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#i think its mostly out of a fear of being mocked by men who are more experienced in the hobbies i want LMAO
greenwaterskeeter · 10 months
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Realism in Abolition: from an Interview with Mariame Kaba on the Beyond Prisons podcast
 (transcript and audio at link)
Kim: Thank you. I’d like to switch gears now and talk a little bit about something else that I know we always get asked as abolitionists. People always want to know, “What about people that have caused serious harm to others?” I’d love to hear your thoughts about how you respond to this question.
Mariame: First, I understand, why people ask the question because society has done a really good job inculcating a bunch of fear in people. I don’t know if people know who’s actually in prison and who’s not, so there’s just a lot of misinformation. “Law and Order” really has done a real job on people, a real kind of brainwashing job about who gets incarcerated, who those folks are, what that means. There’s also a huge conflation I think that people have around connecting crime and connecting incarceration, and so those things have connections to each other when even the most conservative criminologists and theorists and researchers have found that “crime” and incarceration, the correlation between them is very faint and not as statistically significant as people think.
So, I understand that. I guess for me, if people think about sexual assault or murder, that usually happens between people who know each other really well. It’s very rare that you have actual “serial rapists” in the world that are portrayed on TV. That’s not what most sexual assault actually is. Most sexual assault is actually not reported, most people who engage in it are not actually in prison. This idea that if you don’t have prison that’s going to flood the universe with all these sexual predators is completely not borne out by the actual empirical facts that we have going on right now. And it’s a great moment to think about that when more and more people are being either outed as sexual harassers and assaulters in the media through these revelations, ever since the Weinstein article in the [New York] Times. Can you imagine incarcerating all those men? They’re mostly men, as sexual predators. What would the system need to look like for that to be the solution to a problem that is actually about systemic, structural inequities in power?
I just think people have this idea that the 5% of the people who are actually in prison for murder and rape are everybody who’s in prison. And so, the ending of prisons doesn’t actually do the thing that you’re thinking  in your head would happen. In fact, the prison itself is such a perpetrator of sexual violence that if you are somebody who cares about ending sexual violence, you have to end the prison, too. These things are not separate from each other. If you are somebody who’s concerned with murder, the prison is a murderer. You have to end that, too. It’s its own form of violence.
That’s really a way of thinking about that. Prisons don’t stop murder because we have murder, you know? So, you have to ask yourself the question about, “What are you trying to do?” and if it’s to increase actual safety, “What would lead to that? What would actually get us safe?”
We know that strong relationships with each other that are based on healthy accountability is the way to go, so, the question is how do we get to that? My interest has been in trying to figure that part of the equation out and I don’t feel in any way defensive when people kind of point the finger at the abolitionist and say, [mock yelling] “Well what are we going to do about all the…?” and it’s usually like that, it’s not ever like a calm-
Brian: [laughing] Right.
Mariame: …[mock yelling] “But what about all the rapists and murderers?” I always say to people, “Ask yourself what’s happening to you right now. Why are you so agitated?” You know what I mean? “What’s going on?” Because the prison and the police are so in your head and your heart, you’re feeling personally affronted, because you think, these institutions matter to you quite a bit and the question is, “Why do they matter so much to you? Are they doing what they say they’re doing? Are they keeping the world safe?” I’m just asking you to think about that, to answer that question yourself. If you feel like these institutions are working well and doing exactly what it is that you’d hope they do, then you shouldn’t be mad at people who are trying to... then you’re fine, you’re just living in the world that exists. But if you’re somebody that thinks these things are actually damaging and you think them “working” is actually working to further oppress and cause more violence, then you’re interested in something else and then, you and I can have this conversation about that. We can talk.
I also want to say that abolition is a collective project, it isn’t an individual project. Even though we individually are doing abolitionist acts on a daily basis whether we know it or not, it is a collective project, which means that one person is not responsible for coming up with “the solution.”
Kim: Absolutely.
Mariame: We have to come up with a solution based on our cultures and our communities and it’s again, based on our needs, our desires, our wants. So, me standing up there and making a big speech to you about abolition as a lofty… means zero. What does that mean in your life, in your world, in your context, in your community, with your people? How are you practicing abolition and how are you getting your ultimate goal if your ultimate goal is more safety?
So, when people say, “What about the rapists and the murderers?” I really want to say, “Well what about them?” because they’re pretty much already not in prison.
Kim: Exactly.
Mariame: We’re already living, if you want to call that abolition, we’re already living that kind of abolition, so that’s why abolition for me is not mainly about the destruction or dismantling of the prison and the police and surveillance, though that’s critically important, it’s creating the conditions necessary so that those things don’t need to exist. That’s a very different project and that’s a very different angle. That’s something that allows for a freedom to do a whole bunch of things that aren’t even only and mainly about trying to end prisons or policing or surveillance. That’s about making sure people have living wages, that’s about making sure people have actual housing, making sure people have good educations, making sure people have environmental health and not environmental racism, making sure we don’t all die on the planet. All these things are abolitionist projects.
That’s the thing that most people that aren’t abolitionists in terms of, people who’ve studied, who have practiced, who’ve organized under an abolitionist set of framework and ideology… I think most people think about it in an analytic exercise. But for me, it’s always been actual practice. I’m an organizer and an educator first and that’s where I learned about abolition, through practice. And yes, I’ve read a lot and I’ve read people that I’ve come to become friends with and respect, but that’s not the gist of how I came to that. I came through action and looking for something that would change the circumstances that I was encountering that were super frustrating to me when I was working with survivors of violence.
So yeah, I think that’s what I would say about, What about the sociopath? And the dangerous people and all this other kind of thing and, this is completely unrealistic. Oh really, is the current system realistic? Like really? I don’t understand that. To me, of course it’s realistic, like it’s the most realistic thing there is. Your cynicism is unrealistic.
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midwestgender · 3 years
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one thing that confounds me that non-autistic people do is like. they’ll be like oh i wanna pick up hiking. so they like. maybe buy a new water bottle, shove it in a backpack, and then google a hiking spot and go to it. when i started hiking i read like 40 different subreddits just to figure out what kind of shoes i needed to wear. 
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rwrights · 3 years
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WE'LL BE OKAY - NAT.
summary : nat and you never got along. reasons still unknown, but it was affecting the whole team. steve assigns you both to a mission, with natasha acting harshly. she said something to you before heading off. she got in your head and the aftermath wasn't so pretty.
contents : angst (??) / fluff
warnings : mentions of blood, guns, bullying, cursing and just occasional marvel fight scenes.
NOT PROOFREAD. a/n : my first fic aaaahhh !! i was inspired by a lot of similar fics like this, but mostly by this WANDA FIC WRITTEN BY @/maximons - i suggest you give it a read BCS ITS SO GOOD ARRGH <3
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you don’t know how the feud started between you and natasha. you couldn’t tell if it was because of your age or because you were new.
you had quite an age gap with the former assassin, being a striking 24 years old, but according to the russian - you might as well have been 12 years of age.
unlike most of the avengers, you had a decent childhood. it wasn’t filled with trauma, and death, and basically what some of them unfortunately went through. you grew up in the suburbs with your mum and two older siblings. you got all the toys you wanted and everyone loved you! because of that, you were always polite and cheery - it’s what made people like you. you were funny and usually managed to put a smile on people faces ; usually.
natasha found your positivity irking and unnatural. how could someone be so, happy? she felt as if you were shitting rainbows down her throat, and god, did she hate it. how could someone like you even have the guts to be an avenger?
she enjoyed picking fights with you out of nowhere, and as fun as it was at first - the hostility only progressed and became a disruption to the whole team, including you. you tried your best to really become friends with natasha - or at least be civil with her. but the more effort you made, the worse she treated you. all you wanted to do was make it a little easier for the team, you all have enough crap to put up with and the quarreling between the both of you was definitely not needed.
─── donk.
“nat! y/n! conference room one, now!” steve’s loud voice called out through the speakers placed throughout the compound.
you set your book aside before running down to the conference room as you were told. you walked passed natasha, already giving you a sharp glare from afar. she adjusted her speed and basically ran to where away from you. you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her as you trailed behind.
you entered the room, greeting everyone politely before sitting down next to wanda, who saved a space for you.
“alright, now that we’re all here..” cap began, walking around the table where you were all sat. “we’ve got a mission for two of you,”
“did you call us here to compete for it? because i am so getting this mission.” natasha stated, pointing at everyone as if she was threatening them. “uh, no.. not exactly. we’ve already assigned the mission to two of you..”
“who?” she asked, wanting to leave the compound immediately and get some action (not the peepee way).
“you and y/n,”
hearing your name, you just froze. you couldn’t help but stare at steve as if he was out of his mind.
“what?!” natasha squeaked. “i’m sorry, but there is no way i’m going with her. it’s probably best if i go on my own!”
“that’s just mean..” you replied quietly, in your seat. you weren’t in the mood to argue, so you tried to contribute as little as possible into this conversation. “cap, if natasha doesn’t want to do the mission with me, i’m totally fine with sitting this one out.”
“oh, don’t suck up and use your y/n reverse psychology on this. it’s not gonna work,” she spat, obviously mad about the whole situation. “nat, i’m being serious. i know how much you’ve been dying to go out, so please. just take it.”
“no, y/n, you’re going with nat. we’ve decided this already.” steve stepped in, trying his best to set his foot down. “steve, i think you know this isn’t going to happen.” natasha glared.
“you either go together or y/n takes someone else.”
“steve! i swear i’m fine!” you argued, seeing how natasha’s ears were practically steaming from anger. “i-”
“no, you know what? fine. enjoy your mission, y/l/n.” she growled as she stormed out of the room. you couldn’t do anything but watch as she slammed the door shut. as much as you wanted to chase after her, you and everyone else in the room knew you’d probably make the situation a thousand times worse for natasha. you sighed and slammed your head on the table in exhaustion.
“we’re sorry, y/n. we thought her need for a mission would make her say yes even with the partnership.” bucky said from the other side of the room. your head shot up almost as quickly as you blinked. “what do you mean?”
“we thought sending you two on a mission together could… make the arguing stop - even by a little.” steve explained, sighing. you laughed at them, did they really think that would work? did they know the obstacles you went through to try to get on her good side? your first few weeks were HELL because of it.
“it’s alright.. clint? what do ya say?”
“always up for a mission, y/l/n.” he smiled, giving you a fistbump.
─── donk.
clint knocked on natasha’s door after the meeting. “nat? it’s me,” he called, nat opening the door a few seconds after.
“can you believe them? they know how much i dislike her and they’d send me on a mission with her? Bozhe mo! (oh my god!)”
“nat, y/n is awesome. it’s been months, it’s getting tiring.”
“oh, please. it took forever to get any of you guys to trust me. doesn’t mean it has to be the same with her.”
“nat, she’s a kid!”
“ugh, don’t say it like that. it makes my thoughts uneasy..” nat replied, mock-gagging. clint glared at her as he playfully shoved her. “you’re so stupid.”
“and oh, i’m going on the mission with her.”
“wait what?! but you’re my best friend, why would you take it!” she exclaimed. “i never say no to a mission, nat. you and i both know that. i thought you did, too.”
“i would’ve taken it, but.. no! i’m not losing this fight.” she huffed as she fell on the bed. “turn the tv on, i need to distract myself.”
he did as he was told and decided to stay and watch with her until dinner.
─── donk.
it was the day of your mission and you were making your way to the hangar. to your surprise, you saw natasha waiting there. you smiled at her only to receive another sharp glare. yeah, what a surprise. you looked away and decided to wait for clint.
not long after he arrived and said his goodbyes to natasha, just as you were going to aboard the ship, she grabbed your wrist and whispered in your ear.
“you’re gonna trip and get yourself shot, y/l/n.”
“what the hell? i’ve barely left and you’re already telling me i’m gonna fuck up?” you retorted, angrily. you weren’t in the right state to panic or stress. especially not before you were leaving. “have fun, y/n.” she smiled, dripping in faux kindness.
you followed clint onto the ship and couldn’t help but shake in fear. great, now you were worried. you didn’t want to fuck up. you weren’t planning to.
“you’ll be okay, y/l/n. i’ve got your back.” clint reassured, seeing the panic clouding on your face.
“thank you..” you mumbled, but natasha’s words never left your head.
─── donk.
“something seems off, clint.” you whispered, looking around and keeping your guard up. “i agree, y/l/n. it’s too quiet.. too easy.” he replied.
just as you were going to reply, someone charged at you from behind, getting a hold of your throat. by instinct, you kicked his shin and flipped him around. “clint!” you called out as you knocked your attacker out.
suddenly, groups of people were coming towards you - fully armed. “clint!” you screamed, pulling your gun out and shooting as many of them as you could. “shit!”
“y/n, it’s a trap!” clint finally replied, making you roll your eyes as you threw your fist at a guy’s temple. “yes, clint, i’m aware!”
“keep your guard up, y/l/n. you can do this!”
“there’s-” kick. “too many-” elbow. “of them!” shoot.
“try to hold out for as long as possible! i’m on my way,”
you looked up to see more men charging at you. “ah fuck,”
you grabbed one of the guns from the guys you managed to knock out and aimed. “clint, i can shoot right?” you asked for permission, not knowing if you were supposed to kill them or just simply knock them out.
“yes, y/n. you can shoot.”
“thank you!”
you silently thanked god for the gun you chose and started shooting at the guards. you quickly threw it away as they ran out of bullets and grabbed two pistols and continued to run and shoot away.
as you focused on getting a certain guard, one of them slid under you, quite literally slipping you off your feet - probably making you twist your ankle, giving one of them an opportunity to get a clean shot of your thigh.
the bullet went through your thigh, making you scream in pain. “fuck!” you shot back at him immediately and slid up onto the wall.
well great, another thing natasha was right about.
“y/n?!” clint called, hearing you scream. the worry in his voice was evident, it managed to make you smile for a second until you dodged another bullet.
“i’m okay!”
no, you weren’t. you could barely stand with your fucked up ankle and the hole in your thigh, but you continued to shoot and fight.
“just.. hurry up, please!”
you used your bad leg to kick a guy down and use him as a ledge. you cursed as you ran out of bullets. there were guns scattered across the floor, thanks to you. you just grabbed the nearest ones and looked back up.
as quickly as you did, a shot went through your shoulder and your abdomen. “gah fuck!” you collapsed on the floor as you tried to control the bleeding. you got up for a second to shoot back at the closest people and went back down. “clint, hurry up!” the pain was too much, the bleeding wouldn’t stop and your ankle looked like a fucking bean. you started to get nauseous, but tried your best to stay up.
“i’m here!” he yelled as he aimed at a few people in front of him. he ran towards you, finally seeing your state. “oh my god!” he kneeled down, putting pressure on your wounds to help with the bleeding, but the blood just kept seeping through “you just said you were okay, idiot!”
“i know, i didn’t want to worry you..” you mumbled. “no, no! y/n, you have to stay awake. come on!” he picked you up and started running away to go back to the ship. “you’re okay, y/n. tell me you’re okay right now.”
“i’m okay.. i’m okay, clint.”
“yeah, yeah, you are.”
you tried making it to the ship, but you were already so tired. “i’m gonna nap, clint..” you said before passing out.
─── donk.
clint alerted steve about you right when you passed out. they were rushing you out to the med bay to perform surgery on your injuries.
“she told me she was okay, steve. i thought she was okay!” clint screamed, he blamed himself for what happened to you. only if he arrived a few seconds before. you wouldn’t have been in the situation you’re in now.
“no, no. this isn’t your fault. neither is it hers, it happens, okay? we put ourselves at risk every time we step out of here. y/n was brave, alright?
wanda rushed down to the medbay, reaching for the door before pulling her back. “wanda, we have to let dr cho do her job right now. she’ll be okay.. y/n will be okay.”
she cried into steve’s shoulder - her best friend was being operated on. you were being operated on! the thought of you getting hurt never crossed her mind because she knew you were strong.
the team soon heard about the incident and let their worries out, obviously caring about you. natasha was confused about the whole hassle.
“vision!” she called out. he turned around and walked towards natasha. “how may i help you?”
“what’s the hassle about? everyone keeps whispering,”
“mr barton and ms y/l/n have returned from their mission, but ms y/l/n has suffered some major injuries and has been in surgery for about an hour now-”
hearing that, she sped to the medbay, thanking vision quickly. she saw wanda, steve and clint waiting around. “no, no, where is she?!” she yelled, making the three of them look at her in shock. “she’s still in-”
she tried running into the room like wanda did, getting pulled back by steve. “natasha, we have to let dr. cho do her job.”
“i need to see her!” she exclaimed, not being able to breathe. “what happened to her? what major injuries?!” she demanded.
“broken ankle, shot through her thigh, shoulder and abdomen..” clint recited, looking down at his feet. “where were you!? how could you let this happen?!” she roared, genuinely shocking them.
why did she suddenly care about you? well, yes, you suffered major injuries, but why was she getting mad?
“natasha! enough!” steve scolded. “this isn’t clint’s fault, and you know it.” he said, sternly. she didn’t reply as she panted. wanda held her hand as support, needing it for herself as well.
─── donk.
an hour later, dr. cho finally walked out of the room. everyone stood up in eagerness.
“is she okay?” steve asked, immediately.
“y/n suffered major blood loss, but we are lucky none of the three bullets hit any major arteries. she has also quite definitely broken her ankle, so i’m putting her on bedrest for at least 6 weeks until you get her up and going again.”
“main point, yes. y/n is okay.”
a smile broke out in all of their faces. “thank you, doc!”
“you may see her now, but she hasn’t woken up yet. don’t be too loud.”
they all walked into your room and stood beside your bed. “she looks so peaceful,”
“she definitely looks better right now than earlier,” clint joked, earning a soft laugh from the three of them. they stood by you for a while until natasha spoke up.
“um.. could- could i be the one who stays with her until she wakes up?”
they looked at the red head in surprise, “are you sure, nat?” steve asked.
“yeah.. i just want to be here.”
“alright,” they smiled softly at her before leaving.
she held your hand and stayed with you, waiting for you to wake up. it took for a while so she managed to fall asleep, holding your hand.
you slowly started coming back, groaning from the late pain you experienced. natasha jumped in shock and saw that you were awake.
“you’re awake!” she whispered, making you turn to her. “natasha? what’s happening?”
“you passed out during your mission. i know i told you you’d slip and get shot.. but i didn’t actually mean slip and get shot, idiot!” she scolded, flicking your forehead. “gah! it was an accident, i was doing fine,”
“no, you have three holes in your body. and not the good ones,”
“nat??” you replied, shocked. “did you just joke around with me?”
“no..”
“you’re holding my hand.. what did they bribe you with?” you asked, quickly getting suspicious. you tried pulling your hand away, but she only held onto you tighter. “nothing! i.. i volunteered. ask steve and wanda! and clint!” she replied, defending herself quickly.
“well, if you volunteered.. what do you want from me? i’m not gonna be leaving the compound for at least 2 months, so you can have all my missions-”
“no, y/n. truthfully, i just really want to apologize.”
“huh”
“i know i’ve made your first few weeks really hard and even after being here for months, i still managed to.. you know.. make it hard for you. in full honesty, i genuinely don’t know why i’ve been so horrible to you. i had a hard time opening up to people - and.. you were just so welcoming and i got scared. not an excuse for my actions, by the way! i was horrible and i’m so sorry.”
“thank you for your apology, i forgive you, nat.” you smiled, squeezing her hand. “i also.. have feelings for you.” natasha added, avoiding eye-contact with you. “you whAT?!”
“i-”
“i like you too! but are- are you serious?”
“yes, y/n… i like you. guess that’s why i was so defensive about.. literally everything.”
“nat.. thank you. for opening up to me. it genuinely means so much - especially after all this fucking time, you asshole.”
“are we okay now?” she asked, hopeful.
“yes, nat. we’re okay.”
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archies-litterbox · 3 years
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of poison, forest floors, and terrified wizards
Summary: Out all alone on what was meant to be a simple errand, collecting herbs for Merlin, Douxie is downed when some pickpocket throws a fistful of black powder in his face - a magic surpressant and poison to wizards, he comes to find out the hard way. Unable to move or use his magic, as attempts to do both cause nothing but agony, the moppet has no choice but to rely on the slim hope of someone finding him before the poison overtakes him.
A/N: This is my first toa fic! I’ve spent the past year mostly just doing fic for witcher, so this is a nice change of pace :) I had fun with this! I thought about what would happen if there was some sort of substance in TOA that acted as a poison/magic surpressant to wizards... and ofc it turned into douxie whump (but it’s moppet!douxie which is even more painful :( ). Enjoyyy!
[CW: Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Poisoning/Sickness, Temporary Paralysis, blood mention (but no bleeding)]
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All Douxie had been sent out to do was collect some herbs for Merlin. It wasn’t even in the uncertain ground like the Wild Wood, but a patch of forest he’d been sent to fetch ingredients from countless times. It should have been a simple enough task for the moppet, which is why he hadn’t woken Archie from his afternoon nap - which he was taking on Douxie’s bed - to have his familiar accompany him. And truly, the task itself was simple; it didn’t take Douxie very long at all to go into the woods and find a patch of the plants Merlin told him to fetch - something about a potion ingredient, the apprentice vaguely recollected.
Indeed, he found it without any trouble, but when he felt a figure speed past his back and steal away the little pouch of herbs he’d collected before speeding off into the woods, that was when the trouble started.
The rational part of him (which said exactly what he’d reckoned Archie would be telling him right now) told him just to pick more, but it was overshadowed by how downright insulting this woodland pickpocket was! Before he’d been taken in by Merlin, conning and using slight-of-hand to his advantage was one of his only means of survival, so to not only be stolen from, but in a way so lacking in cunning? The audacity!
It was the principal of the matter that sent him running after the thief, darting this way and that until he was lost in the thick of the woods, focused only on tailing the pickpocket.
“Hey! Stop!” Douxie panted, “You’re stealing from a master wizard!”
That didn’t seem to entice the thief to stop.
“Well… his apprentice, anyway!” he added for reasons unsure to even himself. Maybe honesty would help?
Well, thanks to his trusty, gangly legs, he caught up to the thief and got close enough to grab their wrist, and he thought it would be smooth sailing after that.
Yeah! Alright! I’ll just get my herbs back and deal with this thief and -
The thief turned around and threw a handful of black powder in his face.
Fuzzbuckets.
Douxie squeezed his eyes shut as soon as he felt them sting, coughing into his elbow to hack up the charcoal tasting powder that flew into his mouth and nose. That little trick stopped him in his tracks, but he wasn’t deterred. Not mentally. He still wanted to try to catch up… 
...but his legs wouldn’t move.
No matter how badly he wanted - demanded his legs to obey him, they remained tense, frozen in that position of one in front of the other.
What?
One terrifying moment later, they did move. But not into the sprint he wanted to take - no, to do something worse: to buckle underneath him and send him falling onto his side against the forest floor. 
And he couldn’t get up.
No matter how much he willed his body to do it, he couldn’t get up.
It was like when he’d have nightmares and he’d realize he was having a nightmare; it took forcing his body to toss and turn and shift from side to side as much as he could to rouse him back to the realm of the fully conscious.
But he couldn’t even do that. He couldn’t rouse himself from this nightmare because he couldn’t push himself up.
Wait.
No.
He couldn’t move.
Nearing complete panic, he internally begged and pleaded to find some sort of mobility, but his limbs grew numb by the second, and wherever he still had feeling, it ached - utterly, reprehensibly ached. Not only that, but it was cold. So, so cold, despite the warm atmosphere of the summer afternoon that hung around him so tauntingly.
He’d never felt more scared in his life. Not even being threatened at swordpoint by Sir Galahad and his men, knowing that he’d be killed for something like a measly alley trick, was as terrifying as this - not even that made his blood run cold (literally, it felt like, as well as figuratively) like this did.
And he was sure that was clear to the thief he’d tried to catch. They stood over him, and he couldn’t see their face from where his head lay on the ground, cheek against the grass, but with his glassy, wide eyes flickering between straining to look at his poisoner - because that’s what this was, a poison -  and darting around wherever they could look without him moving his head - because he couldn’t even do that - as black strands of hair lay loose on his cheek because he couldn’t lift a hand to move them, he was sure looked every bit as terrified as he felt.
The thief laughed. Laughed.
“A master wizard’s apprentice, eh?” they spoke, their voice dripping with mock fascination that made Douxie wish that someone, anyone would come to help him, “And your great master never told you to pick your battles? He must not have, if you felt so inclined as to chase me all through the woods for a plant you could have just picked a little more of. It was right in front of you, after all.”
The realization which dawned on Douxie would have made his blood run cold if it didn’t feel like it already was. They’d pickpocketed him because they counted on him pursuing them, even to the point of ending up in the thick of the woods, far away from where Merlin or Archie expected him to be - far away from where they’d know to look for him.
Douxie finally tried to shout for help, but his throat was just as tense - as frozen as the rest of his muscles, and his jaw was too tight to open as much as he’d need to scream. All he could do was gasp and force shuddering breaths in and out of his lungs, which was still a trying ordeal - too trying for something like breathing to have been.
“Trying to scream? Really?” the poisoner-thief asked as if it was an absurd thing to do in the moppet’s position (which it wasn’t), “Next thing you know, you’ll try mustering a spell.”
Against his better judgement, for trying a spell couldn’t have been a good idea if his own assailant was suggesting it, he tried to force a little magic to his fingertips.
It burned. Oh, sweet heart of Avalon, it burned. His hand hadn’t even hurt this badly after he’d botched a lightning spell and scarred his wrist in the process.
Douxie wheezed at the sensation, and the thief laughed again.
“Oh, this is rich!” they exclaimed, “this has already paralyzed you hand and foot, and you thought some conjuring would help? What do you think this was made to diminish, Apprentice of Ambrosius?
Douxie couldn’t even think of a swear worthy of this (“fuzzbuckets” was too tame), his mind still flooded with fear and his hand still aching from his botched magic attempt. How had they already known he was Merlin’s apprentice? Sure, he’d mentioned being an apprentice to a master wizard, but he wasn’t that specific.
But he wasn’t worried about that as much as what this implied about his magic, and what this - whatever it had been - was doing to it.
“This,” His assailant bent down and held up their fingertips to his face, showing him the black powder on them. “Seeps away your magic. Or poisons it, or diminishes it, or eats away at it - I’m not a poet, and apt synonyms aren’t my strong suit.”
They stood back up all the way, and Douxie wanted to plead, but the words wouldn’t come out. They wouldn’t even form. This - he couldn’t lose his magic. Not on something as measly as an herb collection.
“All of this-”
They gestured to his paralyzed, twitching form.
“Is just a side effect. A byproduct of attacking your magic.”
Douxie tried curling his hand into a fist. Not only were his muscles so weak that he could only curl his fingers for a second in what looked more like a spasm than a conscious movement, but grabbing the wrong end of a knife would have hurt less.
The powder-tosser winced mock-sympathetically.
“Shame, really. I hoped the master wizard you served could be the one to deal with this.”
For a moment, in his agony, he wished he was. Douxie squandered the thought as quickly as it came up, hating himself for conceiving it. He couldn’t wish this on anyone, least of all the wizard who saved him, who plucked him off the streets.
But why couldn’t he save him now?
“Ah, well.” They reached down to Douxie’s face and put a strand of hair behind his ear.
Douxie wanted to cry.
“S’pose you’ll do. It’ll be a kick in the teeth for him anyway, when you don’t come back from your little errand after hours and hours, and by the time they send out a search party…”
The smugness and certainty in their tone made Douxie whimper, the first vocal noise he’d been able to make in all of this, after naught but wheezing and gasping. Where was he going to get dragged off to? The Wild Wood? Were they in league with trolls, hoping to get an edge on King Arthur? Or were they a bandit, hoping to take all his goods off of him (which weren’t much, unless they counted the black cat fur on his vest) and keep him in some rackety shack until a ransom note made its way to Merlin?
(Would he even pay it, considering Douxie’s incompetence?)
“Well, they’ll find you right here, I’m sure, but…”
Douxie could hear them mock-wince again, and their implication was worse than anything he’d assumed in the moments before. He couldn’t hear the rest of their sentence over his own panic that, combined with the poison, made his head swim.
He wasn’t going to be taken anywhere.
He was going to be left here, to - to - to - 
His panic pushed him to try his magic again on impulse alone, and it felt like both his hands were on fire. His throat, as tight as it was, finally let him groan through his teeth.
“An exercise in futility, little wizard.” his attacker taunted, “In fact…”
They took his bracelet - only three fingers wide at this point in his training - right off his wrist, which made him squeak as he tried, tried, tried to shake his head, and threw it into a bush in what was both further assurance of his powerlessness and an insult to injury.
“I would say you should try to get comfortable…” 
They stood up and took a few steps back, leaving the little field of vision Douxie had from where his head lay on the ground.
“...But I suppose that would be another exercise in futility.”
He heard the poisoner-thief run off, their footfalls fading as the pounding of his racing heart, which drummed against his ears in sync with their steps, drowned out the noise until they were out of earshot.
He was alone.
He couldn’t move, some poison was seeping away his magic - his very lifeforce - and tensed his body up so rigidly that he couldn’t even scream, and he was alone.
If he could’ve, he would have curled up into a ball as small as he could make himself in hopes that the dangers of the woods and the dire circumstances of his situation would pass him by.
If he could’ve, he would have screamed, even though he knew he was far away from the earshot of anyone who might have come looking for him by that patch of herbs where he said he’d go, and he knew that Archie, who could have tracked his scent here, was still sleeping because, in his arrogance, he hadn’t thought to wake him.
If he could’ve, he would have dragged himself to his gauntlet, wherever it had been thrown, because even if it wouldn’t have done anything to get him out of this, at least he wouldn’t have felt so helpless, even though helpless was exactly what he was.
But he couldn’t.
All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and feel his tears run down the bridge of his nose as his lips contorted into a grimace, the only two things he could do with his body where the movement itself didn’t outweigh how badly he wanted - needed to do it.
All he could hope for, against hope itself, was that he’d be found here.
Before all that could be found was his body.
---
He wished he could just sleep.
The grassy ground underneath him was soft enough, and his position on his side could have been comfortable enough. Maybe it would have helped pass the time until the poison ran its course, whatever that entailed.
But whatever this was, it didn’t even grant him that luxury. Whether it was an effect of the poison or a product of his own adrenaline and terror, Douxie was wide awake.
Not only that, but after what might have been an hour or two (judging by the sunlight’s reflection off the dewey grass), his body would periodically twitch because of the poison. Sometimes his leg would kick out like a dog, or his shoulder would seize up to the point where it touched his ear, or his hand would ball into a fist.
But his poisoned body didn’t care which of his movements were voluntary or otherwise - it stung all the same. Not like the horrific burning that came with his attempts at magic, but a grating, awful ache right down to his bones. The spontaneous twitches never let him even come close to unconsciousness, and maybe that was a good thing - every breath was more or less of a laborious gasp, a conscious effort of his, and if he’d lost consciousness and stopped forcing them in and out of his lungs… he didn’t want to imagine it.
He wished his panic would quiet enough for him to get bored laying here - he would have preferred it to this, and it would have made sense, considering that he was stuck staring at the same blades of grass and patch of trees that he’d been staring at for the past hour.
And they weren’t even particularly interesting trees or blades of grass, not that they would have distracted him very well if they were.
He wondered if anyone had started looking for him by now. Maybe Merlin was growing impatient without the ingredients he asked for, and maybe Morgana had started to wonder why “Little Douxie” hadn’t come back to the castle.
He wondered if Archie had woken up from his nap and noticed Douxie’s absence yet. If anyone could insist that someone go out and search for him, it would be his familiar. He didn’t want to delude himself by thinking it would help though.
He wondered the importance of those herbs he was collecting before. Were they really that important to whatever Merlin had been working on? Were they worth chasing that thief down? Were they worth all of this?
He was pulled from his thoughts when a shadow cast over the grass he’d been staring at - the shadow of a creature flying overhead and hovering above him.
If he could’ve curled into himself, just to look as small as possible, he would have. What if it was a vulture, waiting to scavenge him? What if it was a monster, or a winged troll, here to carry him off to some trollish nest in the Wild Wood? None of the thoughts that came to mind were soothing by any means. As the creature swooped down, all Douxie could do was squeeze his eyes shut and hope he wouldn’t be harmed any further.
Even when the figure landed in front of him and stepped closer and closer, he didn’t look at it. It wasn’t until he could feel it’s breath on his face, one of the only sensations of the past few hours that didn’t hurt, that he opened his eyes.
A face of black fur greeted him.
And yellow eyes.
And a round pair of glasses.
Archie!
He couldn’t even say the word, but a sob escaped his throat - a sob of relief? A sob of terror that this might have been the start of an onslaught of hallucinations, the first of which being a sign of rescue? He wasn’t sure. Either way, all he wanted to do was reach up and pet the cat-dragon familiar, or hug him and not let go, but he couldn’t. His arm felt like it weighed half a ton, just like the rest of his limbs.
So, he sobbed. It was all he could do.
“Douxie!” Archie cried.
Merlin’s apprentice could hear the worry in his voice as he stepped back a few paces, his ears back and his wings to his side. Of course, he’d shifted into his dragon form - he must have been able to track Douxie’s scent like that. But Douxie hated the thought of his familiar being in danger because he’d flown here. He was already suspicious enough as a black cat, since they carried the notion of being bad omens. What if he’d gotten taken down? He wasn’t worth that!
Douxie was too relieved - yes, he chose relief, not terror, because that’s all he could afford - to think about all of that though.
“Douxie, I’ve been looking for you! What’s happened to you?” Archie asked, “Merlin expected you back hours ago!”
The first thing that came to mind, despite everything, was an apology for his absence - an apology he couldn’t even say. He couldn’t even say what happened to him, not like -
A spasm cut off from his speeding, scrambled thoughts - a large one in his left arm (his right was still mostly underneath him) that reached all the way from his fingertips to his shoulderblade, forcing his hand to ball into a fist, his arm to fold so tightly that his fist touched his shoulder, and his shoulder to tighten so much that his shoulder pressed to his ear.
The sound of agony ripped from his throat was the closest to a scream he’d gotten yet.
Archie looked horrified, and Douxie could only imagine what the sight of him was like - black strands loose from his bun strewn over his face, his eyes puffy and tear-ringed, his lips contorted in a pained grimace. He imagined he looked as pitiful and helpless as he felt.
(In fact, he didn’t have to imagine it. He could faintly see his reflection in the lenses of Archie’s glasses, and he was right in what he pictured, save for the addition of smudges and speckles of that powder still on his face, the black splotches of dust contrasting his color-drained skin, pale as death.)
His arm relaxed again after a few agonizing moments, letting his hand fall in front of his face and leaving a throbbing ache down to his bones, and Douxie tried to collect himself. He had to tell Archie what was wrong. He had to try. If Archie knew, he could fix it. He could get Merlin to fix it. Right? Right.
“P-” he started, trying his absolute best to form words despite the constriction in his throat and lungs that barely let him breathe at all, “puh- poi-”
His own wheezing cough cut him off.
“Poison?” Archie asked, getting it right much to the little relief that Douxie could manage. He nodded - at least, as close to the motion as he could accomplish - and tried to hum a “mhm” of affirmation, since trying to talk hadn’t exactly worked. Far from it.
Archie stepped forward and sniffed his face. He immediately recoiled, his big eyes widening, and Douxie was proven wrong for thinking he couldn’t be more terrified.
“Oh, dear.” His eyes glanced to what must have been a few more clumps and speckles of dust on the ground, “Ohhh, not good. Not good at all.”
No. Archie couldn’t be scared. If Archie was scared for him, then this was so, so much worse than he thought. How could it possibly be worse?
Douxie squeaked out a whimper in fear, and Archie’s attention snapped back to him (as if it could have been anywhere else).
“Douxie, don’t worry.” he said, “You’ll be alright.”
Archie was never a good liar, much to Douxie’s dismay. If Archie was going to hide the truth to soothe him, he at least would’ve liked it to work. His immediately telling Douxie not to worry had the opposite effect of what was intended; it showed him his worry - his terror - was entirely warranted, which was the exact thing he didn’t want to know. Even if all he said was “You’ll be alright.”, the fear that seemed to bristle through his fur was indication enough of the contrary.
Archie’s eyebrows, indicated by the grey patches in the fur above his eyes, upturned as if in dread.
“...But I need to go.”
NO!
If Douxie could have screamed the word and reached out to hold Archie, he would have done it right at that moment, but all he could do was whine like a kicked puppy, his eyebrows raising as his head shook - an unconscious movement, minute despite his desperation.
“Douxie, Douxie, listen.” Archie said, softening his voice, “I can’t carry you back to the castle. I wouldn't be able to fly carrying you anyway, but especially not with your-”
Archie got cut off by another one of Douxie’s spasms - this one made his left leg curl up so tight that his thigh touched his torso, causing the apprentice to nearly involuntarily hit Archie with his knee, which the cat-dragon barely dodged.
“-that." Archie said, "Not with that.”
Douxie saw the sense in that, despite his panic. He did, he did, he did.
But - 
He sobbed again.
-But he didn’t want to be alone.
Sweet heart of Avalon, he didn’t want to be alone. 
The worst of his pain and terror wasn’t from the paralysis, or the aching, or the random twitches, or the burning that came from trying to use his magic, or even the tightness in his throat and lungs that robbed him of speaking or even screaming; it came from being alone in this - from wondering if anyone would come for him, or find his body; it came from knowing that there was nothing he could do but lay there, at the mercy of nature, the poison wracking his body with every beat of his heart, and the determination (or lack thereof) of someone else to find him.
And when he opened his eyes to find Archie there, all of that went away - all of that fear that told him he’d die alone here. He didn’t want it to come back. He would’ve rather the poison take him right now.
“I just need to go back to the castle and bring Merlin here. He’ll know what to do.”
Archie put his paw in Douxie’s limp, open palm. All Douxie wanted to do was hold it, and he so desperately hoped the next twitch would be in his hand so he could.
“I won’t be long. I promise.”
But what if it was too long, even if he hurried?
What if Merlin was too late, even if he hurried?
What if it took too long to convince his master to come here? Would the fact that he’d been poisoned and needed help be enough, or would Merlin refuse because it served Douxie right for his insolence?
(No, no, he wouldn’t do that. Merlin said that mastery over magic was mastery over life, and he had to learn how to live. He couldn’t learn to live if he died here in the woods.)
What if… 
What if this killed him before Archie came back?
...No.
It wasn’t the same this time. Douxie wasn’t lost here, hoping against hope that someone would find him. This was hope - someone knew where he was, and help would come. He could handle a little bit more fear for that hope, he knew.
So, fighting the grating, awful ache in his bones, Douxie closed his hand around Archie’s paw and put on as brave a face he found himself able to muster, nodding as much as he could while causing as little pain to himself as possible.
He didn’t trust much in this - not even his own body to keep fighting the poison - but he trusted Archie, and he trusted his promise.
His familiar gently pulled his paw away before slipping it under the side of Douxie’s head, lifting it a little off the ground. The little apprentice was confused for a moment, until Archie reached behind Douxie’s head with his mouth. He could hear the sounds of the woods stifle as fabric came over his ears, warding off the now-coolness of the woodsy air around his head as Archie pulled the hood of his vest over his head and gingerly laid it back down.
Ah, he got it now - it was a little comfort, a little shelter from the world.
And of course he took it, hoping his eyes conveyed his gratitude.
He kept up his brave front as Archie turned away from him, something Douxie could tell he’d done reluctantly, and flew off. It wasn’t until he couldn’t see his familiar anymore - until the sight of the cat-dragon vanished behind the treetops - that he let it fall and shatter.
He just had to keep waiting. That’s all he had to do - wait and trust Archie to come back with Merlin. He knew that.
But he could still feel new tears come down his face.
---
Douxie wished he could see the sunset from where he lay. It would have been beautiful, he knew.
The spasms subsided a little while after Archie flew back, leaving Douxie limp on the ground - still unable to move without hurting himself or try to use his magic without thrusting himself into agony - with a lingering pins-and-needles sensation in his hands and feet that felt like it was crawling up from his ankles and wrists.
(Honestly, Douxie still wasn’t sure if the spasms had truly subsided for good, or if this was just a rather long interval between them. He hoped it was the former. The spasms never hurt any less as they went on, and he was so, so tired of the pain.)
Archie still hadn’t come back with Merlin yet, obviously, and at this point, it seemed like Douxie was fighting off his doubt more than the poison. At least he knew what the poison was doing to him - he could feel it every waking moment. But Archie… Douxie didn’t know what had happened to him, and he wouldn’t unless he came back.
(No, until he came back. Douxie had to keep that certainty alive in his mind.)
But how was he supposed to know that his familiar hadn’t taken a tumble? That he hadn’t been brought down by some witch hunter’s net? What if Merlin was being stubborn about coming for him? What if he’d been busy in another row with King Arthur?
...Indeed, he would have loved to see the sunset - to at least try to let it distract him from the tornado of worst case scenarios in his mind.
But he couldn’t.
For a bit, he tried distracting himself by thinking about how Merlin might’ve reacted to him being in danger - to hearing that he’d been poisoned. He sort of liked imagining how scared he’d be, for he preferred fear to indifference. The mental image of his master dropping whatever book he’d been flipping through and rushing to follow Archie… it was a comforting one, as strange as it might sound. That fear meant he mattered.
But Douxie soon grew tired even of that. He hoped he might’ve ran into a patch frequented by fireflies. Those would at least come low enough to dip into his line of sight, and they were always so beautiful, like stars visiting earth for a night before going back to the sky…
Douxie grew cold again at some point. Not just cold, but damp. Since it hadn’t started raining, fortunately, he rightly assumed that it was sweat. Perhaps he was finally sweating this out, like a fever, but that was too good, too fortunate to figure. This was another progression of the poison, he was sure. Just like…
Douxie noticed something in his left hand that lay in front of his face, something wrong…
Oh, sweet heart of Avalon.
His veins were black. 
Hoping, begging, praying to be wrong, he pushed through that dreadful ache in his arm so he could pull it closer, but it only confirmed his suspicions - his dread - his terrors.
The veins in his wrist, in the creases of his knuckles - they weren’t deep blue anymore, just barely visible underneath his skin, but as black as that powder that got blown in his face. Ink could be coursing through them right now, and he’d have been none the wiser.
In that moment, Douxie was proven wrong once again for thinking he couldn’t be more terrified.
He gasped as much as his throat and lungs let him, and he didn’t stop gasping. But then his chest -
No no NO!
-his chest started to seize up.
He fought the growing tightness in his chest with every breath, forcing each one in and out like a wheeze, but it wouldn’t go away. He couldn’t tell if it was from poison or panic, but it wouldn’t go away. He’d even started coughing, which was inevitable, but the black splotch that splattered into his hand terrified him all the more.
This was it. He was going to die here. He was going to succumb to this. He’d never come back to the castle - to Archie, to Morgana, to Merlin - from a trivial herb picking. Archie would come back here, but all he’d find was - was - was -
“HISIRDOUX!”
Douxie burst into tears.
He could recognize the voice of his master - his father - anywhere, but he was so, so scared that it was a hallucination. The fear in his voice already sounded so foreign, coming from the great and powerful Merlin Ambrosius, and if the sound of his voice and his footsteps coming near him came only from his desperate imagination, then he’d - he’d -
A hand gripped his shoulder and turned him onto his back. Finally, he could look up at the sky, aglow with sunset, but his glassy eyes only saw Merlin kneeling down at his side, and Archie flying above him.
The terror in Merlin’s eyes was the exact opposite of comforting, but Douxie didn’t get to see it for long before Merlin conjured a damp cloth and wiped off his face what had to have been the rest of that poisonous powder. He hadn’t realized how flushed he’d been until that moment, when that rag felt so cold against his cheeks.
Merlin finished wiping off Douxie’s face and made the cloth disappear. Douxie missed the coolness on his face. He wanted it back.
“Hisirdoux, say something!” he demanded. But Douxie couldn’t - didn’t Merlin think he would’ve already been screaming his lungs out if he could?
“D-” he choked, “Da-”
He hacked up another throatful of black phlegm, whimpering as the violence of his cough made his torso curl up. Merlin dodged the cough, but put an arm under Douxie’s back before he could fall back.
An apology lay at the back of his throat - one he didn’t know the reason for, even if he could’ve said it.
Merlin brought his other arm behind Douxie’s knees and lifted him like he weighed nothing (and he probably didn’t weigh much to Merlin, being the gangly moppet he was). The edges of the plating of the master wizard’s armor dug against him uncomfortably, but it was the least discomforting thing about this, overshadowed near-completely by the comfort that came just by being held. But he was still scared - if more of that powder was on him, and Merlin touched it by holding him, then -
He stifled a cough, and his leg kicked out unconsciously like a thumping rabbit’s foot. He didn’t realize how badly he’d been tremoring until it was contrasted with the steadiness of Merlin holding him.
Yes… steadiness, safety - two things he’d wanted to cling to more than anything since all this had started. And now, he had them. He had his familiar, and he had his father.
His head, still covered with the hood of his vest, lolled back uncomfortably without any support, but he felt something soft push against the back of it- it was actually Archie, though Douxie couldn’t see it - until the side of his head lay against one of the shoulderpieces of Merlin’s armor, cushioned by the cloth of his hood.
He sighed as much as his tightened chest would allow.
He was so scared.
Douxie was still so, so terrified that Merlin couldn’t save him after all; that he’d die tonight; that he’d never use his magic again; that he’d never get to become a master wizard or get his own staff to wield; that he’d never again get to go back down to the marketplace and talk to that pretty girl who frequented the shops.
(What was her name? Zelda? Zona? Zola? Zo-)
He felt something warm settle on his abdomen - Archie had turned back into a cat and curled up on his tummy, purring as he nestled where Douxie’s legs curled.
At least, despite everything else he feared, he didn’t have to be terrified of being alone anymore.
---
Douxie wasn’t sure if Merlin used a portal, or the relief of being found by his master had finally let him lull out of consciousness for the length of the time it took to be carried back, but the next thing he knew, he was in Merlin’s study. Despite the fluttering of his eyelids, he could recognize the shelves, the desk, and the stained glass window letting in the last light of day.
Home.
He was home.
No matter what happened next, he was home.
“Douxie!” He could hear Morgana’s voice shouting his name in worry, followed immediately by her fast-approaching footsteps.
“Mmh…” Douxie whimpered. It wasn’t clear whether or not the noise was just a pained whine or an attempt to try saying her name - not even to Douxie himself. He couldn’t see her very well, but he could tell when she’d come to them, stepping to the side as Merlin walked forward to his desk.
“Is he alive?” she asked.
“Somehow, yes.” Merlin answered. Douxie hated that “somehow” and the fear it brought, but it was just a little more to add to the onslaught of the past hours. He could just add it to the pile, he supposed.
In the middle of the room, Merlin’s big desk was empty, so the wizard laid him down on the surface, having him lay flat on his back with his hands at his sides, his legs straightened out, and his head facing up. Now, he could fully see Morgana, the sorceress he’d come to see as something of a big sister just as he came to see Merlin as a father, looking down at him. Her face was upside-down from where she stood over him, but he could still see her upturned brows and glistening eyes, and the way she clasped her hands close to her chest so they didn’t even touch him. He hated that look of worry on her face. Seeing Morgana - always fearless, always grasping for more from the world than what others had permitted, always steadfast in her ruthless ambition - look so scared for him… 
...It was worse, if such a thing was possible, than when he saw how scared Merlin was for him, and there was so much he wanted to say, but he was still just focused on trying to breathe as deeply as he could.
Archie got off his abdomen and sat next to his head, gently headbutting his temple before putting a paw on his forehead. It was a little comforting, almost enough to distract Douxie from realizing that Merlin wasn’t at his side anymore.
Almost, though. Not enough.
Douxie tried turning his head to the side, but Archie gently kept it still with his paw.
“He’s just finding a spellbook, Douxie.” he assured, immediately knowing what the apprentice was trying to turn his head for, “He’ll be right back.”
Morgana looked down on the little scene and closed her eyes for a moment, as if to quell her tears, before opening them again.
“You shouldn’t have held him.” she warned, turning her head to wherever Merlin stood now, “You know what that can-”
“I’m well aware.” Merlin interrupted from wherever he still was, “And you know I’ve little concern for that.”
Douxie didn’t understand. There was still so little he understood about whatever was doing this to him, and he didn’t know how to ask about it - he couldn’t.
But apparently, his upturned brows and whimpers of confusion were enough to indicate - at least to Archie - how lost he was.
“Douxie, that powder - it’s called Draining Dust.” Archie explained, “It’s a magic suppressant, and… a poison, as you know by now.”
“Witch hunters would put this in shackles.” Morgana said, finally speaking to him, “To nullify wizards’ and witches’ magic on their way to the gallows. Or the stakes.”
“Trace amounts, yes.” Merlin came back into his view, an open spellbook floating near him with a signature green aura around it, “Pinches of it, cast in the metal. It would suppress the wearer’s magic as long as it was on their body, with a few side effects. Fatigue, headaches, nausea…” he started listing as he flipped through the pages.
Douxie remembered the handful of the stuff that had been thrown in his face. That was far from a few pinches. And those side effects he’d started listing - they sounded tame, menial compared to what was happening to him now.
“But direct contact with raw powder…” Archie started. Douxie knew he was hesitant to finish that sentence, and it wasn’t hard to assume why (but it was terrifying).
“It’s deadly.” Morgana said, “Few wizards have ever survived inhaling or digesting it. More sadistic witchfinders have used that to-”
“Morgana!” Merlin snapped, urging her to leave off. But she didn’t.
“He should know!” she snapped back, “It’s already in his bloodstream, old man. It’s killing him, and he deserves to-”
Douxie started crying again at Morgana’s brutal honesty, as if this all weren’t brutal enough. His eyes squeezed shut as tears streamed down his temples, but when he opened them again, it was darker, like he was looking through a veil. The sight made him want to cry even harder.
It was in his tears.
Oh, sweet heart of Avalon, the poison was in his tears.
It made sense now, why Morgana was so scared to touch him. His own body fluids - his blood, his tears, probably his sweat soon enough - were turning poisonous from this. The only reason Archie was still touching him was probably because he wasn’t a wizard, but a familiar, and this wouldn’t affect him so badly.
(It actually very well could have affected Archie for the worse, but watching Douxie endure this without any comfort would have been worse than any poison.)
“It’s not killing him.” Merlin denied as if he was trying to convince both Morgana and himself, “His death is not certain. If it were, I would have already placed a sleeping spell on him by now.”
Douxie clung to that little hope and tried to watch Merlin scan for the spell he’d been looking for. Merlin had a way to fix this, of course he did; it’s as he said - he would have already put Douxie to sleep to grant him some peace if he didn’t.
Douxie watched his master’s page flipping stall as his eyes scanned over one particular page. His face fell - a minute, near-unnoticeable change in expression, but one that made Douxie’s pounding heart sink.
“Merlin?” Archie asked, “Have you found something?”
Merlin said nothing at first, only taking his place by stepping right to the table’s edge, coming right to Douxie’s side.
“I’ve found a spell to expel the poison and it’s remnants,” he explained, still only scanning the book, “But purging it from his body when it’s progressed this far will be…”
His eyes fell on Douxie’s.
“...quite excruciating.”
But Douxie was already so, so tired.
Not physically - the combined force of the poison and his own adrenaline warded off any chance of fatigue - but in his heart. He was so tired of being scared. Of being in so much pain. He didn’t want to do it - he didn’t think he could…
...But he remembered something Merlin said to him before.
“If there is a universal truth in this world, it is that struggle is the flame which forges one’s soul into steel.”
Well, if there was something tougher than steel, that’s what his soul would become.
Because wizards were strong. Brave. Unrelenting to pain or fear. That’s how Merlin was, that’s how Morgana was, and that’s how he would be.
He put on a brave face - as brave as he could possibly muster in the face of what he’d endure - and nodded. He could do this. He had to do this.
And he would.
The green aura around the spellbook faded as Merlin set it down. Archie lifted his paw from Douxie’s head and stepped back a few paces.
“Morgana, keep him still.” Merlin said, “His thrashing may cause him to injure himself.”
Morgana nodded and brought her hands up, an unsaid apology in her eyes. Seconds later, Douxie felt warm, gentle heat around his wrists and ankles. It didn’t hurt, but it was unrelenting. He didn’t test the bonds, lacking the strength or any actual will to do so. Still under a sort of paralysis, he wasn’t scared of being pinned down, for he knew it was just a precaution; he was just scared of how bad the pain would be in order for restraining him like this to be necessary.
The precaution was far from unwarranted, he came to realize in the coming moments.
Merlin hovered one hand over Douxie’s chest and the other over his abdomen. Douxie watched him say some incantation, but he didn’t catch the words. He was too busy bracing himself for the pain as he saw the green aura of his master’s magic out of the corner of his eye, glowing above his torso.
Before Merlin even got to take a breath after the incantation, the pain started.
And no amount of bracing could have prepared Douxie enough.
The sudden agony in his torso ripped the breath from his lungs. He thought - hoped it would start small and get worse and worse, like a simmer that got hotter and hotter, but instead it was like a pot of scalding water got poured over his chest. No, even that would have hurt less. This… it started at the surface, but it bled deeper and deeper under his skin, and then -
Oh, sweet heart of Avalon.
-then it started to spread.
In moments, as if searing agony itself coursed through his veins, there was nowhere on his body that didn’t burn, not even his fingertips or the tip of his pinky toes. If he could feel it, it hurt, and it hurt unlike anything he’d ever felt before.
As the agony overrode his paralysis, he thrashed against Morgana’s magic that kept his wrists and ankles in place, arching his back one moment and curling forward the next.
It hurt to breathe. It hurt to try to open his eyes. It hurt to keep them squeezed shut. It hurt to try to hear the voices of those around him - Morgana trying to tell him to be strong, Archie trying to soothe him, Merlin repeating the incantation. It hurt even to think - the pain, blinding and deafening, flooded out all other thoughts.
For a moment, like a fire burning so hot it feels cold for a fleeting beat, he stopped feeling the searing, searing agony.
But the moment was too, too fleeting before it wracked him again.
Finally, finally, he screamed.
It was a raw, shrill, agonized thing. He felt it come up from the base of his throat, and when Douxie realized, through his hysteria, that he was actually screaming, not wheezing or whimpering or anything he’d had to settle for tonight, he couldn’t stop. He screamed for all the torture of the day, all the fear of being alone, all the panic and terror and despair that he couldn’t let out in the woods, tense and spasming and paralyzed. 
All the screams that couldn’t come out before, when his throat was so tight that it barely let him breathe, came out right now, bursting at the seams of his pain-delirious mind.
He didn’t stop screaming until he finally felt Merlin’s magic let off.
Even then, his screams settled only into groans and wails until the burning across his body finally cooled; until the pain weakened from a searing sensation all over him, like the most brazen of fires, to a low ache, like the embers of a dying camp flame.
Once he fully stilled, which took a few more moments, Morgana’s magic came off his wrists and ankles.
Finally, he came back to his senses and see Merlin, Morgana, and Archie still around him. Archie looked relieved and nuzzled the side of Douxie’s head. Morgana smiled a shaky, hesitant smile - still so foreign to see from her.
And Merlin…
Well, he seemed as difficult to read as usual, but at least he no longer had the expression on his face of a man watching his apprentice die. Traces of relief lay there, and Douxie gladly took them.
So… was it over?
Douxie groaned and lifted his arm. It didn’t hurt to do anymore - well, it did, but more like a soreness left in the wake of heavy lifting, a residue of what happened than a symptom of it. He brought it up to his face so he could see his wrist.
His veins were blue again.
Sighing, he let his hand fall on his face and wiped away some tears - lifting it to see they were purely clear, like before - before letting it slide off his cheek and fall limp next to his head.
“Master…” his voice was so little, so hoarse, “‘s it gone?”
“Every bit, Hisirdoux.” Merlin said, putting his hand on Douxie’s shoulder, “It's over.”
He sounded weary. Douxie hoped that spell didn't take too much from him.
“Mm… my magic… 's it gone too?”
Merlin’s eyes said he wasn’t sure himself.
Douxie sought to answer the question on his own and willed forth his magic. He felt his fingertips thrum with the life of his sorcery. Lifting his hand again, he saw little specks of light, blue and true. It didn’t burn anymore, but it felt warm and gentle, like a heartbeat. His heartbeat. Exactly as it always felt.
He sighed. Not shaky, not fighting to keep his breathing level - a tired, relieved sigh. Despite how sore even the muscles in his face felt, he smiled a little smile.
“Thank you…” he said, “If you all hadn’t… I’d be-”
Merlin moved his hand from Douxie’s shoulder to his forehead.
“Don’t pay that scenario any mind, Hisirdoux.” Merlin urged, “You’ve survived, and although you and your magic have been weakened, both will fully recover.”
Douxie’s little smile fell.
“Wha… what about the poison? It couldn’t just be gone.”
“That it can.” Merlin assured, taking his hand off Douxie’s head, “As brutal as it is to the wizard affected, an unaffected wizard with strong magic can eradicate it from their body and return it to it’s untarnished condition.”
...Well, that was that, and Douxie wouldn’t question it. Besides, he remembered something.
“Mmmy bracelet… I lost it. That - they took it off. It’s in a bush out there.”
“I can see that. That’s alright.” Merlin said, “It can be retrieved.”
“And… and I'm sorry.” He said to Merlin’s subtle but obvious surprise, indicated by a little raise in his eyebrows.
“What for?”
“I… the herbs.” he answered, “I couldn’t bring them back. They got stolen.”
“It’s alright,” Merlin said, “They aren’t a rarity, you know.”
...Douxie sniffled.
“That… they only snatched those plants so I’d follow them deeper into the woods. So I’d get lost. So they could throw that dust in my face and - and leave me there, knowing I’d gone further into the forest than… than anyone would’ve looked, and I wouldn’t be found.” 
“But you were found, Douxie.” Archie said, “They weren’t counting on you having a dragon that could track scents for a familiar.”
Douxie’s voice started to break.
“I should have left it alone - I knew I should have left it alone. There was more right there, I should’ve-”
“Hisirdoux, cease this.” Merlin said in a tone that left no room for insistence, “You must grant yourself some relief in you and your magic’s survival. I won’t have you fret over something as menial as a handful of herbs, so-”
“But Master-”
“-Don’t “But Master” me.”
Douxie sighed. That statement didn’t leave any room for argument. It never did.
Finally, a little normalcy tonight.
Morgana put her hands to the sides of Douxie’s head. After she’d been so scared to touch him this whole time, the feeling of her fingers against his temples, brushing his hair away from his face, was a final, true assurance that the poison had been well and truly purged.
“Sleep, Little Douxie.” she soothed, “I promise you’ll wake.”
He couldn’t tell if she cast a sleep spell in that moment, or if this was from his own fatigue, but he obeyed without hesitance as he was finally lulled away from the realm of the conscious and fell into slumber.
---
Merlin looked down at the boy lying asleep on his desk, the color slowly trickling back into his face as his chest rose and fell in deep, steady breaths. 
“He’s a brave little moppet.” Morgana said as she kept her fingers against the sides of his head, her voice hushed despite the fact that the boy’s exhaustion had lulled him into a deep slumber, and he’d sleep like a stone until morning no matter what.
“...No, he’s not.” Merlin denied, “Not for this.”
Morgana snapped her head up.
“He’s just gone through more torment from that powder in one day than either of us have in all our lives!” Morgana she contested, “Not even you have endured effects that brutal from Draining Dust.”
“To be brave requires a choice - being faced with the ultimatum to either run and give up, or face your fight.” Merlin said, too proverbial and righteous-sounding as he stood over Douxie, “A choice was the exact thing he didn’t have in this. Perhaps if he’d been withholding something from that assailant, even with the threat of this, then it might be different. But as it is, even if he’d wanted to succumb to this before Archie had found him, his adrenaline hadn’t let him.”
“Maybe so,” Archie started, “but when I found him there in the forest, and I told him I’d have to come back with help, he was terrified of being left alone again. I could tell. But he put on as brave a face he could have. He chose that for himself, at least.”
“He did the same thing moments ago, when you told him how much that spell would hurt.” Morgana added, “He may not have had a choice in enduring this, but he did choose to steel his nerves when faced with every reason not to, and there’s bravery in that, old man.” She crossed her arms. “Even you have to admit that.”
Merlin almost found it endearing, seeing them both try to defend his apprentice’s honor when they felt it threatened, and maybe he could’ve seen the bravery they saw, if he’d been looking at anyone else.
But as he looked down at Hisirdoux… that’s all he saw. Hisirdoux. His apprentice. His son. His gangly little moppet who tended to cause more messes than he cleaned up, but smiled like the embodiment of joy itself.
If daylight decided to make itself corporeal and walk among humans for a while, Merlin wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if it took the form of Hisirdoux Casperan.
So, the sorcerer didn’t see bravery when he found Hisirdoux writhing and gasping on the ground in those woods, he didn’t feel bravery when the boy trembled in his arms, and he most certainly didn’t hear bravery when the boy wailed and screamed his lungs out as that poison was taken out of him, black tears streaming down his face until they became clear again.
No, if Douxie had been brave, pride in that laid nowhere in Merlin’s mind. 
After all, when fear for his son’s life flooded his mind, and hatred for whoever did this to him flooded out that fear, where, pray tell, could pride reside?
Morgana kept looking down at Douxie as he slept.
“How could you risk that?” she asked Merlin.
“Risk what, Morgana?” he asked, “Be specific.”
She snapped her head back up.
“You know what I’m talking about!” Morgana almost shouted, stifling her volume so the sleeping moppet wouldn’t hear, ““Eradicate” my foot, old man. I know the spell you used. You didn’t use a spell of eradication, you used a spell of transference!”
Arhcie had been staring down at his own sleeping familiar, but he snapped up when he heard that word, “transference”. First he looked to Morgana, then to Merlin.
“You told him it got destroyed, but you just - all you did was soak it up like a sponge!”
“Merlin… is that true?” Archie asked, obviously afraid that after all of this, Douxie would wake up without his mentor - his father - because he’d taken the poison for him. The little apprentice left without a master would never stop blaming himself, no matter how hard Morgana and Archie tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault.
Merlin sighed, an affirmation without words or nods.
“I spent the years since it’s conception,” he started, “building an immunity to the dust and its properties. It was too big a risk, potentially having a weakness to something so daunting - something I’d seen subdue and poison countless wizards. Too high a risk - a threat to the greater good.”
“So… the poison’s not having any affect on you?” Archie asked, stepping around Douxie to approach Merlin, “It’s not… he couldn’t have gone through all of this just to lose you.”
“And he won’t.” Merlin assured in confidence, “Much more than a handful of that powder would have had to be thrown at him to have any severe affect on me. No, this won’t need more than a night of rest to fix. Besides, what’s the good in spending all that time building up an immunity to Draining Dust if not to make use of it? A waste of time and tolerance built.”
“You couldn’t have known it wouldn’t...” Morgana said, “You couldn’t have possibly known you’d survive taking all of it like that!”
“I didn’t.” Merlin snapped.
Morgana’s eyes widened, as if everything about what the boy meant to him fell into place.
Because he hadn’t worried about his survival - the matter didn’t even cross his mind, not when he could still hear Douxie whimpering in pain with each page of that spellbook he skimmed. No, he only concerned himself with the likelihood that it would save the boy, his only worry being about how badly it would hurt Douxie when he’d already had to go through so much senseless, ludicrous torture.
Merlin always prioritized the “greater good”, some vast, staggering, intangible concept that encapsulated so much - the lives of thousands, the wellbeing of millions, the good of humanity.
But when he found his son writhing, hurting, suffocating, dying, he found he couldn’t spare any more regard to the “greater good” in that moment than he would a layer of dust on one of his books. If saving Hisirdoux’s life meant casting aside the greater good, then there was no question about it - he’d let the greater good rot.
It didn’t matter to him if his magic would’ve been permanently diminished by extracting the poison, or even if it killed him. Cast the greater good aside - the greatest good was the life in Hisirdoux’s eyes, and by all the heavens, he’d protect it.
And thankfully, he did just that tonight, at the cost of neither his life, his health, or his own magic. And that was the greatest good he could have asked for.
With another sigh, relieved that Morgana chose not to pry, Merlin looked down at the boy, still sound asleep, laid out on his desk. He put one arm under Douxie’s back and the other behind his knees, picking him up just like he did when he found him in those woods.
But this time, instead of trembling in his hold, Douxie made a little noise and unconsciously put his arm over Merlin’s shoulder, snuggling closer, if it were possible, to the master wizard.
Yes. he thought. There’s no greater good than this.
Morgana put her hands over her mouth and looked at the two of them as if the sight was something adorable, and Merlin huffed. Archie took his same spot curled up on Douxie’s abdomen.
“I’m taking him to his room.” he said, hushing his voice even though he knew the moppet wouldn’t wake, “And I’ll let him sleep in tomorrow morning. He needs to rest.”
The sun had set sometime during the painstaking ordeal, but torchlight along the walls of the castle made it easy to take his sleeping apprentice back to his room even once night has fallen. After using a simple spell to swing the door open while his arms were in use carrying the boy, Merlin walked in and used another little spell. The green aura of his magic glowed around the blanket on Douxie’s bed as he folded part of it over using his magic, providing room to lay Douxie down on his bed with head nestled right in his pillow’s usual dent. Once Archie stepped out of the way, Merlin reached over and laid the blanket back over him.
Douxie stirred a little, but only to turn from his back onto his side, his back to the wall and his front facing Merlin. Once the boy settled again, Merlin tentatively reached behind his head and let his bun loose so it wouldn’t get tangled if he moved around too much in his sleep. He doubted it would, considering the exhaustion and soreness in his muscles would probably enticement enough to stay still, even unconscious, but the gesture couldn’t hurt.
Archie crawled right underneath one of Douxie’s arms and nestled against his chest, and the moppet unconsciously held the bespectacled cat a little tighter.
And that was Merlin’s unspoken cue to leave Hisirdoux to rest for the night, so that’s what he did. He needed rest too, after all - his built-up immunity may have saved his life, but the poison, like everything else in the onslaught of the evening, left him weary.
Tomorrow, a search would begin.
Tomorrow, Merlin would find out who was behind this.
Tomorrow, the greatest and most powerful wizard in Camelot would not relent until he found the monster, human or trollish, who almost killed his son.
But tonight, Hisirdoux lay curled up in his bed, sound asleep as he kept his familiar close. Tonight, his life was saved.
And tonight, that was enough.
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du0tine · 3 years
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   ༄𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐀༄
𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄: 5.3K 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒 | 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓
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𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖!
prominent use of bad language. mentions of people hooking up and using drugs but no explicit description, there is no smut in this prologue but are some light suggestive scenes. description of a drug overdose, drug intoxication and hallucinations. mentions of candy flipping: the use of MDMA and LSD combined. main character death and resurrection. graphic imagery. light mentioning of religious anecdotes. 
viewer discretion is advised. 
𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄:
THIS IS THE FIRST PART TO THE PROLOGUE!
at the end of the second prologue you may choose a route that will lead you to one of the four stories with either:
na jaemin, jung jaehyun, wong yukhei or xiao dejun.
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:
@stayinzencity @prettyjaems @hunjins @neonun-au @bumblebeenct @neojaems​ + there may have been more people but i kinda forgot to write them down sorry! lmk if you would like to be added. just let me know which member’s route, you can choose as many as you’d like.
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It was all too confined. 
Sweaty bodies aggressively shoving against each other in the mosh pit. People falling from side to side, crushing each other as they flailed their bodies around. The smell of DMT lingered in the air clouding your thoughts ever so slightly, tinging your mind with a light haziness. As the vibrant, disco lights blinded you, making your sight kaleidoscopic. You were seeing double and it didn’t help since it served as the only source of light in this underground club. You were pretty sure that had you not been so painfully sober and not shit faced drunk you would’ve been pressed against the club’s dirty floor next to some girls abandoned, dirty thong with people jumping on top of you, crushing your body.
It was hopeless. You’d lost sight of your friends from the moment you got into this dreaded hole of sweaty bodies, quite literally being engulfed by the ocean of people. Your body felt like a pulp, compressed and sweaty, falling apart at the seams. Even your feet were terribly blistered since your toes began to sink further down, your heels pressing uncomfortably against the leather material. Scanning the crowd, you desperately look for an exit to find the bathroom. Of course, you weren’t expecting it to be any better. There would most likely be people hooking up or doing drugs in the empty stalls but you’d at least expect less people inside and more space to just collect yourself and find your friends since there was no way you could just leave. The lineup was almost an hour long and the bouncer wasn’t going to let you in twice. 
Finally you spot the broken LED sign that held the exit sign. It’s hues sparking above the crowd, omitting an array of bright colours that mostly alternated between red and blue. Overjoyed, you roughly shove people out of your way, getting shoved back a few times in return but overall, the heavy traffic pushed you closer to the exit and finally you were met with a dimly lit, long corridor. It was rather empty except for the few clusters of people either nearly fucking on the spot or passed out on the floor. 
Carefully, navigating your way through the hallway you almost slip on some dark yellow vomit. Your heels squelching against the ground as you mentally cringe feeling disgusted. Nearly yelling out loud at the person who’d thrown up but much to your dismay they were long gone with their face against the floor, eyes shut tight. Roughly dragging the scuff of your shoe against the floor you wipe the putrid substance off before continuing your march through the hallway of hell. 
The further you went, the darker it got and you were starting to think you’d come the wrong way. There was no bathroom. Hell, there wasn’t even an exit; it was just a dingy, dark hallway with absolutely no end. As you continued downwards you start to feel uneasy, almost as if there was someone watching you. With each and every step away from the dance floor you hear the music become more and more faint, the sound of the bass thumping lightly along with the sound of the crowd almost disappearing. Soon enough it became painfully silent, the only noise that bounced against the walls of the corridor were your own and they omitted from the clapping of your heels that clacked against the cold floor.
One, two, three, four steps and you start to hear double. Stopping in place, you’re met with a silence. It’s just you and this hallway you think to yourself before taking a few more steps ahead and then hearing it again. It was definitely the sound of someone’s shoes, ones besides yours. Perhaps, someone was following you? You weren’t sure. In fact, you were just too scared to turn your head around and take a look back mostly because something deep inside you warned you not to look back. Maybe there was something about how anxious this place made you feel. 
As a result, it made your head spin, the vertigo making you feel nauseous as you struggled to even keep marching forwards through this endless abyss of a walkway. 
Nonetheless, you push yourself to keep moving ahead. Forcing yourself to think that the further you went, the faster the bathroom would appear. A doorway that would you lead into a disgusting, nasty as hell bathroom filled with people from the club. This illusion you fed yourself forced you into a sense of false comfort as you tried your best to fight the urge to look back and keep moving. 
Your mission was to reach the bathroom because you knew that you’d be safe then. Despite not even knowing what followed you, you kept your vision dead straight ahead becoming so focused you failed to realize how the walls around you twisted and contorted. The chipped paint started to come alive developing a pulse, beating as if it was alive like flesh inside the body of a human. Something that never saw the light of life until given the opportunity to do so and right now it was tearing itself apart stripping itself, revealing the grimy, almost ghastly white woodwork behind it as its paint wilted at your feet. Hypnotized you kept moving forward as the sound of those dreaded footsteps got closer and closer. 
Clack, clack, clack it rang through your ears. Echoing through your eardrums and spiralling through your mind. The paranoia ate away at your sanity, it replaced all senses of feeling and thinking with fear and ignorance. You ignored how your mind screamed at you to turn back and stop going forward in fear of what lay ahead. Instead you listened to how your body forced you to place one foot right in front of the other and march straight into your doom. 
Finally, you see an exit. A doorway that stands there perfectly still, illuminated around its perimeter with a bright mix of red and blue. You feel yourself fall at ease as you pick up your pace practically racing for the door as you hold a hand out eager to feel the cold, brass doorknob around your sweaty palms. The distance between you and the door close with each step that you take but so does the sound of those dreaded feet behind you. With merely a few inches between you and the door, you feel a gush of hot wind against your neck. Its someones breath. 
It feels like your whole body falls into a frenzy, a complete panicking mess. As you finally grip onto the door knob giving it a rapid turn, twisting it with everything you had within you and yet, nothing. It doesn’t budge. Rather simply it stands there silently mocking you as you tug at the door. Your movements only becoming more violent when you feel someones hand atop your shoulder. Goosebumps erupt across your skin, decorating it like grains of sand, the granules sitting coldly atop your body. It surges through your frame and shoots up your spine as the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in shock. 
“Going somewhere?” Questions the voice as you freeze in place. Your objective of getting the hell out momentarily pausing as you feel eerily intrigued by the voice. Who could it be? The voice was almost incoherent and yet, it held a tone that would perhaps come from a man. The vibrations from its voice made the shivers that stood at the top of your spine come tumbling back down onto your tall bone as you shudder in response. Just who exactly was this? You had to find out. After all, there was no going back now. 
Mustering the very little courage that you had within the pits of your stomach, you tense up. Your muscles restricting themselves making your movements very slow as you take your time turning around. Your eyes glued to the ground, staring at the floor and only just realizing how it jiggled underneath you, almost as if you were standing on top of jello. It’s checkered black and white tiles moving around as you pivot, the toes of your feet sinking in ever so slightly. 
You know you’re facing the figure when you see a pair of sleek, perfectly polished mens dress shoes in front of you. The gloss that radiants from the black shoes almost blind you as you can’t help but momentarily look away staring at your own feet that were beginning to sink deeper into the translucent, gelatine floor. Your heels doing nothing more but piercing into the meaty layer beneath you. 
“My gosh, you’re so fucking high,” Snickers the voice as you snap your head upwards. Contorting your eyebrows in confusion as you quickly retort their observation, “I am not!” 
As the words abruptly leave your mouth you can’t help but feel like you’ve had the wind knocked out of you. In front of you stands a masked man, dressed in a black suit that you could just tell was fabricated with the finest materials and by a crafted tailor no less. The tufts of his hair rotate between the colours of silver, an auburn brown, black and yellow blonde. The mask that adorns his face is plain white, with no slits for eyes nor a mouth leaving you astonished as to how exactly could this masked figure see but you don’t speak the thoughts of your mind. Almost as if you knew that questioning him would lead nowhere. 
Instead you continue to gawk at him with your eyes wide, pupils extremely dilated. Your fruity lips drifted apart as you momentarily forget to breath. Slowly you watch as he brings a hand forward to rest on your cheek. Not even realizing how hot and flustered you were until you feel his cold hand caress your skin. He’s gentle as he continues to observe you. Making you feel like a delicate flower in the grasps of a strong being, one wrong move and you could be crushed. 
“I’m not high,” Are the words that flutter past your lips once more as you stare at him, your thoughts are in a daze. You can’t even think straight as he lets out a laugh. 
“Sure you aren’t. In fact you totally didn’t spend the night candy flipping for nothing, you’ve called upon me and that’s…pretty sweet. The taste of death, reward of the afterlife,” He replies, his fingers leaving your soft cheek and moving towards the locks of your hair as he runs his fingers through them, combing it gently ridding it of its knots.  
“Death? I’m sorry what?” You question as you snap out of your thoughts pushing his hand away from yourself as you look around you. Nothing looked normal, the hallway seemed to replicate one from the inside of a twisted funhouse, except this was all but fun. As the realization of being somewhere that you don’t belong in hits you, you begin to panic. The fear settling in at the pit of your stomach, clouding your thoughts as your surroundings begin to darken. Everything seems to take a turn for worse as the floor beneath you continues to cave in faster and faster. Soon you find yourself knee deep staring in horror at the man in front of you, desperately you reach out your hand begging him to pull you up, to save you. 
“You’re mistaken! I’m not dead, I was just fine. Perfectly sober in fact!” You shriek out absolutely horrified as you grip onto the jacket of his suit. You’re now thigh deep and sinking in faster. Calmly he holds your hand with his before bringing his other hand and placing it atop your head once more. 
“I’m afraid you are dead. Having overdosed in the reckless amount of MDMA and LSD you consumed, eager to reach that ecstasy. That feeling of being in a euphoric state of mind, the bliss coursing through your veins only to be crushed by the mindless bodies of those whom you once danced with, then dragged out by your very own friends. Only to be left alone in the corridor soaked in your vomit.”
Deadpanned, the realization hits you hard. You really were dead and in fact, you’d walked past your very own dead body twice. Astonished and feeling completely drained you look up at the man with sorrowful eyes. This time you don’t speak as you stare at him with oceans in your gaze, the tears seeping from the ducts of your lifeless eyes as they fall down your now stone cold cheeks. You’re now waist deep into the ground as you continue to sink further down with nothing left to say. 
“You’ll have a second shot, if you make things right,” He says before using his body weight and strength to push your body down into the ground with his hand. Eyes widening in shock you scream in horror as he submerges you completely, engulfing your voice in the floor beneath as everything swallows you alive and falls black. 
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It feels like you’re floating, your body is essentially weightless as you drift around in the dark mindlessly. You simply exist with no burdens atop your shoulders, no responsibilities and no sins. Your mind is a clean slate and it feels like you’re swimming around, sauntering inside a dark womb. Everything that surrounds you is inexplicable and unknown but it makes itself present. It’s a cold comfort. Perhaps, this is what it’s like to be dead. No hell, no heaven, simply a dark void. A looming and mysterious abyss where you’re overcome by nothing more except peace and eternal silence. 
The silence is short as you suddenly feel a large pressure against your body. An unknown force dawning its mass, crushing you as your senses abruptly flutter awake. You begin to feel more confined, your surroundings no longer providing comfort but working against you. Slowly the unknown force begins to coat your body, covering every nook and cranny with its substance. Rubbing against your skin, grinding with pressure. Its the feeling of small, tiny granules but perhaps millions of them. Though this time it isn’t exactly goosebumps, no longer a natural phenomenon that occurs as a reaction in the human body. Instead, it seems to be sand as it works its way around your figure, engulfing you. Making you feel as if you’re caught inside an hourglass with no way to go but down. The sensation is suffocating as you catch particles of the sand inside your mouth, drying up your taste buds. Its objective is to swallow you whole and consume your existence with itself.  
There is no longer any zen. The pulsations that once lingered through mind, body and soul is now gone and replaced with another kind of awakening. One that is urgent, one that screams for you to get out. In desperation you begin to panic, flailing your arms around. Your movements are drastically slower than you expect with the heavy sand slowing your momentum. With one arm in front of the other you swim your way through the sand, clawing your way out of the dark, pushing away from the suction that holds you down. You don’t stop until you feel the light breeze of what seems to be air brushing past your fingertips. 
You’ve partially reached the surface. The adrenaline is now coursing through your veins, pumping through your heart with such speed. It feels like your heart is ready to burst through your ribcage at any given moment. But you don’t stop fighting against the quicksand until you’re met with the nights sky, seeing how the constellations are littered upon its dark blue canvas. Your eyes twinkle in the moonlight as you gasp for air, spitting out any of the remnants of sand that linger inside your mouth. Hacking rather loudly as you exhale the sand and inhale in the sweet air. 
Mustering the last bit of energy that remains inside of you, you pull your torso out of the sand. The lower half of your body are next to follow as you flop onto the ground and onto your back. The scene is one that someone may have seen in a zombie movie, the undead coming back to life crawling their way out of their graves. Their resting place no longer sufficient. Reborn they quench for the thirst of human flesh except for you, you’re thirsty for life. To live again is all you wish for and you’ve been granted exactly that. Having been given the chance of taking another shot at this cruel game of life. Unbeknownst to you, you’re willing to do whatever it takes to make this permanent. 
Gazing up at the nights sky you’re blown away at the sight. The sticky situation of being buried alive is no longer relevant having been replaced with the beauty of the world. Bringing forward a hand you hold it up towards the sky, holding it in reference next to the moon. Like porcelain, you shine. The flesh of your skin is soft and supple like a newborn baby, everything about you is new. You’re no longer dead but instead given the chance to take host in this new vessel. The body is still yours, it is you but it’s new and improved. There are no signs of your old body, no vomit seeping past your lips tainting your skin. Your bones are perfectly intact with no signs of damage, there is no wear and tear, everything seems to be working perfectly fine. All that remains is the black Saint Laurent minidress that you wore that night, in its pristine condition.
Sitting upwards you observe your surroundings before dusting the sand off of your body and proceeding to stand up. The landscape is rather vast and covered in nothing but sand. However, it seems like you’ve dug yourself out from the side of a sand dune. The tall hill that sits proudly behind you seems like a good idea to climb. Perhaps there will be more to see at the top, a perfect vantage point. Standing upwards you quickly start climbing, your feet dragging into the sand causing you to fall on your face a couple times but nonetheless you reach the top and what lies in front of you takes your breath away. 
It’s a bustling city, lit up by street lanterns and filled with people. It glows in the dark, radiating the silhouettes of its architectural elements. The tall and looming arabesque styled buildings make you feel tiny in comparison. As it draws you in, it doesn’t even look real. Perhaps, this was all a mirage. None of this could be real, you could just be in a state of delusion having just dug yourself out of a hole in the ground but nonetheless you feel hypnotized completely captured by the beauty what lay ahead. In a trance you make your way towards the city. 
Your eyes don’t leave the landscape. Admiring how despite how late it seemed, the people were just as lively. The closer you got, the louder the sounds of the city came alive. The place was surrounded by the desert except for the large port docked with multiple ships to the left of the city where it stretched out onto a large body of water. Perhaps, it led out to the seas? You didn’t know. This place seemed almost mythical like a story coming to life, none of it felt real until you found yourself standing in the middle of it all, walking through its streets. 
As you wandered around you were met with the confused stares of its citizens as they all gawked at you. Taking one look at yourself and back at them you soon realized you weren’t dressed like they were. The people of the city were adorned in different types of silk garments, light enough to withstand the heat of the dessert but strong enough to protect from the winds at night. Meanwhile you wore something that just seemed skimpy in comparison to their clothing, it made it obvious you weren’t from here. 
Ignoring their stares you continue to wander around following the crowds of people. All of which seemed to be heading in one particular direction straight into the upper north side of the city. Up north stood a perfectly, coral white palace that overlooked the city. One that perhaps resembled the Taj Mahal but exceeded in size and was much more grandiose. Strung up in what looks like an assortment of lights it glistens brightly. People fluttering into the palace through its big gates but not just anyone. The people granted access inside were dressed elegantly and much more expensive than the average citizen. 
Just what exactly lay ahead? You had to find out. 
Stopping a random lady in her path you quickly question her about what lies ahead. After receiving a rather annoyed look from her she’s quick to give you a snarky reply, “We’re celebrating the success of the Jung Family. Their son has gratefully claimed our land back from those filthy pirates.” 
“The Jung family? Pirates?” You question out loud as she looks at you stunned. Quickly you change the tone of your reply when you see her squinting her eyes at you in suspicion. Rapidly repeating yourself and fixing your mistake, “Oh yeah! The Jung family! And those pesky little pirates huh?!” 
The women simply rolls her eyes in response before quickly scurrying up ahead not wanting to be bothered by your horrible facade. You watch as she walks past the guards and inside leaving you behind. Standing in the outdoor lobby, your feet are cold and perhaps rather grimy against the polished marble floors as you debate whether or not to go inside. It seemed like there was a definite possibility they wouldn’t allow you indoors but maybe going inside would provide you answers on where exactly you were. Taking a deep breath you stride towards the gates, not making any eye contact with the guards. 
You maybe get a foot into the palace before you’re stopped and roughly thrown back out.
“No beggars allowed inside.” 
Contorting your eyebrows in confusion you look at the guards with disbelief. Here you stood dressed in something that definitely cost more than what someone else was wearing and yet you were denied access inside. Before you could lash out at the guards for being so rough you remember these people aren’t bouncers, in fact it looked like they were from a whole other time period.
This only proved just how out of place you were and you weren’t going anywhere unless you found a change of clothes or somehow snuck inside. Standing back where you once stood with the guards glaring at you, your eyes wander the palace looking for a way in. Glancing at every potential entry point, you scan the entire perimeter. Finally coming to the conclusion that every square inch of the building seemed impossible to penetrate through unseen and with the last few posh citizens piling inside and the gates slamming shut you felt hopeless. 
Here you were in a city you didn’t recognize. A place that looked like the Atlantis of the sands, something out of a mythological book with nowhere to go. Just as you turn around to leave the palace something catches your eye. Within the corner of your peripheral vision you see a figure dart in the near distance, whipping your head in that direction just in time to see a young man climb through a window. His silver hair whipping through the wind. One moment he’s there and the next he’s not.
For a moment you decide that maybe this isn’t worth it. Sneaking in couldn’t promise anything but if it did, the reward would probably be huge. Either that or it held huge consequences. Standing there you debate on whether or not you should go and when you remember the words of the man who’d greeted your soul that night his words speak to you once more.
‘You’ll have a second shot, if you make things right.’ 
Perhaps, this city you were thrown into meant something. A sign of the afterlife? Maybe something that held significant importance? After all, he was the one who’d transferred you here and granted you this new vessel and it seemed to be pretty clear to you by now that everything happens for a reason. Being granted this temporary second shot at life seemed too good to be true but it seemed like there’d be a price to pay if you didn’t accomplish what you were sent for. The only question was, what was it that you needed to do? Glancing at the window you watch as it blows the gold curtains from inside, fluttering it out in the wind. The entryway was almost signalling you inside. The silver haired man from before must have recklessly left it open. 
Taking that as your signal, you run towards the opening. Quickly hoisting yourself up onto the window sill and before slipping inside, you hesitate. All that echoes through your mind is your subconscious screaming at you to just go for it, you do exactly that thinking, 
“Fuck it. What’s the worst that could happen, dying twice?” 
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Like an absolute moron you tumble into the room colliding rather loudly with the hard floor. The whole idea of staying quiet and unseen seemed to be impossible for you to accomplish. Turning around you reach for the doors of the window thinking that at least covering your tracks would help. Just as your fingers brace against the metallic framing of the handle you’re stopped in your tracks. 
“Hey,” Calls out someone. The tone of the voice isn’t commanding but instead rather friendly. Looking downwards, you’re met with a rather tall man. His black hair is sleeked back in a hairstyle, two small braids hanging from the side of his scalp. His dark , obsidian orbs are staring right back at you as you gawk at him like a deer caught in the headlights. Clad in the same attire as everyone else you simply brush him off, quickly reaching for the knob and trying to slam it shut in fear of being caught. Only to have your movements halted when his large hand makes contact with your wrist. 
“Leave the window open will you?” He asks as the corners of his mouth stretch into a rather playful grin.
“What? Why don’t you just go through the gate like everyone else?” You ironically retort as you attempt to shake his grip off with no success. 
“What if I don’t belong here?” He questions. Raising his eyebrows rather theatrically as you freeze on the spot, “Just like you.” With those words you’re quick to release the knob and he’s just as quick to release his grip. He’d clearly been watching you and you were absolutely clueless as to just exactly how long. 
The encounter is quick to set off your fight or flight instinct as you make a run for the door, trying to get as far away as possible from the window. Only to be stopped by the same man from before, plummeting to the floor merely inches away from freedom. He rolls you onto your back as he straddles your body, his weight doesn’t crush you in pain but he’s certainly applying pressure and it doesn’t feel great. Using one of his hands to hold both of yours above your head making you essentially defenceless as you try and kick him off with no result. 
“Let’s just make something clear,” He begins. Slowly leaning in closer and closer towards you, stopping merely inches away from your face and specifically from your lips. His breath is hot against your skin as you inhale the heavy smell of tobacco and light cologne that omits from his body. Despite having nowhere to look but at him, deep down you feel hot. The burning sensation that rests at the pit of your stomach makes butterflies erupt inside. You can’t help but admire just how good looking he is and how dangerous. A combination you always couldn’t resist. Your chest is heaving up and down as you struggle to stay calm, your breath even hitches a couple times as his eyes burn into yours. He’s reading you silently like an open book and you can’t help but feel like this vulnerability is lustrous and you want more.
Slowly his other hand snakes up your torso, starting at your navel and tiptoeing through the valley in between of your breasts, finally stopping at your neck. His movements are agile and it feels like his fingers are dancing upon your skin. He takes his time knowing that he’s got the upper hand and that the ship sails his way, not yours. 
Suddenly his hand is wrapped tightly around your neck, gripping the flesh with his slender, calloused fingers. As they press into the sides of your neck skillfully avoiding your windpipe. You’re thankful he isn’t holding you directly down or else he’d probably crush your only main source of breathing. As your vision starts to fall hazy, you’re seeing stars. It’s like peering into the milky way through a telescope looking at the numerous planets and right now you’re looking at Venus. He is beauty, he is mysterious and he is bold. If Venus was a boy it’d be this man hovering above you. Helplessly watching his every movement as he leans down closer gravitating towards your lips before swerving to the left and placing his mouth close to your ear. The situation makes your heart bounce almost as if you’ve just dodged an astroid. 
“If you tell anyone about our little encounter, about me. I’ll go out of my way to kill you first and believe me my schedules pretty full,” The tone in his voice is menacing, definitely evoking more fear within you and you can’t help but gargle out a weak agreement in response. This man came to do business and it seemed like he’d barely decided to spare you and he definitely wouldn’t the next time. He must’ve been convinced with your response because you feel his body weight shift away from you. The sounds of his footsteps move towards the door, his weight creaking against the floor boards and just before he leaves, you prop yourself up calling out to him weakly, “W-who are you?” 
Slowly he turns around looking down on you, the light from the corridor behind him illuminating his figure. “Let’s just say, I’m not very liked here,” Is his response as he brings a finger up towards his lips, twisting them and playfully and throwing away the make belief key. With that he’s gone, disappearing down the hallway and you can’t help but think of one word and one word only. The exact definition of just exactly who this man was, a pirate. Given tonights circumstances that the lady from before had mentioned, it didn’t look like things were going to end very well in terms of the celebration. 
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𝑨𝑳𝑳 𝑹𝑰𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑺 𝑹𝑬𝑺𝑬𝑹𝑽𝑬𝑫 ©︎𝑫𝑼0𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑬
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Stalking the King Chapter 3
Chapter 1, Chapter 2
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Henry V/OFC
Multi-Chapter
Historical AU, Historical Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Angst, Sexual Tension, Bathing
Lisabet is a high born Lady of Oleans, France. When King Henry V conquers her city, taking her brother hostage along with other nobles, she vows to be revenged upon the foreign invader and rescue her brother. Dressed in boys clothing she hopes to escape notice in Henry’s camp, but the English King has a much more perceptive eye than she anticipated.
A bit of a plot heavy chapter, but I hope you like it nonetheless!
Lisabeta had seen no more than a glimpse of Henry’s sun kissed locks as he strode away that morning. Not, of course, that she wanted to see the King. She had seen enough of him last night. More than enough, she added, as the image of him in all his naked splendor slipped its way into her mind.
That vexing image seemed to be branded into her brain, so often did she find herself thinking of it when she let her mind drift. His skin, dotted with freckles and crossed with scars that somehow failed to detract from his masculine beauty. The breadth of his shoulders that tapered slowly, over a long distance, to his narrow hips. How could one so unquestionably awful be so unquestionably awe arousing? It was simply not fair!
She had barely slept last night, so active had been her mind. Her body also seemed more alive than usual. There was a curious heat within her, to the point that she wondered if she was feverish. Her skin tingled, and her stomach felt unsettled. Most distracting of all was the odd ache she felt in her womanly organs. She was not due for her courses for weeks, why was she feeling so out of sorts there? She didn’t know, but she was more than willing to blame the English King.
She hated him, more than she had ever hated anyone. He had toyed with her, she knew it! And yet, how could that be when to him she was simply one of his pages. The fact that he had treated her with such disinterest and disregard only meant her disguise was working, for no well born man, even an Englishman, would ever behave so in front of gently bread lady. And yet it maddened her to no end that he had been so with her. She wanted more than ever to find him and run him through with her sword. If she had to wait on him again, no doubt she would do so.
And yet, it was even more insufferable that he did not send for her. Lisabeta was not a woman used to being overlooked, particularly by men. She commanded attention the moment she arrived in a room by virtue of both her looks and her natural spirit. To be forced to sit idly waiting for Henry to call on her was not to be endured.
Around midday of the day following the tent incident she had been sent for, but it was not the King who had called her. She was beginning to wonder what pages were expected to do in a royal camp, and how she was to maintain her anonymity. The night before she had simply found a place on the ground near a fire, using her saddle roll as a pillow and her cloak as a blanket. It was a long night, with only restless sleeping on the hard ground, but she had endured it. In the morning she had snuck between a tent and a wagon towards the tree line and relieved herself, frantic lest someone should see her. It could not go on like this for long, and she knew it.
When summons had come, she assumed it was from the King. After all, who else knew she was there? Instead, she had been brought to a smaller tent not far from where the Royal Standard flew. A desk took up most of the space, somehow both neat and cluttered with papers and ink. Sitting behind it was a thin, balding man who looked less like a soldier that Lisabet herself. She guessed him to be her father’s age, and dark circles ringed his eyes.
“You are Phillipe Cavot, the King’s new page?” the man asked in a voice as tired as his eyes.
“I am, my Lord, what would you have with me?” Lisabeta struggled to make her voice sound more like an anxious page and less like a confident lady.
“King Henry thought I might make use of you,” the man sounded uncertain as he looked her over.
What! The King was handing her off like so much unwanted baggage to one of his underlings? Lisabeta seethed internally. How dare he be so high handed?
“Did he indeed, how generous of him,” she bit off.
“I thought it so, if what he says is true,” the man’s voice was mild and slightly perplexed at her answer. “Your hand, I take it, is decipherable? If so, you will be better than the last. I am Laurence, Henry’s secretary. I have a stack of documents to write, and time is not a friend to me of late. You will assist me here with all my work. I know it is less exciting task to aid a secretary than knight. But here at least some comfort does exist. There is a cot for you to sleep upon, and there behind the screen a chamber pot. Perhaps it is no luxury for you, but when one reaches my age, one will find such niceties are of a great import.”
Lisabeta was at first inclined to be outraged, if only because outrage seemed to be her reaction to all that Henry said or did. To be stuck in this tent with a reedy man with a reedy voice all day was not the reason why she had come here. On the other hand, it did neatly solve both of her core problems. It was as if providence had given her a way to stay until she figured out the next step in her plan.
In addition to all of this, it occurred to Lisabeta that this could be just the place she needed to be. If this man was King Henry’s secretary, then the documents scattered about his desk took on an entirely new interest to her. It was possible that hidden among the mounds of papers that looked to be mostly correspondences could be maps, perhaps even battle plans, detailing the English forces’ intentions. If she could put her hands on those documents, it could be a turning point in this war.
In her mind, Lisabeta pushed away the picture of Henry mercilessly and in its place forced in what must be seen as a happier view. She would wait until the secretary had left, of perhaps gone to sleep as it looked like he must soon do. Once he was out of the way, she would find the betraying documents, copy them down, and slip from the camp. How easy would it be then to send them via courier, or maybe even bring them herself, to the French King and his constable in Paris? Lisabeta could singlehandedly win this wretched war for France!
It was a plan, and she would see it done. She need never cross paths with the arrogant King Henry again. Let him preen around his camp in the mud for another day or two, she would not be there to wash it from his body. And all the better for that, she insisted to herself, even as she fought back regret.
***
“Your Majesty, what brings you to our tents?” Sir Stephen Boyd asked, beginning to drop to one knee in the mud before Henry waved away the need.
“My restless legs that needed room to stretched,” Henry laughed good naturedly. “How goes it with our enforced visitors?”
“Well, my Lord, when all is said and done. One little lad no more than three years old did give us all some trouble at the start.”
“Precocious lad! How did he manage that?”
“With screaming morn and night, to wake the dead. I tell you Sire, I’ve seen my share of war. I’ve fought in wars whose blood would fill a lake, and thought my life was ended more than once. But never have I known a greater fear than when the cub did last drift off to sleep and any noise did threaten our brief peace.”
Henry could not but laugh at the thought of the bluff old knight fearing a lad of three. The very sight of him proclaimed the battles he spoke of. Still, there lived inside the blustery warrior a soft heart. Henry remembered being found out by Sir Stephen after his first taste of battle. An overwhelmed squire, Henry had been horrified by the carnage he had witnessed. Ashamed of himself, he had hidden behind a wagon to empty his stomach before crouching down trembling from the shock, terrified lest someone should see him so unmanned.
But when Sir Stephen had discovered him, the older knight had not mocked or scolded him. Instead, he had hunched down next to him and handed over a flask of water for Henry to rinse his mouth. After Henry had stopped shaking, Sir Stephen had spoken to him in a matter of fact voice, telling him that all men of intellect were shaken by the reality of war. It was only the dull or the cruel who escaped unscathed. Any man worth following would react as Henry had, he opined, and he was proud that his future lord was such a one. With a nod, he had risen and walked away, leaving behind the water and a more thoughtful Henry.
It was because of this innate compassion that Henry had chosen him to have custody of the hostages. Other, higher ranked men had chafed, wanting the potentially lucrative position where they could extort money from anxiety ridden parents. Henry had thwarted them all, placing in stead an honorable man who would do his best to keep the young hostages safe and well looked after.
“A mighty terror indeed, how solved you it?” he asked now with a shudder.
“I handed off the boy to Mistress Mead,” Sir Stephen replied, face reddening. “She’s wife to Seargent Mead, a doughty man, and raised a brood of children of her own. I know your Grace did put him in my charge, but at his age he needs a woman’s care. I hope you know I meant no harm by it. I’d trust the goodwife my very life.”
“As I trust you with mine, my blustery friend,” Henry assured him. “I should have thought to do so from the start. I thank you, Sir, for seeing to it now.”
They stood in companionable silence for a while, watching a pair of lads in oversized helmets batter at each other. Henry wasn’t entirely sure why he had come here. He had been at his desk going over the papers his secretary had left for him, but his mind was not really focused. He needed to walk, to exercise. To get away from his tent where his eyes and mind kept drifting over to the large tub where the Gascoigne lass had bathed him two nights before. He had not been able to stop thinking of her since.
It was only because he had been celibate, he assured himself. That was the reason why he had responded so strongly to the chit. She was completely lacking skill in her ministrations. Her touch had been hesitant, shy, barely skimming over his skin. And yet, that had changed as she proceeded. She had grown bolder, pulling slightly on his hair, rubbing his aching shoulders and back. He had been loud in his appreciation, moaning as he felt the tension and stiffness melt out of him.
Well, it had melted out of his upper body, his lower body had been an entirely different story. As her hands drifted lower, his erection had become painful in its insistence. She was just inches away, all it would take was a small dip down for her soft hand to be wrapped around his length. He had wanted it with an intensity that left him throbbing. If he had not sent her away at that point, he would have dragged her into the tub with him.
It was a thought that kept occurring to him through the night and all the next day.
He thought he had hit on the perfect solution by handing her off to Laurence. The man could use an extra hand, and he could only imagine the girl’s education had included penmanship. He could not have her running about his camp, just waiting for someone to realize she was a woman, for god’s sake. She was a scandal just waiting to happen, in no small part because she seemed incapable of staying unobtrusive.
Laurance, on the other hand, could be trusted implicitly with her. The man was discreet to a fault, as one who preferences were as his had to be in their society. As Henry suspected, he had sussed out her true nature the first day, but rather than confront her with it had quietly brought it to his King’s attention. When Henry indicated that he knew her identity, but wished to do nothing for present, his secretary had sighed but nodded, mumbling that at least she had a passable hand a quick mind, if an even quicker tongue. She would be safe with him until he decided how to proceed.
He just needed to find out more about her, which brought him to his current location.
“Tell me, Sir, how does the young Gascoigne?” he asked, attempting nonchalance.
“Little Phillipe? He does right well, my Lord,” Stephen answered, slight curiosity in his voice. “That be him over there, the one in blue. He’ll make a proper Knight if ‘ere he grows. A bit to clever, like to one I know. But taking to account his lineage and vast side of the force he’ll one day lead, that is no bad thing, as I think you know.”
Henry watched the boy as he traded blows with another a head taller than him. He saw what Sir Stephen alluded to. The larger boy clearly had strength and reach on his side, but Phillipe easily side stepped the attacks launched on him. He had an excellent eye for what his opponent was about to do next. If only he had a better control of his own weapon. Acting on instinct, Henry strode forward, grabbing a practice sword from the wrack as he did.
“Your grip is wrong, if I may intercede?”
He didn’t raise his voice, he seldom did, but the two boys drew back, instantly lowering their blades. Phillipe dropped to one knee, and after a slight pause the other boy did the same, removing their borrowed helms.
“Rise up, Phillipe, I’ll show you how it’s done,” he offered, along with his hand to help the boy to rise.
He was a handsome lad, Henry observed. Very much the boyish version of his sister. Henry was continually amused at how everyone else took her for a boy. Her hips were obviously those of a woman, and the combination of padding and binding did not completely hide her other curves. On top of that, the planes of her face were more feminine, if older and sharper than the boy before him.
He spent the next hour happily helping Phillipe improve his grip. The boy had stamina, and after the first few moments lost his stiffness with the King. Henry enjoyed physical activity of all sorts and had been unhappy with the idleness. The lesson was just what he had needed to restore his good humor.
“Well done, my lad, I think you have the trick,” he said at last, setting aside his sword and ruffling the boy’s hair.
“I thank you, Sire, for sparing me your time,” Phillipe said shyly, panting a bit. “I father doth despair of my poor skill. Why even my own sister Lisabet can best me when it cometh to the blade.”
“Ah, Lisabet! That is your sister’s name!” Henry said, remembering now that he had heard the lovely moniker before.
“Why yes, my Lord, but know you Lisabet?”
Henry cursed silently, damning his tongue for saying the name out loud. A lovely name, he thought, although perhaps too soft for the sassy brat who had infiltrated his camp.
“By reputation only, to my woe,” he said with an easy smile to, “I hear she is the jewel of all of France.”
“So all do say, though I do see it not,” the boy made a face all brothers of sisters would recognize before continuing to ramble. “A willful fury, with a biting tongue is more the face that she does show to me. But those who know the fashion of the world have dubbed her oft an incomparable. My parents seek to make for her a match with every single gentleman of name.”
“And is there any one she most prefers?” Henry asked, irritated at the idea that the innocent vixen in his tent last night might be promised to another.
“No, not when last I spoke to her, my Lord. Papa would wed her to Lord Constable, I heard him say the match was all but made. But Lisabet just curled her lip at that. I think she fancies more to be a queen, or empress who could manage one and all. She certainly does like to get her way. But do not, please, mistake me good my Lord. Though she can be a right pain in my side, she is at heart a loving sister still. She wept when I did leave to be our pledge.”
“Belike she thought I meant to use you ill. I hope, Phillip, that has not been the case?”
“Why no, my Lord, though I should say it not, the days that I have spent here in your camp seem almost as a holiday to me!”
“Then I am glad to give you such a treat. You must inform your sister of the truth.
“I will when I am back at home with her. She will just roll her eyes and scoff at me and tell me that I do betray our house. She would have had us fight till all were dead, or ere she ever flew the flag of truce.” 
“She sounds a truly formidable foe. How glad I am I had to fight her naught.”
 “As you should be, she wields a blade with skill!”
“Gascoigne, will you talk the good king mad? Come over here and help to clean the blades!”
Chastised by the should from Sir Stephen, the boy ducked his head and bowed to Henry before running over to assist in the work. Henry smiled in reply, but him mind was elsewhere. So, his fiery, would be page was set to marry the Constable of France? And, moreover, she was a fierce opponent of the peace with England. That would not bode well for Henry or for Fance. He hoped to settle the matter of his sovereignty, and the good Constable was a stumbling block in his way. If the man were wed to a woman of passion who stood against Henry’s claim, he would be only more likely to dig in and voice his dissent. No, Henry did not think he could allow such a union to take place.
It had nothing at all, of course, to do with his own attraction to the woman.
@yespolkadotkitty @just-the-hiddles @hopelessromanticspoonie @wine-and-whines @arch-venus25 @caffiend-queen @devilish–doll @enchantedbyhiddles @hiddlesholic @i-do-not-fangirl-i-fanwoman @kellatron55 @ladyoftheteaandblood @latent-thoughts @yespolkadotkitty@maryxglz @myoxisbroken @nuggsmum @nildespirandum @pedeka @redfoxwritesstuff @sinfully-lustful-darling @vodka-and-some-sass @wrathkitty @kingtwhiddleston​ @wolfsmom1 @poetic-fiasco @shiningloki @dangertoozmanykids101 @bookworm-christina @amwolowicz @delightfulheartdream @frostbitten-written @what-a-flammable-heart @tom-hlover @nonsensicalobsessions @myraiswack @loki-yoursaviourishere @ghostypau @justthehiddleswrites @ms-cellanies @colorfulfreakstudentpizza​
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niqhtlord01 · 3 years
Text
Humans are weird: Perspective
“You will pay for your crimes you monster.” 
Through the swirling clouds of smoke and ash the alien captive glared defiantly at their human captive rummaging through the nearby remains of what had been mere moments ago a peaceful settlement on the colony world of Vargus IV. 
The humans had struck at the waning hours between dusk and night when the community were in their habitation units after a long day of work. They came in a collection of strange anti-grav vehicles surprisingly advanced for humans and bearing no markings of identification or allegiance. 
The perimeter sentries activated sensing a threat but before they could engage the attackers they were quickly destroyed by precision heavy weapon plasma fire. Their fiery explosions had been the warning call to the rest of the colony of their impending doom but by then there was nothing that could be done. 
Within moments the attackers had entered the town square and dismounted, shouting and whooping like monsters of old as they ran through the tight streets in their parade of madness. 
Some threw improvised fire bombs and plasma refragmentors through windows incinerating countless settlers as they hid inside their homes while others stalked the pathways gunning down any that crossed their path. 
A few of the colonists had been hunters and emerged from their dwellings firing and moving, their prey all the more deadlier. Some of the marauders fell to to the concentrated fire of the hunters, but this only seemed to invigorate the others to commit even greater acts of madness. 
At the colonial office at the far end of the town the majority of the resistance had been centered as the hunters gathered what settlers they could and sheltered them inside the sturdy walls until finally the entire settlement was ablaze save the colonial office. Frantic distress calls were sent out from the powerful communications unit inside as the human attackers gathered outside for the final assault. 
To their horror the defenders saw the humans lined captured settlers, mostly women and elders, in front of them and prodded them forward in front of their advance. 
Some of the hunters continued fighting on but when their shots inevitably hit on of the living shields the other defenders turned on them. Not long after that the raiders had finished off the remaining defenders and stormed the colonial office; dragging what few survivors remained out to the town square. 
A group of four survivors remained, now bound tightly in coils while the raiders ransacked the town. Three males and a single female who was bleeding from a weapons fire wound in her right arm. Each of the survivors four eyes frantically switched between the human raiders, unable to decide which would be the greatest threat. 
As the captives watched quietly a heavy duty grav hauler rolled into the square. It’s driver compartment door kicked open violently and from it emerged a strangely clothed human. They were clad in a black mesh body glove with a visor helmet covering their face. Combat webbing holding numerous pockets and devices circled across their chest while a thick plasma pistol with the barrel protruding from an alien creatures skull was attached firmly to their hip. A series of knives lay holstered up both legs to their midriff making it appear as if they were covered in scales.
The body gloved human glanced momentarily at the captives before hopping down off the vehicle. A collection of several raiders circled him, all smiling and grinning like mad men. 
“Take several bodies and nail them to the walls.” the body gloved man said to one of the circled bandits. 
“Any particular position?” the bandit said, their toothy grin still present on their face like a knife wound. 
The gloved leader paused for a moment before continuing. “Underline we want is horror and anger. As long as you give me that you have creative freedom.”
The bandit gave a mocking salute and started off down a side street laughing.
The gloved human turned to another of the remaining group. “I want every house looted. I don’t care if it looks like a dirt farmer or a kings mansion, smash it all and take the goods.” 
Three more of the group nodded and whistled over some nearby bandits that had been standing by idly. They started shouting and pointing at buildings and scattered like ants throughout the settlement. 
It was only after issuing several more orders did the apparent leader of raiders notice the captives hate filled glares. They strode to the first captive and looked down at them. The female looked back at him with a mixture of fear and resentment. 
The leader knelt down and held the females face in their hand. She struggled in their grip as they turned her face back and forth as if examining her like a stock animal. 
She spat a glob of green blood into the visor when the bandit leader continued to turn her face. The surprise act made the leader stand up suddenly and they raised their hand up as if to strike her before stopping themselves. 
“Didn’t anyone teach you manners?” the bandit leader said, pulling a cloth from a pouch and wiping away the blood.
“You slaughter our people and you think you deserve less?” she retorted, lobbing another glob of spat blood at the leader who easily side stepped it. 
“You’ll be paying for that.” 
With a nod several bandits approached the captives with knives and blades being drawn. The men began looking frantic and began pleading for their lives while the woman continued to glare defiantly. 
To their surprise the bandits cut the binds of the three men and stood them to their feet. 
“It’s your lucky day fellas,” the leader began as he turned away from the still bound female, “you all get to go free while your friend here pays the price.” 
When none of the males made a move, each standing as if they had not heard what had just been said, the leader motioned with his head toward the entrance of the village. “I would get going now; I’m not one for repeating myself.” As if to emphasize the point the leader pulled free their plasma weapon and flicked on the activator rune. 
Not needing any more incentive the three males ran down the main street, stumbling over themselves in their haste to get to freedom. 
The leader whistled under his visor and returned their attention to the remaining captive. “Real gentlemen you’ve got in this town. Didn’t even plead for your life and sprinted off at the first chance they got.” 
“They will live, that is all that matters.” The remaining captive spoke, he words heavy with the knowledge that her end would come soon. 
“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” 
Before she could ask what the leader meant by that the bark of several plasma weapons rang out. The captive watched the three figures who had been sprinting to freedom be gunned down and torn to pieces. She turned back to the leader, tears running down her four eyes, and shouted “You said you would let them go!” 
The drowning mocking laughter of the leader only further enraged the female captive who tried to rise to her feet only to have her legs kicked in by a bandit behind her sending her back to the ground. 
“I let them go free from their bondage, but I never said I would let them leave alive.” 
The leader knelt down again next to the female. “You see we needed some of the bodies to appear as if you colonists almost made it out alive. The brutalized bodies and looting are one thing but slaughter of fleeing defenseless people will really sell home this was an Itrovian attack.” 
At this the female became confused. “But you are all humans, there was not a single Itrovian among you.” 
The leader nodded as if she was the student they liked calling on the most because they asked the real questions. 
“That relief force you called for won’t be able to tell the difference once we’re done.” 
She couldn’t see their expression under the visor but the female imagined the leader smiling. 
“Oh yes, we know about your distress call and we didn’t even lift a finger to try and jam it.” 
The leader grabbed her face again and forced her to look at the edge of the square. To her horror she saw the dead bodies of settles being nailed to the wall in grotesque fashion by a pair of bandits while a third was cutting their bodies open and using their green blood to draw letters next to the bodies. 
Itrovian letters the female realized. 
Forcing her to look back at them the leader pulled off their visor to reveal a youthful face. Their hair was short cropped to their skull and aside from their green eyes they appeared indeterminate of which gender they were. 
“When your relief force arrives and sees what has been done to you all they will blame the Itrovians. The Itrovians on the other hand will be blaming you for an attack on their colony of Havius IX which is being carried out right now.” 
The leader pulled out a long knife from their leg and the female captive saw that it was an Itrovian war knife; the purple metal unmistakable as to its origin. 
“After they see what happened to their people and then having your people blame them they will be livid with anger and most likely declare war on your civilization.” 
The scope of the madness was on a magnitude that the female captive could not fathom. 
“You....you monster.” the captive said, the words barely able to form from her trembling lips.
“Monster?” 
Placing a hand on her shoulder the leader shook their head. “We’re the good guys here. Humanity will be safe from the likes of your kind and the Itrovians after this as you’ll be to busy fighting each other.” 
“That does not justify your actions!” retorted the female as she shrugged off the leaders hand. “How will the slaughter of untold innocents make you anything but monsters?” 
As if somehow the notion struck a cord with the leader they nodded in agreement. “I can see your point,” the leader began pursing their lips as if deep in thought, “it would be hard for you to see us as anything less.” 
The female felt the leader grip her should once again and felt their fingers dig deep into her shoulder. She looked up to see a devlish smile cross the leaders face. 
“I guess you can say it’s all a matter of perspective.” 
The captive was about to say something when a stabbing pain pierced her stomach. She coughed more green blood violently that sprayed across the human leaders face as they continued smiling at her agony. 
“After all, everyone is the hero in their own story.”
Through twisted eyes the female captive looked down and saw the hilt of the Itrovian war knife pressed against her chest. With each twist and turn of the humans hand it sent agonizing waves of pain through her entire system as she let out a blood curdling scream. 
The human leader left the knife embedded in the still screaming captive and turned to the nearest bandit. With a motion of their hand the captive had a rope wrapped around her torso and she was hoisted up in front of the town square. Her screams still ringing out as she kicked and jerked back and forth attempting to dislodge the knife; her blood running from her wound like a slow stream.
She screamed as the bandits returned to their vehicles,
She cursed and damned them each as they drove away into the night. 
She wailed as the final vehicle hovered over the bodies of her dead kin. 
Her final sight was of the leader that had caused such destruction leaning out of their vehicle and waving to her as they passed into the darkness of the night. 
It was not long after that the darkness consumed not just her and her settlement, but the entire sector in a shroud so dark it would not lift for ages to come.  
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Ultimate Ship Meme: Azulaang
Rate the Ship -  
Awful | Ew | No pics pls | I’m not comfortable | Alright | I like it! | Got Pics? | Let’s do it! | Why is this not getting more attention?! | The OTP to rule all other OTPs
How long will they last? - Until I say so. I can see them being together after death as spirits.
How quickly did/will they fall in love? - Ooooh boy. Azula struggles to understand friendship. I think she'd fall in love fast and hard but take the longest to realize. Aang wouldn't let himself get attached at first because Azula is unapologetic and one of the things I like about Azulaang is how it would push Aang to deals with the nitty gritty gray, not in a The Fire Nation was right all along way but in how even Kyoshi and Roku's conflict resolution let to disagreements. I think it would take Aang longer to fall in but once they reach a semblance of common ground he'd be well aware he's falling in love and would enjoy the ride.
How was their first kiss? - Let's see my fanfics. In Blue it was awkward. In Weightless it was sweet. In Smut it was horny and hate filled. In canon I think their first kiss would be very passionate and then they snap back to reality and Aang would evade while Azula denies so they wouldn't talk about it but they'd for sure be thinking about the kiss.
Wedding:
Who proposed? - Technically Azula. As soon as Aang hears about a Fire Nation wedding, either his friends or he learns about Ozai and Ursa's wedding, his mind would be set on a wedding. He wouldn't say anything but he'd squirrel away relevant wedding information like he'd hear a song and go "I want that instrument to play at my wedding." But Azula would have her life planned out by other people and there'd be a set date where Ozai now Zuko are supposed to comb through suitor requests (it was probably Ursa's role. If she's there she'd talk to Azula directly instead of Lo and Li. I don't think Lo and Li are high enough rank to determine the suitor but I think it would be customary/expected for their input to be asked). Azula would tell Aang something along the lines of "I should be wed." and he'd agree and then Azula will spend an abnormally long time wondering if he married her because he liked her or because it's his duty until she asks him while he's discussing potential baby room colors pre wedding.
Who is the best man/men? - Sokka and Toph. Azula was going to pick Momo but he made a better flower girl. Yes she did this to annoy Zuko (and because Toph didnt want to wear the bridesmaid outfit) it's okay though Fire Lord Zuko was the guest of honor.
Who is the braid’s maid(s)? - Katara, Suki, Mai, Ty Lee. Mai pretends she hates the outfit but she's secretly pleased.
Who did the most planning? - Aang did the most thinking but Azula did the most planning.
Who stressed the most? - Externally Aang. Internally Azula.
How fancy was the ceremony? -
Back of a pickup truck | 2 | 3 | 4 | Normal Church Wedding | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Kate and William wish they were this big.
100% Azula's fault. Aang has no clue what Fire Nation weddings are supposed to be like.
Aang: Wow I can't believe all weddings in your Nation are this big.
Azula: They're not. It's because I'm Royalty and you're the Avatar.
Though I hc that Aang wants to get married in all the different Nations and Azula secretly wants to experience a small wedding so they get married 3 more times with one of them being a very small Air Nation wedding.
Who was specifically not invited to the wedding? - Hmmm I'm not sure. On one hand, Ozai redemption. On the other hand, Ozai death.
Sex:
Who is on top? - Aang. Azula thinks she wants to be on top but she'd rather be pampered and Aang is more comfortable communicating and attending to needs. Aang has no strong preference either way and they do switch but this is their usual dynamic.
Who is the one to instigate things? - Azula but she denies it.
How healthy is their sex life? -
Barely touch themselves let alone each other | 2 | 3 | 4 | Once a couple weeks, nothing overboard | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They are humping each other on the couch right now
I think it's up to the reader's preference but I can see them being very private (Azula) and naturally talented (Aang) to the point where they assume every couple has sex daily. Hc that Aang and Suki talk about sex freely (ex: When I do __ should I __ or do girls prefer ___? I can never tell with Azula. Why do guys do ___ after ____ ? I've tried asking Sokka but he doesn't give me a straight answer.) Much to the fear of Sokka and Azula.
How kinky are they? -
Straight missionary with the lights off | 2 | 3 | 4 | Might try some butt stuff and toys | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Don’t go into the sex dungeon without a horse’s head
Again up to the reader. They both like learning new things and are prodigies so I think they'd end up reading about things to try in bed (Azula) and would try things out to see what they like (Aang) until they learn what they and each other generally like/dislike.
How long do they normally last? - 
Does the Avatar State remove your refractory period? >;3c
Do they make sure each person gets an equal amount of orgasms? - No. Aang likes overstimulating.
How rough are they in bed? -
Softer than a butterfly on the back of a bunny | 2 | 3 | 4 | The bed’s shaking and squeaking every time | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | Their dirty talk is so vulgar it’d make Dwayne Johnson blush. Also, the wall’s so weak it could collapse the next time they do it.
Neither can dirty talk. Azula is rougher. Aang likes to take it slow. She sets the pace in the beginning but he decides when it ends.
How much cuddling/snuggling do they do? -
No touching after sex | 2 | 3 | 4 | A little spooning at night, or on the couch, but not in public | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | They snuggle and kiss more often than a teen couple on their fifth date to a pillow factory.
Azula refuses to cuddle in public but in return they cuddle all night.
Children:
How many children will they have naturally? - hc them having twin boys at first with one firebender and one airbender because poetry. But Azula really wants a girl so they have a third child she is an airbender with Aang's charm and knack for getting in trouble and Azula's ruthlessness. Amon kidnaps her and instead of easily escaping (Aang's genes) she instead viciously mocks him the way only a preteen can (Azula's genes.) It's traumatic enough for Amon even before the parents show up. Then Aang wants another one and Azula wants another firebender so they do the do and surprise triplets! (maybe it has to do with ejaculatimg in the Avatar State lol) So 6 in total and lets say its 3 boys 3 girls with 3 airbenders 3 firebenders.
How many children will they adopt? - None. Azula is wary of motherhood and I know people like to hc Aang as adopting and while I can see him acting as a father figure to several kids I think he'd greatly prefer biological kids especially airbenders. It's a flaw that was barely touched upon and def not handled well in Legend of Korra.
Who gets stuck with the most diapers? - Servants or Aang. After a kid or two Azula would be comfortable enough to change the diapers but it would still be mostly Aang.
Who is the stricter parent? - Depends on the kid. Aang is more lenient with airbenders and Azula with firebenders or girls. I can see Azula being strict with training & studies but not with sharing whereas Aang would have less rules but they'd be more heavily enforced (ex: no airgliding without supervision until you've mastered the safety course)
Who stops the kid(s) from doing dangerous stunts after school? - Azula. She's pretty lenient with the term dangerous esp. when it comes to firebending as long as basic safety measures are applied (ex: you can pracrice lightning as long as it's not pointed towards yourself aka dont be Zuzu) but Aang is of the mindset "How are you gonna learn airbending without dangerous stunts?" And after the first few incidents she started stepping in.
Who remembers to pack the lunch(es)? - Azula but Aang cooks them.
Who is the more loved parent? - Appa
Who is more likely to attend the PTA meetings? Azula. When Aang attends the teachers shower him and his kids with compliments ("You're doing so well teaching your kids the values of the Air Nomads. It must be so hard being The Last Airbender"). They do the same with Azula but unlike Aang she sees through it and manages to get an accurate assessment of how their kids are doing.
Who cried the most at graduation? - Aang was more happy than sad. Azula cried before and after.
Who is more likely to bail the child(ren) out of trouble with the law? - Aang. He is a notorious lawbreaker. Azula would bail the kids and she could do so quicker than Aang in a few cases because of her connections but she'd be mad so their kids would rather call Aang or break themselves out.
Cooking: 
Who does the most cooking? - Tied. Aang at first but then Azula wants to learn and after Aang teaches her since she has less experience she finds more enjoyment in cooking.
Who is the most picky in their food choice? - 
Technically Aang since he's a vegetarian. Azula hasn't tried as many foods and she's used to not making a fuss at the family dinner table to the point of which Aang notices.
Who does the grocery shopping? - Both. Aang has a better eye for vegetables/fruits and Azula is better with prices (it's not about the cost it's about the value).
How often do they bake desserts? - Aang bakes them when he can/weekly. They're fruit based so if Azula doesn't want dessert he gives it to Momo or flings it at a target.
Are they more of a meat lover or a salad eater? - Gee I wonder. Aang eats salad Azula eats meat.
Who is more likely to surprise the other(s) with an anniversary dinner? - Aang but Azula tends to figures it out. Azula is more likely to plan a dinner but she wouldn't make it a surprise.
Who is more likely to suggest going out? - Aang but Azula is a close second. It would be a tie if it wasn't for the bathhouse.
Who is more likely to burn the house down accidently while cooking? - Accidentally? Aang. On purpose? Azula.
Who cleans the room? - Servants or Aang.
Chores: 
Who is really against chores? - Azula hates cleaning up but she's neater.
Who cleans up after the pets? - Aang.
Who is more likely to sweep everything under the rug? - Aang.
Who stresses the most when guests are coming over? - Azula.
Who found a dollar between the couch cushions while cleaning? - Aang.
Who takes the longer showers/baths? - Azula. In the Fire Nation Palace Aang has taken to chatting with Azula in the Royal Spa while he feeds her (and mostly himself) cherries.
Misc:
Who takes the dog Appa out for a walk? - Aang
How often do they decorate the room/house for the holidays? - Never. Once they like the room they like the room. If its an event they'll go to a different location for it or leave the Air Temple as is.
What are their goals for the relationship? -
To stay together.
Who is most likely to sleep till noon? -
Aang slept for a hundred years so I'll give it to him.
Who plays the most pranks? - Tie. They've both pulled elaborate pranks as kids.
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antifaspiderman · 3 years
Text
yeah so the kink at pride discourse is exponentially worse this year
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i think we should always respond to kids and teens with care and understanding, the way adults are name calling and spitefully mocking kids is wrong and doesnt help anything, but it is alarming that every year like clockwork during pride month people work themselves into a frenzy over mostly hypothetical scenarios that paint pride parades as some public sex party where the streets are filled with gay men having anal sex. its 100% homophobic and reactionary.
of course i can only speak from my own experience but the only public displays of sexuality that ive ever seen at pride are the same kind of pda that straight couples do all the time that no one takes issue with, holding hands, kissing, hugging, basically just extremely tame acts of love and affection. i have never seen any public sex at pride. i have seen non sexual nudity. but ive also seen that at public beaches. no one has a problem with speedos or bikinis at the beach but when its pride all of the sudden its inappropriate and we shouldnt be allowed to show that much skin.
theres a very urgent need to address the presence of predators in lgbt spaces but the handwringing over pride doesnt do that. and its very concerning to me that over the years these critiques of pride have spiraled from the real need to make sure kids are safe in our spaces to extreme policing of exactly how much skin gay people are allowed to show, exactly how much affection we’re allowed to express at pride with people invoking the cops as a threat against anyone they deem to be inappropriate. (and regardless of whether the person saying theyd call the cops actually would its way out of line to threaten it, dont call the cops on people at pride, dont call the cops ever) just like lots of other demographics theres people (mostly white obviously) in the lgbt community who are increasingly being drawn into reactionary online spaces that stoke their fears and spread hate. adults dunking on kids clearly isnt the answer to this problem but its an issue that we definitely need to be thinking about.
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thedreadvampy · 3 years
Text
like actually yeah PLEASE can we talk about how a lot of younger people in the queer community (and also some not younger people) seem to think that
a) visibility is the same thing as social power (both gay men and trans women have appeared regularly in media for decades of not centuries, usually as the butt of jokes; flaboyant queerness and gender nonconformity are often visible in media but that's generally been used to mock and target flamboyantly queer, GNC and trans people, not out of some sort of respect or social empowerment. Like representation and visibility are important tools to achieve social empowerment but they're also used to remove it and the fact that, say, there's more transfem characters than transmasc in media is not bc transfem people have social power it's because they've been considered a joke or a source of horror or a social deviance in themselves)
b) cis gay men, especially camp/gnc gay men, hold broad social privilege/are exaggerating when they talk about oppression (what are you on? what are you on????? broad social acceptance of male queerness has come on in leaps and bounds over my lifetime but you don't need to even look back as far as the early 2000s to see how many people in society hate and fear gay and bi men. right now! people are excluded from their families and communities because of the whisper of gayness! right now look at the world and tell me one person in a position of power who's a ~stereotypically flamboyant gay~ who's not a media personality. look at how quickly people jump to joking about homosexuality when they don't like someone. like gay men and bi men are still at exceptionally high risk of violence around the world! and I'm not just talking about the many countries which still have the death penalty or severe punishments for same-sex activity, although also YEAH WE SHOULD TALK ABOUT THAT.)
c) just in general, that the social politics of the specific queer communities they move in are reflective of the world as a whole (like yeah ok maybe GNC gay men, butches and trans lesbians have all the clout in One Specific Social Media Sphere you move in. maybe everyone around you understands the nuances of nonbinary identity. maybe everyone uses the same language. but that doesn't mean that the social hegemony of the world at large privileges GNC people and trans people, differentiates between nonbinary and GNC, or cares what language you use to describe yourself. We've come a long way but sometimes I think we're at risk of getting complacent and losing our solidarity for other members of the community bc we project our understanding of the power dynamics of a small community onto the power dynamics of an extremely hierarchical society full of people who've only learnt trans people are a real thing in like the last decade and who've mostly known about queerness as a threat)
d) that "queer" and "LGBTQ+" are synonyms (this is a matter of opinion I guess but my opinion is they're NOT! Queerness as a reclamatory identifier is a political stance! It's inherently radical; it's anti-assimilationist, activist, community-focused and founded in confrontational pride in your """"deviance""""" (as well as being heavily but not exclusively associated with leftism, anarcho-socialism, and mutual aid). Not every LGBTQ+ person is queer and that's fine. and the power of queerness comes from the reclamation of homophobic and transphobic rhetoric. so like queer may not be a slur now (let's not get into that) but it's not just ahistorical to claim it never was a slur, it also robs the word of its political and reclamatory power. Gayness, transness, bisexuality, asexuality et al are statements of being; queer is a statement of intent.)
e) that anything is Just The Facts (identity is in a constant state of flux. so is language. and appeals to history ignore the fact that debates about language and queer politics are as old as the queer community - there's very rarely been total consensus on the minute nuances of language. and personal identity is in flux too - you're not lying if you said you were ace and now you say you're straight, if you said you were a lesbian and now consider yourself a gay man, if you said you were bi and now you say you're a lesbian. sexuality and community are messy and complex and personal and often change over time. nothing's locked in unless you want it to be)
f) that queer history started in the 2000s/the 90s/the AIDS crisis/Stonewall (the queer/LGBTQ+ community has had an activist and social history for centuries and the modern gay/queer solidarity movement goes back at least a hundred years. so does explicit oppression of those groups. you can't just point to the 90s and say Look The Beginnings Of Our History)
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transmascjfk · 3 years
Note
i'm,, trans and hc chihiro to be a male..
i'm sorry, but i don't quite understand how that's transphobic. could you please explain how chihiro is transmisogynistic? (sorry if i come off as rude - that's not my intention and i genuinely just don't understand, though i would like to!!)
What is transmisoginy?
"Transmisogyny is a distinct category of transphobia in that transmisogyny mainly focuses on trans women and other transgender individuals who demonstrate femininity, whereas transphobia is a more general term, covering a broader spectrum of prejudice and discrimination towards transsexual and transgender individuals. Julia Serano states in Whipping Girl that "when the majority of jokes made at the expense of trans people center on 'men wearing dresses' or 'men who want their penises cut off' that is not transphobia – it is transmisogyny. When the majority of violence and sexual assaults committed against trans people is directed at trans women, that is not transphobia – it is transmisogyny." "
Chihiro is written to mock trans women, to say that in reality trans women are secretly men, she is a man who is weak and uses being trans as a way to escape her problems, this is a thing that is also said to trans men a lot, that theyre just trying to avoid the hard parts of being a woman by becoming a man. Even if the writters intended it to be like that or not (which they probably did because transphobia is a big thing that happens a lot, obviously) it's still transmisogynistic. Thats that on that
This is a pretty common transphobic trope actually, the "Turns out this one character was actually from the opposite sex??!!", theres more examples of this in other games outside Danganronpa.
But also her experience is pretty different from other examples, her experiences are way too similar with trans womens experiences.
This is mostly for the cis people who call her a crossdresser and refuse to change their mind, on it, sit down.
Written by a trans man.
Don't tell me whats transphobic and what it's not transphobic if you're cis. Just sit down and read.
Tw: transphobia, transmisoginy, death mentions and blood in the pictures.
The game implies a lot of stuff with her dialogue, it doesn't straight up says "I don't want to be a woman anymore, I'm a man" like everyone claims it does.
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[ Alt text 1:
Chihiro Fujisaki: I'm going to get stronger...and accept who I am... ]
[ Alt text 2:
Chihiro Fujisaki: Strong enough so that when someone says "even thought you're a boy" I'll be okay. I'll get better! ]
[ Alt text 3:
Chihiro Fujisaki: I wrapped myself in lies. I'm weak. I want to destroy that version of me forever! ]
[ Alt text 4:
Chihiro Fujisaki: ... I want to change. ]
[ Alt text 5:
Chihiro Fujisaki: I have to change. I don't want to be weak anymore ]
She goes to Mondo not because hes masculine, but because she admires him and his strength. She never once says it's because shes a man or because Mondo is a man.
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[ Alt text 1:
Chihiro Fujisaki: Maybe talking to Mondo about it will help give me some courage... ]
[ Alt text 2:
Chihiro Fujisaki: I admire... your strength... ]
These dialogues can be read in two ways, the first one being the one the game tries the hardest to put in your head thats shes a man, all of this guessed by other people btw not what she herself says. Which is really transphobic, because she was written as a trans woman and then theyre like "uh no actually hes a man, because he was born as one but hes a coward so he started to dress as a woman to hide from his problems. Because thats what people do right? People who dress as their oppossite gender are so pathetic, specially men amiright? Ahaha"
Reading it in this way really weird, you're doing a lot of mental gymnastics because you would literally call her a trans woman with all of this if the rest of the trial, that consists of cis people assuming shes a man, didn't happen. And sadly you're following transphobic ideas by this. Because the canon is transphobic and transmysoginistic.
And the other way is just read what she says, that she just wants to be stronger and stop lying to everyone, basically about being cis, because shes not, shes amab (assigned male at birth) and thats probably what she said to Mondo, but most people when a trans person who already passes or is in their transition comes out many people tend to think "oh so youre your gender assigned at birth and not the one you claim to be?", because they don't get what being trans is and they think only "biological gender" is a thing. Basically, misgendering and invalidating the trans person.
I can guess all of this just because of how vague they decided to make her dialogue, not even showing how she tells Mondo about being amab.
What did she said to Mondo? "I'm trans"? "I'm a man"? "I was born a man"? We dont know, because they didn't show it and she died right afterwards and then everyone was like "Chihiro was secretly a man" to solve the case and thats it. A lot of people in the discourse get their information from Monokuma who isn't either Chihiro or even Mondo. Monokuma knows many things but he can't read minds to know if she was really trans or not, only she could say it but she died so she couldn't explain if shes trans or not.
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[ Alt text:
A youtube comment by Gail Frisbee, posted 4 days ago, this comment was edited by the autor. The comment says:
"It's honestly increible to me when people try to argue that a scene in which a female-presenting character gets their genitals groped and then is posthumously referred to as a male from that point on can't be transphobic just because that character calls themselves a boy in some other side content later. It's on about the same level of intellectual honesty as claiming that Quiet from MGS5 isn't really fanservice because she totally breaths throught her skin you guys.
As it turns out, if you really dig down deep into the lore, Chihiro is a fictional character and the same people who wrote the genital investigation scene also wrote the lines that character says in the game as well. It's a shocking twist, I know." ]
Her fears of being outed and people founding out her secret (being trans) or being transphobic is used as a gross big twist. A trans woman being used as a mockery of trans people? Great totally normal (/sarcasm)
Read this post made by a trans woman. I'll be using this only part but it's still a great read.
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[ Alt text:
So. There is a lot to unpack here, but I want to start with something that specifically hurts me as a trans woman, and that's how the game flippantly uses real world horrors trans people face as shocking reveals and twists. You can go down the list for "worst nightmares" of trans people incluiding:
Threatening to be outed against your wishes
Outing yourself to a trusted friend and being met with rejection, or worse, violence
Having your body and privacy examined and invaded
Having your deadname used and being misgendered after death, when you can't correct them ]
Now, let's go to her backstory for a bit. I will be using the wiki for this. (Which sadly uses he/him for her 💔)
" When Chihiro was a child, he became the subject of harassment and bullying. He was always told to "be a man" and that he was "so weak despite being a boy", and because of that, Chihiro slowly but surely began to develop a "weakness complex". In order to escape the bullying, Chihiro began to dress as a girl so that people wouldn't bully him as a weak boy. "
This doesn't sound like a normal crossdresser, this sounds like a trans woman who was bullied for being different when she was younger, like many trans people, and then she decided to transition because she's a woman, she wanted to be more feminine and stop being seen as a person shes not. Specially after so many people tell her to basically man up when she doesn't want that, because shes not a man.
Have you ever heard of the classic stories of "since I was little i knew i was different, i was a boy who liked playing with dolls and was more feminine than the rest" or "i used to be a tomboy when i was little, i had mostly male friends, i liked playing with car toys and was more masculine than other kids" coming from trans people? This just sounds as these types of stories to me.
People also like to say that alter ego uses he/him pronouns and says shes a boy. Many trans people can misgender themselves for personal reasons too guys, she could've been trying to misgender herself because she didn't felt like she wasn't enough to be a real woman, this happens a lot to trans people. If people constantly tell you that you're not actually transgender or you just feel like you're faking it then you might actually believe it, thats were most "detransitioners" come from. And thats basically what they made her, a detransitioner.
Some of you might also don't get how shes trans because you think she doesn't perfect or exact trans stereotypes. Trans experiences can be similar on the feeling of not fitting in, dysphoria, etc. But trans experiences, stories, transitions and complete lifes can be very different, because we all (including cis people) live different lifes, experience, process and cope with things differently. So i can understand why you might not get her being trans coded at first, don't worry. But try instead of just not caring because you don't get it at the first try, to see what trans people say.
This whole discourse its mostly cis people talking over trans people about their own experiences (incluiding the dead trans coded characters experience) saying if theyre valid or not and denying stuff not wanting to learn anything, completely refusing to it because "In canon hes a boy" ok then in canon shes written in a transphobic way too but most of you don't care about that. You would rather call her a crossdresser than try to acknowledge how obviously trans coded she is and how thats used as transphobia.
The way most cis people act in this discourse is very transphobic to me to be honest, if you think you're a good ally but act like this then you should get more educated on the topic as a whole and about trans people too.
-the trans Chihiro flag to finish this up, she has a bit boobie! good for her! good for her.
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oneyanderegirl · 3 years
Text
My Personal Experience as a Chinese American
I don’t generally make posts like this, but after the Atlanta shooting, where 6 Asian American women were killed, I wanted to write about my own personal experience with racism as a Chinese American. For years, I have had to deal with several instances where I would be put in situations that made me uncomfortable, annoyed, and angry at the people who decided it would be funny or fun to do so. Almost every time these instances happened, I could only suck it up and play it off as a joke, dismissing my own feelings and forcing myself to accept these situations.
Racism doesn’t just come in form of physical violence. In fact, I feel like for Asians especially, most of it comes from the acts of microaggressions, stereotyping, and general dismissiveness when Asians try to speak up about their experiences. This does not mean that physical violence against Asians does not exist. However, from my own personal experience, I have mostly seen it in its more subtle forms, as mentioned above.
Some people may wonder why didn’t I just speak up then? Why didn’t I just tell them to stop or fuck off with their racism? 
The most simple answer can come down to two reasons. The first reason, and probably biggest reason in my opinion, is the way the media has gaslighted society to accept casual racist remarks and stereotypes made towards Asians. The second reason is because of the way my parents have taught me to stay quiet in these situations because they are afraid of the consequences that could result in speaking up about these issues. 
The media has, for years, stereotyped Asians into being type casted into certain roles; fetishized its women, while mocking its men; and have made the same racist jokes over and over again with no criticism made towards them. Here are some examples: 
1. Characters with ascents being made as a punchline of some joke 
2. The amount of times Asian actors/actresses that have been type casted as martial artists or only selected to act in martial art themed movies 
3. The amount of times Asian actors/actresses that have played the “ lonely, nerdy kid that does nothing but study”  
4. The fetishization of Asian women in porn 
5. Asian men have “smaller dicks”, are “shorter”, and “less manly” compared to other races. 
When you grow up in an environment that constantly portrays Asians as these type of things, it eventually becomes something that you accept, even begrudgingly. To better understand what I mean by this, think about how drug dependence develops. When you constantly use the same drug, for example an opioid, your brain eventually develops a tolerance to it. When this occurs, you require a higher dosage of that same drug in order to feel the same effects that was felt at a lower dosage. Similarly, when the media constantly portrays Asians in this stereotypical manner, you eventually accept it as a part of American culture and require something more drastic to make you feel the same anger, annoyance, and uncomfortableness that caused you to speak up about it in the first place.  
The second reason that I wrote about is my parents. Before I elaborate more about this, I just want whoever is reading this to understand that I do not blame my parents in any way for teaching me to stay quiet about these situations. I hope that you do not either. Rather, I hope after reading this, you will better understand why I and so many other Asian Americans have been taught to stay quiet when dealing with microaggressions and other racial remarks and why it is so difficult to stand up against racism aimed towards us. 
The American dream is something that used to be, and still is, famously discussed and shown off around the world. It is this American ideology, having been passed along to many cultures, that became the reason why so many Asians have tried to immigrate here over the decades and decades of history. When you live in a country with raging war occurring, high poverty, oppressive government or a mix of all three, the people will always end up suffering. Doesn’t the American dream then, sound like the perfect way to escape such a life? 
Escaping such a country isn’t easy. It’s painful because not everyone makes it. Many immigrants end up leaving their entire lives behind. Some have to separate from close friends and family, where they may never see those people again. Others end up leaving their businesses or education behind. It’s not the same as traveling from state to state, they have to travel literally across the ocean, maybe even halfway across the world, to be able to even have a chance to enter this country.  
As if that wasn’t difficult enough, the new difficulties that comes with being an immigrant in a new country adds even more stress. The racism coupled with not being able speak English and having no money, property, or power are all things that many Asian immigrants had to face when they first came to the United States. My parents were no exception. 
For many years, my parents had to suffer working low paying jobs, deal with microaggressions, and being unable to connect with their friends and families, in order to save enough money to buy a home and build a life that could support me enough to allow me to build a stable life for myself. Even now, they are still working hard to make sure that I don’t suffer. 
Why? 
Because that is their American dream.  
That is all they, and many other Asian parents, have always wanted: to see their children live happy, financially stable lives without the suffrage that they were forced to experience in their country during their own life. 
Are they the perfect parents? No. Does this excuse everything? No. However, it does give you insight and understanding as to why they taught us to stay quiet and avoid trouble for all these years. It’s not because they think racism doesn’t exist or that it’s useless to speak up about these issues (though they may say this), it’s because they are afraid. They are afraid for their children. They are afraid of their children getting hurt, being forced under the same circumstances that they had worked so hard to escape from.  So for those parents, racial remarks means nothing to them if it means that they are able to survive and stay alive. It doesn’t mean that they like it, but if you had to choose between starving and living under the fear that the government may one day kill you for war or for going against their ideology versus racial remarks made by ignorant people, wouldn’t the answer be obvious? 
It is because of this, that is why I was always taught to stay quiet or to avoid trouble. That is why over the years, I have tried to push out my own feelings and forced myself to accept these situations. That is why I have always tried to go along with the racial remarks that people try to play off as a “joke” or dismiss these racial remarks as “ no big deal”.  Here are some examples that I have personally experienced over the years: 
1. Being called a “Chink”. 
2. The “ Guess-what-type-of-Asian-am-I game: “ Are you Vietnamese? Japanese?” or “ Where are you from?” or “ What are you?” in a disrespectful manner of speaking. 
3. “ You don’t look Chinese.” followed with “ You’re really dark for a Chinese person.” 
4. Slanted eyes made towards me to show that “ Look, I can be Asian too!!” 
5. “ I heard you eat babies for breakfast.” 
6. “ You’re Asian, you probably just study all day.” 
7. “ I can speak Chinese too: ching chong ling long!” 
8. “ Your eyes are too big to be Chinese,” or “ Your eyes are too small,” 
Nowadays, with the attacks against Asians being higher than ever, when I go out to buy groceries for my family or to go attend my classes, my parents are always afraid. They always tell me to come home as fast as possible. They tell me that they are scared that I am going to get shot by some racist or even worse, murdered. 
For years, we have tried to stay as quiet as possible, to make as little trouble as possible, and to tolerate those racial remarks made against us. Yet we are still being killed for trying to live peacefully amongst ourselves. We are being killed for existing. Worst of all, it is mostly our elderly and immigrant parents who are being targeted. Imagine experiencing so much hardship over the years, going across the continent to a completely new country, working your ass off and suffering for years before finally building a somewhat comfortable life for yourself, and then? You just randomly get killed off by some ignorant, racist murderer who decided they “had a bad day” or some other stupid, insignificant reason and chose you as their target. The American dream that they had worked hard and sought for years and years, all gone now, all because of that stupid, insignificant reason. The Asian Americans who have worked hard to build such a life, won’t ever be able to enjoy its benefits ever again because they are now dead. 
That is why, I have decided to speak up about it. That is why so many Asian Americans have decided to speak up about it. We are tired of staying silent. We are tired of having to keep our suffering quiet. Racism against Asian Americans have always existed. We have always suffered from racism. The myth that Asian Americans are the “ Model Minority” has always been just a way of dismissing our issues. 
So if you are reading this, please listen. Listen to our stories. Learn about our culture. 
Listen to us. 
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prettieparker86 · 3 years
Text
The Ghost of You is Close to Me
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Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader
Warning: Sadness? set pre-WWI
Note: I’ve been trying to find my writer’s voice again. It’s felt lost and so far away from me. I still don’t feel it’s back per say. My previous characters still feel foreign to me. But when I feel the urge to write now, I try to listen. Not quite sure what this is. Watched a WWI movie the other night and this sort of rushed out of me like a flood, so I let it pour. For this I really tried to imagine what Tommy was like before the war based on the little pieces we've gotten from the show. And I wanted to explore the idea that she sensed he'd never come back, which in a way he didn't. His body did, but not the Tommy from before.
I’m not super well versed in the Romani culture and what knowledge I gained in the past feels mostly lost, I apologize. I was trying to find the word for horse, Grast was the closest I could. As with cozonac. I’m not sure if it’s really a traditional food. My research said it was. I’m trying my best. My intention is not to offend. Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks
Don’t know what I’m suppose to do, haunted by the ghost of you.
It only takes the sight of him to send you running. As fast as your horse can take you, holding tight to the notion that as long as you never stop running then he never leaves. You hide away to the place you would always run to as children. Back when Tommy's mum would drag the whole Shelby brood up into the hills, running away from her pitiful life in the city and Arthur Sr.
Its a grove of trees overlooking a deep fertile valley, the spot where you use to steal away as children. Long before you knew adults could run away from their grief as easily as little ones, and there was no mistaking it, you were running. You secure your horse to a tree branch where she can nibble away on the overgrown grass encircling the base of trunk, and settled atop a rock that's yours as much as it is the earth's. A rock that has only grown smaller over the years as you've grown bigger. Your family comes to this hills nearly every spring. As a child it never seemed different, now all you see is the changes.
Everything changes, this you know, but you swear if you just sit there long enough this change won't find you. It wont be so. Tommy wont leave. You're oldest companion. Your dearest friend. Gazing out at the valley blanketed in a tapestry of green hues, shadow and light, as the overcast sky moves above you - you tell yourself he isn't leaving. Even though the steady ache in your heart makes it feel like he's already gone. You miss him, before he's even left. You miss him... The words echo through you in shuddered vibrations that sting at your eyes, even worse at your heart, as a rogue tear manages to break free and make a run down your cheek before you briskly swipe at it.
You can't imagine him not being there. Being unreachable to you. You cant imagine not listening to Tommy's thoughts, his sparks of creativity, or the way he can make you laugh. You cant imagine him not being there. The hole he will leave, the one already opening up inside you feels unbearable, sickening, and you just want it to go away. Who will be there when you need someone most? Who will convince you things will turn out ok or you should keep fighting even when neither feel true? Who will know you? Who will see you? Really see you and genuinely care? You never felt you took his friendship for granted, never mistakenly felt there were others who could fill such big shoes, and yet now, as the chill of a breeze sweeps by you, sending goosebumps to prickle on the flesh of your arms, you wonder if you cherished that gift enough. You wonder if it meant the same to him and if he will miss you as deeply once you're gone.
You try not to think about it. You've been trying not to think about it since you received word Tommy had enlisted. You've kept yourself busy, both in mind and your hands. Filling the moments whenever he would start to creep in. But in the end its pointless. Because the more you try not to think of him, try not to miss him... The more you do. Its like trying to stop the rain by shaking your fist at the heavens. Futile and maddening. You see him when you're with the horses, whispering and enchanting them the way only his tongue and heart can do. You see him in the glow of a campfire where he'd often gets lost in his thoughts, scribbling them down or creating a loose sketch. You see him in the charming smirk of a young man, or a joke he once told you. He's everywhere. Inside you. A part of you. And denying that never made it less true.
And the thought of living without him feels terribly sad and lonely in a way your heart feels pathetic to admit and yet hopeless to reconcile. It isn't any place you want to be and yet you also have the sense to understand you have no say in that. You feel immersed in the overwhelming ache of your heart, the one that's been plaguing you for days now, when you suddenly hear the stir of your horse behind you. You glance back and watch as she pawns happily at the earth beneath her hoofs, snooting and pawing at the ground as Tommy appears nearby. She loves him. They all love him. You've often teased he's more horse than man and no one notices that more then the horses.
Tommy meets her joy with firm pats along her neck and gentles strokes to her mane and nose. "Hey girl" He greets.
Seeing him standing there both fills your heart with joy and deeper sorrow. Lean and strong, his hair tousled from his ride over, with those piercing sapphire eyes that cut you like a knife and see right through you at a glance. The sight of him like an old beloved quilt, comforting and well known, now tattered and tore as he rips from your life.
"Little bird", he says as your eyes meet. A name he gave you so long ago you cant even remember how it came to be.
"Grast", you answer back.
"How did you know I would be here?" You ask as you look away, not wanting him to see the turmoil brewing in your eyes the way you know he will.
Tommy shrugs easily, "Just knew." Just knew because he knows you, in a way most will never get to know you. Same way you trust in the way you know him and the ways he's shares himself with you.
When Tommy comes to sit beside you, it takes every ounce of willpower not to hug him desperately, beg him to change his mind, beg him not to go, but you don't, because you're sure it won't change anything.
"You heard," Tommy says, the grit of his breath stressing the weight of his words.
"You're a damn fool, Thomas Shelby. What did the crown ever do for us?"
He chuckles lightly to the fire on your breath, the bite in your words and you can see in his eyes he knows they only come from a place of love and concern for him.
"They need fighting men to win a war. " He tells you, as he pulls a cigarette from his breast pocket and strikes a match. Telling you things you both already know. As if it were that simple. As if the need for more men didn't come from the loss of the ones they have.
"Well then I oughta sign up. I can fight." You carry on as you snatch the cigarette hanging from his lip. Allowing yourself to feel the anger this situation ignites inside you, because anger feels far more powerful and safe than heartache and fear.
"ey, god help any man that stands between you and your cozonac." Tommy teases you, the crook of his mouth curling as he await your reprisal. Knowing your tales of blunder and greatest mishaps better then anyone. Your stories are his stories, your journeys connected.
You gasp in mock offense. "He would have eaten it all! Fistin’ it down like the whole roll was his!"
"A good stab of your fork put an end to that, didn' it?"
"He shouldn't have been so greedy." You feign defense and tug hotly at the cigarette, fighting back the smile pulling at the corners of your mouth to match Tommy's devilish grin. A battle you quickly lose as he elbows your side and snatches back his smoke before you jab him back. And just like that you aren't mad anymore. That's something only Tommy can do, make you laugh when you want to cry. Because he knows you... your dearest friend. The keeper of your secrets, biggest fears, and dreams. It's a gift to be known. An even bigger gift to be known and cherished for who you are. You never thought it wasn't, but you didn't realize how much you needed that gift until it was being taken away.
You both grow quiet against the steady decent of the sun at your backs. The low crinkle of burning paper fills and hovers in the space around you both as his cigarette burns down, subtle like the smoke dancing in swirls past his lips. Its the quiet moments that haunt you now. The hours and space he once filled in your life. The echoing loneliness that you know will only expand and grow in his absence. Those hours eat at you, devour you. Gnawing away until you feel raw and desperate to make them stop, because you swear you can't take another moment in that place. Only this time you know it wont stop. There will be no reprieve, no mercy, your best friend is leaving and you can't stop him. And when he's gone, this- This torturous way of existence, with its crawling of time, absence of joy, and echoing loneliness, it will fill the space his light once illuminated in your life. Like thick dark clouds rolling in over the backcountry hills to settle in around you and call you there home.
Tommy has his reasons, none more then Greta you suspect but you cant help but feel he's choosing the war over you, that he's abandoning you, as preposterous as you know that notion is. But there's nothing logical about missing someone. You can't reason it away with facts and rationality. And it doesn't care that it feels like it's killing some part of you. Nobody tells you missing someone is a physical sensation, a state of being above all else - like an empty or upset stomach, like a punch to the chest or falling off a horse that leaves you winded. It's not merely a thought and it's more than an emotion. You feel it in your bones, the tight hollows inside you, the vibrating ache of longing, the chill that settles in under your skin.
Sitting quietly side by side, you rest your head upon his shoulder. All the girls love Tommy, they always have. With his charming smile, deep set eyes that reach into the soul with a glance, and his devilish humor, its easy to see why so many would be drawn to him. And there was a time even you were too, but there was always too many things in the way and what you've built instead is deeper and more intimate because its not bound to the fickle confines of romance.
Closing your eyes, you can see it all so clearly in your mind. Replaying like a reel at the pictures... Wading in knee high murky pond water and reeds in search of frogs to catch. Covered in filth from head to toe as you battled on rain soaked mud hills with John to see who would be crowned king of the mountain. Sneaking off with mum's herbs and spices into the woods to craft witches brew and cast magic. Building campfires from dried old birch tree branches by the moonlight, to bathe in the scent of it, and tell old spine-chilling tales. Gazing up at the stars on warm summer night, seeing who could count the most. Lying awake late at night by candle light trying to read each other's mind. Hiding in the haystack to terrorize Arthur and any unlucky girl he tried to steal away with for a moment alone. Dragging you off to your first pub in Birmingham and knocking some bloke on his ass when he tried to get handsy. Trying to teach you to drive on slick muddy streets, as you swore at him like a sailor when he wouldn't stop laughing. The keeper of your deepest secrets as you are of his. The person who tried to offer you hope in your darkest moments and celebrated you greatest success. Who genuinely listened to you and sought out your thoughts on matters. The person you trusted most with the innerworkings of your heart and mind. The one you trusted would be there.
All of it feels like yesterday. The memories still fresh and vivid. The thought there wont be more to make constricts your windpipe, tightens your heart, as tears you couldn't possibly hold back any longer fill dangerously to the brim of your eyes... You don't know how to do this. You don't know how to live this. You don't know how to say goodbye to him. To let him go. Watch him disappear from your life. And the truth is... You don't wanna know. You don't want to say goodbye. And a part of you feels hurt this seems so easy for him, though you don't actually know it is. And the part of you that knows Tommy's heart, suspects it isn't so easy for him to say goodbye to you either.
The thought you might never speak to him again leaves a frantic feeling trying to rip free from your chest. How do you find peace when you long for someone still there but just beyond your reach, drifting further out to sea by the moment? How do you let them go when everything inside you screams to pull them back in? The tears feel warm as they fall down your chilled cheeks onto the shoulder of his jacket. He can't see your tears, but you swear he can feel them as he pats at your knee in an old comforting gesture you've grown to trust will be there. As Tommy pulls away, you fight with the urge to rapidly wipe away your tears and keep your pride. But as your eyes meet, you realize there's no room for pride here. Staring into his eyes you fear the silence that's already invading the space he holds.
But then he touches your face and you remember to breathe. Though his hands are rough from work, the pad of his thumb feels soft, full, and steady against your skin as he gently wipes away at the tears fallen on your face.
"I'm coming back." Tommy promises you, and you want to believe that more then you've ever wanted to believe in anything. That he will return to you. But you've heard the news of the war, the dyer news that continues to abound. And something deep and sharp within you whispers it isn't true. He isn't coming back, and that quiet piercing whisper radiates more loudly within you then the words on his lips.
"Let's make a fire," Tommy suggests as he gives your knee a final pat. You can see in his eyes he's trying to mend your heart, soften the blow. A solemn smile of acknowledgment creeping around the corners of his mouth, as if anything in the world can be solved by a stiff drink or roaring campfire.
You nod in agreement, there's nothing the dancing flames, glowing embers, crackling branches, and heady smoky aroma can't clear from your mind. Nothing like bathing in a campfire to wash your mind and soul clean.
You rise from the rock in slow unison. You gaze across the rich fertile valley below as it slowly descends into darkness all around you. Vibrant greens from early now turning to deeper winter tones as night begins to envelope all that you see. This place you know. This man you know. As you turn back to Tommy, watching as he moves past the horses.
Your eyes fall closed for a moment as you call to him. You pray he can hear you. The way he use to when you were children lying awake late at night, pretending there was magic between you. "Dearest friend... I love you and perhaps I always will. I see you're headed on a road, and I don't know where it leads, but you will take a part of me with you. It's been yours a long time. I hope you remember its there, I hope you protect it and treasure it. But I won't stand in your way, because that's what it means to love someone more then yourself." You whisper to him, not with your lips but from that place in your heart that already belongs to him. The one he gets to keep. You embrace the truth that your world will never feel the way it did before. You will never feel like you did before. That a part of you dies with him as he slips away. You acknowledge this new reality for what it is, whether you know how to live it or not, whether you even want to.
You take a deep breath and slowly open your eyes.
He's gone.
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ezrasarm · 4 years
Text
take what’s broken, make it whole
[ day 4 | angstageddon masterlist ]
pairing: Marcus Pike x reader
summary: Love. It’s messy and confusing. It’s painful yet thrilling. It’s also absolutely terrifying. But maybe what you need is someone to brave your fears with you.
warnings: mild angst, hurt/comfort, fear of commitment/relationships
"a/n”: THIS WAS WRITTEN BY THE WICKEDLY TALENTED @chaotic-noceur!!! I am posting it here with permission from the original author. Please go check out her posts and give them some love!
Actual a/n: this piece hits very close to home for all 3 of us so we hope it could bring you the same sort of comfort that it did us 💕💕- @chaotic-noceur
credits: shout out to my loves @din-damn-djarin and @ezrasarm for beta reading and being absolute sweethearts about me being a disaster! very loose references to Come Home With Me from Hadestown. - @chaotic-noceur
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Gif by @pedropascalito
The whispers of Special Agent Marcus Pike’s failed love affairs had spread like wildfire as soon as his transfer had been confirmed. Men and women alike were eager to meet the broken man who had fallen too hard, too fast. Instead, they were met with gentle smiles and a loving heart.
If the rumours were true, they did nothing to explain the hidden glimmer of hope in his eyes. If the office gossip held any weight, it did nothing to explain the deep-seated warmth in his aura. If the hearsay was anything more than it claimed to be, it did everything to explain the masked sadness that threatened his every move.
He wasn’t like any man you’ve met. You watched him with quiet curiosity.
Several weeks later, you had found yourself partnered with the office enigma. Within a month, the pair of you had fallen into a comfortable routine of early morning coffee trips and late-night takeout meals.
There was something about him that made you want to let down your guard, to unveil the parts of you that were fractured and broken. But he didn’t need to know of the pieces of you that weren’t quite whole.
So you lie.
You lie when he asks the difficult questions. You lie when he nudges at the splintered fragments. You lie as you have been trained to do all those years ago.
Your little traditions, if you could even call them that, had slowly wound their way into becoming an integral part of your day. You hadn’t even realised just how habitual they had become until he’d left for an undercover mission.
In the early days of his departure, you’d catch yourself flicking through delivery menus before remembering that your partner wasn’t there. You’d find yourself instinctively making the turn to his apartment on your way to work. You’d send him messages of things he’d find funny only to be met with a mocking grey tick.
You missed him. And you couldn’t explain why.
●●●●
This wasn’t his first undercover mission, but this one felt different… and he couldn’t explain why.
As the mission progressed, the desire to call you and talk to you about everything and nothing grew with every passing day. He’d catch himself longing for your occasional Starbucks trips where you’d conspire about the poorly spelt names on your cups. He’d find himself missing the way you’d laugh at all his jokes, no matter how bad. He saw your face in the crowd of strangers even though he knew you weren’t there.
He missed you. And he couldn’t explain why.
When he’s reunited with you once again, he thinks he’s figured it out. The more time the two of you spend together, the more he's convinced that there's something between the two of you. He’s hesitant to put a label on it, after everything he’s been through. Still, he knows it isn’t nothing. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before and he wants to pursue it. But he needs his instincts to be right this time. He’s not ready to face the alternative.
So, he pushes his feelings away. He shoves them into the darkest corners of his mind where its destructive claws can shred them like they had his dreams.
Months go by before thoughts of his feelings for you resurface. He catches you doodling on a napkin with the straw from your drink and he can’t help but fall. Deep down, he knows that it’s a bad idea, but there’s an affectionate lilt to your smile that makes his heart falter and he knows he’s in trouble.
You’re stowing pieces of evidence into their respective locations when he’s overcome with an overwhelming urge to tell you how he feels. He isn’t sure if it's the lack of sleep or the residual successful-arrest adrenaline that makes him throw caution to the wind, but he pops the question before his sudden spur of confidence leaves him. Your shoulders tense as you turn to look at him, eyebrows raised in shock.
“I-what?” you stammered, uncertain if you’d misheard him.
“I asked if you’d like to get dinner sometime?” He feels his heart hammering against his chest. “If you don’t want to, it’s cool, we’re cool.” He raises his arms in defence. “But what we have-” he takes a step closer as he gestures to the space between you, “this feels...different.” He lets his arms fall and he crosses his fingers behind his back.
He doesn’t consider himself a religious man. But in the here and now, he’s praying to anything out there listening that the answer he gets is a yes.
Your breath hitches at his sudden outburst. The wishful twinge in his voice and hopeful glimmer in his eyes makes your heart clench in your chest. It baffles you that a man with his experience was still so willing to wear his heart on his sleeve. You almost admire that about him. Almost.
“That’s- I-” you clear your throat awkwardly as you search for the right words. “I’m flattered Marcus, but I’m not really looking for anything right now.” Your voice grows quieter with each word, as though the strength of your voice would lessen the force of your words.
You watch in silent agony as the corners of his eyes dip downwards at the rejection. The way he forces a smile to hide the wave of disappointment that crashes into him makes your stomach churn. It takes all your self-control not to reach out for him, to take back your words and spare him the pain. But you can’t do that to him. You can’t give him false hope for a future you don’t want.
For as long as you’ve known him, he’s never shied away from questions about his past. He’d told you about his failed marriage, the broken engagement and everything in between. He’d told you about the life he had wanted and the future he’d pictured. It was the fairytale life that every child dreamt of having.
Every child except you.
You don’t know what exactly it is that you want, but you know one thing. Marriage? Starting a family? That's not you. It never has been and it never will be. The future that Marcus so desperately wants, the happily-ever-after that he’s risked so much for… it’s never going to be something you can give him.
So you push him away. You push him away even when every fibre of your body screams for you to pull him close, to take the pain away. You push him away because he deserves someone who can make all his dreams come true. Someone who isn’t broken like you...
“I’m sorry. You’re a great guy Marcus and I’m sure-” You take a hesitant step towards him but stop in your tracks when he withdraws from you.
“No, no. Don’t be. It’s fine. Like I said, we’re cool. I- I understand.” And he does. He understands perfectly well. He understands that sometimes he comes off a little too strong, but it’s only because he wants to believe in true love. He understands that it’s wishful to think that he deserves another chance at love, that there is such a thing as soulmates. He understands that no matter how hard he tries, he never seems to be good enough.
In the months that follow his initial confession, his affections for you only seem to grow despite his best efforts. He knows that continuing down this path would only lead to more hurt. But in the moments when he thinks no one is looking, he allows himself to fall a little harder.
Why? He does not know. But he knows the following are true: you’re the person he wants to go on aimless adventures with because it isn’t about the destination but the journey. You’re the person whom he wants to be held by when the days are long and the night is dark. You’re the person that he wants to be able to call home. You’re the only person that’s ever made him feel so alive.
Little did he know, you felt the same way too.
You’re both sharing a box of ‘case-closed pizza’ while he tells you about this young artist he’d discovered online. There’s a softness in your eyes that sparks a fire in his gut. Something nags at him to ask you just one more time. He pushes the thought away. He knows it’s a stupid idea. But then you’re laughing at something he says and the question leaves his mouth before his brain can stop it.
“Give me a chance,” he says. “Please? Just one date.” You blink at him a few times, dumbfounded. He’s preparing an apology when you speak up.
“Marcus-” he hates the way you say his name like it’s a melody, “listen, I- I don’t-” you huff in frustration. You contemplate your options in your mind. He deserves to know the truth. You want him to know the truth. You just didn’t think it’d be this hard to say out loud.
“It’s okay. I’m sorry I asked…” The defeat in his voice makes your stomach turn.
“It’s not you. I just- Well, okay it’s kind of you but it's mostly me.” You falter. “It’s definitely me.” You force yourself to look into his eyes before declaring what you’ve been afraid to say.
“The life that you picture in your future? The one where you’re happily married, maybe a couple of kids who drive you insane but-” you exhale sharply, masking your scoff, “you wouldn’t have it any other way because the love of your life is there with you? That’s not something I-” He’s looking at you with so much love and you have no idea what to do with it. It takes everything in you to not look away.
“That’s not something I want, ever. I don’t see myself getting married, or having kids, or -” you purse your lips as the thought occurs to you, “or loving someone so much that even when they break my heart, I want to hold them close in my arms so they can never leave.” Tears prick at your eyes and your voice falls to a whisper when you say, “I don’t know how to love and be loved back and the thought of it, I-” you gaze falls onto the half-empty box on the table. You can’t look him in the eyes when you admit it out loud for the first time, can’t look him in the eyes as you admit it to yourself.
“I’m terrified, Marcus.”
A lone tear rolls down your cheek and he brings a shaky hand up to wipe it away gently. He almost laughs at the irony. The man who loved too much is in love with one who loved too little. There’s a pain in his chest that feels almost like someone had driven a knife through his heart and twisted.
“I’m scared too,” his voice is soft as he speaks, as if he’s afraid that you’ll shatter at the sound. “I’ve let my heart be beaten, bruised and broken more times than I care to admit.” He sighs as he takes his hand in yours. “That life you think I picture? Maybe that’s what I wanted once but that's not who I am anymore.” He shakes his head gently as he tugs at your hand, drawing your gaze up to meet his. “After Teresa, I swore I’d never let anyone in again. I didn’t think I would survive the pain, but then you walked into my life and,” he gives you a crooked smile as he whispers, “something about you made me want to love again. So, if you’ll have me,” he brings his other hand up to cup your cheek, “it’d be an honour to have my heart broken by you.”
Tears are streaming openly down your face at his declaration. It never occurred to you that he was afraid too. He’d seemed so.. carefree. Despite all the heartbreak, he’d found the courage to put himself out there one more time, to let himself love one more time. It occurs to you then that maybe what you admire about him most wasn’t his ability to make you laugh when you felt like crying. Or the way he always knew when you needed a hug. It was that he made you want to look fear in the eye and say ‘not anymore’.
Slowly, you let your head fall into a nod. “I promise to be gentle.” He chuckles softly and he pulls you into his chest. You melt into his embrace and relish in his warmth. You feel a hopeful smile tug at the corner of your lip and you bury further into him.
Maybe part of loving means being afraid, together.
[ angstageddon masterlist | chaotic-noceur’s masterlist ]
——angstageddon tag list
@din-damn-djarin @chaotic-noceur @chaoticspaceidiot​ @engineeredfiction​ @pedropascalito​ @dreamgirl-67 @hillarymurray4​ @wille-zarr​ @oloreaa​ @this-cat-is-dea​ @marydjarin​ @roxypeanut​ @cryptkeepersoul​ @mrschiltoncat​ @agirllovespasta​ @wickedfrsgrl​ @dindisneydjarin​  @opheliaelysia​ @aeryntheofficial​ @adikaofmandalore​ @goldafterglow​ @yespolkadotkitty​ @chibi-liz05​ @scarlettvonsass​ @rpcvliz​ @cinewhore @basura2319​ @theravenreads​ @mxndoscyarika​ @jaime1110​ @f0rever15elf​ @pancakepike​ @phoenixhalliwell​ @ahopelessromanticwritersworld​
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Text
Get To Know Me
Thank youuuuu @gukieater for the tag ❤❤ I enjoyed reading your answers!!!
I want to lighten things up a little from the past few days soooooo let's get itttttt~
when is your birthday?
March 14🥰 aka pi dayyy
what is your favorite color?
Peach!
what's your lucky number?
3 and 7 dk why just always been my fav and lucky
do you have any pets?
A bichon frise ❤ she my bestie fa life
how tall are you?
5'4 or 165 cm I think?!?!
how many pairs of shoes do you own?
Uh a lot of ones that i dont use but most used is 3 or 4
favorite song?
I don't have a fav song, but at the moment I really love In My Arms by Plumb :))
favorite movie?
Lord. Of. The. Rings. Hands down the best films ever made.
what would be your ideal partner?
Someone that genuinely loves me for who I am and will accept my faults. Someone who is raw and real with me, and will always be there for me. Someone loyal and caring. And funny hehe. Someone that makes me a better me
do you want children?
Absolutely I do!!! People think I'm crazy but I want LOTS of kiddos. And I want to adopt and foster too if I can.
have you gotten in trouble with the law?
Nooope, I'm a good girl 😉
what color socks are you wearing?
No sockies rn I'm afraid :(
bath or shower?
Mmm, efficiency wise shower. But comfort wise, bath. Idk why but I've always been scared of taking a shower since I was a kid. I deal with it now.
favorite type of music?
Pop. Specifically kpop but ya know.
how many pillows do you sleep with?
One, sometimes two
which position do you sleep in?
I flippity flop all over, left side right side left side back right side back left side
what dont you like when you're sleeping?
Clothes.
I cant stand any clothes on me at all. Like literally not even undies. I sleep buck booty neked, sorry tmi.
what do you have for breakfast?
Depends. My favorite is maple oatmeal with fresh cut up apples and cinnamon 🤩
have you ever tried archery?
Indeed I have. Funny story. I was shooting arrows in our backyard when I was about 12 or 13, and a wasp got under my arm and took a literal bite out of my arm. Like there was a chunk missing. That's how we found out I was allergic 🥴
favorite fruit?
Cherriessssss
favorite swear word?
Banana, donut, walnut, and walnart
do you have any scars?
Yeh. A few. One very very very very very faint one on me arm from my sis which was an accident.l, it might actually have disappeared idk. And one on my hand from glass. It's pretty small tho. And some I dont want to elaborate on but yeah
are you a good liar?
I can be if I need to be. It makes me physically ill tho.
what your personality type?
Uhhh I'm shy. And uhh, I like to take care of people, and im pretty silly once you get to know me. I'm loyal as a dog.
what's your favorite type of girl?
Every girl 🥺 just girls who are themselves and genuine
left or right handed?
Righttttt
favorite food?
Korean and Chinese
are you clean or messy?
Both lol
favorite foreign food?
Besides korean and chinese... Indian! I love butter chicken ����😭
how long does it take for you to get ready?
Very much quick.
most used phrase?
I feel sick.
I'm so stressed out.
HAHAHAHAHA OH NO THATS SAD
are you a good singer?
I'm not the worst but I ain't no dolly Parton
do you sing to yourself?
Heck yeah baby. Well mostly to my dog.
biggest fear?
Losing my loved ones, including my doggo
do you like long or short hair?
On me? Long, but once I had shoulder length hair and it was beautiful.
are you into gossips?
No. F that.
extrovert or introvert?
Introvert
favorite school subject?
Meh. Reading and writing lol
what makes you nervous?
Boys.
Men.
They scare me.
And cool girls.
who was your first real crush?
Ok HAHAHAHAHHA I HAD TWO. One was the neighbor boy and his name was Jacob. He was so so so cute my goodness and we made cherry cobbler together 😳🥴 and one was at my dance school, his name was Kimber. My laaaaaaaawd he was cute. But never spoke to him lmaoooo he was too cool for me. But once he was making funny faces at me and being goofy and I swooned.
how many piercings do you have?
0. They always got infected no matter what I did as a kid, do I gave it up.
how fast can you run?
I can run faster than you'd think if somethings chasing me but I won't get very far before my asthmatic lungs kill me.
what makes you angry?
Bullies.
Abusive fuckheads.
Cheaters.
do you like your own name?
I do I do I dooooo
do you like your own name?
I'm not sure why this is twice but I'll count this one as last name. Funny, I got so bullied for my last name my entire life, even the professor in college mocked me. Its embarrassing to say to people. But I'm learning to be okay with it.
what are your weaknesses?
I get overwhelmed easily bc I overthink things.
I have a hard time asking for help.
what are your strengths?
Perseverance
Loyalty
And ohhhhhh idk, I'm not good at this.
what is the color of your bedspread?
Peach hehe
color of your room?
White. Lolol
💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕
This was fun!!! Got a lil deeper than I thought I would on some but ya know, you're my honeybunches so idc.
I'll tag; @flowerprincejin @moo-mama @today-we-will-survive @gaeguuliii @sierra-fics @jinfused @krystle1990
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papipopsicle · 3 years
Text
GHOSTBUSTERS
Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader
Summary: In which Y/N keeps bumping into various Avengers on missions, sometimes to their benefit and others not so much. As Bucky finally decides to go back into the field, he comes face to face with a ghost from his past life.
Song: Death Valley by Fall Out Boy
Warnings: swearing, general lack of morals
Words: 2.4K
feedback is always appreciated
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     "You sure about this, Buck?" Steve asked, willing his reassuring nature onto the stoic man sat next to him. They were eight minutes from the drop sight in south Ecuador and only Gamora was joining them on the mission.
There was no way in hell he planned on backing out now.
James Buchanan Barnes no longer held the mantle of the Winter Soldier, but ever since Shuri, Princess of Wakanda, extracted the programming in his brain, he remembered everything. At first it was like puzzle pieces, fleeting memories and nightmares that he couldn't quite put together. But the last fifty years slowly found its way back. And the twenty before that of torture too.
Every bullet.
Every last breath.
Every tortured soul he killed for Hydra. And the lives he was forced to steal, forced to work along side with.
Wanda found out rather quickly his mind wasn't a happy place to venture into. She cried herself to sleep that night.
It took a long time for Bucky to realise his body was no longer a weapon, and longer to even begin trusting his prosthetic limb off the battlefield.
This was only a minimal risk mission; a group of young inhumans had been wreaking havoc for the past few weeks, Friday had been tracking them and noticed they were meeting a large arms dealer in Amazula tonight. Fairly simple. The enhanced individuals would be handed over to Agent Johnson's task-force while any weaponry will be confiscated by the CIA under Tony Stark's surveillance. All the trio had to do was detain the inhumans. Easy.
"Sure," Bucky responded slowly and shrugged his shoulders, "about time I got off my ass, right?"
"You can wait here if you don't feel up to it." The Zehoberei woman replied while picking at her nailbeds, voice dripping with sarcastic sympathy. Admittedly, she enjoyed the presence of these two no nonsense men, but their friendship made them worry too much and she didn't have the patience for it.
Gamora released the hangar door and without waiting for the super soldiers to respond, she jumped. Steve rushed to the edge and rolled his eyes as she landed perfectly a hundred feet below them. Once the quinjet had actually landed, the three stealthily made it to the warehouse unnoticed.
"Eyes on the kids, all five are headed down the north corridor." Bucky stated plainly over the communication device hidden in his right ear, still unable to comprehend how a pair of goggles allowed him to see through steel walls. He stayed crouched down low in the overhead railings, his large figure hidden with ease from any surveillance equipment.
Only a few seconds could passed before his ears were assaulted by a string of curse words from the alien woman, even more surprised that Steve hadn't reprimanded her for the foul language.
"Gamora?" The Captain questioned, launching out of his position in pursuit of his endangered teammate. When he arrived though, the scene before him made his eyes hurt from rolling them so hard, a simple "Not you again." fumbling from his lips.
Bucky calmed at the annoyed tone, having scrambled out of his hiding space with surprisingly the same amount of stealth. His heart was erratic, thinking it was a code red, but his steps slowed to a jog as soon as he registered they weren't in any kind of peril.
Y/N grinned up at the man in his usual navy stealth suit, watching his irritated expression tauntingly, "You missed me really, Rogers."
She'd arrived after Gamora, finding the kids tied to a post by the green woman with illuminated ropes. The mercenary began undoing their bounds, but was soon interrupted by their capturer and eliminated the threat with great skill.
Y/N stabbed Gamora in her thigh, her copper dagger dripping with blood as she twirled it between her fingertips.
Bucky rounded the corner and entered the open warehouse, finding his friend jogging over to the scene several feet ahead. Steve began assessing Gamora's wound and was quickly shoved off by the warrior, who simply stood and wiped her leg down as if it was dust and not blood.
Bucky stood frozen. It felt all too surreal - the flicker of orange hair, the bright teal suit which was anything but stealthy, and the familiar scarred tissue surrounding her magnificent hazel eyes. She was anything but a ghost, though he felt a soul step through his being.
"Buck? A little help?" Steve pushed, watching his friend move towards the group of teens without taking his eyes off of the annoying mercenary. He'd met her on numerous missions throughout the past couple of years, mostly getting in the way of things and a handful of times even aiding them.
"Buck?" Y/N mocked in the Captains authoritative tone, "What kind of name is that? What's it short for? Buckbert?"
Bucky blinked, forgetting all about the young inhumans, "Buchanan, actually."
"James? What in the fuck are you doing here?!" Y/N recognised his voice instantly, the gravelly pitch unrivalled by anyone else on this planet. She stopped fiddling with the electrified rope and spun on her heel, finding the first Winter Soldier mere meters from where she stood.
The mercenary slid her blade back into its sheath on her hip, sprinting over to her former partner and before anyone knew what was happening, her body enveloped his. Y/N squeezed him so tightly he thought is eyes may just bug out, but with Steve and Gamora's astonished expressions watching him, he returned the embrace. It was familiar, and Bucky didn't know whether that should be a good thing or a bad one.
"I'm sorry, actually I'm not. Care to explain how you know the asshole who just put a hole in my leg?" The Zehoberei woman seethed, checking the detainees were still detained before marching over to the pair.
"Yeah, not that this reunion isn't..." Steve trailed off, motioning towards the two still embracing. Bucky eye rolled his friend, letting the mercenary drop from his body but keeping his arm around her, "whatever it is, but why is it a reunion in the first place? Please don't tell me you two used to-"
"Fuck?" Y/N scoffs at the insinuation, knowing she'd hit the nail on its head when Captain America turned the same colour as his shield, "In his dreams, maybe."
"Y/N used to work for Hydra every now and again." The super soldier intervened, watching her wounded eye twitch from the corner of his vision, "Even when she wasn't, she'd follow my missions and find work in the same countries."
"Until I stepped in one day when his handler was being especially dickish and got myself this as a memento." She signalled to her paled scar with a sad smile, "I'd lost you for a while there, but it's good to have you back, James."
Steve couldn't believe how casual their conversation was, but instead of finding the answers he so desperately wanted, he had a role to play, "Is she going to be an issue?" Is all he could ask.
Y/N frowned at his no nonsense attitude, he usually threw a couple sarcastic remarks for her to bat back before getting on track with his mission. She looked up at Bucky with the same expression, arms crossed and eyes rolling as she begrudgingly shook her head. If it wasn't for her old acquaintance, the mercenary would've figured out a small way to annoy America's golden boy.
"Not this time, at least." The metal armed man reassured his childhood friend, who was getting the group of inhumans ready for the inhibitor pod on the quinjet. Gamora was busy glaring Y/N down, throwing her own blade up into the air a few times before charging at the human woman with no fear.
"What the-" Y/N screamed as the alien's dagger became the only thing her eyes could see, and without any other option, she climbed Bucky like a tree. Her torso hugging his face and her legs wrapped around his neck, "I'm sorry, pretty green lady!"
The super soldier, slightly unsure of what was happening, unarmed his teammate and shook Y/N off his shoulders. She fell to the grass with a small thud, quickly getting to her feet and backing away from the seething warrior.
"Let me stab her, it's only fair!" Gamora demanded, struggling in Bucky's vibranium grip. At this point, Steve had already transported the enhanced teens onto the quinjet and had come back to inspect and take inventory of the weaponry, only to find this scene playing out in front of him.
"I said I'm sorry!" She definitely wasn't, and although she didn't know the green woman, she knew it wouldn't end well if her apathy shone through. While Bucky held her back, Y/N knew this was her chance to dip out. After all, she was only here as a favour for a friend, it certainly wasn't worth getting injured over. But, against all better judgement and knowledge of stabby people, the mercenary decided to stay for a while longer.
"See, she's apologised, she didn't mean it." Bucky reasoned, pleading eyebrows raised at Gamora. His body didn't know whether to go into shock or revert to the way it used to react around Y/N, and got stuck between the two. He remembered so much of her; her squeaky laugh and scrunched nose at her own sardonic jokes, the dark chestnut hair lying under her luminous wig, her soft lips kissing his at the end of a mission. It came rushing back like blood to a sleepy limb.
"Alright, alright." Steve interjected, not wanting to escalate the situation, "Let's not forget why we're here." He eyed the merc specifically.
"Pffft," She batted her hand towards him passively, no longer in imminent danger as the green woman stood with her arms crossed, "you can have this one, Golden Boy. Something else has taken my interest."
Y/N made a mental note to buy Wade something to apologise for not getting the guns and ammunition he wanted. He wouldn't really care, probably moved onto some other enemy already. Steve began closing the crates of various weaponry, not caring for the young merc until he heard her voice ring, "Mind if I hitch a ride with you guys, if you're heading back to New York."
"Sure." Bucky insisted.
"We aren't-." Steve objected, glaring over at his best friend before amending his words, "Fine. Just don't mess with anything."
Gamora found the woman intriguing, so laid back yet clearly on a dark path. If they'd met under different circumstances, she would've welcomed another strong and calculating female into her life suffocated by testosterone. But the Zehoberei warrior's leg still seeped with blood, aching with each step, so she wasn't ready to give in so quickly.
They all made the walk back onto the quinjet fairly quickly, passing by the white pod which inhibited each of their powers without causing them any harm. Y/N had never been on such a technical aircraft before, amazed by all the lights and buttons. But Steve swatted her hand away before she could find out what they did, "Sit down and stay out of trouble."
"So, you been doing okay, James? Back in the real world, I mean." Y/N slumped down on the seat next to Bucky's frame. She unhooked her tactical belt and slid off the bright ginger wig, slinging it on the metal cabinet beside her.
Bucky eyed her up, finding her raised scarred brow oddly endearing, "Not at first, a lots changed since the forties." He nudged her shoulder as a sad look appeared on her face, "I'm alive though, been going to therapy. This is my first field mission, actually."
"Looks like my bad timing's paid off this time, then." Y/N looked up at him sincerely, finding familiar icy eyes staring into her own. He had changed so much, and not at all in the same breath. She'd never seen a smile on his lips before, usually covered by a mask during missions, yet it suited him so beautifully. He'd brushed his shoulder length hair behind his ear, watching his jaw clench and relax.
They chatted back and fourth about the past few years, no boundaries or judgements held in the space between them. Y/N actually did research about a customers background before accepting their offer, targeting her homicidal rage towards sex traffickers whenever she got the chance. She still held no permanent home, currently residing in an abandoned apartment a dozen blocks away. The super soldier offered that she could stay with him if she ever wanted, used to her company and lax attitude.
"Thanks James, I'll keep that in mind." She hopped down from the hangar's opening, marvelling at the acres of land surrounding the Avengers facility. Steve and Gamora had left a while ago, briefing Agent Johnson on the inhumans. So it was just the two of them, a warm wind flowing through their hair. Y/N stepped behind him, tying his hair half up in a pony tail to stop it from getting in his eyes.
"Thanks, Y/N/N." He beamed down at her, "It's been good having you around again, hopefully it doesn't take a bunch of rebel inhumans for us to see each other again."
"It better not." She smirked, a fuzzy feeling sitting in her stomach as her nickname left his lips like a melody, "Now since this little mission was a success on your part, I feel it's only fair we honour our tradition. Especially since it's been your first in a long time."
Bucky didn't even want to waste time responding with words, his cool metal hand finding it's way to her neck pulling her closer. Their eyes both fluttered shut, Y/N pulled herself up onto her tiptoes just as he leant down enough to bridge the gap. Her body shuddered all over as she felt him return the kiss and his free hand grip her waist ever so tightly.
Bucky broke away first, noticing the lust blown look in his little mercenary’s eyes as she blinked innocently up at him. After a beat, she hid her head in his chest, only for him to kiss the top of her head. “Don’t be a stranger, Y/N/N.”
“Oh, don’t worry.” Y/N giggled, pulling away just enough to look up at the tall super soldier, “I can honestly say it would be my pleasure to fuck with Tony Stark and his band of merry men.”
“Invite me on your next job so we can do that again.”
taglist
@ilkaeliseb @florenceivy @annas-unicorun @astro-sweetheart @4everchrista @delicatelyherdreams @mautand @me-a-hopeless-romantic @lucyrocks86
wanna be tagged? just send in an ask x
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