did. She turned on the tap. Nothing. She frowned. Turned it harder. Nothing. The second tap. Nothing. The third. Nothing. "...Aray?"

She stared. Then yelled. "ULFAT!"

"KYA HAI?"

came the reply from upstairs. "PAANI NAHI AA RAHA!"

Within minutes. Everybody had gathered. Y/N checked. Nothing. Ulfat checked. Nothing. Still nothing. "Sach mein paani nahi aa raha." The men arrived next.

Rehman.

Jameel.

Major Iqbal.

All three immediately began inspecting taps despite possessing absolutely no plumbing knowledge.

"Hmmm."

"Hmmm."

"Hmmm."

Very useful contributions.

"Hum toh poora din bahar the." said Rehman.

"Main bhi." said Major Iqbal.

"Main bhi." said Jameel.

A pause. Then everybody slowly arrived at the same conclusion. "...Uzair."

"Bilkul Uzair."

"Wohi hoga."

"Subah se washroom mein hai."

Yalina folded her arms. "Insaan hai ya janwar?"

Y/N nodded. "Pura mohalla naha liya kya apne ghar ke pani se?"

Jameel laughed. "Tanki khaali kar di lagta hai." Everybody started talking at once.

Meanwhile. At the very end of the corridor. A shirtless Uzair sat slumped against the washroom door.

The smell had evolved. It was no longer a smell. It was a living organism.

He was thirsty. Hungry. Sweaty. Half-conscious.

And absolutely convinced he was moments away from seeing the afterlife. Uzair wiped sweat from his forehead for what felt like the hundredth time. He wasn't in a washroom anymore. He was in the Arabian desert. He could practically see the heat waves dancing in front of him. The kind that appeared in movies right before a dehydrated man collapsed dramatically into the sand. At this point, if a camel walked through the door and offered him water, he wouldn't even question it. He would simply accept his fate.

Then.

Through the door. He heard voices. People. Actual people. His eyes widened.

Finally.

Rescue.

He tried speaking. "Pa..."

Nothing came out. His throat felt like sandpaper. Outside. Y/N banged on the door. "UZAIR!"

Silence.

"Zinda ho?"

Inside.

Barely.

Another bang.

"Kitna waqt lagega aur?!"

"Subah gaya tha!"

"Shaam ho gayi hai!" Then—

Upstairs.

Laiba suddenly shot upright. The random edit of peppa pig on yara yara phonk stopped. Her eyes widened. The memory finally returned. "Oh my God."

Nobody heard. "Oh my God!"

Still nobody heard. "OH MY GOD!"

Everybody turned. "KYA HAI?"

Laiba pointed dramatically toward the corridor. "UZAIR CHACHU KO PAANI CHAHIYE THA!"

Silence. Everyone froze. The corridor froze. Time froze. Then all heads slowly turned toward the washroom door. And from the other side—

CLICK.

The lock opened.

Bas, itni hi beizzati aaj ke liye kaafi hai. Agle Saturday phir milenge. Tab tak chai peejiyega, paani bachaiyega, aur Laiba ko messages dena avoid kijiye. Main hoon K.Kaur. Aap dekh rahe the Akal Gayi Tel Lene.

Rab Rakha. 🪷

Lemme know if anyone wants to be tagged or be removed

Positivity! Gosh, hmmm... Let's see... Out of these... All of them actually seem difficult. For the last one I have trouble choosing, but I suppose I could go with...

3 people I care deeply about

My fiancé

Hands down. Number one on my list, and always will be. He's the first person with whom I've had a home. Not just a house in which to live, but a home. A real home. He is kind and gentle, and intelligent and humble. He is determined, responsible, and honest. But he's not someone to be pushed around either, as he is also secure. People look up to him and I can see why, and he prefers to lead by doing, by example, rather than just boss others around. And he genuinely cares. When we argue, it's always about the issue, never about the people, and it stays on the topic of the argument; it's always civil. Because we're never against each other, really; we're against the issue, together. He does have his vices, but I'd dare to argue that his vices would be a lesser man's virtues. And quite frankly, I think that this makes him perfect. Because... as he once told me "prefect as a concept would be very one-sided if it held only good qualities, thus, perfection requires a balance of both good and bad, which is why you are, to me, perfect". He is human. He errs. He learns. He grows. He remembers to live because memento vivere, memento mori Life is meant to be lived. And you only have one

2. (Here comes the hard part of choosing) My mother-in-law

She fusses a lot. But not in a bad way. Actually, I think that her fussing comes from the fact that she cares a lot about the world around her, and the people in her life. At times I pity her for some things, especially when she tells me that she feels that her sons' relationships are better than her own. I have a lot of thoughts about some of the things she has told me, but I don't think she, or her husband for that matter, are bad people by any means. And I know that if I had a problem, a real, huge damn problem, I could go to her. She might not have solutions, but she would be there for me. And she would try to find someone with answers with me. She is everything I hoped my own mother to be.

3. My friend Sarah (not real name; or maybe it is, you'll never know)

cardan greenbriar; for @dianabarryy

“I am the High King of Elfhame,” Cardan reminds her. “And I mislike being given orders.”

ok, so it was bugging me 

so i remade the inej edit

*tumblr clones theme suddenly begins to play with a brand new bass line with cool speakers that shake the dust from the previously dusty tumblr clones merch, the crowd gasps with joy as two blogs emerge in a burst of confetti*

thank u for the ask laiba!! <3

WIP title: undecided Fandom: Avatar: the Last Airbender Premise: Katara and Suki reminisce about how they got together. Characters: Katara, Suki

Excerpt: “That’s going to scar,” Suki says worriedly. Katara shakes her head and smiles again, a little brighter.

“It’ll be fine.”

She is no stranger to scars. Living in the harsh South Pole has left her with a collection of blemishes all over her skin⁠—on her hands from the time she cut herself on ice, on her legs when a baby polar-bear dog bit her, on her back from Sokka tossing around his machete. That last one had healed almost the moment she’d come in contact with water. Now she wonders if that wasn’t so much a coincidence as a premonition.