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writeraven · 5 months

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SACRED POSSESSION

“My sister and I, you will recollect, were twins, and you know how subtle are the links which bind two souls which are so closely allied.” — Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Speckled Band (The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes)

TAGS: [ isorawrites. » Chronogenesis » Tales of the Future Past ]

LINKS: [ Tumblr » Collection, Project | AO3 » Work, Collection, Series ]

FANDOM: Final Fantasy XIV.

VERSES: Pre-A Realm Reborn.

STATUS: Complete; 1 chapter (2 parts).

GENRES: Short Story, Family, Slice of Life.

SHIPS: Necromancers, Murderomantiques (implied).

MUSES: Sora Amariyo, Yiuno & Yiuna Reine.

WARNING ― crossdressing.

Sora Amariyo swept a stray strand of hair off her forehead as the chocobo carriage trotted through the woods of the Black Shroud. The wind against her pale face became colder as they continued their way to the Coerthas Central Highlands, where winter prevailed its terrain all year long. Seeing that this would be a long journey ahead, Sora turned to her other traveling companion, a Veena Viera by the name of Yiuno Reine.

Those who had heard of his name often described him as an enigmatic wanderer of the realm, a man of mystery who walked along the fine boundary of light and darkness. Though he’d been Sora’s guardian and protector for as long as the young Xaela could remember, no one knew why he willingly took Sora under his wing, given his notorious reputation of coming and going like the wind, leaving naught behind—like a ghost of the forgotten past.

Yiuno didn’t like being the center of attraction, and his dress sense clearly reflected that desire—of monochromic colors and minimalistic design. However, one thing that stood out from his seemingly mundane glamours was the leather-bound emerald necklace around his neck. While it’d appear worthless in the eyes of any jewelers and treasure hunters, Sora could tell that the accessory meant a lot to Yiuno; he often kept it close to him, and his normally sharp gaze would soften with fondness whenever he touched the crystal.

“A gift from someone dear to you? You’re always wearing that, even if it clashes with some of your disguises,” Sora spoke as she watched Yiuno fiddling with the green crystal.

“From Yiuna, my older twin sister,” the male Veena replied, looking up at Sora’s hard gaze with mild amusement. “Perhaps it’s a story I can humor you with until we reach our destination…”

Amongst the treacherous mountains and steep ridges, a small village existed in the heart of the valley. Shrouded in rolling clouds of icy mists and the shadows of uneven summits, this little settlement was undiscovered for eons, its people living in secluded peace far away from the chaos of the commonfolk. The villagers were a sight to behold: fair like the snow capes, graceful like the spring breeze, with their main characteristic being a pair of long, hare-like ears perched on top of their fluffy hair. Called ‘Veena Viera’ by the scholars of the outside world, little was known about their kind, for most curious souls who dared to venture into their territory never lived to see the next sunrise.

Similar to their sister clan, the Rava Viera, they followed a matriarchal structure to maintain order within their small community. Females stayed in the village and acted as the central pillar, just like the monarchies of the outside cities who focused on the politics within the walls. As for the males, they were stationed outside of the settlement as hunters and protectors, braving the dangerous mountains and harsh climate to keep their village safe from external threats. Both genders lived separate lives until the mating season; once every year, a representative or two would drop by to collect children who were assigned male after they had come out of their puberty, then they’d train them to be battle-ready to replenish their ranks. While the strict code and solitude lifestyle had ensured their continuous survival in peace, it wasn’t a sentiment shared by all.

In particular, two adolescents who often sneaked out of the village on every full moon, seemingly in search of something. One of them could be found standing under a birch tree; she wore the standard chest-wrap with armored lingerie covered with a translucent veil down the middle. However, she was fidgeting with her breastplate from time to time, clearly uncomfortable with the clothes she was wearing. She shivered a little as a cold draft blew through the valley, then she flattened the veil and tried to tuck the hem between her legs, a deep shade of pink coloring her pale cheeks under the glow of the full moon above her head.

Her meekness quickly dispersed when her long ears picked up a shuffling sound not far from her location; she drew out a dagger from the scabbard around her ankle, all poised in a battle stance. “Who’s there?” Contrary to her soft and alluring outward appearance, her voice was harsh and hoarse—she sounded rather masculine.

“It’s just me, silly.” A figure emerged from the bushes and brisked towards the anxious Veena. Once she stepped out of the shadow into the moonlight, she had a near-identical face as the former, wearing the same set of harness, with the only distinguishing feature being an extra braid running down the right side of her head. “Be careful not to speak aloud within the village grounds, lest someone else heard you and you’d be whisked away in a jiffy.” Although she was still smiling, there was a hint of sadness in her voice.

“I know,” the twin with a deeper voice sighed, sheathing her dagger before straightening up to face her sister. “But the elders are getting suspicious. They have been staring hard at my chest for the past few days and voiced dissatisfaction at my ‘stunned’ growth.”

“I’m sorry that I’m putting you through all this, [Yiuno], but… I can’t bear to lose you. You’re the only family I have. My precious little brother.”

Yiuno pulled her—his—twin closer into a hug. “You’re my one and only big sister, [Yiuna], as troublesome as you are. So, did you find what you’ve been looking for?”

“Yes,” Yiuna breathed, then she stepped back to pull out something from her pouch. “Give me your hand.” She placed an emerald shard in her brother’s palm. “With this, you can speak freely in the village.”

“A wind-aspected crystal?” Yiuno asked, raising the fragment to see it better in the light of the full moon. He could see the glow pulsating within the shard, almost like it was alive with some kind of power. “I’m amazed that you actually found one. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Oh, you’re such a worrywart for me, every single time,” Yiuna cooed with a chuckle. “You should worry about yourself first, and more.” She pulled off her hair ribbon and fashioned it into a chain around the crystal, turning it into a necklace before putting it around Yiuno’s neck. “With a bit of aetherial manipulation, this can change your current voice to make you sound more feminine.”

“Very handy,” Yiuno murmured, and he raised a hand to touch the shard. Closing his eyes, he concentrated for a short moment to charge it with his own aether. “Something like this?” His eyebrows arched at the voice that came out of his mouth—while it wasn’t as girly as Yiuna’s, it was passable, like the mature tone of a grown woman.

“Perfect!” Yiuna grinned with a thumbs-up. “Now that you can talk normally without straining your vocal cord… And I’ll think of something to fill your breastplate.” Her smirk widened at the look of embarrassment on Yiuno’s face.

“Do we have to go that far? You know that we can’t stay like this forever. They will find out about us sooner or later.”

“Let that be later, my dear brother—no, little sister,” Yiuna replied, adjusting her twin’s harness with a playful glint in her eyes. “Crafting a padded undershirt that matches your skin tone is child’s play, compared to searching the whole mountain range for many moons just for that one magic crystal.”

Yiuno pursed his lips at his twin’s nonchalant reaction, but he clasped a hand around the emerald shard with a small smile.

Thank you—my lovely, mischief-making sister.

Support me on Ko-fi — https://ko-fi.com/whyraven. Thank you very much for your continuous support☕

#isorawrites.#ffxiv; tales of the future past #yiuno reine #yiuna reine #sora amariyo #necromancers; yiuno & yiuna #murderomantiques; yiuno & sora #ffxiv writing #ffxiv #— complete

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marunalu · 2 years

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Friendly reminder why bakugous "apologie" sucked and is NOT good. Because it was 85% self-justification (why he did it), 14% victim blaiming izuku (because bk misinterpretet izukus personality and actions) and 1% "sorry for everthing I have done so far" (very vague for someone who normally cant shut the fuck up and always says what is on his mind!)

Just for the record, an apologie, one that comes from the heart and you REALLY mean should not be about YOUR motives and YOUR feelings, WHY YOU DID WHAT YOU DID! The only thing that matters are the feelings of the person YOU hurt with YOUR words and actions. In not one word did bk EVER mention the pain and suffering izuku went through because of him! Not once! Instead he layed the blame on izuku, for HIM thinking izuku was looking down on HIM (a completly ridiculus claim by itself). By doing that he makes it sound like as if izuku is also partly fault for their fucked up relationship, something that isnt true one bit!

Explaining to your victim why you did what you did, espicially if other people are listening, who have no fucking clue what exactly happened between you two, just serves to get sympathy points from both sides, so people will forgive you easier and give you a pass (so pretty much what 90% of the fandom is doing, because bk is their baby boy who never did anything wrong in his life. Everyone else is at fault here, okay!).

The last part, "sorry for everthing I have done so far", is not there to make izuku feel better. Bakugou said it to make HIMSELF feel better! It was something that he was carring with him for a while and he wanted this feeling to go away and be DONE with! And for that he choose a moment, when izuku was neither physically nor psychically able to handle or react to what bk said to him. Till now izuku has said NOTHING to bk about the apologie. He neither accepted it, nor did he not accept it. The apologie was something bk wanted and needed, to make HIMSELF feel better, izukus feelings had nothing to do with it. Otherwise he would have at least say a few words about izukus pain and suffering he had to endure for OVER 10 years, bakugou is a big part responsible for!

And the fact that izuku is STILL calling himself "worthless" and "shitty nerd", (exactly THE insults bk used to call him as) should actually be a big hint to readers, that he HASNT overcome his trauma and the abuse and what bk did to him over a decade is still deeply burned in his heart and soul! But yeah people, keep shipping this disgusting dogshit and thinking to romantice such abusive relationships is hot shit!

An other reminder, izuku asked bk NOT to call him hy his first name in the most polite way possible. In japan only the people you are very close with, call you by your first name, everything else is considered as extremly disrespectful. If you call someone else by his first name, but that person doesnt want that, he/she will tell you to stop. The fact that izuku told bk not to do it, with a very uncomfortable expression on his face should tell everyone enough honestly!

In the end bk said it the best: "nothing will change between us!" Bk never was izukus friend and its not something he drives to become.

So to everyone who happens to read this, here is a well meant hint. The next time you have to apologie to someone you hurt, make sure it comes from a "I want that person I hurt to feel better" place and not from a "I want to be able to sleep at night again" place.

#bnha #anti bakugou #anti katsuki bakugou #anti bakudeku #anti bkdk #bakugou critical #izuku midoriya #izuku deserves better

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shadowfae · 4 years

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We’re all pretty aware that the tumblr otherkin community is at a huge decline; I was wondering if you have any theories as to why that is?

American Protestantism, the decline of queer oppression in North America and the AIDS crisis, helicopter parenting, web 3.0, morality politics, and Tumblr’s porn ban; roughly in that order and rolled up into one bombshell that was a few years in the coming but nobody really saw it and understood it until it was far too late.

That was a mouthful and probably only made sense if you follow current cyberpolitical theory. For some of you reading this, as with every other hot take I have this has a chance of being passed around, that alone is enough. But for others who had no idea what I just said and need the ELI5 version, let me explain that. Buckle up, this’ll be a long one, and will go into fandom history a bit as well because it is actually relevant.

As we know, tumblr is a very American-centric platform. Twitter is also this way, but less so, but tumblr has it bad. Now, I’m ‘lucky’ in the fact that I’m Canadian and a twenty minute drive from the American border, so that puts me in the ‘privileged’ majority. (I say privileged because I’m not really sure what else to call it. Most of the information going around about politics either directly affects me or indirectly affects me approximately one or two links of contact away. Someone who’s only influenced by American politics because it makes their sister’s online friends sad is not going to be privileged in that way.)

This means that American politics and their social climate overwhelmingly affects tumblr’s social climate. This also bleeds through into other fandom spaces, on twitter, instagram, and Pixiv to name a few places; but here’s where I spend the majority of my time so here’s what I’ve witnessed.

America’s main religion, as far as I understand (from the raised agnostic and currently neopagan view I have), is some weirdass capitalistic-Protestantism that is so many miles from what the actual Bible says that if I were a betting man and knew more about cults than I did, I’d say it’s some weird fucking cult and never set foot in the country again for any reason that isn’t gaming free shipping through a PO box. If you have no idea what I just said but are at least vaguely familiar with Christianity, this graphic explains it pretty well. So we can see there’s some glaring issues with that ideal.

The decline of queer oppression and the rise of queer rights in North America, which is to tenderly include my own country but we all know when people say ‘in NA’ they mean ‘America, and Canada where it applies because the right-wing Republicans are really good in the propaganda department to convince everyone that Mexico is a drug-lords-and-anarchy wasteland to the point where even I don’t actually know what’s down there other than bad drivers and heat’; means two things. One, it’s a good thing by a long shot and do not mistake this as me thinking queer oppression being lessened is a bad thing. But two, it means that thanks to the AIDS crisis, queer folks lost a lot of first-person sources as history.

The queer elders in NA who survived are typically either a) bitter anarchists who are often POC, probably still dirt poor and do recreational drugs or b) university-tenured TERFs (trans exclusionary radical feminists). Category A are the people who Republicans have deemed worthless in every way, because racism, queerphobia, ableism, and all the other ways to be wrong and different and Evil that they can’t handle, because Jeezus would never want them to actually learn to love someone who wasn’t just like them, and they don’t have the compassion to do better. Category B are the people who want to be different in just a teensie little bit, typically with TERFs they want to be lesbians, but they don’t want to challenge the status quo. They’re fine with the way things work, they just want to be on top oppressing others over ripping the whole damn thing down and building a more forgiving system.

Now, due to all those ‘isms and the cheerfully malicious aid of the Republicans, pun not intended but drives home the cruelty of it all, we also see the rise of helicopter parenting. The invention of the internet did not really help this. Basically what you’ve got is a whole bunch of parents who saw the civil rights movement, just got access to the internet and things going viral, know the world is changing, and like all parents, they’re scared for their children. Now instead of parents knowing one or two people in their classes who just went missing one day and everyone assumed they ran away, they hear about eight homicides in the city of kids going to parks at night and dying. The Satanic Panic was another event around this time that contributed to that, but I’ll let you research that one.

This means that all of these parents, instead of doing what their parents typically did and let their kids wander off for the day so long as they’re back by sundown, they can’t let their children out of their sight. There might be a freak accident where their child is decapitated on the playground swing! Their baby might get murdered by an evil Satanist walking home from school! Their dearest darling might go online and tell their address to someone who’s got a 100% chance of being a pedophile who will show up and kidnap them in the night!

…You get the idea.

Combine those three things I just established, what we’ve got is a lot of queer kids who have a lot of internalized shame for being different and wrong, because they’re queer, and they can’t find spaces offline to be themselves, because all of the elders who would do that are dead and/or inaccessible and their parents won’t let them go to any clubs that aren’t school-related, which they’ll never find a GSA or queer club because Republicans, ‘isms, propaganda, and the war on Category A queer adults have all done their best to ensure that those spaces don’t exist.

So you have a generation of kids who I am the youngest of. The first generation on the internet. The late Web 1.0 (usenets and Geocities) and early Web 2.0 (livejournal was the big one, ff.net too, also 4chan but fuck those guys) generation. What we were taught was: trust nobody on the internet with your real info no matter how much you like them, this is a wilderness and any crimes that happen won’t be punished or seen so don’t put yourself in a position where you’re going to be the victim of one, and everything you put online is never getting taken down so don’t put anything up that you’re not willing to have on the front page of your local newspaper.

This worked out pretty well, actually! You had kids who knew that if they got in trouble, there was no backup coming to save them. Because the form that backup might take - parents and police - wasn’t going to help. Best case, they’d be banned from their friends and online support groups for being queer. Worst case, they’d be jailed and put in juvie and conversion therapy and turn to drugs and become evil Satanists just like everyone says they secretly are already. So they learned very quickly to take care of themselves. Nobody was going to save them, so they learned to not need saving.

And then, well, Web 2.0 shifted to Web 3.0. Livejournal died because parents - the Warriors for Innocence was the big name - went “gasp how horrible my children are being exposed to the evil pedos and homosexuals they’re going to do drugs and die of AIDS!”. Which is uh. It’s filled with a lot of bigotry, and I’m not excusing them - absolutely I am not - but you can kind of see where they’re coming from, if you tilt your head and squint.

Either way, LJ died, tumblr took its place, Facebook was fast taking off, and the fandom folks who had seen mailing lists go inactive, web admins take their fanfic sites down due to copyright, entire fandoms burnt to the ground in flame wars, said ‘fuck that we’re making our own place’ and that’s how AO3 got made.

That’s important. A lot of folks move to AO3, because well, the rules let them. The rules say ‘you can throw literally anything up here so long as it’s fan content and is not literally illegal, so we don’t get taken down’. It’s a swing for the first generation internet users, those kids who know this place is a wilderness and are carving out our own sanctuary.

But. The children under us. The children for whom AIDS is a nightmarish fairy tale, for whom the ghost stories are conversion therapy, for whom know they can’t really talk to their parents about being queer but can trust they probably won’t get kicked out over it. The children who haven’t spent ten seconds without supervision except online, and their reaction isn’t ‘oh thank god I’m finally free to express myself’ but ‘if I get in trouble, who will protect me?’.

And there’s nobody there. Because we went in knowing there was no backup. And that was fine. But now, the actual adults have figured out that hey uh, maybe we should make cyber laws? Maybe we should make revenge porn and grooming children over the internet crimes? And they grew up with that. They grew up learning that no, even if your parents are suffocating and controlling, they’re always be there for you! Some adult will always be there to protect you!

That isn’t the case. It’s not. But they expect it, because it’s always been done for them. They don’t really want to change the status quo, because that means doing it themselves. They can’t do that, because they don’t know how, they’ve been controlled for every single part of their lives thanks to helicopter parenting and without that control, they don’t know how to keep their lives together, and they demand someone come and control it for them, without restraining them.

Effectively, they want someone to ensure they never face the consequences of their actions. Helicopter parents will rescue you from whatever you did, because you’re their precious baby and it doesn’t matter if you punched a kid, you can do no wrong and the other kid clearly started it.

But being queer is doing wrong. Being queer is something Jeezus doesn’t approve of. So they want to make it something he could approve of! But if it’s too off what they consider to be okay, if it’s too different and weird and wrong and evil, that can’t do, that’s still bad, and they’re precious angels, and children, and minors, why are we the adults not protecting them and letting them see it? Why aren’t we being just like their parents but queer-friendly, why aren’t we protecting the children?

The adults who taught us were the children of those who died as a result of AIDS. The eldest of my generation knew some of them personally. My therapist’s younger brother died at 20 of AIDS, and she told me what it was like. But they don’t have that. These kids of web 3.0, they don’t have that. What they have is over-controlling parents, and the expectation that someone will always be there to protect them but hopefully in ways that don’t hurt them this time, no real understanding of why Category A queer elders are the way they are, and so much internalized shame that they have to do some pretty fancy logic-leaping to keep them from collapsing entirely.

They can’t turn into Category A queer youngsters, because they don’t know how to unravel the system around them, because they’ve never had to actually make choices in their lives and live with the consequences, because they don’t have the example of how to do it. They can’t unravel their internalized shame because again, that’s hard and they don’t have their parents to take away the consequences and pain. It doesn’t come easy to them, so it may as well not come at all.

But, you ask, if Category A queer elders aren’t around to teach the kids, then how are they learning anything positive at all? Well, Category B, our university-tenured TERFs, who don’t want to change the status quo but want to just be at the top of it instead.

For a lot of kids who don’t know how to make hard choices but want to be queer, this is an extremely attractive option. But when they go online to queer spaces, a lot of them say fuck terfs, we don’t support your hate, and they go ‘yeah okay that makes sense’. They can say fuck terfs without ever actually questioning why terfs are bad. They’re Bad and Evil, just like drug addicts, just like fairytale nazis, just like the evil homophobes.

And we saw them say ‘yeah fuck terfs’ and we were like, ‘aight you got it’ and we never questioned if they actually understood us. They didn’t. They didn’t, and we didn’t do enough to fix it, because not enough of us realized the problem. So terfs got a little sneaky. They hid behind dogwhistles and easy little comments, hiding their rhetoric in queer theory that you’ll absolutely miss if you just memorize it and never actually question it and understand why that point is being made.

This goes back to America sucking, because their school system is far more focused on rote memorization over actual logic and understanding of the text. They’re engaging with queer theory the way they’ve been taught, which is memorize and don’t think, don’t question. Besides, questioning and understanding is hard. Being shown different points of view and asked what they think is not only hard but requires them to go against all of the conditioning that says to just listen and agree and never question it, which goes back to tearing the system and internalized shame down, and we’ve established they can’t do that so naturally they don’t do that.

This begets, then, the rise of exclusionary politics. They’re turning into Category B queer youngsters, because we told them ‘hey that’s a terf talking point what are you doing’ and they never questioned why. They learned you can do all sorts of things, just don’t say X, Y, or Z, because they never thought deeply about it.

The children who have grown on Web 3.0 do not want to do any heavy lifting to make things easier for themselves long-run. They want to do as little as possible and have things get better for them. There isn’t enough of us left in Category A, because Category B terfs are very good at recruiting young folks and Cat. A is overwhelming poor, dead, and easily dismissed in the system as evil and bad, so we can’t exactly convince the young folks to listen. If all of the young kids could agree to tear down the system, a lot more older folks might listen. Change always starts with the young, and there’s a reason for that.

But Republicans have figured out, if you get people fighting, they never put together a force that can actually stop you. TERFs, who want the exact same thing as Republicans but with themselves on top, are doing this to queer youth, and Cat. A elders can’t fight back because there isn’t enough of them and the odds are against them, and the young folk like me who follow their lead.

People can kinda handle gay people. It’s not so far from the acceptable normal that it’s impassable. But you want them to handle kinky people? Gay people of colour? Kinky gay people of colour? Trans people? Those are bridges too far to step across. The original idea was to get the foot in the door with marriage equality and inch our way through with racial equality, sex positivity, dismantling ableism and perisexism (forgive me if that isn’t the word for anti-intersex ‘ism), and see if we can’t patch up the system instead of inciting a civil war over this and have to tear down the system entirely.

Well, we might’ve managed that if not for AIDS being the perfect ‘Jeezus is killing all the evil gay people for being sinners’ propaganda machine. As it stands now, not a chance in hell. So long as Republicans and terfs keep everyone fighting, nobody has the power to dismantle their empire, and they stay in power.

So then, you ask me, “Lu what the fuck does that have to do with the decline of otherkinity on tumblr???” and now that you’ve got all that background knowledge, here is your answer.

Those children who want their experiences curated for them and the evil icky content they don’t like to be gone because it disgusts them and anything that disgusts them is clearly sinful problematic and should be destroyed, are what we call ‘antishippers’, or anti for short.

They like being progressive. Sort of. They learned what Republicans and terfs have honed to a fine talent: keep people fighting, hold them to a bar they have to constantly make or risk being ostracized, and harass the people who don’t play along into getting out of your sight forever. Sound familiar?

They learned of otherkinity, and particularly fictionkind, because web 3.0 means if something goes viral on one site, it doesn’t just go viral on that site, it makes it to worldwide newspapers and twitter and nobody ever, ever fucking forgets it. They realized the following: “Hey wait, if I’m this character for realsies, not only does it help me deal with the internalized shame I’ve done nothing to actually fix because that takes work, I can also tell these people who draw gross content I don’t like they’re hurting me personally, and that actually sounds credible, and I can shame them into stopping”.

If this is your first time here and that sounds sickening, it damn well should, and I am so, so sorry that any of us had to witness this, and I am more sorry I and everyone else who personally witnessed this didn’t realize what was going on and put a stop to it. I answer asks and browse the tags and clear up misinformation and it isn’t just a genuine desire to help. It’s damage control, and my own way of trying to deal with the guilt of not stopping this. I’m well aware I couldn’t have seen it coming, I was a teenager myself still learning and no one person has that much power. I still feel like I should have done more, and I’ll do what I can to fix what’s within my power to fix.

So back to the story. This all culminates around 2016 or so. Trump wins the election, and every queer person ever knows they’re fucked, and the younger generation’s only ever heard horror stories, never seen actual oppression that this could bring. We’re all scared. We all don’t know what to do. Nobody has any answers or any control over the situation.

So they lash out. They attack others for drawing things they don’t like, for challenging them in literally any way, for asking them to reconsider the vile shit they just said, for so much as defending themselves from the harassment they just got. And when challenged, they yell “But I’m a minor! A literal child! How dare you attack me, clearly you get off on this, you evil pedophile!” and they sling around every insult in the book until one sticks. Pedophile is a pretty good one, so is abuser, and sometimes zoophile works out too. Freak is great, everyone gets right pissed off about it.

The fact that Category A queer elders were called pedophiles and freaks is not a fact they know or care about. The fact that they are quickly making every fandom community super toxic is also not a fact they care about. The fact that the ‘kin community has words and terminology and they actually mean shit, and the fact that they’re spreading misinformation faster than we can keep up with, are not facts they care about.

So they come in, take our terms, make it impossible for us to find new folks. They realize our anger is easily a power trip, because we’re already made fun of, so they get off on the little power they can find and make fun of us too, and then when we get rightfully annoyed and pissed off, they can hide behind being minors.

Then tumblr implements their porn ban, because nobody’s stopping them, because it isn’t profitable to have porn on here. Considering most of the otherkin community, and most fandom communities, are full of adults who do occasionally talk about NSFW things, and the fact that they’re just banning everyone who so much as breathes wrong, this begins the start of a mass exodus, scattering already fragile communities to twitter, pillowfort, dreamwidth, and a few other places. Largely, twitter, where you can’t make a post longer than a snappy comeback and where the algorithm is literally designed to piss you off as much as possible.

So community elders have largely left, because they can’t stand the drama and the pain of what’s happened, and that’s if they didn’t get banned for being kinky furries who do talk about how their kintypes merge with their sexuality. Most community members have also left or stopped talking about being ‘kin, because they get associated with antishippers and toxicity and it’s just not worth it. Those of us who are left get drowned out by misinformation and trolls and wishkin and antishippers who appropriate our terminology because it supports them getting a power trip, and whenever we argue, we get called pedophiles and freaks and worse.

And now there isn’t much left. I hope we get to find a better place. Othercon was a good place to talk about it, I did a whole panel (it’s on Youtube!) about what we want to do about it. But I don’t really have any answers.

But to sum it all up... America’s political climate ultimately culminated in destroying queer spaces, and we survived, and then people who wanted to destroy smaller communities to get on top showed up and we were all but defenseless against something we had never, ever dealt with before on this scale.

One of my twitter mutuals mentioned how kinning and otherkin are now completely separate communities. It’s really the best I can do to keep hoping that continues, until nobody realizes the words are at all connected to each other. It’s the best anyone can hope for, now. I hate it. I hate every part of this. But maybe we can salvage what’s left.

#luteia laments #otherkin #fictionkin #alth #alterhuman #asks #anonymous #long post //#discussions #on community history #on politics #on public relations #commentors feel free to add your own thoughts!#Anonymous

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a-dorin · 4 years

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worth

pairing: commander fox x senator!reader

word count: 709

warnings: angst, mentions of death, mentions of violence, fluff at the end, crying, dealing with grief, teasing

a/n: helllloooo! it’s been a while since i wrote for fox. you can find the full list of prompts here, and let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist! i hope you guys enjoy :))

prompt: “you are more than you think of yourself. you’re everything to me.”

“how could they?”

his voice is to utterly small, twisted grief as you pace about, a hand on your chin. rain falls from flint grey clouds as they linger in the sky, the patter against the viewport unrelenting and unforgiving. your eyes sting, the threat of tears prominent as your gaze flickers over to the viewport, watching as the rain streams down the transparisteel.

“you know politics, fox,” your voice is shaky, “the chancellor is going to stop at nothing to get what he wants. the rest of them just want to capitalize off the war. there is a good portion of senators who would rather send battalions of clones off to fight rather than their own--”

“so sending thousands of my brothers off to die is worth the price of victory?”

swiveling on your heel, your heart nearly splits into two.

he’s perched on your desk, arms folded across his chest. his head is hung low, the glisten of tears falling from his cheeks, splattering onto his armor. droplets of rain hang loosely in his curls, as it was a trek to reach your office from his station. there’s a quiet hiccup from his throat, gloved hands shielding his face seconds later.

crossing over to him, you wrap your arms around his frame, resting your chin on his head. under your touch, he comes completely undone, the sobs erupting. it’s a shattered wail, the sound of mourning. almost as if his bottled up grief was spilling out of him, flowing from his tattered heart.

“fox,” you choke back your own tears, “fox, it’s okay.”

“it’s not though,” he whimpers, burying his head into your chest, “it only proves what they all think of us. we’re all so disposable. we’re worthless.”

“don’t even--”

“we are though,” resentment floods his tone, “we were created in a lab on kamino to be these worthless beings who only lived to fight in a war. all of the senators live these luxe and lavish lives, drinking wine and laughing and clinking glasses over beautiful dinners. meanwhile, my brothers are out on distant planets, fighting tooth and nail, desperate to live another minute. my brothers will come back, haunted by the terrors of what they encountered, only to be reminded that we’re at the mercy of republic. that we’re only worth a few minutes of a fight.”

“fox,” you murmur, fingers brushing his heated cheeks as you tilt his head upward, “listen to me, please.”

mocha depths, filled to the brim with distress, soften when they meet your own eyes, his muscles relaxing as the pad of your thumb wipes away a stray tear. your statement seemed to have pulled him from his despair, for just a moment. he clears his throat, the words raspy, yet clear.

“your voice alone is worth listening to, cyar’ika.”

leaning in, you press your forehead against his, “you are more than you think of yourself. you’re everything to me.”

a hand wraps around the nape of your neck, tenderly squeezing the flesh, “you are everything to me too, my love. i am aware you may have some associates who do support the--”

“anyone who believes that your brothers are disposable are no friends of mine,” you shake your head, “you, and all of your brothers, deserve rights, fox. senator amidala and i will keep going with everything in us to make that happen.”

“i have no doubt that you won’t stop either,” a soft chuckle rumbles in his throat, “you know, i do like spectating when you have the floor. it’s very sexy.”

“it is not--” you protest.

“don’t worry,” his lips twitch into an amused smirk as you begin to pout, “i’ll make sure to come to the next senate meeting. i’ll make sure you know i’m there too.”

“please don’t, i’ll probably be a flustered mess-”

“you don’t want me to watch you verbally assault the other senators?” bliss bubbles within you as you watch a broad grin envelop his features, his aura brightening.

“no,” you mumble, rolling your eyes playfully.

“hey cyar’ika,” leather grazes your cheek, heart skipping a beat.

“hmm?” you hum, lashes fluttering as warmth radiates from the material.

“let me give you a kiss to show you how much you’re worth to me.”

☆ ☆ ☆ ☆ ☆

taglist: @fandom-gal44 @dexthtoyounglings @xcertaindarkthingsx @idiotonanadventure @pinkwhorecrux @letitrainathousandflames @maiaofmischief @laorme34 @vinciwolf @catsnkooks @starflyer-104

#star wars #commander fox #commander fox x reader #star wars x reader #fox #the clone wars #fox x reader #fox fluff #commander fox fluff #angst #cc-1010

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schmokschmok · 4 years

Text

star dust imprints on her waiting skin

I'm really happy to finally share the pinch hit I wrote for @avatar-rarepair-exchange-2021 for @loopy777, I had so much fun writing this!

Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender

Relationship: Azula x Yue

Characters: Azula, Yue, Zuko

Wordcount: 5100 (17 Triple Drabble)

Tags:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Arranged Marriage

POV Second Person

Summary:

This is the stranger you’re supposed to marry. The princess presented to your father as your equal. The girl you have never seen before.

aka: The politically motivated engagement of Yue and Azula that soft-boils Azula's heart over the course of several years. (5 facts disguised as secrets that Yue shares with Azula, + 1 secret disguised as fact that Azula keeps for herself.)

Read on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186226

Translation into German available: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231442

CN: Food, Toxic Relationships (Azula and her father)

You straighten your back before your father can reprimand your posture. Your pointy shoecaps point towards the door, and you clasp your hands behind your back to keep you from fiddling. They dressed you in your finest garbs, pulled your hair back into a perfect knot. It was your mother who crowned you princess with a sharp needle and golden hair ornaments. The incarnation of royal poise confined in the flesh and bone of your nine-year-old body.

They talk about contracts, safeguard, and tributes. They talk about localities and modalities, about peoples and connections. They talk about alliances, coalescences, and loyalty. – What they’re not talking about is you.

Zuko and you are stood unmoving behind your parents and their advisors, feet aching and fingers twitching for safe ground. He doesn’t reach for your hand, and you don’t reach for his, but you wished he were closer to you every time your eyes fall upon the white-haired girl on the other side of the negotiating table who doesn’t lift her head a single time to meet your gaze. You just want an allied soul in this room that can soothe the fire in your veins that flares up again and again and again as you examine the straight line of her shoulders; as your gaze falls upon the blue of her clothes and the brown of her boots; as her name is dropped as little as yours.

You can’t do anything other than look at her. Not only because she’s in your direct line of vision but also because you hope you can read your future in her clasped hands, star dust imprints on her waiting skin.

This is the stranger you are to marry. The princess presented to your father as your equal. The girl you have never seen before.

Your father beckons you to step forward. You’re supposed to bow and not say a word because everything has already been said without you. But perchance you’re able to catch a genuine glimpse of her face. The face of the girl who steps up in all her graceful serenity, fingers wound around an object in front of her body so firmly you can’t even see it up close.

Now she stands right before you and you can see the allusion of a smile on her lips; that small and invisible that no one but you may notice; a conspiratorial smile just for you, a secret between you that no one else is privy to. – You don’t want her intimacy, her conspiracy, but yet you answer by swallowing down the anger and helplessness that spreads through your veins. All that remains is the embers beneath your midriff.

In the hollow of her hands lie a dark ribbon and a blue, cut stone. She bows her head, avoiding your gaze and stretching out her hands, she’s offering you a necklace, and you don’t know if it would be justified to reach for it, so you reach for her hands instead and bring them to your neck, although everything in you rebels against the thought of strange hands on your vulnerable throat. But when her touch, as she puts the necklace on your neck, is feather-light you seek her gaze in surprise. You can’t find it. She doesn’t stop not looking at you. And as she lets go of the necklace and takes a step back, the weight of the stone brings down the weight of her gift onto your shoulders.

You’ll be married once you’re sixteen, and although your entire life so far is ahead of you, it feels like the end.

In the evening you put the chain on your bedside table, in the morning on your neck, at night it disperses the light of the moon and at noon your will.

Zuko says he’s your father’s heir and that there is no place for you anymore. Zuko says the only place for you is in the midst of ice and snow. Zuko says they’re going to send you away because you’re not getting married, you’re being married off. You, however, know he’s wrong. You know your father would never allow them to send you away. You know your place is on the throne of the Fire Lord and nowhere else.

Ty Lee says it’s so very romantic that you can carry around your fiancée’s promise every day for everyone to see. Ty Lee says it’s so very sensible that the stone was cut just for you, by hands that tried to create the perfect gift for you. Ty Lee says you’re so very lucky that you know what awaits you in your future. You, however, know she’s misguided. You know the stone is your brand mark. You know everyone should be able to see who you really belong to, that you don’t belong here anymore, like Zuko said.

Your mother says it’s alright to be sad. Your mother says you can cry whenever you feel the urge. Your mother says she understands how you feel because she had been in your situation herself before she married Ozai but she’s so very happy now with Zuko and you. You, however, know she’s lying. You know she’s the one who told your father to accept the plea of the Northern Water Tribe. You know she’s the one who doesn’t want you to be here, and that Zuko will end up being right.

They have kuspuk and parka and mukluks ready for you. Thick and lined und far too much too blue. In the clandestineness of your room, you slip into the heavy fabric and you don’t recognise yourself underneath all that winter. Your own eyes stare back out of the mirror but the rest of you that you can see belongs to the fiancée of the princess of the Northern Water Tribe.

Most of the time you’re able to forget what is awaiting you, the heavy necklace an everyday weight, but in moments like this the weight of the world rests on your shoulders. The day you must leave for good is approaching and no amount of hoping and pleading and begging will keep them from sending you away.

“You look like one of them,” Zuko says and in your haste to turn around you trip over the mukluks behind you. Arms crossed in front of his body and head tilted, he watches you struggling with your balance.

He’s about to turn away as if he has been only waiting for a chance to taunt you and disappear, coming away full-handed, but then he pauses and his wandering eye studies your room until it finds its way back to you. Maybe he views the hard line of your mouth as victory, maybe the fur-trimmed hood as triumph. Maybe he wants to bask once more in the realisation that it is you who was wrong; that your mother has achieved all her goals. You must go and Zuko is going to ascend the throne.

Before he finally turns to go, his gaze softens only for a moment, you almost don’t recognise him, and he says: “Blue suits you.” And suddenly, you’re alone again, drowning in a parka made for someone bigger than you.

The seasons pass you by, in reality, however, it is you passing by the landscapes. It doesn’t comfort you, the steady progress of the royal sloop, the constant trampling of the Komodo rhinos, the never-ending roar of the sea you can always hear, feet on board or land. The cold air an incessant memory that you have left the Fire Nation and its heat behind. Proof that it doesn’t matter that you’ve spent your entire life being better and best; that it’s worthless, the word of your father to whom you’ve given all your loyalty; it doesn’t make a difference that you would become heir to the throne if Zuko would misstep because you’ve already gone too far. You’ve reached the outskirts of the Northern Water Tribe and the masses of snow and ice are shining towards you.

From now on, this is to be your home, the place you’re going to live, the realm where you’re merely the consort of the regent. You are made for greater things but Zuko is the one who will end up on the throne because your mother’s care has ensured that you will never attain what you’ve fought for.

It is the first time in your life you will not get what you want; the first time you will have to submit to a decision made against your will; the first time it looks like you will just have to resign yourself to your fate. And your fate is to live out your existence at the North Pole while the cold drives the fire out of your veins.

But the reality is actually this: Your mother is no more and Zuko is gone, but they still didn’t call you back, all three of you were mistaken. You, however, don’t know anything about it.

You miss Mai, Ty Lee and your afternoons in the palace garden. You miss trainings fights and talking behind closed doors about the things Ty Lee and May can’t confide in anybody else. You miss the warm feeling of gratification that spread through the pit of your stomach whenever Mai asked in a low voice: “Don’t tell anyone, Azula, not even Ty Lee.” You miss the intoxicating feeling of sprinkling barely decipherable hints of all their secrets into conversations, always bordering on revelation. You miss the feeling of being needed, of being in control, of not being alone.

At the North Pole, you’re lonely, an oil lamp amidst arctic wind.

Sometimes you’re lonely together with Yue. Lonely because she doesn’t belong to you but to the Northern Water Tribe; expressions of loyalty would be nothing but hollow phrases. Together because sometimes she looks at you as if wants to whisper soft words meant only for your ears. But most of the time she blinks decidedly and averts her gaze from you as if she had just noticed who’s sitting in front of her. (That you’re sitting in front of her.)

(Sometimes you wonder what Yue could confide in you. You wonder what secrets lie dormant in a person like Princess Yue; what feelings and thoughts, that she wouldn’t share with anyone else, are hidden behind her superficially polite words; what vulnerabilities are buried beneath her introspective smile and kind eyes. You wonder how far you would have to dig to reveal what is hidden inside her. But most of the time you are preoccupied dealing with the anger that is constantly threatening to burn its way out of you that you can’t concentrate on anything but breathing in and breathing out and breathing away all the need for rash action.

The first secret she confides in you isn’t really a secret, it’s a “this one is my room, don’t hesitate to knock if you need anything, doesn’t matter the time of day” and an imploring “no matter when” as you walk past Yue’s door. But it feels like a secret, in this residence where every ice pillar looks the same and where, on some days, you can barely find your own room (which is not far from hers).

You try to think as little as possible about the fact that you now know the place where she is most vulnerable, because there can only be one reason why Yue has taken this step towards you: She is trying to gain a strategic advantage by laying the groundwork to be able to extract information from you without you seeing through her game. It doesn’t matter that you find yourself at her door on bad days, hand only moments away from knocking, because the thing is: Yue is not the only one capable of coming up with a game plan – a battle plan, really – and you’re tired of waiting for the situation to change on its own; tired of waiting for your father to finally bring you back home; tired of being passive and deedless and waiting. You want to finally take action, and maybe the only way to achieve that goal is to beat Yue at her own game; even if that means taking different paths than you’re used to go. (You know what your father would ask of you to win Azulon over. And how difficult could it be to conquer a princess that has already laid claim to you far too long ago? You can be perfect for her, you think, doesn’t take too much effort. A cinch, really.)

“I’ve never been interested in card games,” you say in way of greeting, your shoulder leaning against the doorframe and the offer of peace in your voice. Yue winces, visibly taken off-guard by your appearance. “My strength has always been more in Hide and Explode and the shell game.”

For a moment, her fingers fiddle with the Water Four she was about to place on the second pile from the left. Then she places the card next to the board and indicates for you to enter.

Your shoes almost slip on the ice, but you carry it off well that the floor catches you unprepared in unsuspecting moments and throws you off balance.

As you sit with her on the carpet in front of her bed, she says: “Usually, I play Pai Sho.” For a moment you’re reminded of Uncle Iroh, whom you have seen playing Pai Sho so many times but who never offered you teach you – just as he never wanted to teach you generating lightning. (You took up the lightning, discarding the Pai Sho.)

“I’ve never played Pai Sho,” you retort, while you can’t believe that a first opportunity to gain her trust presented itself so quickly and so obviously (a mundane opportunity, but you’re patient. This is your road to the throne, albeit the wrong one), and you swallow your anger at Iroh.

“Oh,” Yue says quietly. “I can show you how it’s played.” She makes no move to stand up. “But you’ll have to do something for me in return, all right?” A conspiratorial smile spreads across her lips; a smile you have seen before, and you brace yourself for the worst. But you do nod determinedly. “You gonna explain to me what Hide and Explode is.”

This will be even easier than you expected.

The second secret she confides in you is not necessarily a secret either, but you let it pass as one because it means moving a step forward. You sit outside the palace and she explains the rules of Ice Marbles, which, unlike Pai Sho, seems like something you might actually enjoy. (You’re good at Pai Sho, a natural-born strategist, but little comes close to the sweet satisfaction of a victory evoked by a game in which you had to really put yourself out.)

Her hand cups yours as she corrects your grip, and you concentrate all your strength on simply accepting her feather-light touch. (You remember the first time she touched you, you feel the stone on your neck, making you much less of an outcast here.)

“Since you’ve arrived,” Yue says suddenly, without taking her hand from yours, “I wonder how on earth it’s possible that you don’t freeze.” She looks at your red and black coat, clearly not designed for North Pole temperatures.

You stare at the marble in your hand and reply: “Fire.”

The temperature of your fingers increases, and with the melting of the ice marble, Yue pulls her hand away to avoid burning her skin on yours. You regret a little that you didn’t tease the same indignant reaction out of Yue that Zuko would have displayed in this situation. But you also don’t expect her to say in a low, concerned voice: “You must be awfully hungry from all that bending.”

She doesn’t ask why you’re still dressed in the thin coats of the Fire Nation and not the warm parkas of the Water Tribe, even though so much time has passed by. Instead, she shows you the way into the kitchen and the best way to obtain a midnight snack without getting caught.

#10

Your hot fingers bend metal, that was once a necklace of yours, into a new shape and you wonder what exactly it is you are doing here. Or rather: You know exactly what you are doing, but you cannot explain why you are doing it.

For years, the betrothal necklace around your neck hasn’t felt as heavy as it did when you were still in the Fire Nation, and by now you know the necklaces are given away by the courting to the courted. You know that wearing the necklace marks you as courted, as ensnared, as smitten, and you’re so very tired of seeing Yue’s bare neck peeking out of the collar of her parka. You’re not the kind of person whose benevolence is ensured without wearing your sign, too. Showing your allegiance so very publically when Yue’s not also constantly reminded that you’re not the only one who belongs to someone else.

So, you sit in the snow, wrapped in your coat and focusing your full attention on the gentle, precise bending of the metal to make a pendant for the red ribbon you pulled from another one of your necklaces. (You have no use for all the jewellery they bestowed upon you when you were forced to leave. There is only one necklace left for you to wear until you’re married.)

You dip the pendant into the snow to smother the glow and you look at the teardrop shaped thing into which you still have to engrave flames to avoid any confusion about who Yue is belonging to.

(In the end they look more like churning waves, you’re not an artist by any means, but Yue’s smile is so frighteningly genuine and so surprisingly infectious that you don’t mind it as you put the necklace on her.)

#11

The third secret she confides in you may not be a deep, dark secret but it must be enough to reassure you that you are on the right track.

“I know a spot,” Yue said before she led you outside late at night and posited you right behind her on a polar bear dog. You rode for quite a while and, after she asked you to, you actually kept your eyes closed. (You tell yourself that you did it because you want to convey to her that you trust her, so she can completely and utterly hand herself over to you. But she has never given you any reason not to trust her, hasn’t she?)

Suddenly, the polar bear dog halts and you feel Yue lowering herself from its back to the ground. You pause until you feel her hand rest on your thigh, the back of her hand facing down, the inner palm turned up so you can put yours into hers so she can help you down.

“All right,” Yue says after leading you away from the polar bear dog. She stops you and turns you in another direction, then, without letting go of your hand, she says: “You can open your eyes now.”

And as you open your eyes, the vastness of the cold tundra and the polar light stretching above hits you right in the heart. You feel so small and overwhelmed that only Yue’s hand in yours can stop you from turning back to the polar bear dog and fleeing. (You’ve never felt like this before, and you don’t know how to deal with so many feelings that aren’t anger or defiance or spite.)

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Yue asks softly, and you can’t help but look at her out of the corner of your eye.

#12

The only reason you came back to the place she showed you was because you wanted to be alone. Truly and utterly alone. Just a few precious hours without another living creature, while the North Pole sleeps and you can be finally in your own element again. (The constant control of your own body temperature and the perpetual cold drains you because there is so much more inside you that isn’t allowed to come out.)

You stole a midnight snack from the kitchen and wolfed half of it down before shaking out your limbs and stretching them.

Everything in Agna Qel’a is made of ice and you can’t afford to lose the goodwill of the city by melting its infrastructure or damaging a few buildings. So you must use the empty expanse of the tundra to scratch the itch inside of you; to finally get back to doing what you were born to do.

At first your joints feel unwieldy and frozen, as if you’ve never bend fire in your life, but the longer you twist and turn across the ice, the smoother your movements become, until eventually you feel as if you’ve never done anything else in your life. Laboured breathing, you slip your coat off your shoulders, your upper arms and face steaming in the cold. As you stretch your arms above your head to stretch the muscles in your shoulders, you suddenly hear a voice you didn’t expect: “That was beautiful.”

Surprised, you turn to Yue, whose hand clasps the reins of a polar bear dog. You reply slowly: “Firebeding is powerful.”

Yue shakes her head and it almost looks like she is smiling at you as she says: “No, what I mean is: It looked beautiful.” And you don’t know what to do with that statement.

#13

It’s the Avatar.

The damned Avatar is at the North Pole and you don’t know what to do. (Or rather: You know very well what would be expected of you. You know that if you father knew about the Avatar, he would expect you to report to him without hesitation. You know that he would expect you to put a quick end to the Avatar. And you could, because he is so young and so inexperienced and so powerless that it would be easy for you to overpower him. But why should you do what your father expects of you? Why, after all this time of not hearing a word from him beyond the order to report back, should you do what he asks of you? You have waited so long for him to explain to you why he left you alone. You have waited so long for him to take you back and tell you that it was just a gambit to give you the space you deserve. You waited so long and were disappointed).

(And then there’s Yue, who doesn’t want to hide from you that the Avatar is at the North Pole; who looks into your eyes with vulnerable, brittle faith and tells you not to tell anyone; who begs you to keep quiet, even though she knows your father would demand otherwise).

The damned Avatar is at the North Pole and you don’t know what to do. (And you remain silent, just as your father remained silent when you had to leave the Fire Nation. And you stay silent because you have to gain Yue’s trust after your father lost yours. And you just watch the Avatar becoming stronger and stronger, because he’s going to affect your father in a way you could never possibly have).

#14

The moment you realise that your loyalties cannot lie with your family and the Northern Water Tribe comes in the form of General Zhao laying siege to your city. (It is the first time you think of Agna Qel’a as your city; feel Agna Qel’a as your city). You must decide which side you’ll extravert.

This acknowledgement should not be difficult for you, even though your father is everything you have ever lived for. But still you stand rooted to the spot in a pile of snow and cannot lift a finger. Everything inside you freezes and you can only watch as Zhao makes his way to the oasis.

Your heart wanders reluctantly to Yue, who asks you in a trembling voice to support the Avatar and help the Northern Water Tribe; who desperately grabs your hand and asks you urgently if you are on the same side.

(Are you on the same side? So far you have only ever been on your side and the side you would share with other people has always had to be yours. Mai and Ty Lee have been on your side and you’ve been kind of on your father’s side. But now it’s different, now everything is different, and maybe it’s time to take a side that you’ve chosen all by yourself).

“General Zhao,” you call out with all the potency in your voice, and you surprise yourself. Even though you live at the North Pole and no longer have the same power as before, you are still his princess and he must do as you ask. “What do you think you are doing? Whose orders do you think you are acting on?” And with that, your battle lines are drawn and you are not sure how you found yourself on this side.

#15

The fifth and final secret she confides in you sounds like the greatest revelation Yue is capable of.

You sit together in the middle of the tundra, five-fingered gloves and thick parkas with fur-trimmed hoods protecting you from the icy cold of the wind. The only other creature in sight is the polar bear dog on which you sneaked out of town.

“Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone before?” Yue asks quietly, without looking at your face. You brace yourself for her to tell you something that will somehow move you forward, that will tell you how to finally take another step further.

When she doesn’t continue, you encourage her to keep talking: “Sure. Go on.”

“When I became old enough to be inducted into political business,” Yue begins, and you perk up, because until now you’ve been kept out of most political matters, because as the princess’s consort you don’t have the right to participate in the conversations and discussions, “my father forbade me to keep on penguin sledding with the other children because it wouldn’t be appropriate for me to do so. But I still sneaked out one time at night because I couldn’t stop myself.” A blush spreads across her cheeks that you’ve never seen on her before, you almost don’t recognise her.

“Penguin sledding,” you repeat, bewilderment creeping into your voice. (You were expecting a mystery to match the abysses of yours, but this one is so far from your understanding of what mystery truly is that you can’t stop yourself from laughing a little.)

Her cheeks turn even redder and she tries to hide her face from your gaze as she embarrassingly exclaims “Yes!”, which makes you laugh a little more. Suddenly you are no longer sure if you remember the plan.

#16

The scroll in your hands looks as if you had never opened it, only the broken seal proves that you know the contents. You look at Yue, who is sitting on the carpet in front of her bed, and you say: “I must pack.”

Frowning in surprise, Yue asks: “What?”

“My father wrote to me,” you reply, then hand Yue the scroll so she can read for herself that your father is ordering your intervention in the doings of Iroh and Zuko.

Her eyes dance frantically over his words and with strained disbelief in her voice she asks: “And now you must pack?”

“I must pack and begin to search,” you declare, your thoughts already half buried in a map of the world.

Yue sighs sea-bottom-deep before she can stop herself, noting: “You must obey his command, for your people, I understand.”

You snort, and the laughter that falls from your lips afterwards could almost be about Yue if it wasn’t so damn entertaining that it doesn’t matter how much time people spend with you because they fail over and over again at being able to read you.

“I must find the Avatar to teach him firebending,” you retort mockingly. There is nothing in this world that edges you on as much as malice and invidiousness and the mere gratification of doing something out of spite. (To your father, not to just anyone. The days he could enjoy your unquestioned loyalty are over. You want your throne, and the Avatar is the only one who can make it happen).

“I’ll come with you,” Yue says suddenly, already standing on her feet, and you can’t explain the warm feeling that spreads through your entire body. After all, you didn’t ask her to come.

You say: “Good.” And she smiles at you.

#17

The boat Yue has organised for you is small and wooden and not at all meant for royal travellers in its sheer simplicity, but it will have to suffice to find the Avatar who is supposed to be in the Earth Kingdom. Yue has brought on board two waterbenders for your plan, who will not rat you out to Arnook (because they love Yue; a nonbender who is not even trained in combat, but who is so close to their hearts that they see nothing wrong with doing anything for her, even if their chief would not agree) and who are trained in steering boats.

You take one last look at the illuminated palace that has been your … home for the last few years, even if the thought doesn’t necessarily bring the same kind of comfort as knowing Yue at your side. (Yue, who, without questioning your motivation, has been immediately willing to do anything for her people, and thus somehow for you; who, in all your time at the North Pole, you haven’t had to convince of yourself in the same way as Mai and Ty Lee and your father, and in whom you can sometimes recognise parts of your mother that she only revealed to Zuko, but never to you).

“You want to tell them to put out to sea?” Yue asks, after checking her bag one last time to make sure she has packed everything. She has let you tie her hair into a topknot, and if it weren’t for the Water Tribe symbol on the medallion she has attached to it, you could easily mistake her for a Fire Nation princess.

You shake your head. “You do it.”

And then you reach for her hand and together you board the boat. Your journey is just beginning.

#schmok writes #avatar: the last airbender #azula x yue #fanfiction #atla rare pair exchange 2021 #atla

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realityhelixcreates · 4 years

Text

Dance of the Spheres Chapter 3: Mercurian Merengue

Chapters: 3/?

Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG 13

Warnings: drugging, kidnapping, forced marriage

Characters: Loki(Marvel),

Additional Tags: Loki Goes Overboard, But When Doesn’t Loki go Overboard, Mature Reader, Disabled Reader, Political Intrigue

Summary:

Starlight

I will be chasing a starlight

For the rest of my life

I don’t know if it’s worth it anymore

Our hopes and expectations

Black holes and revalations

Muse-Starlight

You awoke in tremendous pain. That wasn't actually too unusual; you'd run out of your pain medication recently, and hadn't had the money to refill your prescription. It was far worse today though, and you groaned. It felt as if you had been dragged backwards down a flight of stairs.

You were having a hard time moving, like you were trying to swim through thick mud. Limbs heavy, and bones feeling like plastic, you rolled onto your side.

You were still wearing your leg. Weird. You almost never fell asleep with that thing on anymore. You must have had one hell of a night. Where had you been?

That's right! Your spineless boss had fired you. Fuck. Had you gotten wasted or something?

No.

No, those G-men had nabbed you! They drugged you with something. No wonder you were so sore and groggy: You were wasted, and those assholes had probably handled you like a sack of potatoes. You were likely covered in bruises now.

You slowly pried your eyes open to be met with an unfamiliar, dimly lit room, mostly unfurnished and uniform. There were no windows, but two doors; one open and leading to what appeared to be a restroom, and one closed.

There was an end table next to you that looked to be made of stone, with shelves carved into it. A cup of water and a plate with apple slices rested atop it. You were suddenly overtaken with hunger and thirst, having no idea how long you'd been asleep. You snatched up a slice of apple and stuffed it in your mouth, swinging your legs over the side of the bed.

The bed was also made of stone, though covered with a soft mattress and warm blankets. You didn't see your cane anywhere. The bastards probably left it in the alley. You leaned against the wall instead. It was also stone, as was the floor. Everything in the room, in fact, aside from the apple, water, mattress, pillow, and blankets, was made of stone blocks, flawlessly smooth and perfect. It was a creamy gray-white mostly, with a line of pale orange blocks at about hip level.

The light came from hidden fixtures, affixed into the walls near the ceiling, covered with what appeared to be carved panels of cloudy crystal. It was lovely, and very foreign.

Where were you? You shoved more apple in your mouth, and took a swig of the water.

How odd. The apple was truly delicious, better than any you'd ever had. The water tasted of absolutely nothing. The room also smelled of nothing, nor did the hospital gown you realized you were wearing. You had been changed while you slept. Distressing.

You sat back down on the bed and ate. The apple was gone all too soon, but you were still hungry. That was nothing new. In your life, sometimes it came down to medical expenses or food. At least you'd had an apple and a cup of water. In a situation as uncertain as this, you would be glad to have had it.

But why were you here? Those two men had kidnapped you, for sure, but to what end? What for? Because you were an agitator? You'd heard stories recently about community organizers being targeted, grabbed off the streets and tossed into vans, or yanked from their own homes in the middle of the night. You weren't important like that though. You didn't organize, you just marched. You had no power, no voice, no following. You just marched. You'd borne the brunt of police brutality along with thousands of your fellows across the country, but it wasn't as if anybody knew your name.

Why had they taken you? And so violently? So brazenly? What did they want from you?

There was a light knock at the door, and you jumped in surprise, toppling over with a curse. Two people rushed into the room, and to your side, expressing concern. You flailed at them, trying to bat them away until you realized they were attempting to help you. You allowed them to haul you to the bed and sat yourself down.

“Who are you?” You demanded. “What do you want from me?”

They were children, basically. A girl and boy, teenagers. The boy had a basket on his back.

“I'm Bjarkhilde. This is Andvarri. I am an apprentice healer, and he is an artificer.”

“I've come to measure your leg, my lady.” Andvarri said politely, setting his basket on the stone end table. “We intend to make you a new one. Lighter, more functional.”

“M-my leg? A new leg? Why?” This was baffling. Why kidnap you, just to send children to see to your medical needs? “No...No. Don't touch me. What do you actually want? Who do you work for?”

The teenagers glanced at each other in clear confusion.

“We work for...the healers? And the artificers?” Bjarkhilde said.

“And ultimately the Crown?”

“What crown? What do you want? I said don't touch me! Get away from me! I'm not giving you anything!” You snapped, slapping their hands away.

Bjarkhilde grabbed Andvarri and his basket.

“We should come back later.” She said, dragging him back out the door.

It was fine. You didn't trust them. They worked for whoever had kidnapped you. You didn't owe them the time of day.

You didn't even know the time of day.

The outburst had left you worn out, that and all the sudden movement, and whatever drug was left in your system. You sat back down on the bed, head swimming. Were there guards outside the door? It didn't seem to be locked. Maybe you could find a nurse and ask for help.

You hobbled to the door, out into the hallway. But the sudden brightness of the lights out there hit you like a punch in the head, and you stumbled.

Someone caught you before your face smashed on the stone floor.

“Careful love.” That someone said. You blinked, eyes dazzled. “You might not be in the right shape for exertion just yet.” The voice was low, and carried the echo of a growl, but no anger. Whoever it was lifted you effortlessly into his arms, and carried you back to the stone bed and the dim light.

“Oh, you've already eaten the whole thing.” He said. He must have meant the apple. “That was faster than I expected. I would have liked to feed it to you myself, but...Oh well. This will speed things along, though it might be more unpleasant than it would have been if you'd eaten it over the course of a few days.”

“What are you talking about?” You demanded. He had taken a seat on the stone block end table, a crow against the creamy walls. Or maybe a magpie, as he was pale about the face and hands, but black accented with green everywhere else.

“I've given you a gift.” he said with a little smile, but gave no other information.

You scooted to the opposite side of the bed.

“Where am I?”

He blinked, the smile fading. “You are in Asgard, of course.”

The words almost slid off of you, they were so ridiculous. Asgard? Asgard was a mystery. It barely existed. It was nothing more than a collection of cosmic refugees who had been granted land to rebuild by the U.N.-but no one seemed to know where. No one was reporting new neighbors building alien architecture. No extraterrestrials were walking into local coffee shops after a long day of work. No one even knew where they could be. Even the remotest islands could be contacted, even Antarctica could be seen on Google Maps. But the greater public had found nothing.

The Asgardians had a spaceship that came for supplies every now and then, but it seemed to have some kind of invisibility device, because as soon as it lifted above the clouds, it would disappear, undetectable by telescope or radar, to fly off to whatever secret stronghold they had been granted. No one was able to trace its movements back to its home.

It made sense, of course. If Asgard wasn't hidden, they would be plagued constantly, by curious humans, by horny humans, by worshipful humans, by hateful humans, by vengeful humans. Asgard was a source of great controversy. The people of the God-Hero Thor, greatly beloved and celebrated. But also the people of the Mad Conqueror Loki, loathed and feared. What if more of these Asgardians turned out to be like him? That was the great worry of most of Asgard's detractors. What if there were more Lokis? Even though Loki had been declared dead years ago, what if he had a following?

“Why am I in Asgard? Why did you kidnap me?”You demanded. What could Asgard possibly want with you? It made no sense at all.

The magpie's eyebrows were practically beetled now. “Kidnapped? You were kidnapped? By whom?”

“What do you mean 'by whom'? By you! Your goons!”

“I don't have goons! And I didn't authorize any kidnapping! I thought it was just some Earth custom!”

“Earth custom? Custom for what? Why could Asgard possibly want some drugged out woman? Wait, are you after human slaves?”

“No!”

“You are, aren't you? Well guess what, fucker; you got fleeced. Whatever you paid for me, it was too much! I'm completely worthless!” You yanked up the hem of your hospital gown. “Check that out, eh? No leg! And on top of that, I'm incredibly disagreeable! No friends! No cheery personality! Totally worthless. Good job, asshole! You're getting nothing outta me!”

“Don't say that.” He said, rounding the bed. You scooted back to the other side.

“Sucks to be robbed, doesn't it?” You taunted.

“No, don't say you're worthless. You're not worthless!” He insisted.

“You don't know that. You don't know anything about me.”

“I know you are strong and resilient. You walk on a leg that isn't there, like an Asgardian warrior. Are you in pain? Please, we can make medicine for you. Let me help you!”

“You just stay over there!” You pointed at him, as if to keep him at arm's length. It worked too; he came no closer than the end of your fingertip. “If I'm not a slave, then I've got rights. You owe me big time, buster! You owe me answers!”

“Anything you want.” He said, hands up in front of him in a placating gesture.

“Alright. We'll start with...Who are you?”

He gave you an absolutely dumbfounded look.

“You don't know? How can you not know? Did they tell you nothing?”

“I already said I was kidnapped! You think I had a nice conversation with them?”

He shook his head, disbelieving. “Something is very wrong. Please, will you tell me what happened? From your perspective.”

“My perspective? Hmph.” This guy was acting so clueless, it was almost insulting. “From my perspective, I went into work in the morning, and by noon, I'd been fired. My boss said it was because of my arrest record, but it wasn't.”

“Arrest record?” Now he sounded scandalized.

“It was bullshit. I was at a march a couple months ago, and one of the cops sent to break it up shoved past me and tripped on some garbage. Started shouting that I'd knocked him down. Me! He dropped me on my ass and started hitting me with my own cane. Right up until my leg came off, which I guess startled him, because he stopped doing it. His buddies still came over and arrested me. Against the law to get my own ass beat, I guess. They let me go the next day, because there were a thousand phones on them and the video was everywhere, from all angles. Still had to fight to get my leg and cane back. Damn cane was a little bent since then, but it's gone now.”

The man simply stared at you, expression of shocked outrage stretching his features.

“Your lawkeepers attacked you for no reason?”

“Oh no, there was absolutely a reason. To send a message. 'You aren't people, and we will hurt you to keep it that way'. They've been sending that message for decades, but they've really ramped it up over the past couple presidential administrations.”

“Unacceptable.”

“True. But it's a lie. That's not why I got fired, or else it would have happened after I was released. No, I was fired because two MIBs came in and said so.”

“MIBs?” The mans slowly growing confusion was reaching his voice now, driving it upward.

“Men in Black. Nameless, no I.D. government agents, meant to be secret and interchangeable. They came in about lunchtime and pressured my boss to fire me. And he caved fast.”

“The spineless wretch!”

“That's what I thought too! Lower and middle management are a bunch of wet noodles. Mouthpieces. So I grabbed my stuff and left. That bitch Betty smirking the whole way.”

“Betty?”

“Don't worry about her; her kids are all gonna leave and never talk to her again as soon as they turn eighteen. But those sleazy G-men stalked me, and dragged me into an alley, and drugged me. And then I woke up here. In...Asgard? You said Asgard, but why? Why would anyone in Asgard wanna kidnap me? I'm no one worth kidnapping. I'm not even worth selling, especially not to some fairy tale kingdom. Why am I here? Tell me why I'm here!”

The strange magpie man had slowly sunk down to sit on the opposite end of the bed-still at arms length-and picked at his palms, staring down at them like he was about to cry.

“This is terribly wrong.” He said quietly. “It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I don't understand. This was a clear attempt at reconciliation, a grand opportunity to form powerful links between our peoples. Why sabotage that? Why do this? You are not even related to your nation's ruler, are you?”

“We don't have a ruler!” You insisted. “We have a temporary leader who is supposed to be democratically elected! I don't care what that guy thinks, we are going to keep fighting his takeover at every turn! And no, I'm not related to that dictator wannabe, I think I'd die of shame!”

“I see...so it was a sham from the beginning. I have been duped by your shame leader. I, of all people. And what of you, my dear? Caught up in all this, without any choice of your own. But it's already done. I can't take it back now. What terrible situation have we put you in?”

“That's what I'd like to know.” You said. He sounded remorseful, but he still hadn't answered your questions. “Who are you, and what is all this about?”

“My dear. My poor, sweet dear. I am so sorry. I can't undo it now. Please, please, I know this may come as a shock, but please do not be afraid.”

“Way too late.”

“I know. I know. I'm sorry.” He stood, formal and imposing. “My name is Loki; I am the Crown Prince of Asgard. And I asked not for a slave, but for a bride.”

#danceofthespheres #loki (marvel)#loki x reader

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alirhi · 3 years

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I don't know why I'm even still posting these here...

Title: Winter's Frost Chapter: 23/? Fandom: MCU Rating: R to be on the safe side Pairing: Loki/Bucky Summary: Loki never told anyone the real reason he became so obsessed with Midgard. Much better to let them think he wanted to hurt his brother than draw their attention to the one thing in the universe that makes the God of Mischief truly vulnerable.

The best thing the Avengers did was not force Loki and Bucky to sit through yet another 'are you sure? No, like, really, totally sure?' debate when they brought Fury up to speed. At Thor's request, Loki pinned Fury in place and dug through his mind. Once he was satisfied that the squawking, agitated spy really had nothing to do with HYDRA, he nodded to the others and walked away.

"Okay, what did I miss? I don't remember approving the addition of a mass murderer to the Avengers."

"I'm definitely not on Team Loki, but just for the sake of accuracy – I'm pretty sure at least half the members of this team you did put together have racked up a higher body count. Each."

Loki smiled to himself, but didn't pause to listen to the rest of the argument he knew was starting. The Avengers didn't trust him, not yet, but Thor and Bucky did, and Rogers trusted Bucky while the others more or less trusted Thor. The truce among them was tenuous at best, but at least they were willing to try. Disinterested in their politics, he returned to the suite Stark had somewhat grudgingly provided him and his beloved with until things could be sorted out.

"Can he be trusted?"

"No," Loki answered simply as he sank into Bucky's lap and kissed him. "But he didn't know about HYDRA, and he's willing to stand against them."

Bucky smiled, combing his fingers through the other man's long hair. "Good start, I guess. 'The enemy of my enemy' and all that..."

"So much debate and bureaucracy," he lamented, rolling his eyes. "I wonder if it wouldn't be better if I just tracked the things down myself and brought them back."

"It would certainly be faster," Bucky admitted with a shrug, "but I dunno about better. I know they're all 'just humans' but I still don't love the idea of you poofing into enemy territory with no backup."

Loki grinned, trying not to laugh. "'Poofing'?"

"'Teleporting' has twice as many syllables and I'm lazy. Deal with it." His ageless soldier grinned as well, but it was short-lived. "They're bound to have those things under heavy guard, aren't they? I'd really rather you have a team at your back if you're gonna go after them."

Opting not to tell his mostly-heterosexual love what a 'pouf' was, Loki let the joke die and shook his head, focusing on the matter at hand. "Do you really think they'll bring either of us along when they finally reach something akin to consensus on what to do?"

A playful grin that reminded him so much of their time together in the 40s lit up Bucky's pretty face. "I think watching them try to stop us will be funny as hell."

Loki chuckled and the two settled into a companionable silence for a while, each lost in his own private thoughts. He just barely felt Bucky tracing little invisible patterns up and down his arm and, with a smile, changed from the suit he'd been wearing into a tee shirt. Something about just being able to feel Bucky's skin brushing against his own was so comforting. They'd had so little time since Siberia to simply be together like this; to reconnect and get to know one another again. They weren't the same men who had fallen into an unexpected, all-consuming whirlwind romance nearly seventy years earlier. When the dust settled, would the connection they'd formed before all this upheaval still be there?

"Do you feel trapped?"

The soldier's voice was so soft and timid, Loki almost thought he'd imagined it, but the briefest glance at his handsome face dispelled that notion. He smirked, shaking his head. "No, Stark can't keep me here. I'm sure by now he knows that. Why, do you?"

Bucky shook his head, still looking troubled. "That's not what I meant. It just occurred to me... I just remembered when you told me you could shapeshift; turn into a woman, if you wanted, among other things. I guess I thought I was being romantic, or whatever... I definitely thought I was being kind..."

"I sometimes did, then," he explained softly as he caught on to what his love was having so much trouble putting into words. "But it wasn't because of you. It was kind of you to say what you did-" With a half-hearted smile, he nudged him, pleased to receive a slightly less strained smile in return. "-And quite romantic. With all that you were struggling with, to have you brush off the offer of something akin to normalcy and say you loved me regardless very nearly brought me to tears."

"Why did you feel trapped, if that wasn't it?"

Sighing, Loki dropped his head onto Bucky's shoulder and cuddled a bit closer. "Because of Odin, and Thor, and... everyone but Mother and Sigyn, really. What little respect I ever managed to pry from them vanished like smoke in the wind as soon as one of them saw my female form. Then I was back to being a joke; the pitiful clown who would never be a 'real man.' Certainly never a warrior."

"So Sigyn has seen that side of you?" He could hear the teasing smile in Bucky's voice, and relief eased the tension in his muscles that he hadn't until then been aware of.

Answering his tone rather than his words, Loki drawled, "Yes, you juvenile pervert, we've made love while I was in my female form, as well."

"I thought you swore you'd never read my mind."

He laughed and kissed Bucky's neck, loving the way it made the man beneath him shiver. "I didn't have to. I 'read' your tone."

Snorting, Bucky kissed his jaw. "Alright, fair enough. So... do you still feel trapped now?"

Loki shook his head. "Once I learned of my true heritage – well, once I had a moment to think and grasp what it meant – it sort of brought things into sharper focus for me. I stopped caring about earning the respect of a man who'd lied to me for my entire life, and it occurred to me, at last... I don't think it ever had anything to do with whether I'm a man or a woman, not for Odin, at least. I'm Jotun; he decided long before I was born that my entire race is the enemy. Nothing I do will ever be good enough for him."

"Then why did he adopt you in the first place?"

"To one day have a Jotun King with Asgardian values." He sat up to look Bucky in the eye, and melted a little at the horror and empathetic pain he saw there. "He drove the Jotuns back, kept them trapped in their own realm, but he couldn't make Laufey bow to him. Even defeated, my father refused to submit to Asgardian rule. Odin claimed he planned to use me to 'forge a lasting peace,' which really only means to raise me to hate everything about my own people and see the nine realms through Aesir eyes, and then place me on the throne. A pawn wearing a worthless crown."

With a tired, wry grin, Loki added, "The problem is, of course, I'm still not Aesir. I don't see things the way Odin does and never have; not overall, at least. I don't...really know what to think or how to feel about Jotunheim now."

"Let's start with keeping Thanos from destroying it, so you can take some time to figure that out." Tears in those breathtaking blue eyes, Bucky threw his arms around him and hugged him tight enough that had Loki been human, he'd likely have broken several ribs. Being one of the few living things on the planet stronger than his lover, Loki took great care not to hurt him as he squeezed back, smiling.

___________________________________________________ Next

Masterlist

#fanfiction #archive #loki #bucky barnes #winter's frost #mcu #avengers #thor #captain america #winter soldier #m/m #loki/bucky #sebastian stan #tom hiddleston

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pastelsapphy · 5 years

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Why does Sylvian hates himself?

(This ended up being really long whoops)

*cracks knuckles* time to talk about my boy

[All quotes taken from the Fire Emblem Fandom Wiki, so there may be some slight inaccuracies]

Okay so first off Sylvain grew up in a shitty environment, to say the absolute least, and that fucks with your head.

First: his brother. He attempted to kill Sylvain on multiple occasions as kids because Sylvain had a Crest. And Sylvain just like, accepts that??? You can see that a lot in his A support with Byleth. He talked about being shoved in a well and being left on a mountain in winter by his brother, and almost immediately followed up with “I have no right to complain” because he, in theory, got lucky: he got the Crest.

And you figure, he would’ve grown up apologizing and made to feel guilty just for existing. You can see in his dialogue against Miklan, in chapter five:

Miklan: Hmph! Hurry up and die already. If not for you… If it hadn’t been for you…

Sylvain: Shut up! I’m so tired of hearing that. You’ve always blamed me for something that isn’t my fault.

He’s definitely been saying that since they were kids. That kinda stuff really fucks with your sense of self-worth after a while.

Then we have the rest of his family. We don’t hear anything about his mother, or much about his father, but we can infer some things about the latter: Margrave Gautier disowned, abandoned, and cast aside his first son in favor of the one with a Crest. Considering the dialogue about “everything being taken away” from Miklan, it’s possible that he was being raised to be the next Margrave, because someone had to inherit–with Crests becoming less common, who knows how long it would’ve taken to get a kid with one, if they got one at all? They needed a backup plan. And then Sylvain came along, with the minor Crest of Gautier, and suddenly Miklan didn’t exist. That’s fucked up, and it shows how little Margrave Gautier cared about his kids. I honestly doubt he showed Sylvain any kind of affection or attention growing up, and probably only interacted with him for inheritance- and Crest-related reasons. To him, Sylvain was a walking Crest, not a person (Sylvain’s fear of people only ever wanting him for his Crest, and not as a person in any respect, had to come from somewhere).

(And, if I can add a bit of an aside, I feel like this is the root of his philandering. Makes me think of the whole “even negative attention is better than nothing” kinda thing. You figure, Little Sylvain would have been incredibly touch-starved and desperate for attention. Humans are a social species and we literally need attention and affection to live well. I mean, he flirted with Ingrid’s grandmother when he was eight. I can only imagine what he said/did if Ingrid remembered it, considering she would have been five or six at the time. And kids that young don’t really know any better yet. Poor kid probably just wanted attention.)

(Additional aside that came to mind while writing this: I wonder if seeing the arrangement between Ingrid and Glenn affected this at all? Like yeah marriages in that kind of setting were purely political and such, but Ingrid was engaged to Glenn because (a) House Fraldarius was a powerful, well-to-do noble family and House Galatea really needed the resources, and (b) Ingrid was desirable as a wife because she had a Crest. Of course, we don’t know the exact circumstances of the arrangement, but we can infer from her other prospects. Sylvain still would have essentially seen Ingrid being used for leverage because of her Crest.)

So long before the events of the game, Sylvain is already pretty fucked up, emotionally. Trauma does that to you, especially when you have an “everyone else has it worse and I, actually, got lucky, so it doesn’t count and I’m not allowed to feel bad about it” complex. Survivor’s guilt is a hell of a drug lemme tell you. Sylvain has already internalized that,

He’s only good for his Crest

Any negative feelings about his Crest don’t matter, because those without have it worse.

No one will ever truly see him as a person–he’s just a Crest.

Already, that’s a pretty fucked up view of oneself.

By the time he gets to Garreg Mach, he has a carefully crafted persona set up: He’s an asshole, a liar, a serial flirt and cheater, dumb as a box of rocks, and a self-proclaimed “good-for-nothing.” In his B support with Dedue, you hear that people describe him as “indefensibly worthless,” which is followed by,

Sylvain: Indefensibly? Heh, that’s a bit harsh.

Dedue: I already knew your reputation concerning women. But these new rumors deprive you of all redemption. I did try to correct them. But I doubt I was believed.

Sylvain: Well, thank you all the same. Listen. You don’t need to worry what people think about me. As you well know, it’s not easy to correct misunderstandings or change people’s minds. And if I’m going to behave so badly, it seems misunderstandings are inevitable.

He doesn’t even argue, just kinda brushes it off and accepts that’s just How He Is (listen, Sylvain can definitely be an asshole at times, but I have to agree with that being harsh). He doesn’t want people to expect anything from him (well, not anything good). In his supports with Annette, he’s shown to be pretty smart, but admits he hides it because the pressure it puts on him is suffocating. He kinda goes out of his way to hide his more redeeming qualities like that. Also on that point, we have this bit from his B support with Ashe,

Sylvain: […] My advice on the whole thing is just to follow your instincts. That’s what I do. If someone’s in trouble, I help them. You don’t need to be a valiant knight to know that. Doesn’t matter if the person is an ugly old man or the cutest girl you’ve ever seen, you help ‘em.

Ashe: So, you’re saying…

Sylvain: Everybody’s the same, deep down. It’s our job to help anyone who needs it.

Ashe: Ah!

Sylvain: What? You’re looking at me funny. Did I say something wrong?

Ashe: No! No. I’m just surprised, that’s all. You’re actually a much better person than I thought.

“You’re actually a much better person than I thought.” Several of his supports have some variation of this line. Usually after he does something kind. And I mean, Sylvain is a kind person, under the philandering. Most of his supports involve him helping others out somehow.

He helps Dimitri with the girl situation (he kinda got him into it in the first place but I digress)

His whole C with Dedue is pretty much “racism is stupid and I’m going to be your friend, fuck what everyone else says.”

In his supports with Felix and Ashe, he helps them out in battle, at a detriment to himself (You can also throw Byleth in here, during their A support, but he was a jerk in their C and B).

In his Annette supports, she calls him out for going easy on her during training. He admits he was, but only because he didn’t want her to feel bad because she puts so much effort into her work while he “sorta gets by on [his] wits”

Okay I need to say how much I love his supports with Bernadetta???? He does genuinely try to compliment her work, and when he sees speaking to Bernie face-to-face won’t work, he goes out of his way to write a nice and well-worded review (a fairly lengthy one, according to Bernie) and compliment of her work–which Bernadetta takes to much better than she did talking in person. And this is one of the few supports where he doesn’t try to flirt. He’s just trying to give her genuine compliments on her writing and goes out of his way to do it without upsetting her.

His support with Hilda could go a few ways, but he did return the books for her and he did apparently get yelled at for something he didn’t do and didn’t even try to deflect that. And it seems that’s not even why he confronts her later: it’s because of how her actions were detrimental to other people (”And those books you left in your room for so long? Teachers and classmates needed those. So stop lying, and maybe stop being quite as selfish too.”). It’s not until she asks if the librarian said anything that he’s like “Oh, yeah, they yelled at me.”

And a fair amount of people still see him as “indefensibly worthless.” Sylvain often goes out of his way to help people, but he tends to brush it off and keep it lowkey.

I got a little off track here, but my point for this is Sylvain projects an outward appearance of being a really shitty, deplorable person. Almost everyone he has supports with is GENUINELY surprised when they realize that no, he’s not as bad as all the rumors about him imply. Sylvain just doesn’t really want people to know. And, as much as he plays it off like he doesn’t care, that kind thing gets to you after a while. So everyone except a handful of close friends seeing him in such a negative light? It filters in eventually, even if you’re not already emotionally fucked up.

Another thing I want to point out: A lot of times, it seems like Sylvain does not give a shit about what happens to him. A few of his support conversations involve him taking a blow in battle to protect someone else (and his attitude afterward is “better me than them”). Reading his A+ with Felix, “…protecting me like that. You’re so weak and yet you always… always…” this is definitely something Sylvain has a habit of doing. Additionally, we have one of his goal requests: “The best way to impress people is to save them by diving into harm’s way. That’s what a Great Knight does, yeah?” In true Sylvain style he covers it with “I just want to impress people” but he’s still devoting his training to being the guy who jumps in front of everyone else to tank the hit. Fully committing to that kind of thing takes more than just a shallow want to “impress people.” Then there’s his Monastery line to Byleth, toward the end of Verdant Wind I believe?, where he says he fights like he wants to die. Which…. yeah.

Another line of his that sticks with me: “burn until we meet again,” after defeating an enemy post-time skip. A friend of mine pointed out it might just be dramatic, but I think about that a lot. Does he think he’s going to the 3h equivalent of hell??? Does he think he’s that terrible of a person??

Uh this turned out to be a lot longer than i thought. So I guess to sum up:

Sylvain grew up internalizing the idea that he doesn’t have any worth as a person. Everything he is and has is related to his Crest. Everything that people feel towards him is related to his Crest and not who he is as a person.

He internalized the idea that because he has a Crest, that he’s not allowed to be upset about any of this, because he got lucky.

Growing up with Miklan’s abuse, he was definitely made to feel guilty about simply daring to exist. So he grows up hating himself.

He developed an outward persona that only reinforced these ideas–he makes and lets people believe he’s a piece of shit.

His attitude in battle shows how little he seems to care about himself.

tl;dr: Sylvain grew up without any love or affection, and was severely emotionally fucked up by his family, which complicated his relationships with other people and his view of himself as a person and his worth. He purposely projected an image of himself to support this, letting people believe he’s a shit person and doesn’t argue back because he feels it’s well-deserved. He doesn’t seem to think he’s actually worth anything. Sylvain, of course, like all people, has negative traits–that’s just part of being human. But his sense of self has been so warped and twisted over the years that he can’t seem to do anything but hate himself.

#fire emblem three houses #sylvain jose gautier #sylvain gautier #fe sylvain #fire emblem sylvain #three houses #fire emblem three houses spoilers #fe16 spoilers #three houses spoilers #fe16 #feth #fe three houses #asks #anon #mine #long post #i have a lot of feelings about sylvain okay #abuse mention #abuse mention cw

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yokelish · 4 years

Text

Rhetorical.

This is not easy-peasy-lemon-squizzy. This is difficult-fucking-difficult.

I hate myself for the person I am because my first reaction was “that’s a drag, I don’t remember much of the manga already”. But then I remembered complex human relationships is nyom-nyom-nyom. And so fell in love with working on it more and more as I went. So here you go, @gogolparadise

Unfortunately, I am one of those people who doesn’t blame Ango for Oda’s death. My blaming scale looks more like this: Gide, Oda, Mori, everyone else. I blame Oda for Oda’s death, mostly. And there’s no denial about who shot Odasaku in the first place. But Ango isn’t blameless. He done fuck up.

I won’t write how and when Dazai sabotaged the airbag, I am sure even he wouldn’t know it either. P L O T. The scene between Ango and Dazai unfolded differently in manga and anime. And I like manga’s version better. I rarely use Japanese respectful suffixes like “san” and “kun”, but here….it’s sorta important.

✏ Fandom: Bungou Stray Dogs ✏ Characters: Dazai Osamu, Ango Sakaguchi ✏ Word count: 2,166 ✏ Warnings: none?

Rhetorical.

He couldn’t deny the fact that having a gun in his hand felt distantly pleasant. The power and control that came with the weight in his hand would add more pleasure to it. But the weapon was oddly light compared to his memories of handling one. It wasn’t loaded. A good decision: a smart and safe decision. If Dazai couldn’t trust himself, he could trust in the distrust people have for him. And no one would know that better than someone he once called a friend. The two loyal guard dogs wouldn’t be able to stop him if that’s what he wanted. The resting blade against his neck only sharpened that tiny thrill coursing through his veins. It was bringing up old memories of having his life on the line every other day. The sound of raining shots, the lightning bolt shine of it, the heat of the muzzle afterwards. And the lingering smell of gunpowder. Unloading the gun was the smartest decision his once-friend had ever made. Because Dazai also couldn’t deny the fact that when it was aimed at the back of Ango’s head, it felt invigorating.

“What on earth made you think…” Dazai asked calmly. “…that I had forgiven you?” He didn’t regret asking. The question didn’t need to be answered. There was no need to have a conversation about that part of history. After all, there was too much to forgive, and Dazai didn’t even start on it. But asking had to clearly state where they stand.

“I was the one who cleaned your record when you fled the Mafia. If anything, you are the one who owes me,” Ango replied, unfazed by the threat, and even sounding a little exasperated.

“Alright.” Dazai easily dropped the threat, the aim of the gun, the feeling coursing through his veins. “The gun isn’t loaded. You knew I’d do that.”

A hand was offered to collect the empty weapon. “I am glad you catch on so quickly.” The man in glasses offered a calm, collected smile, with a little amusement traced in the lines of his face. Dazai would roll his eyes at this if the man wasn’t so obviously looking. Credit given where its due, Ango wasn’t slow on the uptake — always deceitfully sharp. But Dazai didn’t appreciate proximity or eye-contact. Least of all he wanted to grow an appreciation for Ango’s quick thinking, stoic and neutral approach, and overall efficiency. He remembered the man from the past too vividly, and separating those images was harder than it should have been. Liar. Traitor.

“If we are not rekindling our old friendship,” Sakaguchi spoke again, more hesitantly this time. “…What do you want?”

How eloquent and bold it was to say that there was something to rekindle between them. When a torch goes out, you look for a fire to light it again. You don’t wet the cloth and chop up the wooden stick. And you sure do not let the torch burn to ashes. If so, there was nothing to rekindle.

With his back to Ango, Dazai allowed himself to smile. The half-masks he knew how to transform and switch seamlessly. His goals were for him to know. Ango would find out soon enough. The bandaged man shifted his smile into a childish grin. “Oooh…” He patted the roof of the car. “You government men drive fine cars, eh?”

The government man graced him with an unamused stare. A sharp look of a man who didn’t want his car touched in such manner. Pity, really, that should be the least of his worries. Government men drive fine cars, but there are many fine cars in this world.

Ex-Mafia rested his elbow on the car if only to gauge a reaction out of the man he once made a mistake to call friend. “Care to go for a drive?” Dazai didn’t regret asking. The question didn’t need to be answered.

Fine cars indeed… For what those government men got those fancy cars Dazai could only guess. “It’s your job to keep those skill-oriented crimes in check, isn’t it? You mustn’t shirk your duty like that.” He spoke leisurely, enjoying, savouring. There was something sickeningly amusing in the ease of the situation. The tension that was visibly lacking in the air. Ango’s safe driving befitting of a good citizen. The calm Dazai couldn’t help but feel. He almost felt guilty about it, too. The calm that comes with the knowledge of what’s to come. And yet, by all canons of the world, it should not be as easy as breathing.

“We have been keeping tabs on the Guild as well,” Ango finally gave a reply fitting for a government man. A limited, careful answer.

Dazai’s interest was piqued by the narrowness of such words. “You knew…and you simply let them be? Do I have that right?” He knew he did. The question didn’t need to be answered. But he didn’t regret asking, he savoured it without guilt.

“Unlike you, Dazai-kun, I believe in an honest day’s work,” Sakaguchi answered evenly, never taking his eyes off the road. “Do you even know what kind of kind of group the Guild is?”

Dazai could guess that this feeling inside him was glee. There was nothing compared to the feeling of knowing and seeing through the deceit of others even if that deceit was a delusion for one’s self. He cared little for the games the government played, he just despised them. He cared not for the power the Guild possessed, he just wanted to beat it.

“Oh my, wait a moment,” the bandaged man said. “This discussion is taking a strange turn.”

“This is politics, Dazai-kun.”

That’s an exceptionally fine carpet word for lies, deception, manipulation, power play and the like. Perhaps, it was a matter of perception, the things one believes in. If perception can stop you from seeing the world upside-down, if it can grant you the vividness of colours and appreciation for abstract, then it surely must be able to install a belief in the greater good.

“…to grant immunity to their members…”

Like Ango believing in an honest day’s work. Or Atsushi believing in his own worthlessness or that saving people will justify his existence. Like Kunikida upholding his ideals stronger than any other man alive.

“…truly, above the law…”

Perhaps, it was all about the installed moral compass within a person. The lines one draws to walk a straight path. Those constructed margins of morality that should never be crossed lest the world changes its meaning or loses it completely. Dazai’s compass had been broken for the longest time, he could admit that much. There were too many bold strokes beyond the margins: crosses, stains, incomprehensible lines made in indifference and irresponsibility.

“…they’re surveilling our little conference even now…”

But, truly, how morally superior is the government handling the bizarre world of skill-users compared to the Mafia? He couldn’t be the one to judge and tell. He couldn’t understand.

“Dazai-kun, start running away. Now.” The urgency in Ango’s voice brought him back to the oncoming reality. Whatever emotions were hidden behind the glasses, Dazai couldn’t press into his memory. The mind was too preoccupied. He pressed back into the seat — a response of his body to the upcoming and unavoidable danger. The thought of dying had never once scared him, but pain, broken bones, and the like — loathed.

“Run, and tell your agents that danger will find them soon —” It didn’t matter what the answer was. There was no need for it.

If there were indeed parallel worlds — an infinite number of possibilities of the current one — then it could be different. In another world, perhaps, it could be different. They could have never met and, thus, never had their past shared. Two perfect strangers to each other — two parallels never meeting. In a different world where the events unfolded differently, where they still met, became friends and met in a bar with, preferably, a similar menu. In a world where he didn’t die, they could remain forever as they were back then. Dazai would feed them his terrible tofu and talks about suicide. They could eat and drink together while sharing nonsensical stories. There would be no guilt or regret. But that would have to be a different world.

In this world, Sakaguchi Ango, a government agent, successfully infiltrated Port Mafia and then Mimic. In this world, Sakaguchi survived in the Mafia and climbed the ranks. In this world, he had successfully pretended to be a friend to Dazai Osamu, youngest Executive in history, and Sakunosuke Oda, the lowest of the ranks. He done so not out of necessity but because he could. In this world, Sakunosuke Oda was dead, killed in confrontation with Mimic. Ango’s betrayal of the Mafia didn’t matter in the least. After all, Dazai had done so too: even he wasn’t such a hypocrite. In this world what mattered was the death of a man who didn’t get to write his novel. In this world, Dazai Osamu wasn’t a better man to forgive. In this world, ex-Mafia held grudges despite knowing the regret of another.

If he were in a different world and was a different human being, he would understand the necessity for the flowers when visiting a hospital. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t really understand it. Nonetheless, he had done it. A man who believes in honest day’s work deserved that much, at least.

“Why, hello there, Ango!” Dazai’s chirpy voice carried through the ward. “How are you doing?” With a bouquet and a basket of consumable goods as visiting protocol dictates. And a bright friendly smile, of course. “Well, you look lovely,” Dazai lied effortlessly, seamlessly. He had done so not out of necessity but because he could. “I have a fine story for you!”

It was in the very same bar where the three of them met that he witnessed it: regret. Sakaguchi Ango, a government agent who infiltrated Port Mafia and climbed the ranks, expressed regret. Perhaps, that alone was the thing that steadied the Executive’s hand. That, and Odasaku’s presence. Unfortunately, there was no more Odasaku to steady the bandaged Executive’s hand. Only the words of a friend now gone to guide this ex-mafioso.

It was much later that Dazai truly saw the guilt behind the round glasses. It’s much easier to recognize guilt in others when experienced. He couldn’t tell if it was cleverly hidden from others or if Ango had hid from himself.

“Thirty-five count murderer?” the bedbound man asked, unsurprised. Dazai was a visitor but he sure wasn’t a good one after eating from the basket. According to him, that’s what he planned. According to everyone else who could be in the room to pass judgement: selfish, inconsiderate, and even mocking. He didn’t do it out of necessity but because he could.

“Murder is murder,” Sakaguchi stated simply. Dazai remained a patient listener despite how easy it would be to probe at wounds unhealed, to uncap the bottled regret, to stir their shared but erased past. He knew full well what murder was. So did Ango. But the thing about murder and death is that it often was accompanied with guilt. And guilt was a disobedient spirit: it didn’t follow you because you murdered, it followed because it could. For all that Ango did, for all the lies and treacherous moves, Dazai knew one thing for sure: in the moment it mattered most he had nothing to offer Odasaku to cling to. In that vital moment all he could offer were pitiful words that wouldn’t even convince a child. If he had to live with the guilt of it, he would.

“…if you seek other help…I’d be glad to do that.”

“Is that so?” Dazai asked, getting up from the chair. That was all he needed to hear. The task was accomplished. “Well, I’ll be back.”

“Dazai-kun.”

That stalled him at the doorway.

“I am accepting your offer of treatment in exchange for support. So just tell me one more thing.” Sakaguchi Ango was deceptively sharp as ever and just as calm. “When we were struck by that mystery vehicle, the airbag on my side alone failed to inflate. Would you happen to know the reason?”

Just as Ango doesn’t put his regret and guilt out on display, Dazai, too, had trick to hide his darkness. If guilt was a disobedient spirit, then darkness was a parasite set on self-destruction.

Oh, he hoped to make his once-friend regret the question. For it would be easy to hide the smile with his back to Ango. It would be equally as easy to switch one smile for another. But there was no need for that. Whatever it was he hid, the other would soon find out. Dazai allowed himself to smile with sincere darkness of his mind and offer it to the man who betrayed him. There was no need for an answer.

#yokelishtorturesenglish #bsd scenarios #bsd imagines #bsd fanfic #dazai osamu and ango sakaguchi #dazai osamu #ango sakaguchi #did i allude to BEAST? who knows~#i am not very happy with this work because it's not fucked up enough #i want more fucked up thank you #a very shitty character dynamic exploration

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vulcan-highblood · 4 years

Text

(Blue) Spirited Away

Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender Pairing(s): Gen Chapter: 5/? Words: 3.5k

Summary: Prince Zuko wasn’t able to escape the Northern Water Tribe after the disastrous conclusion to the Siege of the North. However, Aang is more than happy to invite his old pal, the Blue Spirit, to join him and his friends on the first leg of their journey to the Earth Kingdom.

(An AU where Aang never learned the true identity of the Blue Spirit, Zuko is desperate, and Spirits enjoy interfering in the lives of mortals)

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

Read it on AO3

Chapter 5: Persuasion and Evasion

So things were really not going Zuko’s way. A somewhat cynical part of him wondered how that was any different from the usual. He’d been careful, of course, creeping around the back of the Waterbending Master’s house, straining his ears to try and make sure whatever window he chose to peek in through wouldn’t also be a window into the room where the Avatar and his hangers-on were deep in conversation.

And it had been working, too! He’d found Uncle!! That hadn’t even been the weird part, the weird part was when Uncle recognized him in his Blue Spirit getup. All right, all right, he should have expected that Uncle probably figured out early on why his dao swords needed regular sharpening and he might have spotted Zuko sneaking off before music night and put two and two together, but it still felt a little embarrassing to have his alter ego just casually ignored as Uncle looked up, spotted his mask, and instantly charged across what looked like a bedroom to wrap Zuko in a bear hug. This proved largely unsuccessful, since the window was a bit too small to fit Zuko’s shoulders, and definitely wasn't built for Uncle’s girth. Still, he was glad for the fumbling arm-hug because it meant he’d finally found Uncle!

“Uncle,” Zuko hissed, “We need to go!”

“Yes, we do,” Uncle agreed, “But this kind man has offered us a raft and enough supplies to get us to the Earth Kingdom port of Onsenzakura. We should wait here until nightfall.”

Zuko just stared blankly at Uncle for a long second, momentarily struck mute by the inane thing that Uncle Iroh just suggested. “The man you are staying with is a master waterbender!” he hissed, “He was coordinating the prisoners they took! He is not someone who’s going to just hand over an escape raft!” he added in a sharp whisper, fighting to keep his voice low and only mostly succeeding.

“Prince Zuko, we are of no value to these people, and I promised this man that I would leave peacefully. He recognized the wisdom in bidding farewell to the Dragon of the West, rather than trying to take me down.”

That didn’t even make sense, Uncle was an incredibly valuable prisoner! “Who wouldn’t want you as a prisoner?” Zuko demanded.

Uncle gave Zuko one of his sad I have tried to tell you this before looks, before answering. “I am a failure, prince Zuko, and the Fire Lord - your father - does not tolerate failure. I am worthless as a political prisoner, and am an army officer, not Navy, and thus have little relevant information to share regarding fleet movements.”

“But this was Zhao’s invasion!” Zuko protested. “Surely father wouldn’t blame you for this!”

“Were Admiral Zhao with us, I am sure he too would carry a portion of the blame,” Uncle answered simply. “But remember, Prince Zuko - after Ba Sing Se, this assault on the water tribes is my second failure. Ozai will not tolerate a third.”

“You’re wrong!” Zuko insisted hotly, unwilling to hear such a thing. If two failures were enough to ruin Uncle’s worth in the eyes of his father, how would the Fire Lord feel about Zuko’s own repeated failure to capture the Avatar? He refused to think about it. Father wanted him back. Wanted Uncle back. They didn’t need to rely on some barbarian to give them an escape route, they could flee on their own!

“Let’s just go now, Uncle!” Zuko urged, “I’m sure together we could-”

“Hey! You there!! Stop!”

Zuko froze, turning to look at a duo of blue-fur wearing barbarians, brandishing spears. This was really not his day.

“It’s the masked intruder!” the one shouted, which was probably obvious to the other two, but Zuko wasn’t going to waste valuable time criticising his choice to state the obvious. “Get him!”

“Master Pakku! The masked man!” the other yelled, and Zuko knew he had seconds to get clear before some real nasty bending went down. He ran straight for the trio, only to leap up, kick off of a window frame, and soar over the trio, heading back for the main street, mentally scolding himself for losing focus and allowing himself to be discovered.

Skidding into the main street, he drew up at the spear pointed in his direction. Agni curse him, he hadn’t expected backup so soon! He turned to run the other way, but the two from the alley had made it out, approaching him from the other direction.

Sighing internally at the mess he’d found himself in, Zuko drew his swords.

And then the Avatar was standing in front of him, babbling about whatever and dragging him over to “meet his friends” (precisely what Zuko had been hoping to avoid) and also stare down the master waterbender who was hiding Uncle in his bedroom.

After a few spirits-cursed minutes of frantically gesturing and resisting the urge to hit his head against something hard (or better yet, hit the Avatar’s head against something hard), they finally seemed to establish that Zuko was looking for Uncle. Hopefully this would convince the waterbending master to just let them go, now that he knew that Zuko knew Uncle Iroh’s whereabouts.

But apparently he hadn’t thought this plan through, either, because the next thing the master waterbender said was, “Well, you’d better come inside, then.”

Zuko didn’t have much of a choice after that, seeing as the Avatar immediately latched back onto his arm like he was afraid Zuko would run away again (not likely, unless the three city guards were willing to give him a head start). Sighing softly, Zuko resigned himself to following the Avatar’s entourage into the icy hut.

It was warm inside , and with Zuko’s parka still being somewhat soggy, the heat felt amazing. Part of him wanted to curl up and go to sleep the minute they stepped inside, and he had to mentally shake himself because this was a bad time to be thinking about sleep.

“Hey, Master Pakku!” the Avatar was saying in a voice that was far too cheerful, at least by Zuko’s estimation, “Do you have anything to write with?” he paused then, turning to Zuko with an exaggerated gasp. “You can write, can’t you?”

Zuko nodded. It didn’t seem fair to be insulted by such a question. After all, in some of the more far-flung villages of the Earth Kingdom, literacy wasn’t always considered as essential as putting food on the table, and scrolls could be incredibly difficult to come by. He felt a little insulted anyway, because, well, of course he could write!

Master Pakku simply sighed gustily. “I hope you know that precious commodities like ink and paper are not to be wasted on light matters.”

“They aren’t?” Aang looked surprised by this. “Why not?”

“There’s not many trees that we can cut down, and making paper by hand is a long process,” Boomerang boy answered.

“Well what do you use then?” Aang asked. “Slate and chalk?”

Master Pakku raised a skeptical eyebrow, gesturing expansively. “Oh yes, with all the varieties of stone we have around here, I’m sure sourcing something like that would be no trouble at all.”

“We use charcoal,” the water tribe brother explained, “and parchment.”

Ah yes, animal skins did seem to be quite the commodity around here, so that made sense to Zuko. Charcoal would serve dual purposes, too, and could be used as either fuel or writing tool. As the water tribes were known for an oral tradition rather than vast libraries, Zuko suspected that these writing tools were also fairly scarce, likely intended for trade with those outside the tribe and to learn the writing system outsiders used, rather than as a significant part of their education. Part of him was jealous, as he’d hated practicing his brushwork for hours on end when he’d been a kid. He’d never had a steady enough hand to impress his calligraphy teacher.

“Lucky for you,” Master Pakku shot a look of irritation in Zuko’s direction, “I happen to have some handy.” He started across the room, saw them all standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor and sighed. “Go ahead and have a seat,” he said, “I imagine this might take awhile.”

~~*~~

Masky seemed on edge, which was surprising to Aang. He still wasn’t sure why the guy had run away before, but hearing that he’d been looking for Zuko and his uncle made him curious. “So why are you looking for Zuko?” Aang asked, turning to fully look at Masky.

The pale-blue clad figure stiffened a little under his focused attention, like he wasn’t sure what to do with Aang’s stare. Finally, he shrugged. Which, to be fair, was about all he could do since the gesturing he’d done earlier hadn’t been clear enough to Aang, Sokka, or Katara.

“How do you even know about those guys?” Sokka demanded, leaning forward, a suspicious look on his face. Aang was always impressed by how quickly Sokka picked up on inconsistencies, even if he did have a somewhat annoying habit of refusing to acknowledge the mystical when it confronted him. Then again, maybe that was more about expressing irritation, since Sokka did seem to always end up with trouble whenever they were dealing with spirits. That made Aang start thinking about Yue, which made him sad. Masky, however, was already gesturing again.

He lifted his hand up over his eye and wiggled it again.

“Okay, Zuko,” Sokka acknowledged, since they’d apparently established this gesture already.

Masky made a few punching motions, a sort of sweeping hand gesture, and then a few more sharp striking motions. For a minute, Aang worried that he was trying to attack Sokka, except he sure wasn’t trying very hard.

“Punch?” Aang guessed. “You want to punch Zuko?”

Masky slapped an open palm to his forehead. He shook his head, made the ‘Zuko’ gesture again, then punched halfway with one hand, while his other hand moved beside it. When the first punch stopped halfway, the second hand kept going, splaying out the fingers.

“Uh,” Aang frowned.

“Firebending!” Sokka shouted, pointing a finger.

“Where?” Katara demanded, moving like she was about to start waterbending in the middle of Pakku’s house.

“No, that’s the gesture,” Sokka told her. “Right?” he asked Masky.

Masky nodded.

“Zuko. Firebending.” Sokka ticked off the two words on his fingers.

Masky tapped the cheeks of his mask with open palms, then did the punch-palm thing again.

“Cheek… bending?” Sokka guessed hesitantly.

Masky shook his head, puffed up and moved his shoulders like he was marching, then repeated the gesture, touching the sides of his face again. Then, he pointed at Aang.

“Me?” Aang asked. “Walking?”

Maky slapped his palm to his face again. If he kept that up, it was probably going to leave a bruise. He shook his head sharply, then wrapped a hand around his wrist and repeated the gesture with the other wrist. He pointed to Aang again, imitated nocking an arrow and drawing it back, pointed to himself, then clapped his open palms to the sides of his face again.

“Aang… bracelets, archer, mask, cheeks,” Sokka said thoughtfully. “Aang? Do you have bracelets?”

“No,” Aang answered, but Masky was already waving his hands to try and stop whatever they were saying, so apparently they were still on the wrong track.

He clapped his hands to his face twice.

“Cheeks.”

Masky shook his head.

“Face.”

Masky shook his head.

“Is it a thing?” Katara asked suddenly, “Or a person?”

Masky pointed at her and nodded.

“A thing?” Sokka repeated.

Masky shook his head.

“A person,” Aang said.

Masky pointed and nodded.

“Ok, a person with cheeks…” Sokka muttered, rubbing his chin as he thought.

Masky slapped an open palm to his face again. Zuko. Firebend. Cheeks. Firebend.

“Wait, were Cheeks and Zuko fighting?” Katara asked.

Masky nodded hard.

“Is cheeks one of us?” Aang asked, sweeping his arm to indicate himself, Sokka, and Katara.

Masky turned to him in a way that seemed to say he was running out of patience, which was impressive, since his face was still covered. Very slowly, as if he was gesturing to someone who was having a difficult time understanding, he gestured Firebend again.

“Oh, so cheeks is a firebender,” Aang said. “Zuko and another firebender were fighting…” he paused, thinking about that. “Why would Zuko fight another firebender?”

“He did chase down Zhao after the… uh… spirit oasis,” Katara said, stumbling over her words and glancing over at Sokka, a worried look on her face.

Masky had gone tense, pointing at Katara now, clapping his cheeks and then pointing again.

“Wait, is Cheeks Zhao?” Sokka asked, turning to Masky.

Masky nodded vigorously. He pointed to his own chest, made a “look” gesture. Zuko. Firebend. Zhao.

“You saw Zuko and Zhao fighting,” Sokka said.

Masky looked like he was ready to hug Sokka for a minute, nodding enthusiastically. It was around this time that Master Pakku returned to the main room from his bedroom, looking almost more irritated than he had when he’d left. “Parchment. Charcoal,” he said, depositing the materials in Masky’s lap and moving to another seat near the fire. “So you saw Zuko and Zhao fight,” he said. “That doesn’t explain how you came here.”

Masky picked up the charcoal and parchment, scribbling in tiny characters at the very top of the sheet. It took Aang a moment to realize why - Master Pakku had said that the supplies were valuable and limited. Masky was trying to show respect by using as little space as possible. That was nice of him! He kept writing for a few moments, then set the charcoal aside gently, looking around the room.

Sokka snatched the parchment from his hands, and for a minute it looked like Masky was going to lunge after it, but he pulled himself back, took a deep breath, and waited for Sokka to read his response aloud.

“I stowed away on a Fire Navy vessel -” Sokka stopped, turning to stare at Masky. “What, really? How’d you manage that?”

“Sokka, could you finish reading before you start asking more questions?” Katara demanded, craning her neck to try and see what Masky had written.

Sokka immediately jerked the parchment away, concealing the words. “I’m getting there!” he said. “Just hold on - ahem - I stowed away on a Fire Navy vessel because I heard the attack was being led by Zhao. Hold on, wait, how did you hear that?” he turned to stare at Masky.

Masky shrugged, then made an “I’m listening” gesture with one hand.

“Yeah, we’ll talk more about that later,” Sokka said, obviously dissatisfied with the answer. “Anyway. I have no love for Zhao and want to ruin his plans - same, buddy,” here Sokka lifted his eyes to grin at Masky, “So I followed him here. That doesn’t explain why you want Zuko and his uncle,” he pointed out.

Masky made a grabby gesture at the parchment, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sokka handed it over. “And tell me more about how you found out about the mission and stowed away on a Fire Navy vessel.”

The scribbling took a bit longer this time, and Aang could see that Masky had written little numbers down before certain parts of the writing. The parchment was handed back to Sokka, who continued his dramatic reading. “One, I want to know why Zhao tried to have Zuko killed - wait, he did what?”

Masky glanced between Sokka, Aang, and Katara, pointedly avoiding Master Pakku’s suspicious stare, which had yet to let up since the man had returned with the parchment. As he realized that the waterbending Master seemed more agitated than normal, Aang found himself hoping that everything was all right. He wasn’t sure why Master Pakku was so worried. Masky had helped him once before, and he’d come to help them this time, too! Master Pakku would see that for himself eventually, Aang was sure of it.

“Okay, we will definitely be circling back to attempted murder, but moving on - Two, Fire Nation Sailors like to spend shore leave in taverns. They drink a lot and talk too loudly. Three, Sometimes, drunk Fire Nation Sailors lose their uniforms. They don’t waste a lot of time looking for them, and rarely tell anyone what happened because they’d get in trouble. People don’t usually count the grunts on a large Fire Navy vessel. If you keep your armor on and head down, no one questions you. It can’t be that simple!” Sokka protested, looking up from the parchment.

In response, Masky simply shrugged as if to say, “I’m here, aren’t I?”

The amount of emoting he was capable of in a mask was actually really impressive, Aang wished he could communicate so well without his voice. “So why do you hate Zhao so much?” he asked. “Did he do something to you?”

For this, Masky just nodded, but he didn’t make a move to grab the parchment.

“Do you not want to talk about it?” Katara asked softly, seeing something that Aang must have missed.

Masky nodded again.

“Okay, well, I’d still like to know about this murder plot, especially considering Zuko was somehow not dead and managed to also find his way to the North Pole.” Sokka considered his own statement with a scowl. “How does he keep finding us, anyway?”

Masky shrugged a little, but reached for the parchment a moment later. Sokka handed it over.

~~*~~

Masky was hiding something. Well, okay, a lot of things, including his face. Which was… yeah. Not really something that made Sokka feel inclined to trust him. Plus, the guy acted like he’d been able to take out Fire Nation soldiers, steal their armor, stow away on a ship, and did it all just to come and mess up Zhao’s plans? Why? What could possibly motivate him to go to that extreme? Of course Sokka thought Zhao was a creep and he’d killed the moon, which put him on a whole new level of creep that Sokka hadn’t even realized existed, but still. This was weird. “No seriously though,” he said, “You did all this just to mess with Zhao?”

“Sokka!” Katara hissed, “He doesn’t want to talk about it!”

“But there have to be easier ways to mess with Zhao,” Sokka protested, “Why come all the way to the North Pole?”

Masky, who had been scribbling away at his paper, stopped, sighed, and started a new line beneath where he’d been writing. One he’d finished the second line, he went back to the first line. Once he’d finished writing, he handed the parchment back to Sokka.

Which was another thing. The way he wrote looked like someone who wasn’t accustomed to handling charcoal. Which, if he was from the Earth Kingdom, that made some sense, since they largely used brushwork. But his strokes were incredibly neat and even, almost calligraphic. That smacked of nobility to Sokka, and he couldn’t figure out why some noble from the Earth Kingdom would be chasing after Zhao, of all people! As he glanced at the parchment, though, a few answers fell into place.

“I heard he hired pirates to blow up Zuko’s ship.” Sokka stared at the words for a few seconds. “Wow, that sounds like overkill,” he managed after a moment. “How did Zuko survive something like that?”

Masky shrugged in answer, which was fair. Sokka couldn’t figure out how someone could survive that either. But he apparently had survived, and made it all the way to the North Pole, too. So he’d either gotten really lucky, or he’d somehow figured out Zhao’s plot in advance and faked his death. Considering Zuko’s record, Sokka was going to go with lucky, because the guy managed to stumble across them constantly. That had to be luck. As much as he hated to wish death on someone, he sort of wished that Zuko hadn’t made it out of the explosion unscathed. Maybe if he’d been off recovering somewhere…

…but Zuko hadn’t been the one to kill the moon, and he’d gone after Zhao while his uncle had gone after all the other fire benders. They hadn’t seemed like they were fighting with Zhao, at least. Which made sense, if Zhao really had been trying to assassinate the angry ponytail guy.

“Is that all?” Katara asked, leaning over to look at the parchment, reminding Sokka that he’d lost track of what he was supposed to be doing.

“I’m getting to it!” Sokka glanced back down at the parchment. Oh. He swallowed hard, then read the second sentence. “Zhao… destroyed my home. And… separated me from the only family I had left.” He looked up at Masky, then read the last line he’d written. “That’s why I broke into his stronghold to free the Avatar, and it’s why I followed him here. I wanted revenge.”

#blue spirited away #zuko #blue spirit #atla #blue spirit fic

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flowers-creativity · 5 years

Text

Sleepless

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay), d’Artagnan Warnings: Some violence, sleep deprivation as (mostly) non-physical torture Summary: Porthos doesn’t know anything about the Ambassador, and he just wants to sleep.

Notes: Written as part of @yuckwhump‘s Feb-whump-ary, Day 16 - sleep deprivation. This is pretty long and rambly and very unpolished ...

AO3 link

The hit in his back made him stumble forward and almost pitch down onto his knees, but a rough hand grabbed the rope binding his arms behind his back and wrenched him back. “What did we say?” the man said next to Porthos’ ear.

“No sleepin’,” he mumbled. “No … sleepin’.” His tongue felt too large for his mouth, and he swallowed dryly, though it didn’t offer any relief. He blinked gritty eyes at the other figure that stepped in front of him, outlined by the torches flooding his small cell with light.

“Not until you’ve answered our questions, at least,” the man said, his voice and whole demeanour so much gentler than the one behind him, holding him in place. “Once you do, you can sleep to your heart’s content. Don’t you want that?”

Porthos blinked again and then shook his head. “Not … gonna say anythin’,” he slurred. A part of him screamed at him that this was the wrong answer. Didn’t he want to sleep? Yes. Yes. Sleep was a distant memory by now. How long had it been? He had no idea. The cell was alight with torches the whole time, the men coming and going too irregularly to establish any pattern. But it was important that he did not say anything. He remembered as much. Even if he wasn’t quite so sure anymore what he shouldn’t say anything about.

“Where is the meeting taking place?” the man before him asked as if he hadn’t said anything at all.

Porthos shook his head.

“How many people are accompanying the ambassador?” the man continued.

What ambassador? Porthos shook his head.

“Who will meet with him?”

Porthos shook his head. If only he would stop asking him stupid questions, maybe he could sleep then … His eyelids drooped.

Another hit in his kidneys had his eyes snap open and him gasping in pain. “I’m … I’m not sleepin’!” he protested. Was that why he was being hit?

“You can sleep in a minute,” the man before him soothed. “Just one question, and you can get an hour of sleep, doesn’t that sound good? Two, and you can get two hours, think of that.” He sounded excited, as if two hours of sleep was Paradise. It actually was. He was so confused, in pain, his head aching abominably, and they kept hitting him … That wasn’t the most confusing part, he was quite sure he’d gone through something similar before. But at least then he’d been left alone from time to time. He had been allowed to sleep.

Not with this bunch of bastards, though. They kept prodding him awake, and once he no longer minded the pinpricks and kicks against the back of his legs, they’d started in on the beating in earnest. How ironic, that he was almost relieved at how normal that felt? Not that anything else felt normal because his skin was itching, he was hot and cold at the same time, and his sight was wavering.

“Don’t you want to sleep?” the man before him asked, drawing his attention again.

“Yes,” Porthos breathed, latching onto the words. Sleep sounded heavily, so much so that he could feel tears prick at the corner of his eyes. He was so tired …

“Then come on, what use is it to you to annoy us? Just one question,” the man cajoled. He was so nice, and it sounded so easy. Just one question … Where could be the harm in that? If only he remembered why it seemed so important not to say anything …

“Where will the meeting take place?”

“What meeting?” Porthos slurred.

“The ambassador. He’s meeting Louis’ representative,'' someone hissed behind him, and Porthos jerked violently. Where had that man come from? Rough hands yanked him back again, and he bit back a moan at the ropes chafing his oversensitive skin, at how his arms seemed to stretch longer than they should be able to.

“Don’ know about any o’ that,” he said, blinking desperately at the man before him, willing him to believe it. He didn’t know anything right now, it seemed, it was almost a wonder he remembered his own name. He was Porthos, right? He was Porthos. Porthos du Vallon, of the King’s Musketeers. Porthos, son of Marie-Cesette, friend of Flea and Charon, brother of Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan. Wait, was he still friends with Charon? There was something there …

“Your friend killed me,” Charon’s voice said. He swivelled his head around, and there he was, his old friend, a large blood stain covering his side. “I saved your worthless hide, and that’s how they repaid me.”

Porthos blinked at him stupidly. Right, Aramis had killed him, because Charon had … He had …

A fist in his ribs interrupted his recollections and made him curl forward, only to be yanked upright again. “Speak, you dog!” the man behind him snarled.

The man in front of him was still smiling pleasantly but his voice had more of an edge to it. “I’m sure you know something,” he said. “But I can see we’re not getting anywhere right now. So, you know, if you don’t have anything to say, I’ll let you think about it a bit … Maurice will keep you company, so you won’t waste time sleeping, eh?”

With an almost polite nod, he left the cell, closing the door behind him. Charon laughed. “At least, I get to see this. Maybe dying was worth it for this.”

Porthos growled at him. “Let me be, I’m tryin’ to sleep here.” But a painful yank at his bindings made him almost fall backwards as the man behind him said: “No, you won’t.”

“Athos!”

At the hissed sound of his name, barely more than an exhale on d’Artagnan’s breath, Athos sped up to catch up with him. Their youngest was pressed up against the wall next to a cell door, his head turned to the side as he listened for something. Through a small window in the door, bright light spilt into the dim corridor. Athos frowned at the strange sight - most of the time, prison cells were not exactly kept well-lit.

He sidled up to d’Artagnan’s aide and was able to hear what he was listening to - someone was talking inside the cell. “You know, once I get off duty, there’s a wonderful bed waiting for me. With a freshly stuffed mattress and a warm blanket. D’you remember how that feels?”

There was a smack like flesh on flesh and a pained grunt, and d’Artagnan flinched almost violently next to him. Athos extended an arm to touch d’Artagnan’s, willing him to stay still just a moment longer.

“I don’t know what it’s supposed to help, anyway,” the voice continued. “You probably really don’t know anything, eh, do you, mutt?”

Another smack, and Athos grit his teeth. “Athos,” d’Artagnan breathed, all but pleading.

“Can you see inside?” he asked softly. The Gascon shifted, turning his face until his eyes were at the small opening, and he blinked at the light. After a moment, he turned away again, blinking to adjust his sight again. “One guard, can’t see any weapons,” he reported. “Porthos … he looks really bad, Athos,” he added.

Athos cocked his head, considering, then nodded. With a short gesture, he sent d’Artagnan to the other side of the door, then moved to the other side of the corridor, crouching down with sword and pistol at the ready so he would be able to move the moment d’Artagnan got the door open.

The young swordsman reached for the bolt and hesitated shortly. “Not locked,” he murmured, exchanging a confused look with his mentor. Maybe they didn’t think it necessary due to the presence of the guard within the cell … Athos shrugged and mentioned for d’Artagnan to go on. With a violent pull, the door sprang open, and Athos rose and was in the cell with two steps, rushing at the guard who stood in the middle of the room and looked at him with an almost comical expression of surprise on his face. Seeing no weapon on him, Athos dropped his own and instead plowed into him and drove him against the opposite wall, violently bouncing the man’s head against the wall. He withdrew, and the man crumpled down to the floor. With an almost satisfied smirk, Athos turned away from him and towards the upright figure of his friend in the middle of the room.

d’Artagnan was already there, stepping towards Porthos with his hands carefully lifted. “Porthos?” he addressed the man cautiously.

Porthos didn’t answer, and Athos frowned. He was awake, that much was clear, standing under his own power, though his hands and legs were bound, his arms drawn cruelly backwards.

d’Artagnan touched a shoulder, and Porthos flinched violently backwards. “I’m awake!” he swore. “Don’t--” But he did not continue, just stared around the room with wide eyes, confused and seemingly scared.

The two Musketeers exchanged a look, and Athos stepped up to his protégé’s side. “It’s alright, Porthos,” he assured him. “We’ll get you out of here. You’re safe now.”

Porthos blinked uncomprehendingly, swaying where he stood. “Yer just sayin’ that. Won’t answer any of yer stupid questions,” he mumbled.

“Porthos, it’s us!” d’Artagnan pleaded, slightly desperately. The captured Musketeer closed his eyes and shook his head. “Isn’t you. Charon isn’t him either.”

More looks were exchanged between the other two men, well past worried now. “Has he lost his mind?” the Gascon whispered. Why was he talking about his former friend whose death was almost a year past now?

Athos could do no more than shake his head, just as lost as the young swordsman. “Let’s get him out of here,” he decided. “Hopefully, Aramis can figure out what’s wrong.” He wished that the medic was with them right now but under the circumstances it had seemed prudent to leave the one with the sharpest vision outside to guard their back.

d’Artagnan nodded and moved behind Porthos to cut his bonds, murmuring words of comfort to calm him, even if it seemed as if Porthos was lost in a world of his own and barely registered that he was spoken to. Athos stepped close and held onto Porthos’ upper arms to stabilise him until d’Artagnan was finished. The contact drew another round of assurances from him: “‘m awake, ‘m awake, no need to hit me.” Athos bit back a curse. Whatever torture these men had devised, it had been quite effective at making him suffer, it seemed, though he did not for one moment believe Porthos had divulged anything under it.

He flinched and tried to pull away when they pulled his arms over their shoulders to lead him out of there, but weak as he was, it was not hard to hold onto him. Caught in his stupor, they were almost carrying, though he was aware enough to try and walk, and he kept talking, mumbling incoherently. Charon’s name was in there again a few times, and most distressingly, so were several attempts at protesting that he was awake, and pleading to let him sleep. Athos wished he would just pass out but he did not, lids at half mast but snapping open every few seconds to look around, wide-eyed and confused. Their attempts to calm him down, insisting that he was safe and could sleep if he wanted to, did not seem to reach him.

Finally, they made it outside, and Athos gave a low whistle. Only a moment later, Aramis’ figure coalesced from the shadows near the wall of the house, and he came over swiftly. “Everything’s quiet,” he reported. “How is he?” His fingers were twitching with the obvious need to check on Porthos but he knew that they needed to put some distance between themselves and the captors, at least get back to the place where they had left the horses.

“Nothing’s broken, just bruises, I think,” Athos replied. “But … I think they kept him awake the whole time.”

“He’s delirious,” d’Artagnan added, his voice hoarse. “Doesn’t know us and keeps talking nonsense.”

Aramis’ head snapped up, eyes widening in alarm. He took another look at Porthos while keeping pace next to Athos. With a deep breath, he took off his hat and rubbed a hand through his hair. “Sleep deprivation - that’s insidious,” he murmured.

“What does it mean for him?” Athos asked, trying to keep his voice level though Aramis’ reaction ratcheted his concern further up.

Aramis bit his lip, then shrugged. “I don’t have much experience with it - from what I know, sleep is pretty much the only thing that helps,” he explained. “There are a lot of things that can go wrong, though. Is he feverish?”

“He’s somewhat warm,” d’Artagnan said dubiously.

Aramis nodded distractedly. Making up his mind, he said: “I’ll go ahead to the horses, make up a bedroll and prepare what I can. We need to get him lying down and keep his temperature down. You get him there, right?”

Athos nodded. “Of course,” he told him. “Go do what you think necessary.” Even if it was only helpful to easing Aramis’ anxious mind, he would never get between the medic and what he believed to be necessary to care for a patient. Well, within reason - he had to do so to keep Aramis from running himself into the ground in the name of caring for others quite a few times.

The medic went ahead, and by the time they had made their way to the small clearing, he had set up camp, one bedroll waiting for Porthos who was still stubbornly, impossibly awake - or at least in a state that you could not call sleep, startling awake a few moments after he had seemingly drifted off and trying to walk on unsteady legs repeatedly, even though they were mostly carrying him.

They lay him down, and he went pliantly enough but then shot upwards again. “‘m not sleeping!” he assured them again.

Athos and d’Artagnan stepped back, giving Aramis room to work but standing ready to render any assistance he might need. If there was anyone who could get through to Porthos in his current state, it was his closest friend. Or at least Athos hoped so, since the delirious confusion holding Porthos in its grip was scaring him more than he cared to admit. Next to him, d’Artagnan fidgeted nervously, his gaze fixed on Porthos and Aramis.

The medic ran his hands down his friend’s body, checking methodically for injuries. When he had finished his exam, he told the others over his shoulder: “Nothing major, luckily - two of his ribs seem to be bruised, I’d strap those later. He’s running a fever but it’s not dangerously high yet. We just need to get him to rest.” Turning back to his patient, he cupped the dark face in a gentle hand and said: “Porthos, you are safe. No one will hurt you now. You can sleep. Please, sleep.”

Dark eyes blinked sluggishly up at him.”Charon?” Porthos asked, and the other man barely managed to avoid flinching.

“No, Charon is not here,” Aramis replied patiently. “You know me, mon ami. You know us, and we are here. No harm will come to you, I swear.”

The large Musketeer looked around, searching for something. “Charon was just here,” he murmured. “He … Wasn’t him, wanted me to stay awake. Sleeping hurt.” He sounded so lost, so helpless in a way none of the others had ever heard him.

“No one will hurt you,” Aramis repeated. “Porthos, please. Rest. Let go.” He stroked through the dark curls, looking around for the others with his own helplessness in his eyes.

“Maybe we should just knock him out?” Athos suggested in a low voice as he came closer and knelt down on Porthos’ other side, taking his hand and squeezing it. d’Artagnan hovered close by worriedly for a moment before he gathered himself and got down on his knees next to Aramis, laying a gentle hand on Porthos’ chest, careful not to restrain or exert any pressure.

Aramis frowned, then shook his head. “As a last resort, maybe. I’d still rather not hurt him further … Especially when he’s already frightened and confused.”

The sudden stillness under his hand in Porthos’ hair made him look down, and he met Porthos’ eyes. For the first time since Athos and d’Artagnan had pulled him from the cell, he seemed to have found a moment of calm - his gaze was still far away, not recognising them, but less frantic, less fractured. Aramis held his breath as he carefully let his fingers run over Porthos’ head, only taking another to voice a whispered: “Porthos?”

Porthos blinked, moved his head, then with a sudden sigh, he leaned into the touch, his fingers giving a weak squeeze to Athos’ hand.

“That’s good, Porthos,” Aramis soothed without stopping his gentle caresses. “Just relax. We got you.” He looked up to meet Athos’ eyes, a slight hopeful smile tugging at his lips. In the end, Porthos knew them.

They stayed that way for who knew how long, talking to him in gentle tones, touching and reassuring him, but it did not matter.

Because in the end, Porthos slept.

#fanfic #the musketeers #hurt/comfort #feb-whump-ary #porthos #athos #d'artagnan #aramis #flower writes

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robininthelabyrinth · 5 years

Text

Eyestealer - ao3 link

Fandom: Naruto Pairing: Senju Hashirama & Senju Tobirama (mostly gen, hints of other relationships later)

Summary: Hashirama really doesn't approve of the thoughtful way his father looks at his younger brother's bright red eyes. He's sure it doesn't mean anything good for anyone.

He's right.

A/N: I feel like I've at least mentioned this to @blackberreh-art, @kitsunesongs, @writhingbeneathyou and maybe @perelka-l

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"What's wrong with him?" Butsama demands, fierce and threatening, his eyes glinting in a way that made Hashirama desperately want to cower away behind his mother.

But he's a big brother now, so he can't: it's his job to protect baby Tobirama, who doesn't know enough to fear their father when he's in a mood like this, and who doesn't even have the coordination to crawl away properly even if he did. He's only just barely managed some determined scooting forward on his belly so far, and even then Hashirama may have been helping a little.

Besides, Hashirama's nearly four; he's already started training to learn to fight and he'll be ready to go out to battle in another year or two, facing the Uchiha clan - red-eyed monsters that he's been told will happily kill kids like him and even baby Tobirama, the very thought of which makes Hashirama's heart break - and surely they'll be much scarier than Senju Butsuma.

...surely.

Hashirama's always been a touch doubtful that anyone would be scarier than his father, and he suspects he doesn't mean it in the way all the adults think he means it, as hero worship and adulation.

No, Butsuma is scary not for his extensive fighting abilities, which Hashirama is duly impressed by, but for the way Hashirama's brave and powerful mother, who fears no one outside the clan compound walls, goes quiet and meek in his presence lest he raise a hand to her (or Hashirama) again. And Hashirama doesn't like that type of scariness one bit.

He doesn't much like the way Butsuma is pointing scornfully at Tobirama, currently sleeping tucked into Hashirama's shoulder, either.

"The medics say he's healthy," Hashirama's mother murmurs quietly. Too quietly; she’s such a happy person when her husband isn’t around. "Thriving-"

"I meant the fact that he looks like a drowned rat," Butsuma snaps, his chakra blazing with the bad-hurt feeling Hashirama has been told is called killing intent. "Skin like an Uchiha, hair like a Hatake...did I get the father right, you bitch, or should I keep guessing? You wrote to me at the front lines and told me I had a second son, not - this!"

"The child is yours," Hashirama's mother says, then cries out when Butsuma strikes her.

Hashirama flinches and clutches Tobirama tight enough that he wakes up, surprised and gurgling a tentative whine, little baby fists reaching out blindly.

"Lie to me again, whore, and I'll snap the brat's neck and get started on making the next one before his body's even cooled," Hashirama's father says, and Hashirama tenses, preparing to flee.

He doesn't understand why his father's so angry, but he knows enough about snapping bones - necks - to understand the meaning of the threat. He won't be able to stop his father himself, he knows that, but he's fast and he's small and there's a hole in the back wall that he could wiggle through with Tobirama if he had to, and once he's among other Senju his father usually at least pretends to keep his temper under control, which will slow him down. Out through the wall, into the compound - maybe into the forest if the rest of the clan doesn't oppose Butsuma's plan - the rest he can figure out later, but he won't let his brother get hurt if he can help it, he won’t, he's the big brother, it's his job to protect Tobirama, his mother said so -

"He's yours, I swear it!" she cries, her hands thrown up to ward off another blow. "There's no one else, and never has been!"

"Do you think I'm blind? You're as dark as me, skin and hair both, and your parents and grandparents the same -"

"Hashirama, sweet one, show your father your brother's eyes," his mother says, not taking her eyes off her husband (you keep your eyes on the enemy at all times or else you die, Hashirama's fighting instructor said, but when a wife would start to consider her husband, her clan head, an enemy, Hashirama doesn't know).

Hashirama would rather run, but he also doesn't want to leave his mother behind, so he obeys, turning Tobirama around and tilting his head up with a finger under his chin.

"Red eyes," Butsuma says, lips twisting to a sneer even more disgusted than before. "Sharingan red. Uchiha, then. Don't tell me you're pleading rape of all things -"

"He's an albino," she says. "White hair, white skin, red eyes - like the Nara's sacred deer. It just happens sometimes, an act of nature; that's all. The child is yours; I swear it on my life - on Hashirama's life."

Hashirama doesn’t really think his life is hers to swear on and all things considered he'd really rather she didn't, but if it makes Butsuma less angry, less likely to hurt them, fine.

"A rat like that, mine?" Butsuma scoffs, though the terrible killing intent is fading away. "Wonderful. You would have me be the father of a sickly, deformed runt, then, instead? Worthless!"

"It's true that albinos are sickly, my lord; eyes weak to light and skin liable to burn too easily, but that is not all that he is. All the medics say he's doing very well – they say he’s very healthy - they even say that the signs point to his having a powerful chakra -"

Butsuma snorts, crossing his arms. "It’s impossible to tell anything about chakra at all before the age of two at the earliest. Soothsayers are always predicting great power, and they’re rarely saying more than what the parents want to hear. He could have none at all!”

"Or he could turn out like Hashirama," she counters. Hashirama is unusually strong for his age, though he would very much like to be left out of this conversation. He focuses on hushing Tobirama, who appears to be considering crying, and on edging backwards towards his chosen escape route. "Another credit to the strength of your blood -"

Butsuma barks a laugh. "Don’t be ridiculous. A pathetic thing like that? There wouldn't even be any point in testing him for the Mokuton."

The Mokuton. Right.

Hashirama's shoulders ease a little in relief: the Mokuton means that his father can't kill little Tobirama even if he wants to. It's against clan law for any Senju child (and Hashirama's mother is Senju, too, from one of the more distaff branches, so there’s no question of it, even if her own mother was a Nara) to be killed before they get tested for the potential of one day having the clan's fabled but long absent bloodline ability when they ultimately come of age.

Hashirama doesn't even know what the Mokuton is - he doesn't like studying, far preferring to sneak out to the woods to make friends with the trees that sometimes like to whisper back to him - but for the first time he hopes he has it, because if he does then the clan will have no choice but to spare Tobirama even if only for the possibility that he might have it too.

"My lord -"

"Oh, stop whimpering, it doesn't suit you," he says. "I won't kill the puling brat, not yet. Bastard or not, albino or not, if he makes it to fighting age he'll at least be useful as cannon fodder, if nothing else."

"Thank you, my lord," Hashirama's mother says, bowing her head. “We thank you for your mercy.”

Hashirama’s not so sure Butsuma’s words are as merciful as all that. Doesn’t cannon fodder usually mean dead?

"You're not suckling it another day longer, though,” Butsuma continues. “I'm due back on the front lines soon, and I want to get you started on another one before I go - a proper spare, this time."

"Of course, my lord. Hashirama, take your brother to your room."

Hashirama is only too happy to go, though he lingers a moment longer, afraid for his mother even as she smiles (not the usual one, warm and happy, but the one she wears around guests she doesn’t trust) and nods at him to go.

Eventually his father notices that he's still there, though, and Hashirama flees before his glare.

"I hate it when he's mad," he complains to Tobirama, who was starting to sniffle despite having been very good about not crying so far - Hashirama's noticed that flaring his chakra in and out works very well to distract him, even though all the grownups say that chakra sensing doesn't develop until around the age Hashirama is now but what do they know they're clearly stupid, and he'd employed the technique to keep him quiet in the face of their father's danger. "When I grow up, I'm never going to get mad. I'm always going to be happy! Or sad, I guess; sometimes you have to be sad. But nothing else!"

Tobirama quiets down again when they get back to Hashirama's room and cuddle up with Spot the spotted cat, once Hashirama's favorite stuffed toy and now bestowed with great honor to Tobirama (though sometimes, on days like tonight, Hashirama still wants to hold onto him as well, a practice he justifies to himself as teaching Tobirama about sharing).

Once the familiar sounds start up from his parents' room - grunting, mostly, and the slap of flesh on flesh - Hashirama thinks it's over, that they're safe, that his father will forget about his second son (and, if Hashirama is unusually lucky, maybe be even his first as well) in favor of clan politics.

He’s wrong.

He wakes in the middle of the night, frozen by the knowledge that he and Tobirama are not alone in the room.

His father stands above him, dark as a shadow and just as indistinct.

"Red eyes," he murmurs. "Sharingan red. I wonder."

He does nothing else, just stands there for an endless few minutes more before departing, but Hashirama stays awake for a long time after, a frozen feeling in his belly and a certainty that something terrible was going to happen, though he wasn't sure what, fixed firmly in his mind.

He wasn't able to shake that feeling, not in the three weeks his father stayed at home, nor in the few months of peace they have after he leaves and before he visits again, or even the brief reprieves they have after that. Instead he made a point of being around Tobirama as much as possible, diligently practicing his vow of not getting mad (it’s hard, especially when Tobirama breaks something of his, though he perseveres by reminding himself that it’s inevitable for babies to have such accidents) and just as diligently training his fighting and running skills with a fervor he’s never had before.

He knows that he needs to get strong and fast enough to save his baby brother from the terrible thing that was coming for him.

Hashirama's mother thinks it’s cute at first, then concerning, but Hashirama persists, even taking Tobirama out with him to the forest to talk to the trees, which he'd never shared with anyone else before. He insists on sleeping in the same bedroom as his brother, and only agrees not to take him to his training if his mother promises three times over that she'd watch Tobirama carefully.

But all his precautions, all his vigilance, are still not enough to save Tobirama from their father.

"Where is he?" Hashirama screams, red in the face, having a tantrum like he hasn't had in years - arms flailing to every side, legs kicking, hands clenched into fists. "Where did he take him?"

"Baby - baby, sweet one, please, calm down -"

"I don't want to be calm!" he howls. He promised himself he wouldn't get mad anymore, doesn't want to be like his father, but for Tobirama he'll break any vow. Vows don’t matter, if only Tobirama is safe. "I want Tobirama! Where did the bastard take him?"

"Hashirama! You can't say such things about your father - your clan head - and who taught you that filthy language anyway?"

Butsuma himself had, saying it with a sneer any time he saw Tobirama, and Hashirama still isn't sure what it means but is pleased that his suspicions that it's some sort of insult have been confirmed.

Butsuma deserves all the insults under the sun, but Hashirama promises he'll never say another one ever again if only he brings back Tobirama unharmed.

He says as much to his mother, who looks suddenly older and more tired.

"Your father's trying to help," she says, but her words ring hollow in a way that suggests she doesn't believe what she's saying. "He took him away to try something....Hashirama, you know how I told you that there was a good chance that Tobirama would grow up to be blind?"

Hashirama nods, reluctantly calming enough to listen. She'd explained that the white color of Tobirama's skin and the redness of his eyes meant he was different from the other babies, much more delicate: that Hashirama needed to be vigilant about spreading the special goop the medics made just for Tobirama over his skin before taking him out into the sunlight, that they should try to stay in the shade of the trees, and, yes, even that Tobirama might not be able to see things like Hashirama does and that maybe, when he was older, he would end up not seeing things at all.

"Well, if what your father has planned works, Tobirama will see even better than you. So it's a good thing!"

"If it's a good thing, why have you been crying?" Hashirama asks accusingly. He doesn’t trust their father, who hates Tobirama, to have good things in mind for him. "Why is there only one medic involved, and why does he look so scared?"

"There's only one because this is a secret, sweet one, a secret your father is keeping even from the rest of the clan. Even you, baby, you don't get to know what exactly it is; that's why you don't get to be in there with him to keep him calm, even if that would make it easier. And -" she hesitates. "And the medic and I are only scared that it won't work right, that’s all."

"And what happens if it doesn't work right?" Hashirama demands.

His mother's silence is his only answer.

Hashirama goes back to screaming. When his throat goes hoarse - hoarse and tickly in the way that he's learned to associate with the way his cuts quickly scab over and disappear without leaving any scar - he stops, going quiet but not calm. Determined.

It breaks his heart to even think it, but he knows now that he can't trust his mother with Tobirama's safety: he left Tobirama in her care while he attended his lessons, trusted her, and she betrayed him. She gave him to Butsuma, who Hashirama is certain was hurting him even now. Maybe even killing him, and all the while Hashirama can do nothing but sit here, helpless to do anything to stop him.

Helpless.

Powerless.

He hates it.

His mother, seeing his tears and shouts come to a stop, tries to gather Hashirama into her arms, offering comfort, but he pushes her away.

He doesn’t need comfort. He needs power.

"Teach me a jutsu," he demands.

"What, now?" she asks, surprised. "You don't have to resume training until later -"

"Sensei says you were a front-liner before you married and you're in charge of the defense reserve now, which means you must know some. Teach me!"

"But -"

"Something mean," he says. "Mean and awful. Something that hurts."

"Hashirama -"

"I need to get stronger to take care of Tobirama," he says. He won't admit the possibility that his brother is dead, that he's failed in the first job he's ever been entrusted quite so badly. He can't even think that lest the Shinigami hear him and take adavantage. No, Tobirama has to live. He has to live, even if only so that Hashirama can make up for letting him down like this, can seek his forgiveness for not protecting him properly. "No one else will do it, so it had to be me."

His mother flinches like he's stabbed her. She looks at him, her eyes searching for something, but Hashirama focuses his gaze on her nose and mouth and forehead, the way he was taught to do when fighting Uchiha.

Fighting the enemy.

Her shoulders bow forward as if under some terrible weight and Hashirama wants to apologize for being so cold, wants to burst into tears and throw himself forward into her arms, but the thought of Tobirama - alone with their father, just a baby and even more helpless than Hashirama - makes him hold fast.

"Okay," she whispers. "I'll teach you."

Hashirama is what his sensei calls a natural - he's got loads of extra chakra, lots more than other kids his age, and he finds learning the right signs and chakra movements easy. So by the time his father comes back, he's already got the jutsu his mother taught him - Scorpion Sting, she calls it, and it's very nasty indeed - pretty much down and ready to go, no matter what the consequences that will fall on his head, if his father even thinks of saying anything other than that Tobirama is fine and ready to come home.

"We think it took," he says instead. "There's still a high chance of rejection until the implants settle, but things look good. The medic confirms that we won't know how much of it he actually got until he's older, though."

Hashirama doesn't know what that means, but a glance at his mother shows her relief and that means Tobirama is alive.

He doesn't yet believe that he's okay, not until he sees him with his own eyes (and does a check for genjutsu meant to hide injuries) and held him in his arms, but - alive.

"I want to see him!" he demands.

That's the sort if talk that would usually get him walloped, with a lecture about respecting his elders, but his father's in a good mood for once so he just shrugs and gestures airily at the door behind him. "Watch him for a while, will you, Hashirama?" he says, his eyes on his wife. "Your mother and I still need to work on getting you a little brother."

A real little brother, Butsuma means, because for some stupid reason he thinks Tobirama doesn't count. But Hashirama doesn't care about anything other than Tobirama right now, not even about how sick his mother was when her last pregnancy failed after only a few months or how the medics advised her against trying for another so soon.

Not that Butsuma cares what the medics say when it's contrary to what he wants.

Hashirama rushes into the other room, where the medic is holding a roll of bandages in one hand and struggling to get a crying Tobirama to calm down enough to apply them.

Hashirama ignores the medic entirely, leaping up to the blood-stained metal table and pulling Tobirama into his arms, flaring his chakra the way he knows Tobirama likes best.

Tobirama quiets immediately, screams turning into distracted whimpers, and reaches out for Hashirama's hair with his chubby little fists.

He likes Hashirama’s hair: it's his favorite toy to grab with his fingers or stick in his mouth to suck on whenever he can reach it, above even Spot, which is why Hashirama tries to keep it as long as possible. Butsuma usually chops off Hashirama's hair whenever he sees it getting what he considers to be too long for a boy his age, leaving it in a frankly awful bowl cut, but his dignity is a worthwhile sacrifice for Tobirama's gummy gap-toothed little smile.

"At last," the medic sighs. "Hold him still, will you? I want to bandage up his eyes for a little, give him the chance to rest and for his body to adjust."

Hashirama nods, remembering his mother's explanation of how sensitive Tobirama's red eyes were; he wouldn't be surprised if Tobirama's remaining whimpers are because of the bright light in the room. Darkness isn't a bad idea at all.

But even as he holds Tobirama's head still - Tobirama submits to it with ill grace and grumbles, but from the medic's expression it's still far more compliance than they'd been able to get without Hashirama’s help - Hashirama looks at Tobirama's face and frowns.

"Hey," he says. "Are his eyes supposed to have those swirly black dots in them?"

They look almost like the stylized pictures he's seen of the Uchiha, with the dojutsu unique to their bloodline: shining blood-red eyes that he's always been warned never to look into lest they kill him with their super-powered genjutsu.

"Forget about those," the medic advises, wrapping the bandage swiftly and efficiently so that Hashirama's brief glimpse is quickly covered. "Say, you're a bright boy, aren't you? Would you like to learn some iryo ninjutsu? I normally wouldn't, at your age, but you have so much chakra - and as his brother, you're probably compatible -"

"Healing?" Hashirama asks, interested. "What type of healing?"

"It strengthens the body's own resources," the medic explains. "So if your brother gets sick, you can use your own chakra to help him heal faster. I can even teach you a version to lower the possibility of host rejection - that is, something you can use to make his eyes get better quicker. Wouldn’t you like to help with that?"

"Yes! Teach me!" Hashirama exclaims.

All thoughts of the swirling black tomoe are forgotten.

#senju hashirama #senju tobirama #senju butsuma #my fic #eyestealer

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crimeronan · 5 years

Text

happy birthday goblin!

so @gutterwatergoblin / @stainedglassgoblin had a birthday recently, and since they have drawn some GORGEOUS art for my writing & have also made the ancestors fandom even better than it was, i figured it was time 2 repay them with a nice thing

the answer to “what would you want an ancestor minific of” was “pale psiignless”................. i’m being. Enabled

originally i was like “this is gonna be 300 to 500 words MAX” but wordcounter tells me it is over 1500 words so. oops

anyway happy birthday!! i hope u like this small snapshot of pale hurt/comfort nonsense

The second night Psii refuses to leave his cabin, you start to get scared.

He’s been with the group for a little less than two perigrees. Despite his initial insistence that he’d “head out” and “stop mooching off you guys” once he found a suitable place to stay, he hasn’t sought a home in any of the three villages you’ve last docked at, even the ones with high populations of free lowbloods.

Given the delight with which he’s taken to having his own cabin and filling it with collections of shiny but worthless trinkets, scraps of fabric, worn pillows, and pieces of hardware you don’t understand but he apparently does, you think he maybe doesn’t want to leave, which would be… more than okay with you. He’s full of light and energy and intelligence and observations and a newly-voiced perspective that you’d happily continue listening to for the rest of your life.

But he hasn’t left his cabin for two nights.

You are, as a general rule, an advocate of private spaces. Private land is questionable, but in your opinion, every troll has a right to a space of their own that is safe from anyone they don’t want to enter. You also double down on this principle when it comes to Psii. It’s -- important, for you, and for him. It’s important that you don’t take things away from him. He has lived his entire life with everything about his body and energy and mind subject to other people’s desires. He still has trouble understanding that he can say no to touch or even general conversation.

It would be a special kind of cruelty, you think, to tell him that he can have a safe place and then rip it away from him.

So you haven’t barged into his cabin to ask what’s going on. You have politely knocked at intervals and walked away when he calls back that he’s fine. But it’s -- it’s not like Psii, is the thing. His behavior can sometimes change like the tides, and his level of extroversion varies depending on his mood swings, but this is the first time he’s isolated entirely. He doesn’t tend to miss meals (also has trouble remembering he’s allowed to take food from the galley outside a preset schedule), nor does he miss opportunities to climb the mainmast and declare himself Emperor of your newly-founded naval country.

He hasn’t eaten any of the food you’ve left outside the door, trays of dried jerky and preserved fruits in sealed bags, and that worries you worse than anything.

You rap your knuckles gently against the door, feel your pusher squeeze painfully when all you get in response is a low grunt.

“Psii?” you call, pitching your voice gentle but loud enough to carry through the door. “Could I come in? It’s okay if I can’t, but I’d like to see you, if that’s all right.”

A long pause. Then his voice sounds, a low croak you can barely make out. “You can come in.”

You keep your movements steady and measured as you open the door and slip inside, because you don’t want to frighten him with franticness. The first thing you notice is the heavy weight of static in the air. It feels like the oppressive weight just before a thunderstorm, except it’s localized to this one specific closed-off portion of the ship. You don’t see Psii in the main room -- not by the stack of crates that serves as a desk, or in the pile of linens and laundry, or in the recuperacoon, or sprawled out with a mortal injury on the floor.

You push open the door of the small adjoining ablution block, and ah. Here he is. He’s curled up tight in the tub, on his side with his forehead pressed to his knees. There’s no water surrounding him, but he has tucked his favorite blanket around himself, a pale silver fabric that ripples like starlight. It’s silky on one side, the other sewn with softness, which he’s pulled up and tucked over one ear.

You sit down on the floor beside the tub. His eyes are closed (though still luminescent behind the lids), but you think it’s a good idea to be on similar levels in situations like this.

“Hey,” you say.

You’re watching his face with an intensity that’s probably too much, but it’s hard to keep your voice light if you can’t funnel your worry into a different sense. So you see the ripple up his back and through his muscles, his cheek and jaw twitching involuntarily before he whispers, “Hey.”

You don’t touch him -- you do not touch him without asking first, that’s one of the rules. But you do gently rest one arm on the edge of the tub. “You’re not feeling well, huh?”

His mouth pulls down at the corners. He manages, through an impossible feat of physics and spine bending, to curl up even tighter. After another endless moment, he mumbles, “‘Snot contagious.”

“I wasn’t worried it was,” you assure him. “Do you - do you know what it is?”

“Yeah,” he says. He opens his eyes and tries to focus on you, hazy, but a spasm of pain contorts his face and he squeezes them shut again. You wait for him to elaborate, but after another half minute of silence, all he manages is, “I’m sorry.”

“You aren’t doing anything wrong, honeybee.” The nickname comes without thought, makes you flush from your cheekbones to your ears, but his body relaxes slightly.

“I get sick sometimes,” he whispers. “In my head. Pain. But it’s okay. I’m not gonna… please don’t make me go.”

Your pusher clenches again, clamps a fist around your lungs. You exhale carefully around the ache, inhale. “Mituna,” you start, using his hatch so he knows you mean business. Despite yourself, your voice threatens to crack, so you take another steadying breath.

“I can be so good,” he murmurs, earnest now, mistaking your pause for displeasure. “Please.”

“I’m not gonna make you go anywhere. No one is. You have a home here as long as you want it.” That reassurance comes quick and easy, at least. “...Do you have to stay in the ablution trap?”

He sort of shrugs, inasmuch as a person can shrug when curled up on their side incapacitated by pain. “In case I throw up,” he says.

Ah. Now the situation makes sense. He’s shut himself up in the easiest place to clean so he won’t inconvenience anyone with his illness, but he’s brought his favorite blanket to have comfort to cling to. It’s the kind of thing that reeks of learned behavior. You wonder how many times he’s had to hide and make himself small with episodes like this in the past -- but that line of thought is only going to make you upset and furious at trolls far outside your influence, so you put it aside.

“It doesn’t seem very comfortable,” you say. “Do you want to move out to your pile? It’s okay if you get sick. I’ll take care of it, I promise. That’s part of the whole community thing. Taking care of each other.”

His arms are wrapped around his knees, the blanket tangled beneath them, but you see the fingers on one hand flex like he wants to knead something with his claws. “I don’t think I can move.”

“Okay.” You tap your fingers idly on the tub while you ponder solutions. “How about I bring your pillows in here, then? And your fabrics?”

His red eye opens a slit, looking you over, maybe instinctively checking for signs of annoyance and insincerity. “I’d like that,” he says finally.

Having something to do, physically, to ease the pain -- that’s good. The methodical motions of bringing in soft materials help to calm the worst of your jitters. You help arrange the cushioning around him until he’s swathed in a veritable cocoon of coziness, infinitely better than the hard ceramic of the tub.

By the time you’re done, he’s uncurled himself part of the way, and he’s breathing easier. The static is still heavy in the air, and the pain clearly hasn’t abated, but the worst of the tension through his shoulders and neck has relaxed.

You need to ask him to drink water; he’s probably dehydrated, and that can’t be helping his head. But you’re worried about pushing him too fast when he’s only just relaxed, so instead you ask, “Is there anything I can do? To help with the pain?”

He’s silent for such a long time that you think he may have somehow fallen asleep. That, or he can’t think of anything, and you should grab the water flask for lack of other practical solutions. But then he says, “Rub my horns?”

Which is an easy and actionable task. Your relief at being allowed to touch him is just because you like helping people, and you do not need to examine it deeper.

Except when you bury a hand in his curls and scritch at his horns, he nudges his head into your hand with a tiny chirring croon that sounds like natural music, and.

Your pusher kind of does a flip that you just know Di would describe in prose as “pale as the blazing desert sands at high noon.”

Oh no.

#psiignless #suffpsii #my writing #hurt/comfort #sickfic #sort of

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theangrypokemaniac · 5 years

Text

@its-whitetomorrow

I appreciate that you take the time out of your day to read my witterings, and respond to them in detail, but I'm somewhat intellectually limited and it takes a while to write an answer.

The final one is a bit of a problem. The original post is long, your bit is long, and my addition is probably twice both put together.

Did you know Tumblr has a limit: no more than two hundred and fifty text blocks per post? I discovered this from experience, unsurprisingly.

I think the only solution is to split it across several posts.

I wasn't going to say anything, but I suppose I should.

I started this blog last May, to relieve the boredom of my main embarrassment, whose only likes (all three of them) were from porn bots.

It wasn't even meant to be about Pokémon. I'd left the fandom years previously. It was odds and ends, but I happened to find a few silly screen shots so wrote a couple of joke remarks, not expecting a ripple of interest.

Within a couple of hours I got more notes than t'other's managed even to this day. I had the idea this was where I was more at home, so I started taking it seriously.

My pseudonym was just daft thing I'd made up previously, to reflect that, whilst still in love with old days, I'm not exactly pleased with how it's gone.

I thought it might stand out as memorable, plus I like acronyms, so it affords me the opportunity to call myself 'T.A.P.'

In the early days the focus was on the 'maniac' aspect. Anger as a description didn't fit at all. The farther back you go, the more stupid and clownish it gets. It's not been like this all the way through!

Seriously, it used to be an entertainment blog, designed to make people laugh. It's all ages: no swearing, no porn, nothing to put anyone off.

(This post under discussion contains the only profanity I've ever deployed. I thought saving it up might add some oomph.)

I mean it, it's was all light-hearted ridicule. Every so often, there would be a slightly cutting remark, but mild compared to now.

Then, last September, someone I spoke to regularly, who assured me we were friends, suddenly cut off all contact.

At first I wasn't aware of it, but by October it became too glaring a silence to ignore.

I thought rifts started because of massive disagreements, but as far as I remembered our last exchange ended normally.

I found out by accident that the reason for it was because I am repugnant and morally inferior and so swollen with my own ego that the existence of others doesn't register. Instead they are but soulless droids built to worship the great T.A.P. mollusc.

Well that was news to me. I had no idea I came across like that. As far as I knew, I was on my best behaviour when we interacted.

I was polite. I tried to be ingratiate myself. I kept talk to the fandom. I didn't pry. I attempted humour when the opportunity arose.

I thought I'd done all I could to be liked, but apparently I hadn't. It was a revolting experience for them, for all of saying they loved me and I was 'honey'.

It really, really, really got to me, and the feeling hasn't abated, if anything it's worse.

As I said, I don't know what I did wrong, and because I don't, I can't mend my ways. If I am this repellant waste of flesh I'd like to change, but if I'm not told my offence, what am I meant to do?

If what I thought was the best I could be wasn't good enough, and instead was so sickening I don't deserve their presence, then I have no idea how to interact with people.

Maybe every time I respond to someone, thinking I'm at worst, civil, is really grotesque conceit, because my arrogance is so extreme I'm not even aware it's there. In my head it sounds normal.

It'd be too easy to scoff that they were the one with the problem, but, given all the arguments that happen in life, it can't always be someone else's fault. It's got to be you at least once.

They obviously think they were justified, so who's to say they weren't?

You may say not to let it worry me, that I should just get over it, and you'd be totally right. Being bothered makes me feel pathetic and petty on top of the rest, but this is me you're talking to, not a sane person. Self-hatred is more instinctive to me than breathing.

I always dwell on the negative. If one hundred people were assembled, ninety-nine of whom declared me the most wonderful being ever to live, and one remarked I wasn't all that special, it's him I'd remember.

It's called ghosting because that's what happens. There comes a moment when you accept that, no, it's over, rejected again, and it's like realising I'd died, and had been gone for a while.

Except I hadn't noticed the process, so I was always dead in a way, and they spoke to the silvery silhouette left behind, until that too dispersed into untraceable nothingness. Again, the silence is my fault for dying, not theirs.

I feel there's no point in messaging anyone, because I'll only disgust them too. Some blogs encourage contact, and when I see it I always think:

Yeah, but they don't mean YOU.

If it's another person I already spoke to, I can't shut up. I bombard them with text in the hope they know I don't think they're a menial droid. Every one I immediately regret, and wish I could take back, because that will irritate them until I'm just a sad, nagging past.

The Ghost-Maker used to reblog 99% of my work. This dropped to nothing overnight, so not only am I worthless, but so is everything I do.

Posts G.M. didn't like got 0-5 notes. Ones they did had 20+. Many a time, it took their reblog for anyone else to notice.

It was like others used that blog as a filter to pull the fool's gold from the murk of this one. Once their favour evaporated, so did a lot of the goodwill from elsewhere, so it's was as if Tumblr agreed I was scum.

Saying that above just shows they were right, because it takes one smug bastard to believe their existence registers with anyone else.

Please don't think I'm demanding likes, that my stuff deserves them, although as I'm arrogant I am. It's just that 99% to 0% is a bit of a fall.

Up til then, I held back much of what I thought about the current state of the anime, as they liked it, but now I have no reason to stop.

If I'm to be accused of all these vices I might as well have them. I'm dead, so who cares what I say? No one listens to a ghost.

It's not that I'm unconcerned if I upset anyone, it's just the truth that I don't matter enough for what I write to be valued enough to offend.

As a ghost, I think of this blog as invisible. It's there, but not really, so how can anyone mind?

Incidentally, the first week I was here I got blocked by someone who hates all fans from the Nineties. I don't care about that, as they sound like a cretin, and I'd have to be defective to gain their approval.

I just want to say I find that moronic. I don't hate new fans at all. I wouldn't block someone because we disagreed.

Blocking denies people access to your blog, stating they don't deserve your ART. That's arrogant to me.

Blocker likes Ghost-Maker, but...

Ever since around October, I've progressively become angrier and angrier. Whenever I'm here or Pokémon enters my head, it just reminds that I'm pond slime, about the most crude, malformed half-life freak you can envision.

I don't like being here anymore. I keep intending to leave, the site and the fandom, and set fire to it all before I go, wipe away the slug trail to spare people's stomachs.

I kept quiet until now, but holding it in just made it more intense. If I may describe myself in ridiculously flattering terms, I feel like a shaken champagne bottle, but the cork is welded in, so the only option is for the glass to shatter.

If anyone's reading this, wondering where the fun went, well this is why I flipped. The red mist won't clear. I can't see beyond it.

I won't name Ghost-Maker, because I don't want to start anything, plus most will take their side. They may see this as they still rifle round these parts occasionally for posts that aren't mine.

Well done, Ghostie. You're the lucky one. We'll never meet and you haven't seen me. Pity the poor sods I've encountered. There must be vomit trails across the land provoked by my vile condition. I wasn't aware of this until you let me in on the secret.

There's an English television presenter called Caroline Flack. She killed herself yesterday and everyone loved her. I feel guilty that I'm alive and she's not.

#Pokémon #Tumblr

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