#attempted kidnapping

[girlactionfigure]

New York: A man was arrested after trying to kidnap a child from the hands of an ultra-Orthodox man in the Crown Heights neighborhood of Brooklyn😠

[whumpty-dumpty-doo]

We Are TroubleD – The Advisory (Pre-capture)

---

“We Are TroubleD” Masterpost | Previous | Next

---

Content warnings: Attempted kidnapping, difficulty breathing (panting), environmental whump (thunderstorms), fear, paranoia, self-doubt, stalking, swearing, uneasy feelings

---------------------------------------------------

                ‘April showers bring May flowers.’ That’s how the saying went. Seasonal storms were supposed to be a good thing, but that didn’t mean that they couldn’t also be scary. Intimidating thunderheads were on the horizon, bubbling up higher and higher as they towered into the heavens.

                Winter’s biting cold had finally backed off and slid into more pleasant temperatures, making Tristan eager to let the fresh air in as he tackled some spring cleaning. His bedroom window had been open all afternoon to enjoy the lovely warm breeze, but as sunset approached, he couldn’t ignore the clouds in the distance. They grew thicker each passing minute, though for the moment they were a radiant orangey-pink in the fading light- a brilliant pop of color before the night swallowed the world in its dark blanket.

                He stood idly staring out over the apartment’s parking lot. It was eerily quiet, a literal calm before the storm. Curiously his vision drifted over to some of the trees lining the property as he noticed the distinct lack of birds chirping. They had been singing their little avian hearts out all day, but in the evening glow they had grown starkly silent. That wasn’t a good sign- it meant that the oncoming front was probably going to get nasty. Sure enough, the radio station that he had playing in the background rolled over to the local weather forecast.

                “Looks like it’s gonna be a wet one out there tonight. Storms are moving into the area, and we’re under a severe thunderstorm watch until about 11:30 this evening. Be careful if you’ve got somewhere to be and stay tuned to our station for the most up-to-date weather information!” The DJ rattled off the advisory quickly, clearly trying to keep things snappy so they could get to the all-important commercial break as quickly as possible.

                Rummmmmmmbbbbb….

                As if on cue, the first deep low rumble of thunder made itself known. With a sigh Tristan reached up and slid the windowpane shut.

                Something caught his eye as he sealed the weather lock: A glint of light reflected off a cellphone screen. Down below a white utility van sat parked in front of their unit, the single maintenance worker inside lounging in the driver’s seat and swiping through something on his device. He was there late; Contracted workers like him should have gone home hours ago. Every now and then his eyes would dart up expectantly as if he was waiting for someone to appear to join him in his lonely vehicle. Hopefully his coworker was wrapping up whatever they were working on.

                … What were they working on? That van had been around a lot recently, though Tristan hadn’t been informed of anything that needed to be done either in his and Darius’ apartment or with any of their neighbors. It must have been a renovation project for some other building in the complex given the dust mask and protective gear the guy constantly wore.

                … But if the job was so big, why couldn’t Tristan recall ever seeing people coming to and from the vehicle, carrying supplies, or anything?

                That guy was always just sitting there…

                The man must have felt Tristan’s gaze upon him, because with a confused frown his vision flicked up to see the boy watching through the window. Flustered and embarrassed to have been caught staring, Tristan quickly reached for the pull cord and dropped the blinds down, hiding himself from view. Well, at least if things went south with the weather or the power got knocked out that guy would be around to fix things quickly… unless whoever he was waiting for got there first.

                Another rumble growled through the walls.

                “Ugh, was that thunder?!” Darius piped up from the living room. Tristan made his way out to chat.

                “Yeah. Storm’s coming.”

                Darius peeked back at him from the couch, his attention temporarily pulled from the same tv show he watched every week at this time. “How long do I have? Can I finish this episode?”

                “What, before it gets here? Probably. Why?”

                “Gotta take the trash out. I don’t want to get rained on, but it can’t wait until the morning.” Darius’ nose scrunched up in disgust, and Tristan knew exactly why. Even from where he was standing, a faint whiff of the horrible stench of rotting meat was in the air. Tristan had only cooked the meal for them the night before, but the container that the fish came in had been sitting in the bin stinking up the place, even with the lid on.

                “Yeah, please get that out of here!” Tristan agreed.

                Tomorrow was trash day anyway. Darius had developed a bit of a routine for Tuesday nights over the last few months- come home from class, eat dinner, watch an episode or two of tv to unwind, take out the trash, then get to work on his projects and homework. A creature of habit. It was nice to see him finally trying to work some structure into his life, though. Tristan had encouraged it when he saw how “just winging things” was working (or more not working) out for him. With a plan for his nights, Darius was more productive now, and that was fantastic, especially with finals looming on the horizon.

                The show ended on a cliffhanger, causing Darius to throw up his hands and groan over the thought of waiting another whole week to find out the conclusion. The motion turned into a stretch, but he continued to sit on the couch, his face looking far from amused.

                “I don’t wanna…” he pouted.

                “Dair, if I have to keep smelling that fish every time I want to throw something away…”

                “I know, I know…” Darius rose and flipped his dark bangs out of his face as he approached the kitchen.

                RRRRRRRMMMMBBBBBB…

                “Fuck!” Darius pulled his shirt collar up over his nose as he swung open the lid of the trash can. It was a twinge dramatic, but he’d do what he needed to do to avoid as much of the odor as possible. “Is it raining yet?”

                “Uh…” Tristan scampered back over to his bedroom window and peeked through the blinds. It was dark outside now, so the best way for him to check was to see if he could spot any drops shining through the streetlights. They seemed to be in the clear.

                “No, you’re good…” he trailed off when something moved in his peripheral vision: a blob? No, a human clad in a dark jumpsuit. The maintenance worker. Hold on, he was still there?!

                The man was standing outside of his vehicle now, leaning nonchalantly against the driver’s side door. He adjusted his baseball cap and bowed his head to hide his face when a woman and her dog walked by. Once the pair was gone, he carefully swept his gaze over the sidewalk. Not another soul in the entire complex was around. Maybe he liked it that way.

                An uneasiness settled over Tristan.

                RRRRRRRMMMMBBBBBB…

                That guy never seemed very social. In fact, he kind of gave Tristan the creeps. He kept to himself, but in a way that made it seem like he was trying to blend into the shadows. Breaks were spent alone in his van silently observing anything that moved, especially Tristan and Darius if they happened to pass by. He often regarded them with a heavy and calculating stare that made Tristan uncomfortable. Darius drew the most attention from him, though that wasn’t much of a surprise given his striking goth appearance. Loads of people gawked at him, but the gaze of the maintenance man felt… different.  

                Something seemed really off about the guy tonight though, more so than normal. Impatiently he tapped the toe of his boot against the ground, broadcasting an inner nervousness to the world. Was he worried that his boss would reprimand him for sticking around so late at the job site? Who did he work for, anyway?

                Tristan squinted, straining to see what company name was on the side of the van, but it was completely unmarked.

                His gut didn’t like that.

                RRMMMMMMBBBBBBBBBBBBBB…

                The man’s concentration locked onto the breezeway to their unit. The only thing that broke his focus was checking the time on his phone.

                … Wait, their unit? There was nothing happening in their unit. No equipment to be loaded up. No coworker to wait on.

                A sinking feeling gripped Tristan as he watched the man’s eyes trace up the stairs, creep beyond the landing, then fall on their front door.

                Was he waiting… for them?

                A sudden lightning flash caused Tristan to jump back and yelp. The thunderclap that followed rattled his bones.

                “FUCK!” Darius shouted from the other room. “Okay, I’m making a run for it!”

                Tristan’s heart beat faster, but not from fear of the weather.

                “Wait!” he called, barging out to the entryway. Darius had the cinched kitchen and living room garbage bags in one hand, the other one reaching up for the front doorknob.

                “What?” Darius asked.

                “Don’t go!” Tristan said. Something was weird... But that was crazy… right?

                “What?”

                “Don’t go.” Tristan repeated.

                “There’s no time, Tris. The storm—”

                “Please! I just have a feeling—”

                Darius pulled open the front door anyway, then stepped out into the hall. “I’ll just be a second. It’ll be fine.” he insisted.

                Tristan ripped a hoodie down from their coat rack, threw it on, hastily slipped into his sandals, then rushed after him. Frantically he peered over the second floor railing out into the parking lot, the strange sense of dread squeezing him tighter and tighter… until he saw that the van was no longer parked in front of their building. Momentarily his tension subsided.

                “Just come with me if you’re so scared, sweater thief.” Darius snarked, and Tristan scoffed indignantly, only just then realizing that he had accidentally grabbed one of Darius’ outer layers, not his.

                “I’m not scared!” Tristan barked, though three steps from their doorway, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He felt eyes on them. Where? Where?! His head snapped up and he locked onto the same unmarked van in the distance now idling in front of the dumpster and blocking it from view.

                Something was more than weird. Something was wrong.

                Unconsciously, Tristan’s arm shot out and blocked Darius’ path.

                “What the fuck?” Darius questioned. “What’s up with you?”

                “Uh…” Tristan wavered, trying to think of any way to distract his best friend. Would Darius even listen if he tried to explain himself? He’d probably blame his paranoia on the storm.

                “You forgot the bathroom trash.” Tristan said. That wasn’t a lie. Darius hadn’t gotten it, though it really wasn’t that big of a deal.

                “Really? For fuck’s sake…” Darius grumbled.

                “Just grab it really quick. I’ll hold onto these for you.” Without waiting for a response, Tristan snatched the bags from Darius’ hand and forced a small reassuring smile despite the anxiety twisting in his stomach.

                With a roll of his eyes, Darius swiveled back toward their apartment as another rumble of thunder echoed through the breezeway.

                “If we get caught in the rain because you made me turn around…” he complained, but headed back inside regardless.

                “Grab an umbrella, then!” Tristan called after him, but he knew they wouldn’t need it. The second Darius was back inside, Tristan pulled the hood up over his head for protection, hefted both bags, and made a mad dash into the parking lot. If he hurried, he could make it to the far end of the complex and back before Darius returned.

                Lightning streaked across the sky, hiding behind the clouds but still illuminating the whole neighborhood. Thunder rang out, swallowing the sound of Tristan’s flip-flops pounding against the pavement. That nagging feeling wouldn’t leave him alone- the one telling him that it wasn’t safe out here. He needed to be the one to brave the oncoming storm, not Darius.

                Another blinding flare lit up the night, this time closer.

                VRRMMMMMMBBBBBBBBBBBBBB!

                The white van sat stationary in its unconventional parking spot as the trees on the curb began to sway in the wind. The front was coming in fast. Tristan ran past, his chest tight. It was nothing. It was nothing. He was being paranoid.

                In the blink of an eye, Tristan was at the bin. A bolt of lightning exploded nearby right as he threw open the lid.

                Ka-BOOM!

                From behind him, a gloved hand shot out of the darkness, narrowly missing his wrist. Tristan gasped in horror and jerked away, dropping the trash bags in the process. He wheeled around and found the masked maintenance worker standing right behind him, way too close for comfort.

                Upon seeing his face under the hood, the man lurched back, brows arched in surprise beneath his hat. He swiftly stuffed what looked to be a handkerchief in his pocket.

                “Sorry, young man!” he exclaimed, his voice heavy with a country drawl. “Didn’t mean t’frighten you! These lids are so heavy, I thought you’d want help since your arms were full and the storm’s comin’.”

                Tristan took a fearful step backwards, trapped between the man and the cold metal trash container. Where the fuck had he come from? He hadn’t seen him get out of the van.

                “It’s okay!” Tristan said quickly, not wanting to linger in the encounter. “Guess I just got there first.” He collected the bags from the ground and chucked them into the receptacle.

                Not a good night to be out.” the worker observed. “It’s dangerous.” He still seemed agitated. Guess Tristan wasn’t the only one on edge.

                Tristan nodded lightly and moved to make his escape, though he hesitated when he noticed that the van’s back door was ajar. Warm light spilled from within and shone on an open toolbox with various supplies loosely scattered on the floor in front of it: duct tape, zip ties, rope… His eyes widened.

                We just finished unloadin’ our mess and are headin’ home.” The worker explained, clearly trying to quash Tristan’s curiosity. “Lots of fixes ‘round the property today. You know how it is.” He slid the door shut.

                Tristan cut his gaze to the side. “Uh huh…”

                There was no ‘we’. That van was completely empty. The man was alone.

                Every instinct he had told him to run.

                “Have a good night.” Tristan said, dipping his head in a polite nod. He stole a glance at the man’s uniform as he did so, searching for a nametag, logo, or any other identifying information, but there was nothing.

                “Be careful.” The worker advised darkly, sensing Tristan’s scrutiny. Lightning flashed ominously in his eyes. The sentiment sounded like a warning, not a well-wish for the evening.

                Tristan bristled as the wind picked up. The storm was right on them now. In a panic, he turned on his heel and sprinted away from the dumpster, fully breaking into a run for his life the second he was on the other side of the van.

                Another flash of lightning tore across the heavens as raindrops careened to the ground around him. Tristan flew across the lot, his heart crashing in his chest. Right as he reached his building, the sky fully opened up, barely catching him in the downpour.

                He vaulted under the breezeway just in time for Darius to reach the bottom floor, the bathroom trash bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other. The goth’s features twisted into a sour expression at the sight of the deluge, and he flinched when stray water droplets blew in and hit his cheeks.

                Tristan doubled over, panting.

                “No.” he breathed, not looking up at his roommate.

                Darius lifted his boot to move back up the staircase. “No.” he agreed.

                Tristan followed him back to the second story and nearly collapsed against the door once they were back inside their apartment.

                “Yeah, so that’s going out tomorrow.” Darius tossed the bag next to the catch-all table. “Thanks for getting the other stuff out at least.” He peered back at Tristan, who was struggling to catch his breath. “Uh, you okay?”

                As coolly as he could, Tristan wiped away the water dripping down his forehead. Whether it was sweat or rain, he couldn’t tell.

                “Yeah.” he lied. “Just a close call.”

                Darius breathed out a small hum.

                “Could’ve beaten it if you had just let me go.”

                Tristan shook his head and tried to hide the fact that his hands were trembling.

                “Not a good night to be out.” he uttered, deadbolting the front door. “It’s dangerous.”

                Vrrrrmmm…

                Through the walls of their home, the thunder sounded more distant and far less threatening. Darius took his leave, making his way to the kitchen to brew his nightly pot of tea. He seemed content to carry on with his evening as normal, blissfully unaware of just how perilous the conditions outside were.

                Wearily, Tristan slunk off to his bedroom to chance one last look out of the window. It appeared that the van was gone, but it was hard to tell for sure; rain streaked down the pane in sheets, making it nearly impossible to see what lay beyond. Lightly he raised a fist and rested it against the wall, leaning into it and slipping his eyes shut as he took in the sound of the tapping drops.

                What was that? His nerves over the bad weather must have addled his brain and caused him to overthink things. How stupid to spiral over a random stranger and a simple chore. It was nothing. That had been nothing.

                That was just some awkward introverted employee stuck doing his job late, and Tristan had villainized him for no reason. Hell, the guy had even tried to help him. It wasn't his fault that the storm made things scarier than they really were.

                It was nothing. It was nothing. He had made a big deal out of nothing.

                … Right?

                He took a deep breath in, then let it out. The smell of Darius’ hoodie filled his nostrils and helped him calm down.

                Well… Whatever that was, it was over now.

                The electric kettle beeped, summoning him back out to the breakfast nook. Darius brought over a mug of steaming chamomile tea for him, and Tristan stirred in a spoonful of honey, pensively watching it dissolve into the liquid.

                “You sure you’re okay?” Darius asked, plopping down into the seat at his worktable.

                “I’m fine. Weather just freaked me out.”

                Darius softened. “You’re safe.” he reminded him.

                Tristan nodded halfheartedly then took a sip of his drink. The liquid spread through his insides like a warm, reassuring hug.

                Darius was right. The storm couldn’t get them in here.

                No one could get them in here.

                They were safe.

                Those May flowers better be worth it.

---------------------------------------------------

Previous | Next

---

Thank you to @risahraun for beta-reading and helping me figure out the tougher parts of this one! <3

---

Tag list:

@gala1981, @melpomenelamusa, @phoenixpromptsandstuff, @risahraun, @generic-whumperz,

@morning-star-whump, @dutifullykrispyland, @fleur-a-whump, @defire, @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@whump-and-other-things

If you want to be added to the tag list for the series, please let me know here!

[silvyadrakkon]

Why Lyssa Always Wears Vests and Ties

Page 1

Page 2

Alternate title: Why Lyssa Should Prolly Stop Wearing Vests and Ties

For many reasons.

The “Post Now” on my poll won out by about three people, but I finished the second page sooner than I thought I would. So everyone can be happy.

I’m trying to remember why this dumb scene popped into my head. Maybe it’s because I was trying to rationalize why my girly is always wearing her vest when many of the other MCs forgo them. (The real reason she wears it is because I like drawing it lol.) Like Lyssa, I live for hand-me-downs, but hand-me-downs are often a little worn by the time I get to them. I lose so many buttons.

Alternate ending bonus panel if Lyssa had been wearing her vest and tie.

I flipping hated Ashwinder/Poacher Soldiers in particular. Executioners were annoying, but at least you could kind of ignore them for a minute. Soldiers were always. Getting. In. THE. WAY!!! Wasted so many scout-intended purple spells on them.

Part 2:

[phoenixeclipse-lmkau]

Qi xiaotian never met his fathers, his dad, or his baba. His mother never really talked about them, only answering the questions that he asked but never elaborating. If he wanted to know something, he would have to ask exactly what he wanted fathers.

He never inquired much about them or asked who they were because he could see the sadness that it brought to his mother. However, everything changed when he and his mother left their home in the mountains to move to the city after he became an adult. He never anticipated that he would meet the Monkey Kings, and he sure as he'll didn't think they would try to kidnap him!

It was all because he picked up the Monkey King Wukong's staff. It messed with his glamour and sent power surging through his body. Right in front of Sun Wukong and The Six Eared Macaque.

He didn't mean to run. He didn't mean to take the staff. Everything just happened so fast and he couldn't help it. He didn't know weather to be excited about it or terrified and settled for somewhere in the middle.

"Hey mama," he muttered arms behind his back.

"Xiaotian, you're back," the smell of peach cobbler filled the room as she opened the oven.

"Yeah. Um... you know how you told me not to get into any trouble?" He gulped as he shuffled onto his feet.

Phoenix straightened up and turned to face him. A frown soon covering her face, mostly worried but also showed some annoyance. He had promised to stay out of trouble.

"What did you do?" She asked with a raised brow but seemed to cut herself as she looked at his appearance. The glamour on his headband was broken, and he was in his true form. It didn't take long before he responded to her question.

"Look what I found!" He suddenly shouted a grin splitting across his face.

"No, Xiaotian! Put that down!" The cobbler was roughly shoved onto the table as she ran up to her son and hit his wrist to make him drop the staff. Immediately, the staff hit the ground, causing it to sink into the wooden floor from its sheer weight.

Got a new iPad. It's not the best drawing I've made, but I still love it! Goofy monkey boy! 🩷

[irondadfics]

hi so i’m looking for the fanfic where there’s like a gala or some sort of event going on in avengers tower & everyone thinks tony’s drunk but peter doesn’t think so cuz tony doesn’t drink or smth & its cuz tony was drugged (i think by hammer) & peter ends up beating the guy up, i know at some point they’re in the bathroom (i think cuz tony was throwing up or smth). anyway i can’t find it for some reason. sorry if that’s not very specific, & thx for all u guys do i appreciate it!! :) <3

Hi this is for you!

[imhereformysciencefriends]

Day 1: Fairytales and Myths

Tags: @loturaweek2024 Curses, fairy tale elements, Bearskin (the myth), political marriage but also for love sort of, magic, background Alfor/Melenor, background Keith/Shiro, betrothals, attempted kidnapping, rescue, Lotor’s generals are there

Read on AO3

***

“You are fortunate,” mused the angry and spiteful druid while Lotor snarled up at him, ensnared in glowing purple chains made of magic and aether, “that the same magic you came here to steal from me does not allow me to kill you outright.”

Lotor thought, not for the first time, that it would be significantly more Galra to just put a knife in his gut than rely on their magic for literally everything. But if they were so wrapped up in their world of spells and power that they forgot their own fangs and claws that they were born with, well, Lotor wouldn’t be the one to remind them. This druid in specific seemed particularly filled with his own hubris.

A pelt, some heavy, thick-furred thing thumped down on his shoulders, and he shifted minutely from the weight.

“I curse you,” the druid said, voice going echoey with magic. “You shall not bathe for seven decaphoebes, nor cut your hair nor claws, you shall not cease to wear this pelt, nor sleep under one roof for more than a single night, and no one may travel with you for more than three quintents. Should you break any of these bindings, this curse will kill you.”

“And if I succeed, for seven decaphoebes?” Lotor asked, still snarling, still bearing his (small, Altean) fangs.

The druid was quiet.

“You must include a win-condition, witch. I know your magic’s rules.” He would not have risked infiltrating this place if he did not have a contingency plan for if he was caught, after all.

The druid made a snarling, growling, impatient noise.

“If you should last all seven decaphoebes, then the magic you seek will be yours. Now get out!”

Another rush of magic and Lotor found himself at the mouth of the small cave that hid the entrance to the druid’s lair. He grit his teeth and stood, shaking as though to dislodge the remnants of the purple magic.

Seven years.

More than he’d bargained for, but less than he was willing to pay for his goals. He already grew his hair long, and he was not one to frequently stay in one place for too long. That was doable.

The claws and bathing situation would be the most intolerable, he did not doubt.

Seven years.

He could do this.

In the first year: he could do this. He was centuries old and, if theories on how he aged were to be considered correct, he would have centuries more. Seven years would be nothing. A drop in a bucket. He used it to prepare, especially the first few months, when he smelled more or less tolerable. Any time it rained he spent as much time as he could in the water, knowing that washing in a river or stream would count. Magic was always fickle, and always skewed in favor of the worst. While he could still passably show his face in civilization, he stockpiled supplies enough to last him seven years, or near enough to it he could supplement when the time came.

In the second year: he had to leave Daibazaal. His country of origin was hardly a home, and hadn’t been since he was young and innocent and still so painfully naive. But he did know it, and he knew that all the many flora that thirsted for his blood and fauna that would chew on his bones could smell him for miles in each direction. He knew it intellectually, and he knew it viscerally, blood steaming across the pelt he wore and sliding down the blade he wrested free from the fresh carcass of a beast that wished to eat him. Oh, how he wished for a bath.

In the third year: he couldn’t do this. He could not bear this. He was not even halfway through and his own stench and fatigue were driving him insane. Being so constantly exposed to the elements was killing him, though the pelt was so thick and heavy it kept him plenty warm. And he was lonely. In the third year, Narti finally found him, Kova hissing and prowling just outside the edges of Lotor’s reach, recognizing him but also not. She wanted to help him, as best she could, but he explained the curse to her, the druid putting no binding on his tongue at least. She then offered to go kill the druid for him, and he insisted that she not, not until the witch’s power was his. She stated she would stay with him, despite her nose being even sharper than Lotor’s, and he reminded her that it could be for no more than three quintents, or the magic would kill him (and he doubted it would be instant, or painless).

She left with the promise to tell the others, and to bring back supplies for him. Just to drop off and then leave again. She promised she wouldn’t stay.

In the third year: Ezor found him, always best at finding things, and with her she brought Zethrid and Acxa. It was the best three days of these miserable three years, even with his companions wrinkling their noses at his scent the whole time.

In the fourth year: he left the billowing wilds that existed between Daibazaal, harsh and dangerous but inhabitable, and into Altea, the lush and verdant valleys beneath the billowing wilds’ mountains. Not to say that Altea did not come with its own dangers, no, just that they were more like the mountain creatures, not quite so capable of killing a lone wanderer as Daibazaal’s would have been.

In the fourth year:

Allura tied up her hair and shifted her hands, magic tickling as it turned her palms into suction cups. She descended from her room as only wayward princesses could, and hopped down onto the vibrantly green grass of the lawn with a little thrill of success.

With the tensions between Daibazaal and Altea on the rise once again, and all citizens from both countries feeling like a resumed war was all but a forgone conclusion, her parents had been increasingly strict with her. On a certain level, she understood, she was a princess after all, it was her job to understand.

On the other hand: she’d gone to the little brook with the little waterfall dozens upon dozens upon dozens of times, without any harm nor threat to her person. It was right next to the palace grounds, and she only ever managed to squeeze in an hour or two before her knights quit canoodling and came to find her anyway. She would be fine, just as she’d been fine every time before.

There was nowhere in all of Altea, in Allura’s opinion, that was a better place for magic than that little waterfall. Something about the place seemed almost to glow with magic, every drop of water and blade of grass and rustling leaf full to overflowing with rich mana. It drew her in, excited and comforted her, enthralled her and cleared her mind. Magic poured from her fingers like the water she lifted, guiding it to dance about her in a spiraling river floating suspended around her person, twirling slowly as she dragged the water about in lazy loops.

Even the sunlight here felt different, warm and yellow but not beating down on her, even in summer heat. It sparkled and twisted around her like the water did, slowly spinning and dancing across the shimmering surface, Allura’s skirts shallowly twirling around her calves, and she smiled and let her mind sink into the magic present here, imbuing everything.

It was that magic, present even in the twigs of a bush and the berries crushed underfoot, that alerted her that she was not alone.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t dare try to fight against near a dozen heavy boots. One moment she was smiling serenely, surrounded by glistening spirals of water, the next she was running so fast the water didn’t even have time to hit the ground before she burst through it. Shouts behind her, unmistakably Galra, and heavy footfall followed, but she didn’t dare look. She was fast.

But Galra were faster.

A giant, purple hand clamped over her mouth, a scream wrested from her too late and muffled by the flesh, and she hit the ground with a cry of pain, knees and palms skidding in the dirt.

“Grab her!”

She fought back, because of course she did. Princess trained in the art of diplomacy and regal bearing though she was, Allura was no weak fighter, and she was not one to cow in the face of unfair odds.

But they were unfair. She knocked two briefly unconscious, but she hadn’t brought her staff, not believing she’d need it, and these Galra were armored and armed, one opening a deep gash across the back of her leg, another finally getting his dagger pointed at her throat and compelling her to behave.

“You won’t kill me,” she spat, even as her preservation instincts forced her to obey.

“No. But you don’t need both eyes.”

She screamed a protest—she was submitting!—as he raised the dagger to plunge it into her eye, but then a dagger protruded from his own, sinking much deeper than just the eye. He toppled off her, dead, and the Galra turned on their new aggressor.

A beast, wilder than all imagining, lept from the foliage, its pelt hideous and bloodstained, matted with mud and dried viscera, its claws long as knives and yellow and flaking, silvery lengths of something dragging behind it as it fell upon its victims. The Galra shouted, united now against this beast, and Allura staggered to her feet, or tried to. The gash in her leg made fleeing nearly impossible, and she leaned against the tree as she watched the beast dispatch of the Galra, one by one by one, until there were none left alive to contest it.

Its yellow gaze fell upon her next, and she realized belatedly that she looked at no monster at all.

“You’re Altean!” she gasped, the man before her so deeply dirtied with various filth that she could not see even an inch of skin beneath the horrible mess, but his face was, poking out from the disgusting fur, unmistakably that of, well, a man. An Altean’s proud cheekbones and narrow jaw, eyes yellow as a Galra but silver hair (it was hair!) long and ripe with magic.

The man chuckled at her. “I suppose it only fair that you confused me for a beast.”

“Good sir, anyone would.” Sounds of armor—familiar, Altean—and rushed footfall came from the direction of the palace grounds. “Please, you are my savior, come into my home and be bathed and rewarded for your service.”

“I cannot bathe, princess,” he said, with every reverence of her subjects, “nor did I do this for a reward. I will leave.”

“You saved my life!” Allura insisted as Keith and Shiro burst into the clearing, swords drawn and lips flushed and kiss-bitten, confusion on their brows as they took stock of the dead Galra on the ground and the beast man their charge now argued with. “You would do me a great dishonor by not allowing me to repay you!”

The man seemed visibly to hesitate at that, and then acquiesced. “If for your honor only, princess. But I cannot remain.”

“At least stay the night,” she insisted, now half-frantic to have this strange man remain for any time at all, curiosity burning through her as fervently as the magic had only recently flowed.

“The night,” he agreed, bowing low, the mess of fur and hair and viscera and fresh blood shambling with his motion, “but no longer.”

The man spoke of precious little, despite Allura’s best attempts at interrogation. She learned not even his name. He would not allow any of her staff to bathe or groom him, though she noted that while his hair was dirty, it was remarkably untangled. He was certainly Altean, but his nails were more akin to claws. And of course, the yellow eyes.

At dinner, her parents hosted the man who’d saved their daughter’s life, because of course they did.

“Traditionally,” Queen Melenor remarked, though she was severe and stately in the way Allura knew she held herself when she discussed things she’d rather not, “the reward for saving a princess’s fool life from a band of murderous kidnappers would be that princess’s hand in marriage.”

Allura heard the man’s breath hitch, and for a brief moment, open want lined his filth-obscured features, before he shuttered again to something vaguely polite and unreadable.

“I could never ask for such a thing, being as I am.”

“Being as you are?” Allura said, sounding more accusatory than she’d meant. “A kind stranger who saved my life?”

“You have no proof of any kindness,” the man said, with a low chuckle that made her feel strange and hot.

“Only my life and well-being.”

“You speak as though you would wish to wed me.”

Allura’s mouth opened, then shut.

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps I would!” she said, drawing herself to full height while seated and glowering at the man, challenge in her tone.

“Allura,” her father scolded quietly, as he always did when her temper and stubbornness sent her headlong down paths her good sense would otherwise steer her clear from.

“...Allow me three years, then, princess,” the beast man said slowly, gaze never leaving hers. “I have matters I must attend, and am unable to remain here, nor take you with me. If, in three years, when I return, you still wish to wed me, we might discuss it then.”

Queen Melenor sighed, and Allura winced only briefly at the tone of her mother’s breath. Oh the lecture she’d receive once this man departed would be mighty. “You have more good sense than my daughter, it would seem. Please be made comfortable in our home, and if there is anything you wish for, merely ask it.”

“A grimoire, Your Majesty, if I may be bold enough to request it.”

“You’ve magic?” Allura asked, reaching out to touch the man’s face, where his Altean marks should be beneath the dirt, and rescinding her hand when he flinched from her.

“Call it a future investment.”

“Grimoires we have aplenty,” her father stated, “I’ll have one copied for you by the morrow.”

“My thanks.”

Allura, kept up late by her own desperately curious, gnawing thoughts, had to drag herself, bleary and miserable, from her bed to prevent from missing the stranger’s departure. She witnessed her father hand him a grimoire, and he bowed, first to the sovereign queen, then to the king, and then, lower, slower, with something like heat in his eyes, finally to the princess.

“Damn,” she mumbled when the stranger was gone, but comforted herself that at least, for the next three years, she’d have an easy dismissal of all talk of suitors.

In the fifth year: Lotor was nearly killed by a huntsman mistaking him for a beast.

In the sixth year: Lotor was nearly killed by a team of monster hunters, who he had to persuade with Narti’s coin to leave him be, paying higher than the village who’d hired them. He wandered elsewhere with faster purpose, after that, and committed himself to greater stealth. Narti was unbearably smug when next she delivered supplies, forcing more coin into the hands of a man who had no reliable use for it.

In the seventh year: Nearly killed again, by huntsmen and monster hunters both. But he was on his way out of Altea. On his way through the billowing wilds, climbing and descending that mountain. He’d memorized the grimoire, but kept hold of it, a baffling yet precious memory now tied to its cover and pages.

At the end of the seventh year: he returned to the small cave where he’d first found the druid. His time was up, or near enough to it, and the moment the magic was his he would take vengeance for the seven years of misery he’d suffered. There he found Narti, there he found Ezor, there he found Zethrid, there he found Acxa, still loyal to him after seven years of absence, and he counted such loyalty more precious than all the gold in all the world.

“First, we kill the druid,” he ordered, feeling the curse sizzle along his skin as it warped into a blessing. “Then I take a quiznacking bath.”

At the end of the third year of waiting:

Allura was forced by circumstance to put her curiosity for her betrothed-to-be on hold, as political upheaval shook the land.

Her father’s old ally finally declared war upon her mother’s country, and Altea raised its arms for bloodshed. But as they prepared their weapons and rallied their armies, another missive came: Emperor Zarkon was dead, long live the Emperor.

Lotor, former prince, son of Zarkon who Allura had never met, shame to his family line and whose mother was Altean, had bested his father in ritual combat, according to Galra custom and law, and had seized the throne. Altea continued to rally, not sure if the bastard son would hold the same temperament as his father, but the tension that had built between their lands hung now, most definitely confused in perplexed balance.

Then an official letter from the Emperor, validated by report after report from their scouts: Lotor was coming, not with an army, but with a diplomatic envoy, to speak to the royals of Altea face to face.

Her mother was stern and stately, poised and graceful and elegant, the sovereign of Altea, bearer of the Altean royal line, pride and jewel of their nation, its Queen.

Her father was tense and stiff, militant and grave, leader of their armies and father of the nation, sire of Altea’s heir and husband to their sovereign.

Allura wasn’t quite sure what she was. But she drew herself up, a shadow of her mother’s grace, stiffened her lip and brow, a mimic of her father’s gravity, and lifted her chin, a prideful stubbornness that was all hers.

Whatever the Emperor Lotor came here for, he would find it on Altea’s terms, or he would leave without it. Or, if it might make for a swifter path for peace, she would slaughter him in this very reception hall. She had her staff with her today.

The Galran procession arrived in waves, wargs and beastmasters first, towering Galra broad each as a mountain and bearing heavy shields second, four mismatched women each bearing the new royal crest and colors third, and in their center: Emperor Lotor.

He was the singularly most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Long, plaited, silver hair that nearly dragged the ground, Altean bones and Galran eyes, soft velvety purple fur so short it could pass for skin, pointed ears pierced with glinting gems in silver casings, and on his cheeks, two marks that glowed with powerful magic.

She shivered, feeling less certain of her ability to slaughter him where he stood, should he pose threat. His magic was enough, indeed, to rival her own, and she was famed throughout Altea for her prowess, her own marks pink and luminous.

“My thanks for hosting on such short notice,” the emperor began, seeming perfectly at ease surrounded by distinctly uneasy Altean guardsmen.

“Our thanks for your peaceful arrival. Are we too optimistic in hoping it may bode for a peaceful future between our nations?” Queen Melenor of Altea answered, staring down at him with regal coolness from the dias they three stood on.

“Not at all,” he assured with a smile. “I am as hopeful for such as you are.” A sigh escaped the whole room, tension palpably leaving. Allura was not exempt, tension loosening from her shoulders.

“Though I would start by returning what was borrowed. I know you gave it to me as a gift, but I would return it as a show of good faith.”

That piqued Allura’s curiosity. As far as she knew, her parents had never met the then-prince Lotor any more than she had. But as the emperor of Daibazaal approached, Allura’s breath caught in her throat.

He extended, to Alfor, a grimoire. The same grimoire her father had given her intended three years ago.

“You!” she gasped, rushing forward and grabbing him by the wrist, making his generals tense but ignoring them, staring instead at his yellow eyes.

“Me,” he agreed with a smile, staring at her with that same reverence he’d held three years ago. “I hope my appearance is more agreeable to you, now, than it was then, as I have little desire to return to such a state.”

“More than,” she said with a wild grin. “Please, come in and be hosted by us, I would have my betrothed explain to me how I may find him in such different states as this!”

“Well,” she heard her father murmur to her mother as she beckoned their guests inside, “I suppose a wedding is one way to end all this.”

And so it would be.

But first, they went to dinner.

[newtabfics]

so i hc that when venti is furious, the winds just pick up so like maybe y/n is in danger and her archon just nearly loses it on the villain until he refocuses on her.

I like this idea. I like it a lot.

"Let. Her. Go."

The Fatui agent let out a fearful shudder as the winds picked up. He held Y/N's limp body over his shoulder. He needed to get her back. His orders were to bring her back alive.

But this bard. This bard whom everyone knew as the carefree drunk, was suddenly so cold. A filled with fury.

"Drop her," He snarled as the wind cut sharp to the man.

Startled, he dropped Y/N's unconscious form. He watched in surprise as the winds almost wrapped around her, gliding her to the bard before gently setting her down. The winds simmered, though they still howled through the city streets.

Venti kneeled down, checking her. "Y/N...dear Y/N, are you alright?" He asked so gently. "Can you hear me?"

"What the hell are you?" The agent chattered, stepping back fearfully.

His eyes flicked up to the agent as the winds cut through again. "Barbatos," He snarled, standing as his eyes glowed with fury. "The Anemo Archon."

[fandomgoddes05]

⚠️SPOILERS! ⚠️

I just saw this movie and it was amazing! But the star of the show was definitely hera’s cousin Fréaláf who eventually becomes king of Rohan! Him and also her older brother Hama. So fanfic writers dont fail me now!

[yoan-le-grall]

[jangillman]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Zane and Heath: UNFILTERED (@zaneandheath)

[goldenavenger02]

i will die in the house that i grew up in

"Long day, it took thirty seven minutes to get through The Ugly Turtle Duckling," Zuko groaned as he rested his head against his pillows, "the guards are worried about another attack, they want to deploy another division into the city."

"What do you want, mister Fire Lord?"

"I want to go to Ember Island, to take you and Izumi on a vacation,"

For @badthingshappenbingo. Prompt: "Please Don't Leave Me."

"-"It is time for you to go back to the lake to swim again, as you were born to do," said the farmer. He took the turtle-duckling back to the lake where he had found him, and set him with care on the water. "I feel good!" said the young bird, flapping his wings. "Why, I don't think-"

"Daddy?" Izumi interrupted, twisting a finger in one of her raven-black strands as she leaned against his side.

"Yes, my love?" Zuko muttered softly with a muffled yawn while running his fingers over her scalp and untangling her small hand from her long hair as he tried to lull the six year old to sleep, making a mental note to ask the hairdresser to take a few inches off until she kicked the habit.

"Why is everyone being so mean to him?"

"Because he looks different and they think that it's a bad thing," Zuko explained the story carefully as his daughter looked up at him with wonder in her golden eyes, "but in a little bit, they are gonna learn that they shouldn't have underestimated him just because he looks different."

"Is that why those bad people don't like you? Because you look different?"

Zuko swallowed; even though Izumi was only six, she was quick as a whip and smarter than he and Mai had been at her age; it was only logical that she would have heard the hushed conversations between himself, her mother and the royal guard about the uprising from the New Ozai Society.

"You should not be listening in on private conversations," he scolded lightly, his fingers drifting unconsciously to his scar and pressing down for a brief moment before he quickly came up with an explanation, "some people get angry because I do things differently than what they are used to and they take out that anger on me."

"That's not very nice."

"No, it's not," Zuko agreed, pressing a soft kiss to the side of her head, "but I promise that those people will never be able to hurt you or mommy because the guards and I will always protect you."

"Mommy doesn't need protection, she has sharp knives."

"That she does," he chuckled against her hair at the thought of Izumi seeing her mother wield her stilettos before asking, "ready to finish the book? We have to find out what happens to the ugly turtle duckling."

"He's not ugly, daddy. He's just different."

"My mistake, princess," he apologized before resuming his sentence, "-"I feel good!" said the young bird, flapping his wings. "Why, I don't think I ever felt as strong as I do right now!"

…

She drifted off before he finished the last page, giving him the chance to slowly maneuver her onto her pillows and tuck her in, pressing a kiss to her forehead before whispering, "good night, my turtle duckling," in her ear.

When he finally joined Mai in their chambers, she was propped against the headboard with what Zuko could only assume was a letter from her mother.

"New record, thirty seven minutes." She announced with a quick wink after taking a peek at the sundial from over the scroll.

"Oh, only thirty seven?" He chuckled as he pulled down the covers and climbed in beside her before rubbing his tired eyes, his mind now plagued by the uprising once again.

"You okay?"

"Long day, it took thirty seven minutes to get through The Ugly Turtle Duckling," Zuko groaned as he rested his head against his pillows, "the guards are worried about another attack, they want to deploy another division into the city."

"What do you want, mister Fire Lord?"

"I want to go to Ember Island, to take you and Izumi on a vacation," Zuko mused, thinking of his daughter building sandcastles and splashing in the waves before pushing them away, "but until we quell the New Ozai Society, we're needed here."

"As soon as all of this is over," Mai insisted, putting the scroll on her nightstand before rolling so she was next to his face, allowing her to pull him in for a warm, comforting kiss, "we'll go to Ember Island. Promise."

Zuko nodded, wrapping a hand around her hip, his voice dropping deeper to say "I love you, Fire Lady Mai," before pressing his lips against her for a longer, deeper kiss.

She pulled away after a few minutes to whisper in his ear, "and I love you, Fire Lord Zuko," before returning to his lips with a hand pressed firmly against his jawline to tip his lips into hers.

…

Izumi had always been an escape artist.

When she had learned to crawl, she would always try her hardest to scoot right past Zuko, Mai or her nanny with a giggle as she went; all of the adults looking after the princess, even Iroh as his old age started to catch up with him, were fast enough to catch her before she could crawl out of the room or hit her head.

Then she started walking which quickly turned into running.

Soon enough, it seemed to Zuko that at least once a week, his royal duties would be interrupted by the head of the royal guard opening the door and informing him that Izumi was missing or worse, in the infirmary.

No matter how many times he had arrived with his crown falling out of his hair from the panic, only to see her contently sitting on Mai's lap with a fresh bandage covering a small gash on her pale skin or a small washcloth being held to a bruise, the anxiety that coincided with his daughter would remain just as strong as it had the first time she had ever run off.

"I swear, if you ever teach her any of your scaling walls nonsense…" Mai warned after Izumi received a particularly bad gash on her knee that had needed two stitches.

"If she ever learns how to scale the walls, we are in big trouble." Zuko responded, holding his daughter close to his chest and rubbing her back as she slept against his collarbone.

So it didn't come as too much of a surprise to have his meeting with the head of education interrupted by Tao opening the door and addressing him, "Fire Lord, we have an urgent situation involving the princess," even if it sent his heart pounding erratically in his chest.

"We will have to continue this meeting at a later time, minister Huong."

"Your family comes first, Fire Lord." The man nodded in understanding, giving Zuko the permission to stand from his chair and follow Tao outside before demanding an explanation.

"No one can locate the princess. We are currently searching extensively but she slipped away after the Fire Lady left for Shuhon Island and before the nanny arrived."

Izumi was known to run, desperate to explore her surroundings; but this time, the Fire Nation was crawling with the uprising of loyalists that were gearing up for an inevitable attack against him and against his family.

"Do a sweep from top to bottom," Zuko immediately launched into action, "no stone unturned. No one comes in, no one goes out. If someone is trying to take her, we could still cut them off. I want every single member of staff questioned about the princess and if they even begin to act suspicious, let me know. And get some eyes on the Fire Lady. She'll tell you she can protect herself and I believe that wholeheartedly, but get an exact location. Inform her of the situation as soon as possible and make sure she gets updates as they come."

"Yes, sir." Tao nodded before walking away to delegate and serve, leaving Zuko alone in the hall with a pounding heart and a racing mind.

'Azula always said that there were passages in the walls,' he remembered, examining the wall to see if any of the stones looked like it could be some sort of hidden switch, hoping that Azula hadn't lied for once.

"Come on…" he muttered, running his hands over the individual rocks with just enough pressure in his fingertips that a fake one would give way under his weight.

The adrenaline inside of him was pleading to start his own search, to give up on this theory, that Azula always lies, but he pushed it down and used his small reserve of patience to continue running his hand over the wall.

That's when he felt the small rock, no bigger than a pebble, give way under his touch; he pressed it harder until he heard a 'click' as it stayed pressed down in the wall, frozen in place as a chunk of the wall slid inwards to reveal an opening with a staircase descending deep underground.

He wished for a moment that Toph was there to sense if there was any point to descend into the darkness, but Zuko knew that he was alone in this; he lit his palm ablaze and slowly made his way down the stone steps.

Zuko was a runner, just like his daughter; he too had spent most of his adolescence letting his impulses guide him, using his agility and speed to get his way with the fire inside of him as a crutch.

But with a situation as precarious as this, where Izumi's life could be in grave danger, he forced himself to be as quiet and slow as possible as he made his way down the stone steps, hoping that he hadn't just found a completely empty room under the palace.

When he neared the bottom of the steps, he had the urge to call out for his daughter, but if a member of the New Ozai Society had indeed been the one to snatch her when no one was looking, it would alert them as well.

So he snuffed the small flame out and listened for any sign of life with his back to the wall; at first, he didn't hear anything aside from a few creaks.

He must have been standing there for five minutes and losing hope as every second ticked by, but as he started to turn on his heel, that was when a voice echoed in his ears.

"When my daddy finds you, he's going to kick your butt."

'Izumi.'

She wasn't crying or screaming, she wasn't in any obvious pain by the sound of her voice. If anything, she sounded annoyed by the entire situation while refusing to show her captor any signs of fear, just like he and Mai had taught her.

For a brief moment, Zuko's heart swelled with pride before he took a breath and launched his attack, fire blazing from his fist, breezing right past the man's face just enough for him to feel the blistering heat.

"That was a warning shot. The next one won't miss." Zuko held his hand out, alight with flames dancing in between his fingers and kept it fixed on the man even as his daughter called out to him.

"Daddy!"

He turned; she was bound tightly with harsh rope in the wooden chair, her feet tied to the legs and her arms restrained behind her. He couldn't see any injuries, but aside from the flames in his hand illuminating a small portion of the room, there wasn't a single light source. "Are you hurt?"

"I-I'm okay."

Zuko ignored the stutter in her voice for now, returning his vision to the man who had tied up his daughter, his baby girl, the same way that one would restrain a grown adult and saw red as he aimed his flame-filled palm at him once again.

The man fell to his knees, his face pressed to the floor, and started to beg. "I apologize, Fire Lord Zuko. I was hired to do this, I never would wish harm on the royal family. I have a family of my own, I was only trying to provide for my children."

Zuko kept one hand trained on the man as he walked behind the chair that Izumi was tied to and started to burn through the rope; he knew that anyone in his position wouldn't hesitate to blast the man and no one would not blame him afterwards if he did so.

But, he had begged on the floor of this very palace for forgiveness as a child and was met with a permanent reminder in the form of flaming fingers.

No matter how much he wanted this man to pay for putting a hand on Izumi, he couldn't bring himself to do so, not when bringing him down, along with the rest of the New Ozai Society, was much more important.

"Darling," he addressed Izumi as soon as the last of her binds were burned away, "I want you to go upstairs and don't stop until you find Tao. Tell him everything and send him down here with the other guards. Do you understand?"

"Yes, daddy." She nodded before sprinting up the stairs, allowing Zuko to keep his full attention on the man on his hands and knees at his feet.

"I will spare your life, as the princess was unharmed by your foolish actions," Zuko informed him, "the royal guard is on their way and you will be thoroughly questioned about your involvement with the New Ozai Society. Your testimony will likely result in a lighter sentence for your crimes of conspiracy and being an accessory."

"Of course, of course, Fire Lord-"

"And if you so much as look at my guards the wrong way," Zuko allowed his flames to shine brighter, illuminating the fear and regret in the man's face, "I will not hesitate to go back on my word."

The man didn't get a chance to speak before the royal guard stormed the abandoned wine cellar and took him away, leaving Zuko in the darkness as the adrenaline ebbed away and the reality of what he had just threatened hit him.

'I almost killed a man. I threatened his life.' When he came to this realization and felt zero sympathy, however, an even more worrying thought hit him directly in the chest, 'what if this is how it starts? What if this is the beginning of another abusive tyrant as a Fire Lord?'

It wasn't like Ozai had been terrible to him as a small child on Ember Island, that he started putting unrealistic expectations on Azula that he knew Zuko would never be able to fulfill when they were babies; there was a time before he was only able to look at his mom with hatred in his eyes and before he treated his uncle like anything other than an obstacle.

At some point, there had been a tipping point for Ozai and as Zuko stood that tiny stone cellar, he couldn't help but wonder if that assassin for hire would be his own tipping point.

"Sir?" Tao's voice was the same level of calm that it always was as he stood firmly in every word he spoke, "perhaps we should get you to the infirmary."

"I can't," Zuko shook his head, "Izumi-"

"Is already there, I had Ming take her in case he was lying, and the Fire Lady is on her way back from Shuhon Island" Tao cut him off, "but with all due respect, Fire Lord, you're not looking so well."

And with that, knowing that his family were going to be okay, he relented and allowed Tao to loop his arm within his to support his shaking legs on the stone steps.

…

"I can't leave for a day without you two getting into trouble," Mai's deadpan voice hit Zuko's ears, instantly filling him with relief as he held Izumi in his arms while she turned her attention to the physician, "how bad is it?"

Zuko chose to focus on Izumi's deep, content breathing as she slept on his lap; she had mild rope burns on his wrists and ankles and a couple of scrapes on her knees from tripping on the stone stairs, but she was alive.

He rushed past Tao despite his shaking legs and all but slammed the door open; within seconds, Izumi was grabbing onto him tightly, tears in her eyes from the sting of the antiseptic on her knees.

"Please don't leave me." She begged against his robes, her chest falling and rising rapidly with quick, panicked breaths as tears dampened his chest.

Zuko held her as tightly as possible without hurting her, gently rubbing her back and assured her, "I am never letting you out of my sight again, Izumi."

Her soft snores were echoing in his ears and her chest was rising and falling evenly which was all that was keeping Zuko from joining Tao in the questioning of the would-be assassin, demanding to know why they had gone after the princess instead of him.

"How is she?" Mai whispered as she sat next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder and massaging it for a few, brief moments before letting it fall to the side.

"Mild rope burn, a couple of scrapes," he ran a hand through her hair with a sigh, "she was a bit frantic when I got here, but she's taking this a lot better than I am."

"This is not your fault, Zuko, you know that," she insisted while transferring Izumi into her arms, allowing Zuko to rest his head on her right shoulder, "this comes with the territory of being royalty. You've done everything you can to prevent this kind of thing with the new watch towers and hiring more guards."

"I know." Zuko pulled in a deep breath as he continued to lay against Mai's shoulder.

The two of them sat in the silence of the infirmary for a few minutes, the only sound being their breathing and Izumi's soft snores, before Mai finally spoke again with her fingers gently working Izumi's hair into a braid.

"I think it might be a good time to take that vacation to Ember Island," she stopped to meet his golden eyes with her light gray ones, "we could all use it."

Despite everything running through his mind, he couldn't stop himself from offering his wife a small smile as he quickly pressed a kiss to her soft lips before saying, "I think you're right."

[naoa-ao3]

A Night in New Orleans

Years before Jean-Luc adopts Remy, he watches him from the balconies and galleries of the French Quarter and wonders if he's doing the right thing. While he wonders, others have plots of their own and Remy, oblivious to it all heads to bed.

The boy was growing and as he did, Jean-Luc LeBeau found himself worrying for him.

He had already removed the child from the Antiquiary but he couldn't remove the boy's eyes from his head nor the whispers and rumors that circulated about him through the air and through the guilds.

He watched the child from a gallery one night as the boy picked pockets along Rue St. Anne.

The boy wore dark shades to hide his eyes now, big, plastic lenses obscuring his face. He didn't know he was being watched but Jean-Luc knew and he knew he wasn't the only one watching that night.

Above the crowed of tourists and drunks, locals out for fun and a million sweating bodies he saw familiar faces on galleries around him. Dark faces hidden in shadow and he knew there was a plot.

People were scared of the boy. His own people. People who should have heeded his words and didn't. He'd said the boy wasn't to be touched and yet here he was, watching them, watching the boy, watching them watch the boy and down below the child had no idea.

His life consisted of reporting his ill gains to Fagin and avoiding a swat to the back of the head. The child didn't know the war fought over him and Jean-Luc wanted to keep it that way. It was better while the boy was still young.

Even this kind of childhood was better than none.

Even so his eyes followed the man across the street. Bourbon was loud tonight and people spilled out of doorways, sweating and wilting in the evening humidity. Even as a native he thought it was hot out that night and his eyes followed the boy who had stopped to watch a Dixie Land Band lead a wedding procession out of the St. Louis Cathedral.

The boy leaned against the fence around Jackson Square and watched them, eyes following the party behind his glasses. Jean-Luc wondered if he had ever been to a wedding. Most probably not, or at least not any he was supposed to have been at.

No one notices the child alone and yet his eyes follow him as the child unwraps his arms from around the fence and saunters off. He dips his little hand into a purse as he does and scoops out a wallet.

Jean-Luc feels a measure of pride for this child he's never spoken too. He's got a son of his own, Henri is a little older and everything he could have ever hoped for but he's always felt a kind of connection with this child, since the night he'd stolen him from the hospital.

There's music pouring into the street and below Remy walks on, not knowing he's being watched, not knowing he's got a destiny. He doesn't have any idea that there's expectations waiting for him.

Jean-Luc wishes he could protect the boy from them but he can't. He's the leader of the Thieves Guild and one boy can't be put above the Guild. Not even his own son Henri could take priority. There's older and more powerful things at play.

Jean-Luc watches the men across the street. Their eyes are fixed on the boy and he doubts they have any good plans for him.

He closes his hand around the railing and frowns hard, the French Quarter below him, spilling the masses onto her streets, hiding a little boy with demonic eyes.

Across town, his own son is asleep in his bed in their garden district manor. He's surrounded by iron fences the old south there, heavy curtains on the windows and antiques. Henri sleeps well and he feels a kind of guilt as he watches Remy in his dirty jeans and old t-shirt. This boy doesn't know anything about that world.

He watches them and then they move, following the boy. He follows them, silent and hidden, they haven't seen him yet but he isn't the leader for nothing.

They move in, hovering from galleries like carrion birds over the boy who walks on oblivious.

Jean-Luc catches up to them when the boy cuts away from Bourbon Street and begins to wander out of the French Quarter, away from the noise and crowed streets.

He knows a few of the places the boy goes to sleep in. He's already staking himself away from Fagin, already too smart for the man. Soon he'll have to take the kid away from Fagin or else risk wasting him. The kid is good but tonight he's just a kid.

"What do you think you're doing?" He asks as he catches up to the other thief. He knew it was Marcus Delacroix from afar. Now that he see's him up close he can see the look on the mans face and knows Marcus didn't know he was watching.

He savors the element of surprise and asks again. "What are you doing?" He asks. "I told you eight years ago that the boy was off limits. I'll handle him."

Marcus hangs for a second before righting his posture. "I remember but you can't trust him, Jean-Luc."

Jean-Luc isn't about to hear this. He knows the superstitions, he's kept then in mind just in case. He knows. "We're not assassins, Marcus." He says. "We're you really planning to harm the boy?"

They're standing on a roof top now, watching the boy as he picks his way along the less crowded streets outside the French Quarter.

"Not harm." Marcus whispers, looking down at the child.

"Then what?"

"Was gonna take him to the Bayou."

Jean-Luc scowls, not pleased and not surprised. "And do what with him?" He asks, knowing probably what. "Hope the gators take care of him for you? Dat boy wouldn't be done that easy, even you should know that."

Marcus winces. "He's dangerous, Jean-Luc. Everyone can see it."

He can see their superstitions. He's heard it all before. "They're just rumors." He says. "And he's just a little boy."

"You know that ain't no boy." Marcus scoffs, voice a little hurt.

Jean-Luc shrugs. "You t'ink so? I wish I could t'ink that way." He looks down at the boy, farther away, disappearing into shadows and the summer heat. What fucking life is he giving this child?

Marcus shakes his head. "Don't know what power he has over you." He says. "De boy will bring us ruin, Jean-Luc. Everyone knows it."

"Everyone knows what they've been told and it's men like you doing the telling, Marcus."

Marcus gives him a grieving look this time, mind unforgiving, unable and unwilling to understand.

The boy is gone.

"He'll doom the Guild."

"Or save it."

Marcus nods, quarry lost, plans aborted. Remy gone. "Maybe." He whispers.

Jean-Luc understands and wishes he still had eyes on the boy. It's when he feels the least guilty.

Remy however is gone into the night and of course knows how and where to hide from the world.

Jean-Luc goes home and watches Henri sleep, wondering if his own son understands how much he loves him. Wondering if he'll forgive him when he gets old enough to know him.

He wonders where Remy is sleeping, knows he's not in a bed like Henri. Know's he's not safe and loved like Henri and he feels like he's letting two children down.

Out there among the street lamps and stars, the one way streets and cemeteries the shot gun houses and superstitions, Remy has a little place to rest and for the night he sleeps unaware

But destiny is coming for him and it'll come in the shapes of Guilds and marauders, X-Men and lovers. Mistakes and trusts and while Jean-Luc knows the boy has a fate he has not a clue of these things.

When he closes the door to his son's room he only knows that Remy is out there asleep and he feels guilt he can't explain. Guilt unfitting of a Guild leader. Guilt of a father and in just a few years time that's what he'll be to the boy. He'll have two sons then and he won't feel he's doing any better.

[work4nation]

Women empowerment or women harassment across India?

I am asking to Humanrights and women rights organisations….?

More than 46 millions girls and women still missing.

Human trafficking is a grave violation of human rights, often involving exploitation through forced labor, sexual slavery, conversion, rape , and other forms of coercion.

It’s a global issue that affects millions of people, particularly women and children. Here’s a general overview and some key points about human trafficking, medical Jihad, suicide Jihad, accidental Jihad, rape and murder.

Human trafficking Jihad is the recruitment, transportation, transfer, harboring, or receipt of persons by means of threat, force, or other forms of coercion, abduction, fraud, or deception, for the purpose of exploitation. This exploitation can include forced labor, sexual exploitation, or other forms of modern-day slavery.

According to the International Labour Organization (ILO), there are an estimated 25 million victims of human trafficking worldwide specially in West Bengal, Northeast, Kerala, Kashmir, Delhi, Bihar, UP, Madhyapradesh, Rajsthan and other states.

Trafficking can occur within a country or across international borders, with victims often lured by false promises of employment, education, marriage or a better life.

• Sex Trafficking: Involves forcing individuals, often women and girls, into prostitution or other forms of sexual exploitation.

• Labor Trafficking: Includes forced labor in industries such as agriculture, construction, domestic work, and manufacturing. Victims often work in inhumane conditions for little or no pay.

• Child Trafficking: Involves the recruitment, transportation, or exploitation of children for various purposes, including labor, sexual exploitation, or even forced begging.

• Victims and Vulnerabilities: Trafficking victims often come from vulnerable populations, including migrants, refugees, and those living in poverty. Traffickers prey on these vulnerabilities, exploiting victims’ desires to escape difficult circumstances.

Human trafficking is a complex and multi-faceted issue that requires a concerted global effort to address. By staying informed and supporting organizations working to combat trafficking, individuals can contribute to the fight against this pervasive crime across India and at global level.

Madhusudan Lal

[irondadfics]

Hi!! Thank you so much for everything you do!! I was looking for a fic where a Skrull is being disguised as Tony by Fury, and Tony needs to go pick up Peter from school but Peter can immediately tell it wasn't Tony because he could tell it was a different heartbeat?? Thanks in advance!!!!💗

Hi this is for you! - Familiar Sounds by Graylings

[xxlittle0birdxx]

Promising Obi-wan that they would go straight to the bookshop, then return to the inn within an hour seemed to mollify him somewhat. Nevertheless, he still paused every few meters, head swiveling around, scanning the mass of beings that jostled them every so often. He didn't have to tell her he had a bad feeling about their little sojourn in the market. It was written in every line of his body. 'I thought we might browse a little. See if there's anything good. I'm about to start reading your textbooks, and that's enough to make anyone run mad…' She stopped and glanced around. 'Ben?' He was several meters behind her. Obi-wan seemed to be searching for something. Or someone. 'Is it Qui-gon?'

'Let's go back to the inn,' he said slowly. 'I feel —' The rest of his sentence ended abruptly as he slapped the back of his neck and tottered a few steps. A burly man appeared behind him and slammed Obi-wan's head against the post that held up a corner of canopy that shielded a fruit stall from the sun.

[thewwshow]

Daughter Threatens To Kill Her Mother On Her Only Day Off from Drinking, Attempted Kidnapping