#is that how we tag triggers on here

[goldenwaves]

when your wife comes back wrong but you still wanna hit 🥴

[goemon-fan]

This was easily one of the best Lupin episodes

[ozcarma]

Does anyone else feel like the incinerator gun chair room from Zero Time Dilemma would have better fit C Team instead of D Team

[volfoss]

it is beyond infuriating how anne rice seems to insist on marius being a positive force in anyone's life ever. like she can't fully commit to exploring the fact he groomed armand and has repeatedly taken away his consent for what marius thinks is best (take the end of TVA as an example) and just kind of flatly puts it in the narrative. there's not really much interest in how these horrific events make marius come across as the worst because EVERYONE loves him. for gods sake, lestat learns from armand exactly what marius did to him in TVL and then proceeds to go find marius and be super friendly to him in the same fucking book. even armand and pandora, two of the people who have MORE than enough right to hate him, do not. it doesnt feel like shes trying to explore the toxicity of the abusive dynamic he traps them in, it just is there. and like yeah ofc the toxic vampire romance series but i think that this should be handled with more care. and it is not ever really framed in a way that she is interested in exploring how marius should easily be one of the most horrific characters in this series because it kind of feels like sa/rape/grooming/other things of that sort are just put there to further plot and not to really get the respect that they deserve in a medium.

[alchemiclee]

i know this has been said 473773474833 times by the kavetham/haikaveh shippers and probably even nonshippers, but i'll say it again. I finally finished the genshin summer event and did the little after quest in sumeru and.....every time kaveh is sneaking around trying not to be noticed coming out of alhaithams house it's just such a gay vibe. he's basically screaming "I can't be caught being gay in a homophobic society!" even if that's not what the game writers are *actually* saying. that's just how it comes off and they can't make it come off any other way. with hoyo's gay history, it makes me wonder if it's on purpose and all a cover-up to have a technically different reason for it so they can get away with it lmao but we will never know.

[ssreeder]

Chapters: 13/? Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), others to be tagged later - Relationship Characters: Sokka (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), Katara (Avatar), Toph Beifong, Jet (Avatar), Suki (Avatar), Kyoshi Warriors (Avatar), Iroh (Avatar), Jee (Avatar), Hakoda (Avatar), Bato (Avatar), A bunch of OCs, Long Feng, Joo Dee (Avatar), Azula (Avatar), Mai (Avatar), Ty Lee (Avatar), Ozai (Avatar), General Fong (Avatar) Additional Tags: Violence, Blood and Injury, War, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Major Character Injury, Amputation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, possible major character death, themes similar to the first two books, Sexism, Racism (like has already been written in first two books), dark themes, Human Trafficking, Slavery, Just a lot of dark war-like themes, there will be a battle, Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Injury Recovery, Healing, Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Animal Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings each chapter, Hopefully some healing for Zuko finally, no promises, but that’s the goal, Reunions, hopefully a happy ending, Sokka gets some healing too, Non-Consensual Drug Use Series: Part 3 of Leaving It All Behind Summary:

-This is the last book of the series LIAB, please go read the other two books before this, or you will be very confused-

Zuko has been taken by the Earth Kingdom army to who-knows-where, and Sokka is determined to get him back.

But he can’t do it alone.

With Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors by his side, Sokka is headed to Ba Sing Se to find Katara and Aang so they can go rescue his fire bender.

Things aren’t as easy as he had hoped. Corruption, lies, and unknown horrors await them inside the city’s walls. None of this is helping Sokka’s mental well-being.

Hakoda and his men face a problem of their own as Azula approaches with the intentions of making it rain fire.

Sokka and Zuko will both find themselves having to reintegrate back into a life they thought they left behind, with people they hardly remember. It isn’t easy for anyone, especially when they don’t recognize the person standing in front of them.

[wow-an-unfunny-joke]

I’m so sad because no one responds to my attempts to reach out. I only have three friends, and I don’t speak to any of them, I’ve managed to self isolate so well that now I only have three friends- even when I had more friends I wasn’t close fk any of them and the friendships lasted less than a year each.

A while ago my friend said “everybody has someone else” and I don’t. I just don’t. I’m a third wheel in my friend server because it’s me, and a couple. And that’s it. They 2 of my 3 friends. I don’t think my third friend even likes me anymore.

I only have three friends and I’m so scared that’ll turn into 0 soon

[hpdfag]

i need to ramble hold on. spawns in a cut so that people dont get blasted by unfiltered posting on their dash. i feel the need to disclaim that im only like 50% lucid right now so this might be disorganized or complete word salad i can't really tell right now

i love him so much it feels like it's consuming me from the inside out. i don't want to do anything that isn't for him. the only reason i haven't quit my job is because i want to make him proud of me. even playing games makes me guilty, because i know it's not with him. i married harvey in stardew. i ate the stardrop for getting 12 hearts as i kissed him. the taste reminded me of hinata. it's a strange irony.

this false body feels like it's trapping me, keeping me from achieving my true metamorphosis. there are streetlights glimmering in the distance. as i try to move towards them they always fade away. the morning will come in 7 hours and 43 minutes and the sun will rise and it won't blind me awake. i'm not reverent enough.

i should pray. not to jesus, not to any other false prophet. i should pray to Him. maybe that will bring me salvation? maybe that will free me from this hell? maybe it happened because i was unworthy of being one of his trusted apostles. if i was as holy as he was it would have been different, i would still have been beneath him but i would have served my divine purpose as his servant.

but that's not important. i dont think. im jor sure. i hate it. i hate Him. i feel like i should Worship him. there's a certain something i still havent fixed a glitch in my code i need ocean breeze summer sun beach sand shining brilliance he's perfect i need him i need warm sun and dry land i need to be with him on the floor i need to hold him i need need need need need need need.

more than air more than food more than clean clothes more than water more than anything else more than i need this terrible mortal life i need to become worthy for him of his love of his care of his touch i wont deny that i selfishly want him to hold me and touch me even though im unworthy even though im no more than dirt beneath him i desire him so deeply

[none-tadashi-left-hiro]

I literally don’t know how to talk about and process this without sounding like some sort of weird incel but maybe that’s what’s going on

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

autism is crazyyyyy because I went years having zero empathy for harrison & now I think about him & burst into a million pieces

[virtue-and-beneviolence]

Severance Pay

literally just Hanma getting hard while beating a man to death for 1.9k words (no reader, trust me you don't wanna be in this one anyway)

TW: Dark content?, tragically unproofread, generally violent themes, blood, shuji gets a little worked up lowkey, um shoe humping???thigh riding???kinda???, is that sexual assault? i mean yeah probably, shuji really gets off on the power here etcetc.

Note: yeah sorry about this, but cheers it's time to get drunk now.

Kinda dark content; Consume responsibly.

The end of the work day. The thrill of having a singular task unchecked, a task that you know you can manage with ease - maybe even enjoy. The feeling of saving the best for last.

That’s what was stirring in Hanma’s chest as he sat on a plush velvet stool at the bar of a vacant VIP lounge. He was in relatively high spirits despite the room reeking of desperation and sex and cortisol shed by unhappily wed businessmen taking advantage of the strip club’s menu of women. Dance music reverberated in his chest, rumbling comfortably like thunder before a lightning strike. A familiar message urging patrons to grab their last drink and settle their tabs was broadcast through the establishment with all the professionalism an exhausted bartender could muster. 

The last job of the day was designed especially for him, a special case that Kisaki deemed deserving of Hanma’s special touch. A job that Hanma’s tendency for histrionics and drama couldn’t mess up.

The distant clang of metal slipping and clicking back in place brought Hanma to attention. His lithe muscles pulled taut with anticipation and a loose, sloppy smile of genuine pleasure replaced his neutral countenance and he turned to greet the newcomer, “Ah! I thought I smelled fresh blood!” Hanma joked, letting his cigarette bob lazily around his words. A younger man emerged from the shadow of the entrance way and paled from top to bottom. Hanma could all but hear the dice clatter in his brain, unsure if the gamble of dashing back towards where two huge bouncers stood guard was worth it. “Relax kid,” Hanma’s words lulled like an audible eye roll as he stood to his full height from a velvet stool, “s’a joke. Cool it. Ya made it just in time, Cinderella. Thought maybe you’d lost your faith in good ol’ big brother Toman.” The deep voice was deceptively chipper despite the trademark sarcasm.

Had it been anyone else making small talk in place of a playful greeting, the younger man might have laughed it off, played along, bowed and continued on following the rules of the organization he sought to leave. But the tower standing over him was Hanma Shuji and that tone didn’t match the unrelenting look of anticipation for something that couldn’t be predicted in his eyes. It didn’t match his reputation as-

“The Reaper.” Terror bolted the man’s feet in place. Prey always recognizes a predator. 

“Oh now, now! The Reaper was my father! Please, call me Hanma - No, better, Aniki.” He looked up and exhaled a long smoke laden breath complete with eye contact so oppressive it was sure to strip any delusion the younger man might possibly have about where the power lay. “What’d I say? Relax! I’m only here for your exit interview.” Cue the last long drag of his cigarette, savored for a moment, “And, of course, to administer your severance pay.”

A stuttered breath of relief left the smaller man who finally followed the gestured order to sit across from Hanma. Anticipation built pressure in Shuji’s chest. He was in his element. Luring his prey into a false sense of security with the ease of a master, gently swirling his glass of whiskey and smiling widely when the younger man flinched as Shuji slammed the glass onto the fine wooden table harder than was necessary. Shuji choked down the manic desire to giggle as the proverbial rope of tension began to fray just as he uttered the words, “Shall we begin?”

–

Shuji’s fist repeatedly cracked into the younger man’s face. Hanma watched with delight from where he held his ex-kohai down on the glossy wood of the bar by the throat. Dull, meaty impact made way for wet crackling as Shuji made progress beating the now hardly recognizable face. Teeth were bent in, loose from the repeated abuse, bloodied by trauma and scraping and catching along Shuji’s own unprotected knuckles. When Shuji withdrew his hand, it was red and angry and dripping. A chill of excitement bordering delirium shot down his spine at the thought he couldn’t tell where his victim’s blood stopped and his own began.

The tall man laughed with his whole body at the sputtered attempts of his victim to beg and plead for mercy that Hanma had no intention to grant. At last, teeth spilled like Chicklets over the bar. Blood gushed from severely split lips with every slurred pop of his continued pleas. Finally tired of such repetitive work, Hanma gripped the man by the back of his head, fingers knotted in greasy, sweaty hair, as congealing blood cemented it in place. Hanma admired his handiwork close up. A pool of crimson collected in the man’s mouth and Shuji shook the younger’s head to watch the reflection of himself ripple and distort and pour in messy clotted rivers over swollen, broken lips.

“Spit at me.” He spoke with the tone of a command. It was neither a request, nor an option, but an order.

“N-niki, i-I,” came the gargled response.

“Ah, ah, ah,” He cooed as if to a child, “I didn’t ask.” Hanma gripped his swollen and battered jaw and his mouth split into a sadistic smile as he slammed the man's head down, triggering a gasp turned gagging, choking fit. 

Hanma didn’t flinch when warm clotted fluid spotted his face over and over as the man coughed and sputtered. Thicker splotches ran down his cheeks then his neck to be absorbed by the exorbitantly expensive foreign silk of Shuji’s shirt. He didn’t react at all except to involuntarily roll his eyes back in some twisted relief. A throaty groan escaped him at the obscenity of the comforting ritual of feeling blood on his skin and the strain of someone desperately clinging to life beneath his grip. Shuji’s breathy giggle danced along his victim’s face. “So he can follow orders after all.” Windpipe held tightly with Sin, Punishment landed the final blow before his consciousness failed. 

Hanma made short work of securing the young man to the bolted bar stool. He poured himself another glass of whiskey and stifled a chuckle at it landing in a sticky puddle as he put it down. Calling the man to wake was useless, he got no response until he cracked the back of his hand across the poor fuck’s face. Swollen eyelids split to show a sliver of bloodshot and pinkened eyes. Golden irises and a chiseled face decorated in streaks of slowly scabbing and dusting, darkness met the man. It sounded far away when Shuji spoke, “Stay with me sunshine. You want your severance so badly, ya gotta stay awake for it.” The gangster leaned down further and all but purred in his ear, “Show Aniki how hard you can fight for it, ah?” Two fingers pressed uncomfortably at the top and bottom of each swollen eye and spread the lids higher. “Eyes on me.” Tears cut clean trails through evidence of struggle and battery and diluted the blood in the corners of his eyes. Hiccuped sobs wracked the otherwise limp body worn out from struggling.

Shuji brought a knee to the man’s crotch and leaned more and more weight. Yells turned to screams that pitched higher and higher until Hanma was sure he’d destroy his voice. Beautiful vocals to the soundtrack of agony Hanma played. In this moment he was all powerful, the conductor of a symphony of his creation. God nothing got him off as much as this kind of power. 

He ground his knee deeper. “Grind on it,” he demanded and to his sadistic delight, the man bucked his hips with whatever force he had left, desperate to please his tormentor despite the pain. Hanma wrapped a hand around his throat and smirked, “Humping my knee like a bitch in heat. Fucking pathetic,” He scoffed mockingly, gleeful at having so thoroughly broken his toy. He let it go on until the man’s muscles gave out before he made a show of pulling out two stacks of bills. In salt crusted eyes, he saw it. 

Hope.

Hanma recognized it from countless other fights, other killings. Nothing brought him such elation as the moment his victim found it only to lose it. Hanma eagerly continued his show so that he might soon watch his favorite part. 

With excessive force, Shuji forced his mouth open and ignored the clunk from previous dislocation or worse to shove the currency in his mouth. Watching the muscles of his throat pulsate helplessly around dry bills and retching uselessly satisfied Hanma’s sick need for entertainment enough to finally unstick his whiskey glass from the mess of the bar and savor a long sip. He grabbed the rest of the thick Hibiki whiskey and dumped it on his victim who writhed and let out muffled screams with renewed panic from pain wherever alcohol soaked into still-fresh wounds. He was caught up in the white hot sting to realize Shuji had flicked his lighter on and set the bills sticking out from his mouth. Panic reached a fever pitch when the heat of fire met alcohol sodden lips. 

Shuji has always loved fire. Loved the way flames lick skin urging it to melt away under its intimate touch. Loved the colors. Loved the way it forced jerking, panicked movements from someone all too near it. He shunted a cigarette from his carton, “Can I bug ya for a light?” the cheeky bastard asked as if the man could hear him as he leaned in to catch enough of the flame to start with a delicious drag. He enjoyed the show with his cigarette from a loveseat a few feet away. It’d be a lie to say his dick didn’t kick in his slacks a few times.

He watched until he thought the flames might be burned into his eyes. Kisaki would be annoyed. Hanma’s eye prescription always suffers after he gets to teach a lesson this way. Eventually, Shuji got up and emptied five of six shots in his revolver starting from the legs and ending at the man’s throat. 

On his way out, he casually holds the gun to his own head and flicks the revolver. He pulls the trigger mid step to see if this time he’ll join his victim in hell. But his head remains on his shoulders in one piece after the hammer kicks, so he hands the gun to the bouncer already equipped with a handkerchief, adjusts himself in his pants, and prides himself on a job well done.

–

A few mornings later, Kisaki casually opens the newspaper to find a photo of a generic man in his mid twenties in the obituaries. A kind man, it said, who always gave what he could. A sense of humor that could make anyone laugh. Died on the job, providing for his family. Survived by his wife and their newborn. 

Ye so i posted that, cool.

I'mma tag anyone who acknowledged the post about this yesterday, big apologies if that wasn't actually interest as much as it was you being nice and supporting me and this is not fun for you

@a-nuisance-called-sam @citrusteaa @sin-and-punishment @kisa-rae @bertholdts--butt

lets maybe not acknowledge this happened

[ravencromwell]

Headcanons for either or both of the Dane twins?

Going beneath a cut, because somehow this turned into 3k of Astrid stream-of-consciousness musings on ruling her city, bracketed with Holland's disgusted dead-pan snark.

The very worst thing, Holland thinks in the bleakest moments, is that the Danes aren't the worst rulers Makt has ever had.

***

Athos alone probably would be. He is the lord of infinite, fruitless defiance, and if the city wants to give him such gifts as rebellion, who is he to say no? He will simply fight them all as entertainment between bouts of indulging his insatiable curiosity about artifacts. Emerging victorious would soothe his terror that everyone lost the throne eventually even if it left the city in ruins and more corpses than living people.

But if Athos is lord of defiance, Astrid is lady of small mercies.

From the moment the old man was dead, Astrid knows she will show none of his faux love and camaraderie to her subjects. They might love her in return, and those who love a queen want to see it reflected back, need her words of praise for their devotion no matter how they prattle simple service will suffice.

Such displays are tedious, love reserved for Athos alone.

But gratitude? Gratitude has its uses.

She and her brother want to leave their mark on this world (and its people). If her brother's little stone is as strong as they believe, one day folk privileged to suffer beneath their blades may show their scars with pride and whisper what a gift they were given by Makt's saviors.

If they do not, well. More fool them.

But in the meantime, even an Antari cannot hold off a hundred angry citizens, if they decided to mob. And sometimes, the Danes satiation requires a few missing loved ones. And inevitably, discontented souls decide there must be new blood. In especially unfortunate moments, those close to traitors have chosen to mewl about her brother's punishments and must be put down in their turn.

Her beloved Athos never understood how the body forgets pain. Men and women drink. They promise themselves the blood they saw running in the gutter was not as red as all that. Besides, it will not happen to them. To live in this city is to become deaf to screams, even your own.

Look at her brother's pretty thing. How many times has Athos made him scream? (Enough it's added a permanent, graveled edge to his voice, Antari or no.) And still she and Athos catch those glimpses of defiant hatred that are almost better than the blood for her twin.

Profound appreciation, by contrast? Thankful obligation at holding a living, breathing child, where a month ago there was dying skin and bones? That will make a man hesitate before joining a revolution.

Appreciation may even bind the Antari better than the spell of which Athos is so proud.

'Obey and protect my sister' Athos always says when he won't be close to repeat an unheeded command.

Still, she has seen how he can resist myriad precautions binding every joint and muscle and bone ! Athos's will. Seen the foolish delays, misinterpretations. Seen him dare, if Athos' words are closer to suggestions ignore them outright, force her brother to the clearest possible command. She suspects he can withstand even better as Athos' proximity fades.

Wasted breaths are risk, when blood is in the balance. Fortunately, she is no fool, wrapping herself in enough amulets calling him to her aid is rarely necessary. He rides beside her to prove that even the Dane with slightly less black in her veins can easily control their demon.

But at almost every sign of threat, he moves unprompted. Not because he fears her brother's retribution, not because the seal compels. He comes too swiftly for either of those. Holland Vosijk comes because he knows if she died, he would never throw alms to the city that hates him. No subsidized wheat; Athos would love watching the men and women he trains to ride behind them—never beside, no one is given enough knowledge to stand as equal to they two—into Arnes—divide the city into wedges and make the people under their control scrabble and beg.

When she first saw the stacks and stacks of carefully labeled payments to spell-crafters and curse-makers, she'd thought none of Athos' experiments would be needed. The old man had found a way to open the doors, and now he was dead, and they could simply ride into Arnes and snatch the glory.

But a magical payment for each farmer to feed the city as a whole, rather than their chosen hoard, wasn't the worst idea. And Astrid would happily put the dead's ideas to fine use.

She graciously allows the pretty former knight over-see it, so long as he remembers the queen is always watching.

(Though when speaking of food and goods of all kinds, it is her brother who shines in trade. His tactic is so very simple. So very effective. A merchant enters the throne room. Athos informs them what they will bring to the city. Should they complain or protest, he does not even deign to blink. Merely says: "Unbutton your shirt." And while the merchant is gawping and spluttering, the Antari bears his Seal.

"Do you know what this is?" her brother asks, gently.

By the time he has demonstrated the Seal to his satisfaction—such a thorough tutor to the less accomplished, her twin— the question of whether the merchant's trade might improve under Athos' control does not need asking.

Once, Athos slipped a request for a woman's first-born into a contract revision and she signed without even looking, so desperate to flee from the throne before she had matching runes. She even dutifully paraded the child to the castle six months later. Athos had no interest now she behaved so well, but Astrid found gratitude at keeping her child made her a most excellent spy. within the city.)

And then there are the sick. Perhaps the Antari would be allowed his little preoccupation if her brother ruled alone, assuming the family were desperate enough to contribute a person to his servants' ranks. But even mindless, there's something in his guards that hungers to live, ducking blades and attacks on instincts most would swear puppets could not have. He rarely needs replacement.

On those occasions a petitioner dares bring the ill to their attention, Astrid takes whatever their pathetic tribute is. With gloves, of course, because assassins lurk everywhere. Takes the faded, wilted flowers and oddly shaped rocks with the tiniest bit of color lurking in stone veins from the children—so many are children, young and unscarred enough to believe facing the twins and their demon is a price gladly paid even as those they keep alive will likely betray them eventually.

Adults, when they come, bring carefully knitted blankets and finely spun clothes. Once, there were even the most lovely hair combs, made of some creature's shell far from the south the woman called a tortoise. Why she would surrender them for a squalling brat who has years and years to die while she has nothing else to barter, Astrid cannot guess. But she passed the combs to Albiz, her brother's favorite among the spell-working salon, to check for curses and let Holland do his work.

There are not many such petitioners, but every one will go back into the city and whisper of the queen's mercy, how she always stood between them and the demon, and when it was done, their friend or child or lover was alive. Whispers that will still other's discontent.

She keeps almost all those talismans, unless something catches her brother's fancy. Carves spells into the stones, wraps herself in the blankets, wears the finely made trousers.

Though she has little use for wilted posies. "Keep them," she says gently, savoring Holland's second flickering of desperate relief at being handed a token not steeped in blood.

Funny, how he is even responsible for Astrid's proudest creation, though he disdains her falcons. The complement to her brother's court of favored scholars and magicians. Where her brother's is equally spread between men and women, barely any of her falcons are men. Men are so terribly squeamish about having their bodies borrowed. And all her falcons wear a possession charm, so she may see any part of the city through their eyes whenever she wishes.

She could simply force her will, toss a charm over any likely-looking neck. But she wants keen servants, who will willingly call her attention to matters of interest. Made hungry enough from being overlooked they have the grit to never utter a word of complaint when she enters them abruptly. To never fight when she raises their hands or opens their mouths. To fall upon her prey in whatever manner she requires and ask no questions.

The obedience Athos must bind, given freely.

In return, they shall never starve, never offer their measly tributes to free family from pain, never serve anyone's will but she and Athos.

Years later, the keenest ferocity of them all, her magicless, intrepid Gudrun, under the thumb of a father who craved a drudge incapable of disobedience until she went to the market and ran to rumors of Astrid's glove, nets her flower boy. Whispers the most ridiculous, delightful story about forbidden letters and a knight-turned hound's vices that sees Astrid smiling even days later as she prepares to fully possess a prince. Whispers it with the sweet conviction she must have displayed to her father before Astrid murmurred he could not touch her. To do all the things she must have dreamed. (He learned then a knife could make even a magicless woman a man's greatest terror and Gudrun snarled in delight.) Whispers until the Antari falls to her talons, while Astrid watches from half a city away.

What she wants is easy. What she will call them does not come to her until after Holland's third visit to Arnes, feeling her brother's hand squeeze hers in delight at the wonders of this red city. Both their fingers ache pleasantly from expressing such delight at the hours-long recitation, as they have each time her brother told the Antari to 'account for each moment in the Red City'.

The prey-vulnerable Red Royals must think they are predators, dawdling with their letters, letting 'Master Holland' wander the city while they mull their answers, thinking themselves so safe with their doors. She would mock them more, save their complacency makes for beautiful tales.

Later, he will learn to speak of Arnesian wonders in a monotone as though they were fool enough to believe the city left him any less awestruck than they. But in these early days, even he cannot help closing his eyes at the thought of the fat, juicy rabbits a hunting party carried with them. Or perhaps it is the juice running in rivulets across her brother's fingers and lips as he savors the last few bites of apple. So sweet, that juice, when he had pressed it to her lips for the first bite. She had laughed until her sides ached, spun him about the throne room. She would offer her brother a bite of her own pasty—what a marvelous idea, to tell his pretty thing he must fetch back two things he had enjoyed most for them—but even three trips in, she knew his tastes ran to sweet and savory, not the burn that accompanied her meat and vegetables.

"Did you like it because it burned, pretty thing? Because everything in their world should carry the burn of their betrayal?" she had asked, hours ago, and relished the hiss of breath when he forced the Seal to jerk his head in affirmation.

"Even as you could not help wanting the sweet," Athos had laughed, graciously smearing some of the juice in a lingering kiss at the corner of the Antari's mouth. She could see the red shine of it still. Will he clean it away the second he is alone, or be unable to resist the last taste of sweetness even as he hates himself for it? she wondered, and then the Antari's voice cracked, and Athos gestured that he might fill one of the glasses beside the water pitcher and she exhaled her disappointment.

"We will scry his room and see what he does another day," Athos whispered, and of course he too had wondered if his pretty thing could resist temptation.

"The leader had a bird on his arm," the Antari continued barely a moment later, setting the emptied glass on the table and before he was done explaining how such a fierce thing rested so easily for bits of meat, she was striding to Athos' scrying basin, pulling Holland behind. "Clever, pretty thing, seeing what I need. Falcons."

Such beautiful ferocities, and she tried to touch the feathers even as she knew she would only ripple the water. "As Tosal," her brother said softly, pressing against her back and she blinked.

"Mhmm?"

"He will go back tonight and bring you one with As Tosal. It will make the bird still and silent, but not turn it to stone."

"Was it your favorite, when you made him demonstrate all his mysterious tricks to the salon?"

"You know me so well. We will send him jingling with compulsion coins and they will be none the wiser."

"It isn't a fruit I can have forgotten in a pocket if something goes wrong."

"Then you will not let it go awry, Holland. Do you think a week's silence on his return would make him more or less inclined to state the obvious. It is so very dull."

"More, to spite you. It is what comes of wanting a pet who bites. Athos, come here." She held her mad, foolhardy brother, who would weave a plan in an instant and risk all his great discoveries to bring her something marvelous without her even needing to ask, close to her chest. "The pretty thing is not wrong. Besides, I do not need a falcon, love, only their design. For my court. Can he-"

"Of course. Tell us the rest of the trip later. For now-"

"Holland-" This once, for bringing her such a gift, she will grant his name, since he has so little liking for her sobriquet, "Find the best silver smith in the city. A falcon, in flight. On a chain, small enough to slip beneath a shirt. Bring a finished one for approval by lunch tomorrow."

It was midnight, he would have to roust the Shal's leader from a warm bed to find a smith he would also disturb, he was tired. If the Antari thought any of these things, he did not say them, simply turned on his heel and left.

***

In the next seven years, Holland Vosijk can count, with fingers to spare, those Astrid Dane invites to her glove who flee the invitation. (Athos always let his magicians come grovelling, but Astrid's falcons were always keen-eared for new recruits) Perhaps it is his worst delusion, thinking they, too, see how much blood runs at the margins of a people who, if not content, are at least not especially restless.

There is fountains worth from the one hundred eighty-two killed by the Danes personally, and his sixty-four. The blood of fools who ran their mouths too freely to the innocuous-looking barmaid or shopkeeper or grandmother before a little silver charm emerged. Blood of crows know how many drunk by Athos' magicians for power.

When forced to collaborate or unearth magic, he can most easily hold his control near lady Albiz, who makes the job no crueler than necessary, heeds advice, and returns her dead to their people or buries them herself. And she still snuffed out two Maktahns the day she swanned into Athos' service. He will not forget that because she grants an ounce of respect.

Two lives she'd taken, that were merely one crime, on one day of two thousand five hundred fifty-five. Still full of all that blood, she'd strolled into morning court in a ragged tunic and skirt, pupils glassy from the sudden torrent of magic into a body that knew only a trickle.

Like Alox.

Fifteen and cocksure with it like him, too.

"I heard there was a place here for those who could take it. I'll be your best magician if you'll let me take enough. I'm tired of running dry."

There had always been people not even the king's knight could stop, no matter how it choked him to admit it. He could have wandered the streets, never sleeping, and still not stopped all the blood being shed. And sometimes. Sometimes, they had something Vor needed and he turned a blind eye and Holland fled to Arnes to be in a world where kings didn't have to allow atrocities for the greater good. Until the ache to smell ash and steel and the fear Vortalis was dead in his absence swamped the rage and tugged him home.

But Vortalis would never have leaned in and inhaled the blood clinging to her like a bouquet, licked the red from the corner of her mouth, mirth echoing off the walls until Holland's head throbbed when she moved like a desperate, striking snake to try for a kiss. As though he'd let it be stolen back from his tongue. Would never have said, for all to hear: "Defiant little thing, aren't you? You're the third most beautiful person I've seen all month."

How many lives might be saved, if Albiz and worse weren't infesting the city? How many slum magicians had killed some unwitting neighbor, watching them preen and knowing Athos and Astrid Dane would never care, so long as they were not challenged as the greatest sorcerers of the land?

Deluded or no, it is those few refusals Astrid grumbled over and insisted he keep an eye on ("If they dare not serve, they must have plans of their own. Look harder, pretty thing, and you'll find the rot they're tangled in.") he seeks when he returns for kingship. Hopes their refusal meant more than a disdain for fancy jewelry. Because Athos and Astrid Dane aren't the worst rulers Makt had, but he will be better by far.

[down-thedrain]

made this (mutual targetted) graphic on why you should play sjm because god please play it i need to be ill i need to be ILLLLLL

[greyedian]

.

[elliesbelle]

lol

[ssreeder]

Chapters: 15/? Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar), Aang/Katara (Avatar), others to be tagged later - Relationship Characters: Sokka (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), Katara (Avatar), Toph Beifong, Jet (Avatar), Suki (Avatar), Kyoshi Warriors (Avatar), Iroh (Avatar), Jee (Avatar), Hakoda (Avatar), Bato (Avatar), A bunch of OCs, Long Feng, Joo Dee (Avatar), Azula (Avatar), Mai (Avatar), Ty Lee (Avatar), Ozai (Avatar), General Fong (Avatar) Additional Tags: Violence, Blood and Injury, War, Minor Character Death, Rape/Non-con Elements, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Attempted Sexual Assault, Major Character Injury, Amputation, Implied/Referenced Suicide, possible major character death, themes similar to the first two books, Sexism, Racism (like has already been written in first two books), dark themes, Human Trafficking, Slavery, Just a lot of dark war-like themes, there will be a battle, Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Injury Recovery, Healing, Underage Sex, Underage Drinking, Animal Death, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Warnings each chapter, Hopefully some healing for Zuko finally, no promises, but that’s the goal, Reunions, hopefully a happy ending, Sokka gets some healing too, Non-Consensual Drug Use Series: Part 3 of Leaving It All Behind Summary:

-This is the last book of the series LIAB, please go read the other two books before this, or you will be very confused-

Zuko has been taken by the Earth Kingdom army to who-knows-where, and Sokka is determined to get him back.

But he can’t do it alone.

With Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors by his side, Sokka is headed to Ba Sing Se to find Katara and Aang so they can go rescue his fire bender.

Things aren’t as easy as he had hoped. Corruption, lies, and unknown horrors await them inside the city’s walls. None of this is helping Sokka’s mental well-being.

Hakoda and his men face a problem of their own as Azula approaches with the intentions of making it rain fire.

Sokka and Zuko will both find themselves having to reintegrate back into a life they thought they left behind, with people they hardly remember. It isn’t easy for anyone, especially when they don’t recognize the person standing in front of them.