#By Bloody Plunder

[just-b-wilde]

Five ✘ Lila • Survival

AO3 | Wattpad

They were ready for the end, but it was only the beginning. The Hargreeves family has survived another apocalypse, but now they face another difficult task: sort out all their private problems and wrongs they thought they would never have time to resolve. A story about how they would all deal with what happened between Five and Lila and what their future could be... The original one-shot grew into a more comprehensive story.

Thank you so much for the perfect art for my story, I love it, Bloody Plunder @bloodyplunder! ❤️🥰😍

[ameliathornromance]

“What happened to you?!”

Your Orc Boyfriend sat by the tribe healer. Gashes that started at his forehead and go across his face. Blood dripped down and onto his chest, which was bruised and transitioning into a purple hue in certain areas.

You went to rush over, to cup his face, examine him from head to toe, but the healer held a hand out to you. “I know it looks serious,” he said, “but they’re surface level.”

As you opened your mouth to protest, your Orc Boyfriend grunted, “I’ll be fine, love.” He gave you a pained smile. Even as his face oozed with blood, he still tried to reassure you. “I’ll come see you in a minute.”

He loved this about you. Everything was so different now that you were around. Before you and your Orc got together, when Orcs returned injured, they were told to endure it from their others. No sympathy given. Healers would provide Orcs with a pack of ice in a leather sack and send them on their way.

It started when one day, your Orc came back to camp with a bloody nose. You had instantly run over, "Oh my God, are you okay?!" Everyone had stared, startled by your reaction. But when you started tending to your partner's wounds, the camp seemed to follow your lead.

Orcs were now afforded more luxuries than before, being fed soup if they were immobilised temporarily or being washed by someone they were close to when they couldn't reach certain areas.

But your Orc Boyfriend, always did his best to come back intact. Despite the sweetness of your concern, he couldn't bear witnessing your distress over his injuries. 

This time, he was too careless. 

At that sight of your reluctant scowl, your Orc Boyfriend’s heart ached. He wished he had been more careful.

But you turned away and went back to your shared tent. 

He came in later, his face lined with stitches and his chest wrapped up with cloth. Your Orc groaned as he laid in bed beside you, scrunching his face up in pain. 

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you looked him over. “What happened?” Your voice was muted, small.

“Highway men.” He said.

They had jumped him while he was trying to find his hunting party. Your Orc had got separated when he’d tried to go after a stag. He emerged out onto a popular path taken by humans, looking around for his prey.

But a second was all it took for the humans to attack him.

The men were more vicious that most humans he’d fought, with weapons imbued with some kind of magical properties. One human delivered such a powerful blow to his chest that he thought his ribs had broken.

Your Orc got out by the skin of his tusks, and that was only thanks to another Orc finding him and helping him beat the snot out of the Highwaymen. 

You bit your lip at that and cast a look down at his chest. It had turned black now.

“It’ll heal.” He assured you. “It’ll take more than a few humans to kill me. Don’t worry.” Your Orc shifted and pulled something out from his belt pocket. “Here, for you.”

You gasped. Clutched between your Orc’s meaty green fingers was a small, golden band. A red ruby sat on top of the gold, catching in the dim candlelight. “We took their plunders, this was among it… And I thought of you.”

At your hesitation, your Orc offered it, “I promise I’ll be more careful when I go out in the next few weeks. See this as a pledge of that.” 

Biting your lip, you sighed. Your eyes traced the stitches on his face. You wanted to run your fingers across them, hoping that your touch could heal them. 

Taking the ring, you kissed the ruby. “You promise?” holding the ring to his lips.

Your Orc smiled and kissed it. “I swear on my life.”

[thesilicontribesman]

The Anglian Ormside Bowl, Silver, Copper Alloy and Glass, 750 to 900 CE, The Yorkshire Museum, York

The first Viking visits to Britain were to Northumbria. They were tempted by the wealth of its monasteries which boasted rich and poorly defended treasuries. Viking raids were violent and bloody, and the plunder taken during them plentiful.

Most plundered wealth was used as bullion or melted down and recycled, but some pieces were clearly treasured. This beautiful bowl decorated with fantastical beasts and religious scenes was made and used by monks in a Northumbrian monastery. It was later transformed into a drinking cup before being buried in the grave of a Viking man.

[calamityjoan]

A DAUGHTER'S CURSE ✮ DUTCH VAN DER LINDE

SUMMARY | "Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons."

PAIRING | Dutch van der Linde x Adoptive Daughter!Reader

TAGS | Canon-typical violence, mention of sexual assault, daddy issues (a lot of it) and angst.

WORDCOUNT | 3.5k

NOTE | This verse screams Damned!Dutch's daughter. Enjoy the product of that. It is chaotic and messy and not proofread but⏤oh well⏤isn't that fitting for RDR2? The final part contains direct quotes from the game and, thus, may be a spoiler. But come on, it's been seven years.

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

Like the marvelous country that was the West, the loyalty of men knew no bound. It went beyond law and reason, and sometimes drove the purest hearts to the worst horrors.

Some had dedicated poems to its beauty, its dangers too, but no soul had ever created pentameters faithful enough to the loyalty of daughters for their fathers.

The daughter's loyalty was the father's weapon, a silent but destructive ammunition on which men could always count. The father sculpted his daughter and molded her to his will.

Dutch's bloody hands had shaped you into his favorite revolver, even more deadly than his Schofield, for there was nothing in the world as bloodthirsty as a daughter who wanted to prove she was worth ten sons.

It all began when he found you on Chicago's government pier, at the edge of Civilization and all its sins.

Above his head, night and its thick, speckled tapestry wove, as usual, the perfect place to conceal a plethora of crimes.

But certainly not the weeping—it drowned out the creaking of the merchant ship Dutch and Hosea had managed to plunder.

The outlaw turned and squinted, forgetting the bear fur to investigate the sound anomaly. It took him a few seconds to make out the small figure lurking in the shadows.

Wrapped up in an overcoat too big for you, you—a mere child at that time—shivered behind a barrel that reeked of rotting meat.

“What are you doing?” Hosea asked, his hand elbow-deep in a jewelry box. “Hurry up. Arthur and John are probably already on Dearborn Street.”

Dutch ignored his friend's protests and took a step towards you. Your face, innocent as can be and distorted by the ugliness of fear, blanched at his sight.

Your frightened eyes guided me to you, your father always said. Their tears aligned the stars, and I only followed my destiny.

You knew the truth—what had really caught his attention that evening had been the bloody knife you had brandished at him with trembling hands.

You would never forget the sparkle that shone in his eyes at the sight, nor the hand he offered you.

When your tiny fingers brushed Dutch's blistered ones—the fingers of a sinner—and the man promised you bed and a hot meal, the first poisoned drops of loyalty flowed and mingled with the night so easily that you didn't see their crimson color.

The first lesson Dutch taught you was how to shoot a gun. He gave you his, then too heavy for your small hand.

The dissonance between the tender skin of innocence and the ominous iron barrel disturbed Hosea (“Isn't it a bit too early for that? She's only seven. Show her how to pick pocket instead,”) but not Dutch, who merely smiled and corrected your grip on the weapon.

“For now, hold it with both hands. One on the stock, the other under the barrel. Your fingers should always be on or against the guard. Never on the trigger, unless you want to shoot yourself in the foot. Only pull the trigger when you're ready to shoot.”

“How will I know I'm ready?” you asked in a timid voice.

A second passed. Dutch shrugged.

“You'll know when the time comes. Now, feet apart.”

His boot pushed against your frail ankle. 

“Bend your knees. Good. Now hold still.”

The man walked away. You almost reached out a hand but, remembering his words, quickly put it back under the barrel.

From a leather satchel, Dutch drew four glass bottles and placed them in a row. The remnants of a strong spirit, no doubt. The pungent aromas scented the camp often enough for you to recognize them.

The outlaw returned soon enough, and your shoulders relaxed. You had not been aware of their contraction until the scent of powder and musk embraced you again.

“You know how it works, don't you?”

You nodded shyly. A strand of hair escaped your braid and fell before your eyes. Dutch tutted. With a distracted hand, he tucked it behind your ear before pressing his palm against your shoulder blades.

“Now, both hands on the stock.”

You complied, hands trembling. Dutch pointed to the bottles with his chin as his hand at your back became more insistent.

“Try aiming for a–”

A deafening crack shook the barrel before Dutch had finished his sentence. The sound reverberated against the surrounding trees and the accompanying jolt struck your wrist with such force you were forced to let go of the gun.

Dutch's hand pressed against your shoulder blades.

“It's all right, it's all right. I've got you.”

“I'm so sorry, Mr. Dutch! I didn't mean to– ’m sorry!”

The words stumbled from your lips, drowned out by panic and the ghostly buzzing that persisted against your eardrums.

“It's very... noisy.”

“You'll get used to it,” the outlaw's voice snapped. “Do it again. But this time, breathe out before you fire. Your lungs must be empty, understand? It'll help with the recoil.”

Childlike fingers searched for the trigger.

“Empty lungs,” Dutch repeated.

The bottle, still intact, glinted in the sunlight. One of the rays shimmered against the barrel before disappearing as you aimed at the glass; a gloomy eclipse that made you shiver.

You closed your eyes for a second, exhaled until you felt your ribcage fold in on itself, and hesitated only a second before firing.

The bullet whistled.

And disappeared in the bushes. 

You sighed.

“It's all right, Kid,” he reassured you. “We've got all the time in the world.”

You borrowed only an hour of the world’s time before a bottle finally exploded. Enchanted by the shattering glass, you turned back to Dutch, grinning from ear to ear.

And that singular sparkle reappeared in the man's brown eyes.

Years later, you would recognize this glint as that of an outlaw who had got his hands on a gold mine. For the time being, you were a mere seven-year-old and relished in the attention you were receiving for the first time in your life.

With your veins as the thread, loyalty wove its first stitches in your chest and condemned you to the worst curse of all: a daughter trying to make her dather proud.

At the age of twelve, you thus asked Hosea to teach you how to hunt. He took you to a forest on the edge of Chicago, not far from the camp, and placed a rifle in your blistered palms. Trapped between the silence of the forest and birdsongs, you shot a doe for the first time and regretted that Dutch could not be with you to see it.

At the age of fourteen, Arthur realized you weren’t going anywhere. Like him several years earlier, you had taken root and become a member of the pack—one of his to protect. When you were nearly killed during a stagecoach robbery, he handed you his old shotgun, muttering words about being more careful next time and left you standing there, with a new weapon in your arms.

At the age of fifteen, John tossed a bag full of throwing knives at your feet and dared you to hit the target drawn on the oak tree. Never one to pass on a challenge, you drew one out and weighed it on your finger. The steel, lighter than that of a revolver, nicked the pad of your index. John laughed. You raised an eyebrow and threw the dagger, stabbing it in the trunk as John looked on in disbelief. Behind you both, Dutch burst out laughing and you felt alive again.

Other members came and went over the next few years. Mary Linton didn't stay, but Susan and Tilly did, as Bill, Javier and Davey. You were introduced to other weapons—snipers, dynamite, bows, even axes—but you would always return to your revolver and the first memory of Dutch.

Loyalty wrapped itself around your neck for good when, at seventeen, you killed for Dutch for the first time.

Nothing remained of the sensation of that night on the pier, when the blade had sunk into the fat belly of the drunkard who had tried to rape you.

Today, dread was replaced by jubilation, as you reloaded the barrel of your revolver and blew the head off yet another O'Driscoll. Crouched behind a rock, adrenalin pounded your temples and sharpened your senses.

“Come out! Van Der Linde!” a voice taunted behind her. “Colm wants to say hello!”

A shadow in a green scarf swooped down on Dutch. You choked out a scream as the O’Driscoll threw the first punch.

“No, Father!”

Dutch fell in the mud with a grunt. The O'Driscoll turned back to her, a toothy grin on his lips. His fist, still clenched, was dripping blood. Your father's blood, you realized.

The butt of your revolver lacerated your palm as you tightened your grip around it.

“I didn't know good ol’ Dutch had a daughter! Tell me, sweetheart, do you want to see me blow your daddy's brains out?”

The Irishman grabbed Dutch's hair. You saw red and jumped.  

Three blows echoed through the clearing. Dutch fell back to the ground. The O'Driscoll raised a hand to his chest and blanched.

Empty lungs.

He collapsed, his scarf green no more.

You dropped your revolver and rushed to Dutch. The man was still lying on the ground, his face covered in mud and blood, but his bewildered eyes moved frantically as he caught sight of you.

“Are you all right?” you asked, breathless.

The look of disbelief didn't go away. Louisa thought at first of head trauma—his head, after all, had slammed against the floor—but when he got to his feet without your help, your own words came back to taunt you.

Your whole body froze before you straightened up and, avoiding his eyes, turned around to rush to your horse.

You straddled him and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“You called me ‘Father’,” he told her that evening, when you finally summoned the courage to go see him.

In silence, you sat at his bedside before grabbing a clean rag and soaking it with whisky. With a trembling hand, you wiped the clotted blood from the corners of her lips, searching their familiar shapes for the right words. Dutch always knew what to say.

“I did,” you admitted in a quiet voice.

He grabbed your wrist.

You tensed.

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

Dutch searched your face for something, but didn't seem to find it. He abruptly let go and pulled a cigar from his jacket’s patch pocket before lighting it. You watched the man take a short puff; for a moment, the arabesques of smoke diverted your mind from the anguish that swarmed within.

But Dutch's sigh plunged you right back into it. He spread an arm out.

You flinched but a hand between your shoulder blades prevented you from falling.

“Come here, Kid.”

You promptly burst into tears and fell into his arms.

Several minutes passed without either of you speaking. Dutch broke the silence first.

“Can I count on you?”

“I'll follow you all the way to Hell,” you immediately replied, unaware that the Styx and Phlegethon started from your father's wounds.

 “Dutch is just trying to get us out of here,” you sharply whispered to Arthur as you scoured tonight’s dinner’s dishes.

The incessant splashing of icy water was doing a poor job at masking your anger. The feeling of betrayal had cut too deep at your chest for that. It made your fingers shake as you rubbed a dirty coffee cup a little harder. 

Of all the members of the gang, you had never thought Arthur would doubt Dutch.

You kept your eyes fixed on your hands, reddened not by blood but by effort—a rare sight indeed. Lately, not a day went by without you being sent to kill someone.

You grabbed another plate to shake off the weight of guilt. The sponge squeaked against the iron and drowned your thoughts for a second.

“He ain’t been the same since Micah came,” Arthur began, “and you know it as well as me. Always talking about his big plan, dangling mountains of gold in front of us, but we both know it won’t happen.”

You slammed the bowl against the table, startling Pearson who was butchering a doe, and turned back to Arthur, your finger pointed at him.

“You don't know what you're talking about!”

“And you're blinded by your love for him! Look around, Y/N. We're the last. Civilization is on our doorstep. Dutch can't fight it. We've got to get out. John, Sadie and Abigail agree. Come along.”

A bitter laugh forced its way out of your chest.

“Please, love.”

You lowered your head and, with a lump in the throat, said softly: “Go away, Arthur.”

The gunslinger sighed and did just that. The strange sight made your lips part, ready to take back what you had just said, but no word came out. You clenched your fist.   

Dutch, you thought. Dutch will know what to do.

You abandoned the dishes and headed for your father's tent. Voices escaped from the canvas, and it only took you a second to recognize Micah's. You gritted your teeth. You didn't trust this snake any more than Arthur did, but one rotten apple did not spoil the whole barrel.

Both men fell silent when you came into view.

“Can I talk to you?” you asked Dutch.

“Not now, Kid. Micah got a lead that could be very good for us.”

Although his voice was soft, you couldn't help the pain that lacerated your chest. For the first time, Dutch had dismissed you. Beside him, Micah watched on with a victorious eye.

For a second, your fingers brushed against revolver at your belt, but you quickly recovered and, flashing your most convincing smile, nodded.

As soon as you turned, the facade dropped. You pushed back the tent flap with a trembling hand and, trying to ignore the crack that had just appeared, returned to your bedroll, where nightmares brought you back to the Chicago pier.

This time, no man reached out a hand.

Loyalty knew almost no bound—for only jealousy was a worthy rival and could, piece by piece, unravel the sacred stitches it sewed in hearts.

Micah Bell, more snake than man, had hissed his lies and perfidy into Dutch's sick ear—a modern reincarnation of the Garden of Eden where Eve would not bite the apple. No. This time, the sinner had only one name, ironic as it was.

Father.

The Daughter was and would remain a figure cursed by her sex—apple in the eyes of the Father, turned rotten with the appearance of a Son.

And what a son, you thought as Micah pointed his gun at an emaciated Arthur and a bruised John. A son who had ratted them out to the Pinkertons. A sellout. A traitor.

This thought awakened a rage you had hitherto tried to bury deep within yourself. It bubbled up in your veins and rattled your chest.

Slowly, your fingers slipped to your belt.

“All of you...” Arthur began, his revolver pointed at the crowd. “You pick your side, because this is over. All them years, Dutch... for this snake?”

“Oh, be quiet, cowpoke. Be quiet!”

You could not look away from your father. He hadn't answered. Why hadn’t he answered?

An enraged Susan Grimshaw sided with Arthur and snapped you out of your reverie. The rifle she was holding clashed with the strict image you had built up over the years.

“No. You be quiet, Mr. Bell… and put down your gun.”

“There’s Pinkertons coming, fast.”

Javier's announcement sent the camp into a deadly frenzy. Seizing his chance, Micah shot Mrs. Grimshaw, who collapsed to the ground in a bloodcurdling scream.

 “No!”

You fell to your knees and placed your hands on the gaping wound perforating her stomach.

“No, no, no, no, no... Not again, not again,” you whispered frantically.

You pressed harder on Mrs. Grimshaw's wound as she continued to writhe in pain. 

“Come on. Don’t die on me. Please,” you begged.

Kieran, Sean, Lenny, Hosea... How many friends had you lost? How many more names would join the cursed list? Would you be next?

Why hadn't Dutch answered Arthur's question?

Despite your pleas and efforts, Mrs. Grimshaw soon stopped moving.

When you felt the body exhale against your palm, you froze. As if they had a mind on their own, your hands slid to the muddy ground, now soaked with innocent blood.

You watched on with dull eyes.

“Who amongst you is with me…” Dutch's voice echoed behind her. “And who is betraying me?”

You raised your head and stared into Mrs. Grimshaw's dead eyes. Your hand shook. A few drops of blood dripped from it. You wiped them off on your jeans and clenched your fist before standing up on wobbly legs.

Meanwhile, the camp had divided itself: John and Arthur on one side, Dutch and the rest on the other.

And you, in the middle of this abyss, stood motionless, your chest empty.

It was only when Arthur collapsed in a coughing fit that you came back to life. You rushed to your brother and placed a comforting hand between his shoulder blades.

“Are you alright?”

Arthur's grip on his revolver wavered. The sight, so far removed from the gunslinger you had known all your life, tore at your heart. All had changed. Everyone you’d ever cared about was either a ghost of themselves or a decomposed corpse.

“He's lying... Cowpoke is lying,” Micah taunted, his two revolvers pointed at them.

That was the last straw. You let out an inhuman scream and drew your weapon.

“You!Shut the fuck up! I've had enough of your words!”

A toothy grin appeared on the blond's face.

“Oh... It seems the little one got claws after all.”

“Kid,” Dutch began but you kept your eyes and revolver on the traitor.

It's all his fault.

“Kid, put the gun down and come here,” Dutch ordered in a distracted voice.

No, in a confident voice.

After all, why should a model daughter disobey her father?

For the first time, you hesitated and glanced over your shoulder.

Arthur was watching you, his eyes tired but pleading. You recalled your conversation from weeks earlier.

He's not the same. We both know that.

You turned back to Dutch and searched his eyes for the familiar spark of the early days, but nothing but greed and arrogance swam in those irises.

You bowed your head and admitted defeat.

The Father's image withered before her very eyes. Loyalty evaporated in a second. The blood of the pact coagulated. The heart dried up. Already, the mind was feeling the poison’s effects and destroying the golden images to leave only the cold hard truth.

Suddenly, the choice seemed obvious.

You took a step towards Arthur and John.

“No,”

“What do you mean “no”?” Dutch laughed. “Come here, Kid, or–”

Your blood ran cold. The stitches of loyalty loosened and those of hatred replaced them.

“Or what? You'll shoot me? 

“Cut the crap and get over here, Kid!”

“I ain’t your kid!” you exploded.

Your voice echoed through the clearing. Dutch froze.

You took a deep breath and, hand trembling, pointed your revolver at him.

The sensation of déjà-vu strangled you. All you had to do was close your eyes to be transported to the Chicago pier. You could almost hear the creaking of the merchant ship and Hosea's muttering.

But Hosea is dead.

You tightened your grip on the butt of the revolver. The dozens of blisters covering your hands burst into flames. Dutch was the sole reason for their presence. If you burst them, would the blood of the victims you had killed for him flow?

“You're not my father,” you continued despite your quavering voice. “My father died when he chose to side with this traitor.”

Her index finger left the grip.

“Kid, put the gun down.”

If he'd wanted you to be an obedient daughter, why had he taught you to shoot at seven?

You went over the guard.

Empty lungs.

You exhaled.

A daughter's loyalty to her father knew no bound, except for the one Betrayal erected.

Then, filial rage spared nothing.

Not even the Father.

[theoneofshame]

Harry grabs for the firewhiskey.

“Do you only ever go for the hardstuff?”

“It gets you there faster,” Harry exclaims, rummaging through the cabinets for glasses. Why in the bloody hell they were in the topmost shelf is beyond Harry. Probably Kreacher in a petty spell.

Voldemort, the giant git that he is, makes no move to help.

"Do you mind?"

"Yes, yes I do."

Prat.

“Besides, what’s the point of drinking if not to get pissed?” Harry huffs out, stretching for all his 5'4 stature allowed him. His middle and index fingers graze the edge-most cup, accidentally pushing it further in.

“To enjoy it perhaps,” Voldemort snarks. He watches Harry throw away his last shred of dignity and climb the counter to reach, like it's something fascinating to behold.

“I’ll be enjoying myself plenty, thanks,” Harry says, victorious in his plundering with a cup in hand.

"Why not just summon it?"

Harry rolls his eyes. "Kreacher has objects not react to my magic when he's cross with me." Which is always. Harry stopped keeping track of the reasons.

Voldemort wandlessly summons the second cup to him. Harry flips him off.

For all Voldemort's belly-aching he still shares a glass with Harry. Then four more. They've moved to the study and drank through most of the bottle when Harry makes the comment, “never would’ve taken you for a lighter spirits fellow.”

“I prefer sweet things,” Voldemort says, slowly raking his eyes up Harry's form before locking on to Harry’s own. The way he said it had Harry’s cheeks flushing. Probably just the alcohol catching up to him. Still, his belly is warm and he's feeling good.

[pooks]

thought of an AU of my straw hat!ichiji AU (yeah, original, right?)

it begins the same, except Ichiji and Sanji are seperated during the storm they met Zeff. Sanji accidently let go of Ichiji's hand, so he got swept away with the sea. after surviving a starving hell on the rock with Zeff, Sanji thinks that Ichiji is dead and he's only able to grieve after they recover.

meanwhile, Ichiji has washed up on the shores of a strange island in the East Blue and finds himself alone, no Sanji and no "rude, kicking old pirate". Ichiji also believes that Sanji is gone, meaning that all his sacrifices has been for nothing and loses all hope. as if his day can't get any worse, some low-life bandits has come to the shores to plunder among the ship wrecks and are bothering him.

Ichiji, already pissed off, turns on "Germa mode" and viciously beats them all down until they're bruised and bloody with broken bones and lost teeth. not wanting to stay behind, Ichiji walks away from the shores and into the forest-covered mountains

he walks around without sleep and food for some days and his physical needs takes a longer time to dimish than for a normal human, so on the fourth day, he suddenly finds himself tired, hungry and weak. but since his luck kinda sucks, Ichiji encounters Ace and they bicker for a while. Ace is downright rude and wants him out of "his forests". Ichiji shots back that it's not his forest and he can do whatever he wants. not even a second afterward, fatigue settles in and Ichiji faints from hunger and exhaustion.

when he wakes up again, he finds himself in a treehouse and Ace is there, but also two other boys; a blonde one with a large hat and a smaller one with a straw hat. he learns their name and finds out that they had taken care of him for three days and three nights. Ichiji, who only understand the basic human emotions and interractions, asks them why they saved him when they don't even know who he was or what he had done.

he's really shaken when he's told that they don't care where he comes from, but that they wanted to make sure he was okay because he's been sick. Ichiji quickly learns that they are brothers and the thought of Sanji makes him cry.

Ichiji isn't loud or expressive, so his crying is silent. Ace, Sabo and Luffy are a little taken back and asks why he's crying. Ichiji reveals that he's the only survivor of a storm, he tells about the passenger ship Orbit being attacked by pirates and a terrible storm swept him away and worst of all, he's lost his little brother forever.

Ichiji ends up staying with them and is taught on how to be a human. he slowly reveals things about himself, piece by piece. he eventually reveals to them that he's an "genetically advanced human" and shows them everything he can do.

super strength and speed, steel-like skin (which he can turn on/off at will), jump several feet into the air and best of all, his fire-based red light powers, Sparking Red

Ace, Sabo and especially Luffy are impressed and fascinated by what he can do. when asked if he's eaten a Devil Fruit, Ichiji shakes his head and says that he was born like this and he can still swim, just very fast and he can hold his breath for thirty minutes. Luffy, being very Luffy, doesn't really understand what he means with "genetically advanced" and says that Ichiji is a super-powered human.

Ichiji never talks about Germa, but vaguely references Judge (but never drops any names) as a monster who took him from his mother and did experiments on him. he only says that he's in North Blue and will never find him here.

Ichiji eventually meets the mountain bandits, the Dadan Family, and finds them weird, but likable. Luffy introduces him as "Ichi" and says that he's a super-power kid, something Ichiji doesn't like him doing. he pulls at his face (Luffy being rubber kinda works like a stress toy for him lol) and warns him to not run around and yell out his secrets. Ichiji quickly warms up to the mountain bandits and thinks that living lawlessly isn't so bad, when everything else fails (given his bitter experiences with Germa and Marines)

unfortunately, this means that he'll meet Garp and this is where they really clash. Ichiji is very hostile and bitter about meeting a Marine, he believes they're the scum of earth who only likes money and power and doesn't care about people at all. he's also the only one being able to keep up a fight with Garp (thanks to him being enhanced), much longer than Ace and Luffy.

he eventually loses, though because Ichiji is still a child and often forgets it

Garp isn't stupid, though. he knows when a kid mistrusts the Marines out of personal reason and does his best to convince Ichiji that all Marines aren't rotten to the core and "power-mad bastards".

we will find out the reason why Ichiji hates Marines; he once manages to run away from Germa briefly to nearest Marine base, told his entire story and asked for help. instead, he was being mocked and laughed before kicked out. and to add insult to the injury, his "lifestory" was turned into a Marine-pro comic series, casting himself and his siblings as villains and his mother's name got recycled into a Marine hero. he feels that they took his lifestory, turned it into a Marine propaganda and defiled his mother's memory. (and this is why he hates the "Sora, Warrior of the Sea" series)

Ace, however, is just like "yeah, fuck the Marines" while Sabo wonders if Ichiji can demand a lawsuit. Ichiji is tired of talking about it and only says that he doesn't care, only that Marines can burn to the ground and he wouldn't bat an eye.

(yes, his hatred also extends to World Government and it will be important later on)

back to Garp. he understands Ichiji's hatred better and since Ichiji doesn't remember which outpost it was, he can't do anything about it. his solution is to show Ichiji that there are good marines too and he can change it by becoming one himself

Ichiji response is a flat "no thanks." before walking off. he does that often.

it goes a couple of years. they eventually "lose" Sabo, which makes Ace step up as a big brother to Luffy and Ichiji isolates himself, once again shaken and it brings very bad memories for him.

when Ichiji is around 10, he's a more frequent face in the village and he learns from visiting sailors that Sanji is alive. no name-dropping, only that there's a "blonde kid with swirly eyebrows" at the sea-faring restaurant Baratie. Ichiji decides that he can no longer stay and wants to set off to find his brother.

Luffy is extremely clingy and doesn't want him to go while Ace thinks that Ichiji should go and see his brother when he's got the chance. it involved a lot of yelling, tears and making Ichiji promise that they'll meet again. he does and he shares an emotional farewell (for now) with Ace, Luffy, the Dadan family and the villagers.

but not before Ace gives him a necklace of small, red pearls that he's made himself. Ichiji, having formed a deep bond with Ace, gives him something as well;

it's an amulet made by flat, long oval-shaped seashells and shaped to resemble a star. Ichiji tells him that it's a lucky charm, made by a specific type of seashells that's said to keep sailors and pirates safe on their voyages.

their exchange of gifts is also an oath between them; when they meet again, they'll be grown up adults and promise their lives together forever.

so ends Ichiji's stay on Dawn Island and he finds Baratie after many weeks, finally reuniting after what seemed like an eternity for him and Sanji.

but that's a story for another day. ;)

[vivi-the-goblin]

Just thinking about the poetic nature of the Gith

Originally, there was just one species that broke free of the mindflayers and turned to bloody rebellion. In the aftermath the Githyanki (those who follow Gith) formed a new militaristic culture based on their inherant superiority, while the Githzerai rebelled against becoming like thier old masters and left (those who spurn Gith). The Githyanki live in the Astral Sea, a place where nothing ages or changes unless change is forced upon it. The world is vibrant, sure, and it IS constantly changing, but only through force and intrusion.

The Githzerai live in Limbo, a land of infinite chaos where even the fabric of reality might turn from air to bread to napalm in a second. It is only through massive willpower and active dedication that you can craft anything, and that needs to be actively and constantly maintained.

The Githyanki have not changed. They became their old masters. They have slaves of their own. They're coping with the scars of their enslavement by making sure THEY'RE the ones on top this time. Though they still identify themselves around wiping out their old masters, the system never fell. tyranny just gained a new face and explanation. The same face, the leader has been the same bloodline even since those times beyond measure, with the current one being an undead immortal ruling for thousands of years, unaging even when in places that do change. Githyanki are forced to occasionally explore to have kids and let them grow to adulthood. But they leave the encampment only to plunder resources, keeping the kids as secluded as possible and dragging them back ASAP to double down on indoctrination. Nobody moves on, and the youth who attempt to are met with force.

The Githzerai have changed so much they're no longer the same species, even if they are still externally recognizable. They left for a land where everything changes. However, through introspection and dedication to ensuring personal freedom, they thrive. Specifically, it's from their leaders giving up that freedom to eternally power their chunk of safety in the storm. Literally sitting in a sarcophagus for eternity, the death of self. You'd think would be horrible, given the whole point was escape from eternal labor and gaining freedom! But the difference is that it's willing, it's their choice, one they were free to make or decline. They chose to make a home others could grow up in safely, a place that would still remain for them even if they left for a time. These elders are also don't age...but they're the ones who came to terms with their trauma, fought, and decided to move beyond. They even lost the initial war, but persisted and kept working to break the system. And they do so by supporting those that come next, trusting they'll keep fighting to stop this cycle of oppression.

The Githyanki are conquering the stars but haven't really moved an inch. The Githzerai are living in an ever-moving and actively hostile world, but came to terms with themselves and their past and moved ever forward.. Beautiful.

...

I'm also thinking about how the Githzerai names a city Susanowo. Like the brother of Amaterasu. Like, in-universe named that after actual スサノヲfrom actual Japan. Because Earth exists, and the various gods USED to exist there. An old empire kept kidnaping people from Earth, and the gods followed their believers but got stuck. I keep running into bits of lore that tie into that and it hits me like a truck every time.

[katyawriteswhump]

I do, I do, I do 💝

For @steddieholidaydrabbles day 29 prompt, fairytale, and @whumpcember day 29 prompt, choked.

Rating: E; WC: 987 CW: sex, knotting, biting. Tags: Omega Steve, Alpha Eddie, fluff and angst, sex, fairytale-ish setting, cracky tbh, happy ever after. Summary: Omega Princess, Steve, has been conducting an illicit affair with devilishly handsome woodsman, Eddie. When his mother, the queen, announces an unwanted marriage for him, he has nobody else to run to…

💝💝💝💝💝

Steve stumbled into the forest, with his corset laced so tightly it choked him. He’d not intended to flee in this stupid pink ballgown. However, his mother had announced that he was to be wed to Lord Breedemhard.

At midnight tonight.

He ran.

Now, fear and cold congealed his blood. Mud clogged his silken slippers. Worse, the horses and hounds of his royal mother’s search party drew nearer. He was beyond exhausted, barely able to breathe… and now he scented another kind of beast, barrelling toward him.

They pounced, body-slamming Steve into a patch of fortuitously springy-soft moss. A wild-haired, mahogany-eyed Alpha pinned his wrists, growling:

“What’s an edible Omega like you, doing in a forest like this?”

“I… I…”  Steve trembled too hard to think. The Alpha licked Steve’s unbroken mating gland, then backed off, frowning.

“Baby, you’re scared. I know we didn’t arrange a tryst today, but I scented you and now I smell sadness. Don’t wanna play?”

Steve threw his arms around Eddie’s neck, told him everything: “I know our secret liaisons are a game for you, but I have n-nobody else.”

Eddie muttered under his breath. Steve, sniffling, braced for rejection. Then Eddie enfolded him tight, rocking soothingly. Steve cursed the corset more than ever, because he could barely feel Eddie’s kind caressing hands:

“I thought you were the one playing games with a lowlife woodsman, Princess.”

“Then I’m sorry! I know I can be a tease, even a bit of a bitch, but… I’m very much in love with you.”

“Seriously, you can’t mean—”

“I do, I do, I do!” Steve got right in Eddie’s baffled face, searching it desperately. “Tonight, I’ll have to say that to an Alpha thrice my age, after being punished for ruining my gown. Unless you’ll help?”

Not that Steve could hear his pursuers anymore. He wasn’t even that scared. Eddie’s comforting closeness overwhelmed his senses, as did Eddie’s words:

“I love you too.” He cupped Steve’s face and smiled, setting Steve’s heart flipping. “I didn’t dare hope. I ache when we’re apart… Mmmmf!”

With an un-Omega-like boldness, Steve initiated the kiss, which Eddie returned hungrily, plundering passionately to Steve’s depths. It was like being swept away over the rainbow… till Steve started seeing stars, and not in a good way.

Bloody corset! Can’t breathe!

Eddie broke the kiss. “What’s wrong? You’re safe now. They won’t find you.”

“Oh… um, crazily, it’s not mother.” Steve tugged his ballgown from his shoulders. “Omegas are supposed to have tiny waists and perfect deportment. This stupid corset suffocates me.”

Eddie nuzzled tenderly at Steve’s nape, while loosening the laces. As his breathing grew easier, Steve filled his lungs with Eddie’s potent Alpha musk. Finally, Eddie eased Steve out of the torturous whalebone cage and tossed it aside.

“Thank you!”

Steve whirled around so they could kiss again, and Eddie pressed him back into the moss. He’d never felt so loose and relaxed, so pliant and ready to play. Eddie’s nearness and kisses ignited a nectar-like glow inside him. The gush of slick from his cleft had him squirming with glee.

“Claim me now, Alpha!”

He anticipated a brush-off. To be fair, they should probably hide from his mother.

Instead, Eddie beamed wolfishly: “With pleasure, my Princess.” 

Eddie unlaced his britches, and his Alpha cock sprung free, weeping in a fashion that made Steve rather proud. Meanwhile, that candied glow became a nigh-torturous ache of emptiness. Fortunately, Steve’s tattered petticoats hitched up easily, and Eddie inserted his steel-rod of an erection between Steve’s wet folds.

“You sure?” whispered Eddie. They’d only played games before, and Steve was a virgin.

He gaped, nodded. Eddie’s tongue breached Steve’s mouth for another kiss the same instant that cockhead split him.

“Good?” asked Eddie.

“Sublime.”

Eddie nudged deeper, stretching Steve’s oh-so-wet-and-ready tunnel impossibly wide—plowing slow and sweet, while Steve adjusted, any slight pain fading. Steve soon rocked his hips, silently pleading. Eddie let rip. Everything disintegrated beyond the feel of Eddie inside him, kindling hitherto unknown sensations of rapture that built and built. Even better, Eddie made love—his adoring gaze penetrated Steve’s soul. All Steve could do was bask in it, whispering, “l-love yoooou… ooooh!”

The wondrous friction gradually grew too much, bordering on torture again. When an unexpectedly high-tide of it burst, Steve cried out, clamping so hard around Eddie that Eddie howled too. His knot caught inside Steve, and he stopped moving, while his dick swelled even larger, pumping out molten heat.

“Sorry, Princess.”

“D-don’t you dare apologise for giving me what I’ve craved since we met.” Steve loved this stuffed feeling as much as anything. He still wanted more: “Bite me!”

Eddie’s fangs pierced Steve’s mating gland, and the sharp pain robbed his breath yet again. He saw stars again too. They were almost as beautiful as his mate, whom they only briefly eclipsed.

Eddie nested with Steve in the velvet moss, his knot buried deep. He kissed Steve’s sore neck and smothered him with love, while in the distance, the search party danced in fruitless circles.

“I ruined their ball.” Steve snickered. “Thank you for ruining me.”

“You’re more perfect than ever,” whispered Eddie. “No more games.”

“One thing confuses me, tho’. How did you know we’d not be found?”

Instinctually, he’d trusted his Alpha to keep him safe. It was still befuddling.

“Sweetheart, I might look like a devilishly handsome woodsman. I’m also a wizard on the lute and… a powerful mage. I cast a protection spell when you told me about your pursuers.”

“Oh.” Steve let that sink in, then returned to enjoying the fullness of Eddie’s knot, while purring more madly than he’d believed possible. “Thank you, Alpha.”

A few hours later, Steve’s mother was handed his corset—covered in fake blood that Eddie had conjured—and presumed he’d been ravaged by beasts.

Steve and Eddie, meanwhile, returned to a cosy cottage, raised six pups, and lived happily ever after.

💝💝💝💝💝

(yes, um... sorry. Again. Set very loosely in the same universe as this fic, which could be read as following on, although the tone is rather different.)

tags: @wheneverfeasible 💚 My stranger things fic on AO3

[northern-passage]

No Pride with Genocide!

You have probably seen the grotesque images of jubilant Israeli soldiers holding the pride flag on top of our scorched Gazan lands infiltrating social media feeds last week. The Israel State cynically publishes on its Twitter account, “The first ever pride flag raised in Gaza,” as it proceeds with its genocidal crusade and its concomitant Zionist propaganda campaign. We view these images with immense feelings of frustration and uttermost disgust, and we see through their despicable tactics of weaponizing homophobia and queer violence for colonial means. The following are notes from Queers in Palestine, elaborating on what such imagery tries to accomplish and what underpins their production:

1. Zionist Colonization is Anti-Civilization 

Colonial and Imperial powers have long used their fabricated lies of “civilization,” “rights,” and “democracy” to justify their plunder, military rule, and capitalist accumulation. We learn this from global histories of European colonization across Abya Yala, Asia, Africa, Turtle Island, Aotearoa, and Australia. The Zionist colonization of Palestine is no different. Oftentimes, the pretext of all of these bloodied invasions is that the “civilized” world is invading racialized communities to bring culture, education, and liberalism and instill it in societies it deems barbaric, immoral, and uncivilized. The images of the LGBT flag supposedly claim to bring rights and liberties to Gaza, but unironically, the soldier stands on top of the debris of hopes, dreams, and human remains of Palestinians he himself and the army he serves bombed moments before. The flag merely stands to reaffirm the simulacrum of colonization, death, white supremacy, and destruction. 

2. Israel Erases Palestinian Queerness

The images of the Israel Pride Flag and the other with the text, “In the name of love” send a clear message: Israel will not allow queer liberation unless it’s through its settler-colonial genocidal project. To that, we say No! We queer Palestinians have a vibrant, diverse liberation movement that is part of the Palestinian anti-colonial movement. For decades, we have been tirelessly working on carving up and maintaining a space for Palestinian queer life amongst our communities and not despite them. We are everywhere: in schools, streets, prisons, hospitals, and at the forefront of every confrontation in every corner of Palestine, from the river to the sea. What we are working towards is a Palestine liberated from colonialism, patriarchy, and capitalist exploitation.

3. Queer Opacity in Times of Hypervisibility

In a time when Palestinians are being prosecuted without trial, student movements shut-down and students in universities suspended and detained, and solidarity with Palestine and Palestinians at large are attacked and criminalized, visibility has proven itself to be a frontline of resistance against the erasure of Palestinians worldwide. In Palestine, Israel’s surveillance apparatuses hunt any expression for Palestine’s right to exist as grounds to attack, incarcerate, and murder Palestinian life. This over-fixation on the supposed lack of Palestinian queer visibility steers the attention from Israel’s campaign against all Palestinians – workers, activists, students, feminists, queers, and otherwise. Israel and its allies dangerously decontextualize the violence queers suffer from its historical colonial roots, and dissociate it from the impacts of current settler-colonial violence. This is an attempt to portray Palestinian society as unsafe for queers to legitimize the annihilation of our people, and in turn our annihilation as queers. Under Israel’s surveillance & police state, visibility, opacity and invisibility are survival and resistance tactics we use interchangeably, and aren’t always a matter of choice. None of us is safe under settler-colonization.

4. These Images Endanger Queer People Worldwide

The Pride Flag has long been hijacked and homonationalised. It represents a narrow and limited understanding of gender and sexuality and excludes the myriad of sexualities in the colonized world. This homonationalism renders colonized sexual and gender attitudes illegible to the liberal gaze and forces us to speak a language that compromises our experiences. Under nationalist and colonial regimes, our bodies and sexualities will always be regulated. What the pride flag has come now to represent is a commercial, imperialist, and white supremacist sexual ideologies, and this, in turn, puts us queer people in danger. This homonationalist project hinders our fight against anti-queer violence within our communities because our identities and sexualities are constantly being hijacked by the empires and colonies that brought destruction upon us. We need to reject such associations that only strengthen queerphobia in colonized societies, especially during this time in Arab and Muslim communities, when the soldiers and armies that are destroying our homes and killing our parents, siblings, friends, and children are doing so in the name of LGBT rights. 

5. Colonialism & Empire are Anti-Queerness

In the past, colonial projects sought to eliminate any sex-gender organization systems that fell outside of the European binary patriarchal model of man-woman. We learn this from the British criminalization of the Hijra in South Asia, or British and French social organizing efforts to enforce a binary sex-gender system in Yoruba Land, or Portuguese and Spanish efforts to eliminate “two-spirit” indigenous North Americans – deeming all uncivilized in need of external civilization. This was also the case in Palestine under British-Zionist military occupation, as same-sex relations and other diverse gender practices became criminalized and demonized. All the current laws in Gaza that criminalize queerness are, in fact, British and are upheld by Zionism. However, it becomes evermore absurd that rhetorics of bringing queer liberation to Palestine have been now hijacked by Zionists and, for the most brutal reasons, in service of annihilation of Palestinian life and mass destruction. We, Palestinian queers, position our movement for liberation alongside anti-colonial and anti-racist movements globally, and we stand firmly in objection to any attempt to hijack our movements, or exploit our bodies.

In the name of revolutionary love, a love which fuels our struggle for liberation and yearning for freedom, rooted in our love for our communities and our land; we tell you, there is no pride with genocide, and there is no pride in settler-colonialism.

Our pride can only come through true liberation for all, for us and for all the peoples fighting worldwide.

A Liberatory Demand from Queers in Palestine | Pinkwashing - Decolonize Palestine

[dailyadventureprompts]

Adventure: Along the Road of Nameless Graves

Presiding over a series of forested foothills and mountainous valleys that divide two rival kingdoms, the mist-shrouded barony of Siirvyn has seen more than its share of war over the past generations. Betrayal, invasion, and massacre are all too common motifs in the barony's long history, leaving all sorts of scars on both the landscape and the people who dwell within it.

Adventure Hooks:

Rumours of a treasure draw the party to Siirvyn, apparently concealed in a vault beneath the ruined castle of a long dead baroness Taviaa. Surely it won't be too hard to locate a single ruin in a land frequently beset by war, right?

The party arn't the only one combing across the barony looking for something. A hardluck knight seeks her brother after he vanished on a foolish quest, and might be willing to help the party out of jam if they aid her in search.

Folk of the barony tell of Grimcackle, a great black winged beast that moorlands that's sometimes heard laughing over the desolate battlefields but is only ever seen by the lost and the desperate. To heed the old stories it plunders the old battlefields of it's choicest riches, hoarding the wealth of the dead over centuries of war.

Subquest 1:

The party's hunt for riches gets complicated after arriving in the region to find that there has been no less than eight baroness Taviaas over the past century(backwater fiefdoms do like tradition after all) with five castles between them. Most have been destroyed by disaster, neglect, or siege, leaving the party to trek across the land checking checking out each option (though a clever party might narrow their search by hitting the local archives and cross referencing historical accounts).

Potential ruins include:

The delapidated lair of the local owlbear

Huanted by the ghost of one of the baronesses Taviaa,

The Hideout of a gang of smugglers with far reaching ties

Thoroughly cursed by a battlefield savaging spriggan who deals in cursed weapons.

To make matters even more complicated, one of the castles has been restored by the current baron Arkolo who would likely not take kindly to a band of renegade sellswords pilfering riches from under his nose, forcing the party to avoid it entirely or risk getting thrown in the dungeon if caught.

Subquest 2:

Ser Riley of Breakbridge never expected to inherit the family title, her father favoured her elder brother Rhys far more, and when the old man died in the last war there was no question who his holdings would pass to. Then, a couple of years ago Rhys got it into his head that he needed to reclaim the family's ancestral sword which was lost in the same bloody battle that did their father in, crossing the mountains to scour old battlefields and not being seen since. After righting the mess Rhys caused by his chivalric absence, Riley has come to Siirvyn herself to drag him, or possibly his body back from his foolhardy quest. The party may run into her requesting aid from the Baron, seeking advice from the local shrine to Tyr, or drinking off another unsuccessful trek through the wilderness at the local tavern. She'd welcome their aid in her search, and would gladly pay them back by lending her blade to theirs in their search (or using her influence to spring them from the baron's dungeons, should they have been caught).

Rhys' trail snakes all across the barony (including leaving a journal in one of the ruins the party wanted to search), but terminates in the great barren battlefield that was his father's last stand. While searching these moorlands the party & Ser Riley will run into a band of armed scavengers apparently conducting their own body-hunt for one of their fallen comrades. They served on the opposite side of the war from Riley's family, and if that wasn't bad blood enough, they apparently came to blows with Rhys a little under a year ago and aim to settle the score with his sister.

Regardless of how the standoff plays out (talking the scavengers down and exchanging favours or beating the information out of them) the Next step is to find Grimcackle's nest. By now (especially if you're playing with my affliction system and the party is tired out from all their wandering across the countryside) the party will have realized that the only way to see the great raven is to be nearing the edge of death, whether through actively dying, being poisoned, or just being exhausted to the bone. This is because the great raven is infact a psychopomp, tasked with sorting out the dead from the region's innumerable wars. Once the party find the particular tor the dread raven uses as roost, they'll find him quite chatty in the way of most birds, happy to trade gossip or play show and tell with his many finds. Rhys did indeed come to challenge Grimcackle for the sword, an act of daring rudness that forced the psychopomp to drag the knight's soul to the purgatory it rightfully belonged.

Resigned by the love she bears her brother, Riley insists she must venture into the shadow to save him, leaving the party with the choice of convincing her to abandon her quest, leave her to her fruitless pursuit of honour, or risk it all alongside her for the sake of an idiot who thought he could convince an aspect of death to respect his pedigree.

Subquest 3:

After their harrowing adventure the party return to town to find that Baron Akolo has been assassinated and all of Siivyrn has been thrown into chaos and suspicion. Fingers point and depending who the blame lands on it might spell civil war or invasion for the backwoods barony once again.

Background: Both neighbouring powers wish to control who moves through the region's winding passes, and expend great effort in both war and peace to ensure the barony is favourable to them. While occupying armies and vassalage have been all too common in the past, the region's ostensibly independent ruler Baron Arkolo is a puppet in all but name for the winning side of the most recent war. Little more than a bandit leader during the conflict savaging battlefields and attacking supply lines on both sides, Arkolo saw the way the wind was blowing before anyone else and made himself indispensable to his current patrons before their inevitable victory.

Little more than a strongman at first, the newly elevated baron managed to ingratiate himself to his subjects by leveraging his outlaw status to cast himself as a hero fighting against the great powers rather than ruling on their behalf. All the while the canny old bandit was of course playing both sides, toadying to the victorious kingdom while helping to run the smuggling operation for their rivals.

Clues & Consequences:

The baron had a stormy relationship with his son and prospective heir Kalo, who came up raiding alongside his father. After the war however, the young man felt he'd had enough of violence renounced his possesisons and joined the secluded temple of Tyr as a means of making peace with his bloody past. Arkolo never approved of his son's taking the cloth, refused to name another heir and would frequently make pilgramage to the temple just to argue with him. Despite their years of contention however the had seemed to reconcile in recent months, becoming closer than ever. Kalo is not taking his father's murder well, and has decided to dust off his old bandit skills alongside his newfound connection to a wargod as a means of finding the killer. Like an angered bull, he's liable to charge at whoever draws his attention, a weakness the real culprit might use to direct him onto the party's trail.

Gareth Gosdown, the baron's advisor and castilian is an agent of their patron kingdom, sent to keep the former outlaw in line and the kingdom's garrisons well supplied. In the wake of Arkolo's death, he's less interested in finding the killer than he is reinforcing his masters' hold over the barony in case of a new invasion. Known for butting heads with the Baron's more slapdash ruling style he's the one the common folk are most likely to point to.

Taviaa (ninth of that name) was born to the Baron after he'd claimed the region and married one of the local nobles. Though still young, she has a cutthroat attitude and a mind for politics, which made it all the more frustrating when her father refused to give up on her pious half brother as heir and name her instead. She knows she's the obvious culprit, the case made all the more convincing by the fact that she's recently been paling around with emissaries from the other kingdom.

Art 1

Art 2

[the-californicationist]

Guile & Guilt (Ch. 11) -- Epilogue

Hello again! This epilogue was written using prompts 8, 12, 14, 20, and 29 of @glitterypirateduck 's January challenge! Hope y'all like it!

“There you are, thief. I've been lookin’ for you,” Johnny spoke quietly as he snuck underneath the crossbars that very obviously said “Keep Out!”, displayed in bright red across the gate. 

You smiled at him as he made his way through the castle’s ruins, his boots crunching on the gravel and stone, ducking through the ancient archways like an overgrown warrior, home from the front. He was wearing a tee shirt and his hunting kilt, dressed for the warm night air. 

You imagined what it might have been like back then to see him coming through your castle toward your hugs and your kisses if you were his lady of this sprawling manor house. 

If he was your highland laird, he’d pass by a glowing hearth, the orange fire shining in his eyes, casting long shadows over him. He’d be in a tartan, much like he was now, but perhaps in a shirt with more frills on the collar and sleeves, the expensive stitching reflecting his high status. He’d be in brogues, not boots, allowing him to step silently through the heath and the heather, hunting Englishmen in the night. Your servants would take his deerskin bag from his shoulder, and they’d offer him a clean handkerchief to wipe the journey’s filth from his brow. 

He climbed the stairs of your tower, a knight after his very own princess, meaning to rescue or to ravish, and you couldn’t help but be excited for either. 

“I cannae remember the last time I did this,” Johnny laughed softly, stooping through the refurbished wooden doorway to join you in the circular tower room. It was a small space, and the roof was missing. There were two wooden stools (made to look ancient) and a truly historic hearth, black from centuries of soot. There was a small sign plate pinned to the wall of an artist’s rendition of what the room may have looked like when it was new. They’d made it a bedroom, complete with a sleeping dog on the rug. It was only stone and a wooden floor now, save for the two small chairs. 

Johnny sat in the open one next to you, and you stared out of the window together, surveying your sprawling grounds. A family of rabbits chased each other in a small grove beyond, oblivious to any danger, leaping over each other in the dark under the quilt of stars. You watched their brown, furry forms, hop and jump, running to and fro through the grass, making it whisper as it ruffled against their fur. 

You felt his enormous hand cover yours, his thumb lingering on the shining ring you wore on your left hand, the one he had given you so many months ago. 

“I cannae believe I'm going to marry you, mo mèirleach,” your hulking soldier sighed, kissing your ring and the fingers that held it. 

He turned your hand over to kiss your palm, letting his tongue dart out to lick the spaces he was about to kiss, leaving cool little wet spots on your skin. You grabbed his chin in your hand, catching his attention, and brought his mouth up to yours, making him kiss your lips, letting him suck on your tongue and fill your cheeks with his own, plundering into you, licking you like warm cream. 

You broke away from his kiss with a sigh, resting your face against his, relaxing into his hands as he held you close, clutching you tightly in the small, drafty room. 

“Johnny…” you whispered, warning him and begging him at the same time. 

“Don’t tempt me, lass. I’ll have you right here in this bloody tower if you start makin’ me hungry for you. Sayin’ my name like that…” He whispered to you, rocking his forehead back and forth, nuzzling his face into your neck, letting his breath warm your skin. 

“Maybe we could be very quiet,” you whispered back, giving him a mischievous smile, kissing his cheek reverently. 

“What a naughty wee hen you are. Was this your plan the entire time?” He asked you, shaking his head and grinning like a wolf. 

“Could be…” you laughed, leaning your body into his mouth as he trailed hungry lips down your neck and collarbone, peeling the shoulders of your tank top down your arms, leaving kisses where the fabric lay. 

He stood and lifted you with him, hoisting you up to sit on the wide stone window sill, its panes long gone. His hands dug under the hem of your skirt and followed your thigh up to your warmth, nestled between them, wet and waiting for his appraisal. When his fingers discovered you, he broke his kiss, sighing directly into your mouth with a heavy need. 

Slowly, almost maddeningly so, Johnny sank a long, thick finger into your hole, groaning as he felt how deeply your pleasure had soaked your skin. He began to rub himself, a little absentmindedly, against your calf as he hiked up your skirt a bit more, and you could feel his hard length tenting his kilt, pressing through the pleats. 

“Give me your cock, mo chridhe,” you commanded, darkening your voice and pulling down your tank top to your waist, letting him see your breasts on full display. 

“Want me tha’ bad, hm, bonnie?” He smiled rakishly, teasing you desperate, fucking you languidly with just the one finger, pulling himself out and pressing himself back in without any urgency. 

“Please, John–” you were interrupted by the sound of tires on the gravel near the castle’s entrance. 

Johnny released you, and you bent down together to peer out of the window. You waited, holding your breath, trying to stay out of sight. There was a white sedan making a u-turn in the parking lot, and only after it turned to go back down the hill did you let out a sigh of relief.

“Oh, shit,” you laughed, sitting on the floor of the tower room, staring up into the stars in disbelief. 

“You’re the one who wanted to sneak into a wee castle and tease your man half to death. I cannae barely walk with this…” 

You looked over at him as he sat across from you, and you saw that he had pulled his kilt up to his hip to palm his cock underneath it. He was achingly stiff, and you could see the tip shining, leaking under the moonlight. 

“My poor darling,” you cooed at him, a little sarcastically, taunting him by playing with your breasts as you knelt in front of him, “You need me, hm? Should I put you inside?”

You straddled his lap and he fell backward, laying beneath you and letting you ride him however you saw fit. That smart mouth didn’t have anymore comments now. 

You hovered, stroking him with your hand, and he humped himself up into your grip, shamelessly. Smiling down at him, you decided to tease him just as he had done to you on the window sill. You fixed his head at your entrance and sank down just enough to let it pop in and out, not going down any further than that.  

His face contorted into a furious mess of longing and desire, his brow furrowing as he begged,

“C’mon, thief… just a little more. I dinnae think I’ll last much longer if you torture me like this… please…”

“Better be good, Johnny,” you sank down a little further, “Only good boys get rewards.”

He groaned, squeezing your thighs and turning his head away from you, wrenching his eyes shut, trying to keep himself from coming too soon,

“This already feels like a reward, mèirleach.”

“Stay with me, Johnny,” you coaxed him, “Be patient.”

“Fuck…” his eyes rolled white like a shark as he felt you purposefully bear down around him, settling down onto his cock and keeping him in you as deep as he would fit, resting there and feeling him pulse his muscles right back. 

You started to rock back and forth along his length, feeling him slipping in and out of your folds, long enough to penetrate you deeply, using his head to grind against your swollen spot just inside of your walls. You arched your back, staring up at the stars with him, bare to the night sky and all of its glittering constellations. 

Johnny’s hands moved up and held your breasts, plucking at your nipples and making you moan.

“Tha’s it, bonnie. You fuck me so damn good. Cannae believe it.”

He whined as you picked up your pace, holding you around your waist and helping you grind back and forth. 

“Yes, yes, yes,” he hissed through gritted teeth, “Come on me, mèirleach. I wanna feel you.”

“Johnny… fuck, I just… I can’t…”

“You can, lass. I’m so close. Ah… I cannae breathe. You’re gonna make me come in you… so fuckin’ deep.”

You made a noise that caught in your breath as the shimmering crescendo of your orgasm washed over all of your senses, making your head spin with pleasure. You felt yourself go soft over his cock, relaxing into his steep curve, letting him sink even deeper than what you thought your body would allow. 

He felt your core give way, losing its tension, letting him sink further inside, and as he watched you come down from your high, he began to thrust himself into you from below. Johnny held you tightly to his chest, crushing you to him, and he fucked you with powerful, quick bursts, your bodies making pornographic slapping sounds in the deserted castle ruins. 

You heard him coming apart in your ear, and you suddenly felt the urge to kiss him as he whined for you. You slotted your mouth over his, and when you did, it was as if you had given him permission to scream. He cried out into your mouth as he kissed you, letting his screams of pleasure and joy be muffled by your lips and tongue. 

As he came in you, he called out your name, talking to you in your mouth, telling you what a good girl you were, claiming you as his, and only his. His woman. His thief. 

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[gazlocked]

Chapter 3 - Line In The Sand

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Bandit Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Bounty Hunter M!Reader

𝐱: alternate universe - western, canon-typical violence, 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐍𝐈 (5.1k words)

series masterlist || prev: chapter 2 || next: chapter 4

There was no victory to be found in the rewards of The Vengeful’s plunder.

Between things nearly going tits-up at the weapons cache, and barely making a score at their last robbery, it was safe to say that the gang needed to lay low for a few days. 

Gaz, in particular, had been less like himself—restless and irritable and distracted. His head wasn’t on straight, and it showed as he moved about the camp. Even during supper, he hardly touched his servings, and didn’t put up a fight when Soap picked at them for himself, either.

He had been content spending the rest of his evening isolated before Ghost approached with a quick message. “Price wants to have a word,” and then gone again before Gaz could fix his lips to protest. 

It wasn’t until later that night when Gaz decided to hunt his captain down. The flap of the tent closed soundlessly behind him as he entered.

Price didn’t look away from the map he hunched over, looking too large for his bedroll as he studied by the light of a weak lantern.

“Glad you can give me the time of day,” he said without looking up, nearly making Gaz flinch. When there wasn’t an answer, Price set the map aside and glanced over his shoulder, a wry smile under his mustache. 

Gaz kept his tone careful. “Heard you wanted to see me. Everything alright, sir?”

He looked uneasy and, as Price stood and gave him a thorough glance over, far from being rested. The skin under his eyes had blemished in the few days of their hiding, carrying a weariness beyond his years.

“You tell me, Garrick.” Price looked at him expectantly, watching the conflict make itself present. They stood there in a thickening silence.

Gaz immediately looked off to the side, biting down the flare of heat as he roughly said, “I’m just fine.”

“‘Fine’ would be able to sort out our goods like I’ve asked. Not stare into the dirt for a bloody hour,” Price retorted, only to quickly relinquish with a sigh. “What’s got you upside-down?”

Gaz licked at his lips, looked down at the ground, back up, back at Price, and off to the side again. He couldn’t stop ticking, thinking, worrying. He stopped moving long enough to exhale and respond.

“We’re sitting ducks out here, sir. We should act. Soon.” It was jarringly resolute, compared to the aloofness Gaz had been expressing lately.

As Price watched his mannerisms, he saw a semblance of the boy he’d taken in so many years ago—anxious about the Homelands and what it had in store, and yet so determined to take a bite out of it.

“Once everything is sorted and the coast is clear, we’ll be on our way. This will all be another story for the fire,” Price replied coolly.

Gaz looked solemnly. “What if we don’t get another story?” He bit the inside of his cheek. What if we get caught?

Price didn’t answer, and instead dipped down to his bedroll with a groan. In his hand was the map he had been looking over, creased from being folded and shoved away multiple times. He held it out lazily in front of Gaz, waiting for him to take it.

Gaz took the map gingerly, his eyebrows furrowed. Small marks littered the terrain, Price’s handwritten notes caressing the edges of a building’s layout. Near the center was what looked to be the weapons cache they tried to raid only days ago. So…what was everything else?

“There’s a base near the weapons cache?” he groused.

Gaz didn’t recall seeing a base while scouting the area. The ambush could have been expected, avoided even, had he known where those men could have been waiting. His frown deepened, thoughts brewing like an incoming storm.

“Below,” Price corrected. “So don’t start blaming yourself.”

He wouldn’t admit it, but Price was worried. Word traveled quicker than horse across the Homelands, so when he’d heard the lies about his crew being involved with Marcus Bealy over firearms, Price was determined to get the upper hand on information. 

Finding the coordinates was the easy part. It had been worth it, for a moment, to confirm his suspicions about where the firearms were truly being sourced from. The satisfaction was short-lived, only leaving them with more questions as they popped open unmarked crates.

They had gotten too eager, dug too deep, and before Price could rally his men to make a break, they were already being surrounded and shot at.

In all his efforts to clear their name, it had only made their part in this look worse. And after seeing that white sheet of fear splayed across his men’s faces, Price realized that it would have been kinder to take a bullet.

“Someone bigger than Bealy is calling the shots,” Price grumbled, the blues of his eyes darkening at the thought. “I’d like to find out who. I won’t let my men go down for this.”

Gaz lowered his eyes to the map. While nothing made sense about the firearms, one thing was for certain—there was a long fight up ahead if Price was still this determined. He squared his shoulders, bearing his responsibilities once again.

This is how it is, he thought. This is how it always will be. 

Price watched him patiently. “I do hear your concerns, too. The sooner we get on this, the sooner this shit-storm can pass over. Do you trust me, Garrick?”

Gaz didn’t hesitate. “With my whole life.” 

It earned him an affirmative nod and a smile that didn’t quite reach Price’s eyes. 

“Good,” he sighed with relief. “Now, come with me.”

—

A fire crackled in the center of the makeshift camp, illuminating the faces of the two men huddled around it. Soap worried his bottom lip between his teeth as he assessed the haul, eyes distant as his mind wandered off to the sorry outcome of their latest covert.

Ghost was silent as he sat nearby, pointedly focusing on the knife in his hand as he carved into a chunk of stripped wood the size of his palm. He smoothed out an edge with the blade, doing his best to ignore Soap’s buzzing worry.

“There’s no use pouting about it,” he said flatly, keeping his eyes on his craft. 

Soap tore his focus away long enough to look at his companion, shooting Ghost a narrow look. “M’not pouting. Just wish we had a bit more to show for our hard work.”

“Highly doubt the families will complain much.”

Soap made a noise, but stopped short. There wasn’t any use arguing that point; Ghost was right. It wasn’t much, especially in comparison to most days, but it was something for those who had nothing. He tried to appreciate that much.

They were interrupted by approaching footsteps, drawing their attention to Price drawing out of the shadows of the camp and into the warbling glow of the fire. Gaz followed silently behind. His eyes were downcast, as they had been since they’d settled here. 

Ghost watched as he sat heavily on the other side of the pit, and lowered his knife to slot into his boot. 

“Now that’s a pout,” Soap chuffed.

Usually quick to retort with something painfully witty, Gaz remained silent, elbows anchoring him to his knees as he leaned a little closer toward the fire.

Before Soap could pick any further, Price cleared his throat.

“We’ll have ourselves a busy day tomorrow,” he called out. 

“Tomorrow?” Soap sat up straight, the confusion on his face illuminated with sharp angles. “Shouldn’t we wait? Y’know, when we’re not worried about the whole Northern region on our arse?”

“It’s come to my attention that our services need to be…expedited.” Price glanced over his shoulder and at Gaz, holding his eyes for a second longer than necessary. 

Gaz knew that the man was only taking the piss, but his eye roll was inevitable.

Price continued as he looked forward. “What’s important is that we get this haul out as quickly, and efficiently, as possible.”

It didn’t take much for Ghost to understand the captain’s change of heart, at least. If he had to take a shot in the dark, he’d easily guess that this was a solid attempt to soothe Gaz and his sour mood. 

The feathery, deep timbre of his voice broke the silence. “What’s the plan, then?”

“Simon, you and Garrick will deliver the perishables. Soap and I will ride a bit out west to trade. We’ll meet back here before sundown.” 

Ghost met Soap’s eyes, giving away far less with his expression as he watched Soap’s frown deepen. The look they shared was mutual, if only for a moment, before returning to their devotions. With a short nod, a stern affirmative, each man accepted his task as Price concluded the impromptu meeting.

“Now, let’s get some supper, yeah?”

As the others separated, Gaz lingered by the fire. He listened while they talked over dinner plans; salted pork and a bean soup, courtesy of Riley. 

He looked down at the small pile by his feet, eyes roving over the cans, jars, and jeweled accessories from their haul, then into the flames distantly.

It felt nice for Price to hear his concerns and to try to give some solace by taking action. The validation that followed warmed him right in the middle, no doubt. 

He just couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t satisfied.

—

A wooden sign stood tall at the side of the road, its dark engravings catching the late afternoon light: Longshire.

“Finally,” you groaned, stretching until your back cracked.

The journey had taken longer than you planned—three days, instead of two—due to procrastination. You would have stayed longer at the camp, enjoying Alex’s company and finding solace in his advice for as long as time allowed. 

The easy conversation and warmth of the fire lulled you into a false sense of leisure. Watching him pack up in a rush, eager to return home for his wife’s arrival, hadn’t exactly inspired urgency in you, either.

Now, though, you were in the city, and there was no time to dawdle.

Longshire sprawled before you, a sharp contrast to the quieter settlements of Stonebrook and Goldfield. It was a bustling hive, every inch packed with life. Tall buildings pressed tightly along the streets, casting narrow shadows over the cobbled roads teeming with workers and buyers and beggars alike. 

A constant hum of voices, the clatter of cartwheels, hooves, and the occasional shout filled the air, making the settlement feel alive and suffocating all at once. How anyone was able to get much done here was beyond your understanding.

And within the sea of chaos, eyes were on you. Quick, but noticeable. You adjusted your grip on Pomona’s reins, patting the mare’s neck as you walked beside her, weaving through the crowd. Exhaling brought a familiar tension in your chest. You forced yourself to focus on the road instead.

There wasn’t anything that could happen here that you couldn’t handle. You’d faced worse than crowded streets and a few nosey stares. With another deep breath, you were back within yourself, aware. Focused. Ready.

“Let’s find Finnigan Clarke,” you muttered, eyes scanning the streets for direction. 

Nearby, Town Hall rose above the chaos like a beacon of order and wealth. Made of pale sandstone and vibrant stained glass windows, catching the late morning light, it stood dramatically against the surrounding streets. 

If anyone knew the residence of a respectable family such as the Clarkes, they could be found there. You guided Pomona toward Town Hall, the weight of the stares heavier as you drew closer.

The finely dressed citizens of Longshire moved around you like a current around a rock, their dyed silks and tailored wool a deliberate contrast to your road-worn denim and scuffed leather.

Judgement as sure as a hanging gavel. You felt it in every lingering glance and curled lip. A word didn’t need to be said—the disdain radiating off them was enough. You clenched your jaw, willing yourself to ignore it. It didn’t matter. You were here for information, not to chit-chat with the elites. 

Sure as hell weren’t here for anyone’s approval, either.

A white-haired man descended the stairs from Town Hall, his gangly frame draped in a tailored coat—probably costing more than a year of bounties. You caught his eye as he passed too slowly, eyes lingering with open suspicion. Like bait.

“I have business with Finnigan Clarke. Do you know where he lives?” you asked, allowing your voice to carry for anyone nearby to hear. 

The man blinked behind round glasses, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a nervous swallow. He didn’t answer, his hesitation so deliberate it bordered on insolence.

You stepped closer, stopping an arm’s length away from your horse. “It’s urgent,” you said, forcing yourself to level your tone away from its edge.

He adjusted his glasses, fidgeting, before clearing his throat. His eyes darted over you, picking you apart, stripped you down from your well-loved hat to your worn boots. 

“Why would I tell you?” His sneer was subtle, almost unnoticeable if it wasn’t for the fact you were staring.

Heat bloomed behind your ribcage, but you didn’t move, aside from the deep and deliberate rise and fall of your chest. Focus.

“I’m here,” you said firmly, “to deal with the robbery at the Clarke estate. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.”

The man’s shoulders tensed, though his eyes—oversized behind the glass of his optics—remained stern on yours. 

“Unless you wouldn’t mind being next on The Vengeful’s list, I need to know where Finnigan’s estate is.”

“The Vengeful,” the man stuttered, growing a shade paler. “T-they’re responsible?”

You held out your hands, feigning surrender. Tell me what you know, or don’t.

“Alright,” he huffed. “The Clarkes live on the western outskirts. It’s one of the largest estates out there. Beautiful hydrangeas lining the yard. You can’t miss it.”

You smiled thinly, the gesture more a baring of teeth than an expression of gratitude. “See? Wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

The man stepped aside stiffly, face as sour as curdled milk. You gave Pomona’s reins a gentle tug, leading her away with nothing more than a rude, but excusable, brush of the shoulder.

“Prick,” you muttered once out of earshot, shaking off your frustration as you headed west.

—

The outskirts of Longshire offered a reprieve from the claustrophobia of the city. Here, the streets widened, and the tightly packed buildings gave way to the sprawling estates of local elites.

On Pomona again, you could see the formation of hydrangeas as you rode closer. Tall wrought-iron gates enclosed the property, their intricate design more for show than security.

The Clarke residence loomed behind it, a testament to Finnigan’s wealth—and influence. Its stone facade gleamed in the afternoon light, and manicured gardens stretched out on either side, dotted with statues.

The estate stood alone at the end of the road. None of the neighboring homes would have heard the commotion from the night of the robbery, you were sure of it. 

You dismounted as you approached the gate, noting the absence of guards. Interesting. For a man as paranoid as Clarke reportedly was, and considering the circumstances, it seemed odd he wouldn’t post someone here after the robbery. Or a whole team, for that matter.

A golden crest shaped like a lion’s head decorated the gate, its mouth open and snarling. You stared into the lifeless eyes, watching your reflection for a moment.

This was it. Maybe. Not much is at risk on this visit, but the information and the Clarkes cooperation would be helpful nonetheless. You placed your hand on the gate. All this doubt—nothing else will matter when Shepherd drops that hefty coin bundle before you. You pushed into the gate, splitting the lion in half as it opened. 

Inside, the estate was no less impressive. The gravel crunched beneath boot and hoof as you made your way deeper into the premises. Tall columns flanked the entrance, their white marble reflecting sunlight. 

This wasn’t just a display of wealth—it was a fortress, every detail designed to intimidate.

You released Pomona’s lead a few feet from the porch. The heavy oak door ahead was a piece of art in itself, adorned with intricate carvings. You wondered how much someone could make off of work like that. 

Even after years of chasing leads and tolerating pushy elites, desperate for The Vengeful’s arrest, seeing homes like this always left you staggered. With a steadying exhale, you raised a fist and knocked sharply.

It didn’t take long for the door to pull back and reveal who you could assume was a butler to the Clarkes, his crisp uniform and practiced expression giving nothing away.

“Yes?”

“I’m here to see Finnigan Clarke,” you bowed your head, trying your hand at politeness. “I’ve been sent from Stonebrook on behalf of Sheriff Graves.”

He was quiet, his eyes flitting over your appearance with the same barely concealed suspicion you’d encountered in town.

You chose to ignore it, focusing instead on the warmth coming from inside the home.

“Wait here,” he said slowly, and closed the door.

For a moment, it was silent, with only the faint rustle of leaves in the garden. Your eyes traced the door’s designs as you waited. Another quiet beat passed before hurried footsteps approached, and the door swung open to reveal a flushed Cassidy Clarke.

Her auburn hair was pinned back in a simple yet elegant style, and her pale blue dress was modest, though still fine enough to betray her wealth. Her eyes, however, gave her away—red-rimmed and heavy-lidded, like she hadn’t slept a wink. In her arms, she protectively cradled a newborn wrapped in a soft, cream-colored blanket.

“You’re the bounty hunter?” she asked, voice tight. She glanced past you, as if expecting someone else.

You nodded. “That’s right.”

Cassidy hesitated, then stepped aside to let you in. “Come in. Finn is in his study. He’ll want to speak to you directly.”

The foyer was grand, the floors polished to a mirror-like shine. A chandelier hung overhead, its crystals sparkling even in the dim light. Paintings of distant landscapes adorned the walls, and a staircase with an ornate banister wound its way to the second floor. You followed Cassidy through the hall, her heels clicking against the tiles.

“How’s your foot?” you asked, keeping your tone measured.

“My foot?” Her brows pinched, if only for a second, but long enough for you to catch the confusion wash away like an error corrected. “It healed over nicely.”

You nodded and forced a smile, and continued to follow deeper into the fortress. “And the robbery itself. Give me a run down?”

“It’s all still a bit fuzzy,” Cassidy replied, adjusting the baby in her arms. “I was so concerned about Elijah, that I didn’t care about what they may have stolen.”

“And your husband,” you tilted your head, looking at her profile. “He was with you?”

Cassidy stopped abruptly. She made that face again, allowing her eyes to take you in with sharp, untrusting precision. The hold on Elijah tightened ever so slightly. “Finnigan has been stressed since.” 

You continued to follow her down the hall in silence, experienced enough to know a non-answer when it’s given to you. At the end of the hall was another set of double doors, closed off behind the butler you’d spoken to at the front door. 

With a subtle nod from the lady of the house, the butler reached over and carefully pried one of the doors open, unveiling a wall of books on the other side.

“Thank you, Hudson,” Cassidy said under her breath as she walked by. You offered a slight nod of your own as you followed into the study behind her.

The study was just as extravagant as the rest of the house. Shelves lined with leather-bound books stretched from floor to ceiling. You hadn’t taken Finnigan Clarke as a man who enjoyed books. Perhaps the heaps of literature belonged to his darling wife, with the way she tenderly brushed her fingers over the spines as she passed them.

A massive desk sat near a window that overlooked the estate’s sprawling grounds. Finnigan stood behind it, his back to the room, staring out the glass idly. He turned as Cassidy approached, his expression tightening when his eyes landed on you.

“Finn. This is the hunter Phillip sent.”

“Thank you for traveling so far.” He looked you over with the practiced eye of someone used to appraising others, though his guarded stance told you he wasn’t truly pleased about your presence.

You were regarded with a nod as Finnigan gestured toward one of the chairs across from his desk. “Please, take a seat.”

You didn’t sit. Instead, you stepped further into the room, studying the bookshelves before settling your eyes on the man.

“Let’s start simple,” you offered lightly. “What was taken the night of the robbery?”

“Our home was vandalized. Aside from breaking a window, nothing of importance was taken.” Finnigan looked at his family. “Thankfully.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. “Nothing of importance? The report stated that heirlooms were missing.” 

A lie, but the quick glance Finnigan gave between you and Cassidy was enough. He started slowly. “It’s been a hectic few days. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course.” You turned to Cassidy then, her eyes intently looking out the window past Finnigan. “You were the first to get up that night, Mrs. Clarke. What did you see?”

A loose strand fell from her pins as Cassidy shook her head. “It was dark, really. I just remember hearing the breaking glass…our little Elijah’s cries.” She looked at Finnigan. “I was more worried about those beasts going into the nursery, more than anything.”

“But they didn’t, no?”

“No. Thank God.”

You looked at Finnigan, whose eyes were already hard set on you. “Mr. Clarke, did you hear the window break? Or…Elijah cry, rather?”

“I did not.” His jaw ticked. “I’m a much heavier sleeper than she is.”

Glances were exchanged about the room, the only sounds within the four walls of the study being the grand clock on the far end, Elijah’s soft babbling, and your heartbeat filling your ears. 

“Cass, sweetheart,” Finnigan strained, eyes unmoving from you as he addressed his wife. “How about you go and tend to Elijah for a moment. I think we’ll be wrapping up here shortly.”

You stood upright, the hairs on the back of your neck tingling as Cassidy obeyed her husband with a silent nod. 

Her eyes met yours briefly as she passed, but she didn’t offer anything else as she exited the study. Hudson closed the door swiftly behind her.

“What’s your angle here, Hunter?” There was an icy formality in Finnigan’s tone.

A humorless laugh passed your dry lips, but you forced a smile. “I’m just trying to understand what happened.”

The air thickened in the study as you stared each other down. You’d seen shoot-offs with less tension than this, but you kept your resolve as you spoke again. “What happened the night of the robbery?”

“What do you think?”

“I think,” you stepped in front of his desk, “that you weren’t home. That you have no clue what happened here, while your wife and son were alone. And that scares you.”

The flush of irritation that had been painting Finnigan’s cheeks dulled, but he remained as upright and rigid as he’d been since you entered the study. You tilted your head slightly.

“Where were you during the robbery, Finnigan?”

He cleared his throat. “I was doing business in Eastport.”

“What kind of business in Eastport?”

“That’s irrelevant,” he snapped.

You held his gaze, unflinching. “Not to me. Especially when your absence might’ve made this house an easier target.”

Finnigan bristled, leaning over the desk. “Are you suggesting this is my fault?”

“The Vengeful wouldn’t take chances without good reason. Maybe they thought you wouldn’t come after them if Cassidy and Elijah were here alone.”

Finnigan’s expression darkened, and his grip on his desk tightened.

“They’re cowards,” he spat. “Attacking a house with a woman and baby inside.”

“I agree,” you said. “But it’s strange they didn’t do more damage. No threats, nothing left behind. Feels more… deliberate than a typical raid.”

“What exactly are you insinuating?” If looks could kill, Finnigan’s glare would be a potent dose of sure death.

You kept your voice calm in comparison. “I’m not insinuating. But…you know as well as I do that these men don’t bother with petty theft.”

Feet shuffled behind you, and you turned to find Hudson with his back to the door, hardly tuning into to your exchange with Mr. Clarke. You faced your client again. 

“Do you think it has anything to do with your…business in Eastport?”

As the words left your lips, Finnigan was rounding the desk and standing in front of you in an instant. Heat radiated from his breath with each rough exhale, the smell of tobacco wafting from his suit jacket thickly. 

“Let me make one thing clear,” he pointed a finger into your chest, his voice lowering to an octave of danger. “You’re not here to pry into my personal life.”

You nudged his hand away with the back of your own. “You hired me.”

“I asked Sheriff Graves to give me someone who will track down The Vengeful for what they’ve done to me and my family. Not to question me about my business.”

“You’re scared,” you said again, baring teeth. “You’re a man with a lot to lose, and someone just sent a warning loud enough to demand you to listen.”

The silence in the study made your ears ring, so much so that you hadn’t noticed Hudson at your side. He shoved a hand between you and Finnigan’s chests, a vain effort to keep the space between you and your client.

You didn’t push further. Finnigan was defensive—more than necessary—and the way he’d danced around your questions about his absence made your gut churn. But you weren’t ready to sort that part out. Not yet.

Instead, you took a heavy step back. “Thanks for your time.” To Hudson, “I’ll let myself out.”

The butler didn’t object, and remained at his boss's side. You could feel daggers in your back the entire way out of the study—you didn’t need to turn to see from whom they were coming from.

You crossed the foyer in wide strides, more than eager to get the hell out of there before you gave that elite fuck a piece of your mind. Before your hand touched the knob of the front door, something snagged your arm.

Cassidy looked up to you with pleading eyes, Elijah no longer in her arms. You had to stop yourself from snatching away. 

The fact that Cassidy failed to explicitly state her husband’s absence—the more harrowing fact that neither of their stories matched up—was bumped up to your list of priorities.

But you didn’t have it in you to confront the woman. Not after nearly getting unprofessional with her husband. Not when she looked at you so desperately for help.

“I want to apologize,” she whispered. “Finnigan can be a difficult man.”

You nodded, and gently removed her hand. “I care more about figuring out what The Vengeful are up to, and why they would target your family. I’ll keep you both updated.”

Cassidy hugged her middle nervously as you went for the door, uttering a soft, but heartfelt, “thank you” before you slipped out.

—

You had been riding for hours, if the drop in temperature and sunlight was anything to go by. 

Pomona kept a slow pace, walking an endless path that weaved through lesser settlements and sparse woods. Longshire wasn’t all glamorous, it seemed.

Your head was empty and racing at once. The conversation in Finnigan’s study earlier that day replayed in your mind, along with every other possible outcome that could have played out, better or worse. 

Some ended in him opening up about Eastport. Most ended in your boot driving into his skull, spoiling his polished flooring.

The ride was supposed to clear your head, but the silence just drove you to dig for impossible answers. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes, groaning. “This would be a lot easier if they’d just…told the truth,” you growled.

Nature responded to you with a hissing breeze, the foliage rattling around you as Pomona walked deeper into a wooded settlement.

“I just need something…anything…to go my way. Just once.”

Silence, again, as you passed the yard of a small home. You nearly missed the house entirely, hiding behind tall, crooked trees and unkempt grass, along with the man sneaking up to the front porch.

You gave Pomona’s reins a quick tug, urging her to stop. You were quick to slide out of the saddle, hunkering down in the thick bushes separating the front yard and the road you were on. The man’s back was turned to you, allowing you to sneak closer without raising an alarm.

Would it be your lucky day, to be able to stop a robbery and scrape up some extra change? It would mean getting a room in town for the night, versus setting camp outside. You wet your lips, quietly inching toward the yard in hopes to get a better view. 

“What’re you doing?” you muttered under your breath, watching the man tip-toe up the ragged wooden porch. A satchel rested heavily near his hip, slung around his shoulders. 

Already got a nice haul, you thought bitterly, leaning against a thick tree trunk. You waited, patient for the moment to strike to present itself, as the man stopped at the front door.

He knelt down, reaching into the packed satchel with a slight sense of urgency. Your hands hovered over your revolver. Focused. Ready.

Your heart stuttered as a jar was produced from the satchel instead of a weapon, set gingerly at the man’s feet. Then another, along with something heavily wrapped in butcher’s parchment. 

He’s not taking it, you groused, he’s leaving it. This isn’t a robbery.

You didn’t move from your hiding spot as the man stood upright, curiosity leaving you to watch this play out. As the man turned away from the goods and began descending the stairs, your blood went cold. 

Onyx eyes scanned the front yard for witnesses, his sepia skin glistening with sweat. He grimaced against harsh sunlight, making the scar on his cheek more pronounced. You could taste your heart in your throat. 

Twigs snapped and grass crunched underfoot as you pushed off the tree. You broke through the bushes with a running start toward the man, shouting something that even your ears couldn’t decipher. Your target—

Kyle Garrick took off running without missing a beat.

read 'coming up snake eyes' on ao3

series masterlist || prev: chapter 2 || next: chapter 4

𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐫 𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐜𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬. 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬 / 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 / 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐞.

[caesarsaladinn]

Today in “Sal, what the fuck are you talking about?”: the middle Byzantine period.

The period from the mid-ninth century to the late 11th was defined by a resurgence in the empire’s fortunes, as the Abbasid Caliphate weakened and the bloody stalemate on the eastern border yielded to conquest, plunder, and expansion into regions that the empire hadn’t controlled for centuries. Domestic politics responded predictably to this influx of land, wealth, and prestige: the generals who led these conquests became immensely rich, respected, and in some cases powerful enough to make themselves emperor. Byzantium had never had a true hereditary aristocracy—when you died, your titles generally died with you—but these guys came pretty close, as a few dozen intermarried clans came to dominate both military and civilian politics for generations.

Making military leadership into a family business generally went well, as future commanders could begin learning the trade from a young age, instructed by the most experienced leaders in the empire. The downside was that their egos grew along with their conquests, and when they felt they weren’t being treated with the honor due to such a distinguished family, they had all the resources they needed to launch a rebellion against the throne. This happened again, and again, and again, and again; it’s no coincidence that this was the period when surnames became common among the wealthy.

In the palace, this era was defined by the so-called Macedonian Dynasty, a string of emperors and usurpers founded by Basil, a peasant from—you guessed it—the military district of Macedonia. Basil took the throne by becoming the emperor’s confidant and most trusted servant, before quite literally stabbing him in the back.

The next two centuries saw an alternating series of Basil’s descendants and usurpers take the throne, with coups and rebellions too numerous to list here. Basil’s heirs had a tendency to die while their sons were still minors (or to leave no sons at all), leaving a mad scramble for a new man to marry or kill his way into the imperial family. This was also the heyday of the court eunuch, as aristocrats looked for servants who would serve their family without trying to displace them in favor of their own sons; of course, plenty of eunuch did displace emperors in favor of their own friends and family, or else overshadowed them so completely as to become the functional ruler themselves.

Culturally, this period was quintessentially Byzantine. Emperors were very concerned with soft power, so they poured money into anything that would make them seem like the holy sovereign they considered themselves to be—histories, encyclopedias, churches, monasteries, public games, bejeweled reliquaries, and the like. Foreign ambassadors were feted with gold and silk in front of a throne that could rise from the floor until the emperor was looking down at the from the heavens. My favorite piece of writing from this era is the Book of Ceremonies, which spends hundreds of pages detailing the protocol for every imaginable public event, from the order of seating at imperial feasts to the proper weight of cargo loaded onto an army packhorse; it shows how the emperors tried to synthesize the importance of orderly, standardized, professional administration with the need to appear wise, just, and all-powerful to their subjects. It also shows how unbelievably wealthy the government was—very few states, at any point in history, had the time and resources and literal tons of gold to spend on court ceremonies that intricate and impressive!

I’ll spare you the list of emperors, their personalities, and the various schemes and subordinates that put them on the throne; that’s a whole separate post. Suffice to say that I think this is one of the most interesting eras of history, and I encourage everyone to learn more about it.

[lizardsquisher]

💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀

The Pirate and the Professor

💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀💀🥀

Chapter Eighteen: Undone

Emmrich sat on the floor of Rook’s bedroom, knees bent, the bottoms of his bare feet touching. The backs of his hands rested on his knees, the palms turned towards the sky. Hendricks had once complained about this pose as if Emmrich’s limberness was a personal affront.

“How do your knees bend like that, you old codger?” he’d snapped. “Were you born without tendons?”

“I do my stretches,” Emmrich had told him placidly. “You should, too. It’s good to keep the muscles loose as you age.”

Hendricks had snorted. “Nothing about me has ever been or ever will be described as ‘loose.’”

Emmrich missed his friend’s gentle grumpiness. There was a comfort to it. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, and Hendricks was persnickety for all the hours in between. It made the world feel orderly.

Nothing in Emmrich’s life had order now. Harding was dead. Bellara was gone, possibly dead. And Rook . . .

His breath shuddered. He dug his nails into his palms. This would not do. He could not cast the spell correctly if he indulged in more hopeless weeping.

He felt like he’d spent the last week crying. He’d kept himself busy during the days, plundering the depths of his library for ways to find Rook. For the most part, he’d managed to confine his breakdowns to the small hours of the night, when he had naught to do but worry and yearn. But sometimes, despite his best efforts, the pain of her absence would strike him in the middle of his research. And his kohl-stained tears would spread black blotches on the pages of his books.

The worst of these moments had caught him three days ago, when he’d come into Rook’s room to search for a book she had borrowed. It had been on top of her bookshelf. A bit of parchment had been tucked within. He’d unfolded it carefully. The bold, looping handwriting alone had been enough to undo him. But the paper had not been her notes, as he’d expected. It was a letter. And it had been addressed to him.

Emmrich,

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. Maybe we’ll crush the gods and come home to celebrate with Lucanis’ croquetas. Or maybe I’ll lead us all astray, and there’ll be no one left to read this bloody letter. Maker, I hope not.

But me not coming back . . . Well, you’re right. We have to prepare for the worst. And if you come back and I don’t, I need you to know that I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean to hurt you. And I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. You wanted what was best for me. You’re just too daft to know that what’s best for me is you.

I’m sorry to tell you this, but you brainy types aren’t always brimming with common sense. Otherwise, you’d have noticed that I’ve been my best self with you. I could have been terrified. Paralyzed. Crushed beneath the weight of all this responsibility. But I had you, and you made me stronger than I had any right to be. It made no sense to be so happy with the world falling apart around me. But I was. No matter what happens, you gave that to me. And I’m grateful.

Yours always,

Rook

He’d read that letter, and his legs had ceased to function. He’d slid down a wall, his world going black around the edges. The words on that page were a hail of arrows piercing his chest. She’d forgiven him. She’d gone . . . wherever she’d gone . . . still caring for him. It had made it so much better. But it had also made it that much worse.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat there, slouched against the wall, knees akimbo, staring at her letter with tears crawling down his face. Eventually, Manfred had found him. Poor chap. He’d been almost as out of sorts over Rook’s absence as Emmrich had.

“Cry?” Manfred had croaked, crouching by Emmrich.

Emmrich had had to teach him that word when he’d come home from Tearstone. Manfred had seen him engage in the activity so often he’d needed a word to explain it.

“Sad,” Manfred added. Emmrich had also explained why one cried.

Manfred had reached out to touch Emmrich’s wet cheek. Then he touched his own face, just beneath his goggles. Trying to cry, too.

“Sad,” he had hissed softly.

Emmrich had forgotten his own misery. He’d wrapped Manfred tight in his arms and concentrated on making him feel loved.

Read more at the link below:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/61873225/chapters/165697264

[anniesocsandgeneralstore]

what if tessa was a princess and rhett was the knight she fell in love with...

The summer castle was under siege. Enemy forces were just outside the gates, amassed to plunder and pillage and take Princess Tessa captive. She was not the heir to the throne, but she was an excellent bargaining chip in gaining the power they so desperately thought they wanted.

She raced from her chambers, holding her skirts in one hand and her prayer beads in the other. One bead for each of the Four Faiths that she prayed to for protection.

"Come, Your Highness! We must get you away from here!" her Crownsguard shouted as the castle delved into chaos, terrified screams and the distant rumble of catapults hitting their marks.

He pointed down a hall she knew led to a back entrance outside the castle gate. She could escape what she knew their evil plots to be. But as she looked around at the huddled servants, the crying commoners stuffed into the banquette hall...And thought of that lowly knight she knew would be stationed in the southern parapet, she couldn't do it.

"What about them?" Princess Tessa asked, gesturing to her people.

The people who trusted her to protect them.

"What of them?" her Crownsguard replied.

"They will be slaughtered! I cannot leave them to perish!"

She could not leave him. That lowly knight who called her by her first name and first name only. Who walked with her through the gardens under the guise of her protection. Who came to her chambers at night and removed his armor just for her. Who spoke to her so tenderly. Who loved her as herself - not a princess.

"There is nothing that you can do, Your Highness." Her Crownsguard gestured down the hall more fervently. "Please. Let us away before it is too late."

But it was too late. Another loud boom resounded through the castle. It made the very earth shake. Princess Tessa regained her balance as she clutched her prayer beads with new vigor. Then she ran to the window...

Only to see the outer wall crumbled, and the southern parapet half-standing.

Please, please, please.

Princess Tessa ran from the banquette hall, her Crownsguard screaming after her and trying his best to catch up in his full armor. But she was faster. Always had been. There were soldiers standing in ranks in the lower bailey - terrified men fifteen and older with spears or swords shoved into their hands. Trembling in suits of armor that didn't really fit. The enemy was fast approaching from the hole they had made in the outer wall. Tall men in dark armor ran at those inexperienced farmers with all that they had.

Only none of them expected for the princess they were fighting for to be running through the battle itself.

A few of the enemy soldiers watched as she ran through the lower bailey. Her silken skirts billowed in the breeze and her hair flowed in ringlets behind her - her tiara lost somewhere and she didn't even care. Princess Tessa ran right into the enemy, but none of them stopped her. They were just soldiers, they didn't know what the princess looked like. All of them, including their leader, expected her to be under lock and key in the holdfast.

She ran through rubble and dead bodies and her sworn enemy until she made it to what remained of the southern parapet.

Men in dark armor ran around her, towards the fight, but all she could see were the knights in the light gold armor of her people lying dead amongst the ancient, fallen stones. She rubbed her thumb over her prayer beads and began to look for her lowly knight.

Please, please, please prove I'm right.

Bloodied faces. Broken bones. None of them were her lowly knight. Maybe he wasn't stationed at the southern parapet after all. But there, on top of that pile of rubble, was a golden-clad form with her favor tied around his wrist. Sickly green arrows stuck out of his chest. He lay completely still.

And please, please, please don't bring me to tears when I just did my makeup so nice.

Princess Tessa climbed the pile of rubble. Dust still hung in the air. Her dress ripped and she didn't even notice. His helmet had come off at some point, beautiful brown hair hanging just below his ears. His eyes were closed. A bit of blood clung to the corner of his mouth. His sword was still clutched in his hand.

"Rhett," she gasped his name as she collapsed to her knees at his side.

Cradling him like she had so many times before, she drew him to lay in her lap. But his chest didn't move with each of his steady breaths. That small, kind smile did not grace his face. Her hands, dirtied and bleeding from moving rubble, clutched at him wherever she could reach. Her lowly knight. The man who saw her. Her tears made a small noise as they dropped against his armor. The man she loved.

Her prayer beads were nowhere to be found - and she didn't need them to pray to the gods.

"H-Heartbreak is one thing..." she tried to start, but stuttered on her tears. With a breath, she started again: "My ego's another...I beg you, don't embarrass me, motherfuckers...Please, please...Please! Please, please, please prove I'm right! Don't...!"

She could not speak anymore. Her tears choked the rest of the words from her throat. All she could do was hold her love as tight as her strength would let her and bury her face into his neck. Her tears wetted his skin, her rasping wails like that of the damned echoed against what was left of the stone over the din of battle. She knew her unspoken prayers would reach the gods she had always been so faithful to.

They wouldn't abandon her now.

Sir Rhett took a gasping breath. He jerked up into her as he took in great lungfuls of air. Princess Tessa pulled away from him to look into his dirty, blood-stained face. Blue eyes like a stormy sea stared back at her as he began to hold her back. Gauntleted hands clutching her waist as confusion filled his face. There were still arrows sticking out of his torso but it didn't even matter. He was alive. He was alive.

The gods had listened. Her prayers had been answered.

"Rhett," she whispered his name as tears and a smile fought on her countenance, hands cupping his stubbled cheeks like something holy.

"Tessa," he whispered back, glancing around at the scene, "Where...?"

But it was too late. A pair of hands grabbed the princess around the shoulders and lifted her from her love. She fought and screamed but it was no use against their strength. Rhett tried to get up, tried to save her, but his body felt foreign to him, like he was just waking up from a sleep too deep. Like he was paralyzed. But then an armored foot was planted on his chest and he couldn't have gotten up if he tried.

"Thank you, for making the princess so easy to capture," a dark, malicious voice rasped before Tessa was carried away, thrashing and shouting his name all the while.

And it wasn't until the fighting was done and silence filled the castle that Rhett was finally able to stand. That he was able to tighten the blue favor around his wrist. That he was able to take his sword and break the rods of every arrow lodged in his chest with one fell swoop.

The gods answered Princess Tessa's prayer - and he was going to make it worth their while.

[ms-scarletwings]

This Single Oversight Will Bring Irken-Kind to Its Knees

I have a little riddle for you.

What does an ant nest, a computer, and the ancient city of Troy have in common?

While you ponder the significance of this question and consider your answer, there’s a few things I want to analyze about the worldbuilding of Invader Zim.

We may have heard it said before, least I have (and agree), that the fate of the IZ universe appears to be a rather bleak picture.

Through our lens of focus, being upon Earth and an oh-so specific nutball waging his battle upon humanity, we often don’t do as much thinking about the larger cosmic war taking place meanwhile. Not between the Meekrob and Tenn, not between the Tallest and every dumb luck threat they are thrown against, but between the Irken Armada and all life in the entire universe, sentient or not.

Their intentions will not be made any more clear, between outright eradication or eventual enslavement of every lifeform they set their sights on. While they have alliances and neutral treaties, those agreements seem few and far between, as well as born from temporary conveniences. The cards have already been dealt, and all available evidence has indicated that every planet they are aware of is doomed from the moment The Massive was operational.

Though littered with inefficiencies and incompetency that could suggest an empire in internal decline, the development of the control brains and other centralized command crutches of the species suggests the Irkens can still keep a well oiled machine running, no matter how many mishaps happen along the way. At least, that machine and their plundered resources will definitely outlast the survival of their enemies, for sure.

To speak of their enemies, there has not been a single competitive race within the show that demonstrates any credible threat to Operation Impending Doom II- only those that can resist the conquest a little bit longer than others, or those who survive by appeasing Irk (or evading its detection). The fall of Vort, which stood as the homeworld of the only aliens with the technological ability to match the armada’s firepower is…. Really bad news. That’s to say the least of comparatively primitive, TINY planets like Earth or Blorch, standing zero chance in the way of what’s eventually coming. This is a war that has continued despite the death of two.. FOUR Almighty Tallests if you follow the movie’s events… and Irkens wholly are still thriving for it across the Galaxy.

So, given all of these facts, and the perception that the Irkens (like any invasive species or colonial force) don’t seem to be a society that will make responsible and/or sustainable use of their ill-gotten territory… it seems like this is how life across the universe ends in Invader Zim one day: Not with a bang, not with the whimper of heat death, but through screams muffled under the bloody boots of a dominant predator- a predator that is, itself, doomed to cannibalize its own once it hits the carrying capacity of all existence.

Bleak, concrete, and horrific as that may sound, there’s still a “however” here to consider!

Yep, that’s me about to point one of my big fat fingers to the sky and protest- Irk just might be,

Not so Undefeatable, after all!

And not only have I figured out exactly what sort of countermeasure you need to destroy these invaders, I have reason to suspect it’s a plan already long ago set into motion.

Let’s break it down,

An Irksome Achilles’ Heel

True, individually, the bug bastards are irritatingly tough to kill through conventional means. True, collectively, they are nigh impossible to outmatch. And more than most anything else, they owe this tenacity to two things: numbers, and R&D. Possessing some of most state of the art pinnacles in transportation, communications, and military equipment, the Armada found a knack for being able to steamroll most lesser planets before it.

The genius of the individual PAK unit grants each and any one Irken a theoretical path to partial immortality itself, by route of consciousness archiving. I strongly believe that kind of cybernetic progress was also one of the stepping stones that led to the creation of the Control Brains. Nonetheless, this very same strength of the Irkens’ has also proven to be the source of their greatest vulnerability.

Paks, Paks… Oh Paks. The entire race’s civilization revolves around such technology the way we do around our own brains, our own hearts, and our communicative network. For all intents and purposes, and as I’ve gone on about ad nauseum in my other spills about the show, a PAK is all and at once

• Synonymous with the holder of their soul, consciousness, being, whatever you want to call their personhood.

• Able to have their data repurposed by future generations, in the result of an Irken’s permanent death.

• A universal necessity shared by the entire population.

• Susceptible to alterations, sometimes by intelligent enough individuals (as demonstrated by the Zimvoid comic arc), but usually by a Control Brain, directly.

In addition to that last quality, there’s another way the code in a PAK can be changed, for better or worse- Via evolution. Though I am talking about digitized neurology, the actual data in a PAK is a lot more comparable to biological DNA or a “self-learning” AI than it is a rigid computer program. By this, I mean that its code is subject to certain changes over time, perhaps both directed and completely random, particularly during the recycling of its information back into the Smeeteries.

And this is actually good design on the control brains’ part, the same way not reproducing Irkens as genetically identical clones was. Genetic and digital diversity are desirable goals to keep in mind if you want a healthy and versatile stock of workers, engineers, soldiers, and everything in between. We’re talking about highly sentient, highly intelligent, and emotional organisms here. A static drone mindset is going to offer them inadequate ability to adapt to their lengthy life experiences or be unique persons. How else would social mobility have purpose in their world? How else could the cream of the crop rise so far above their peers? That positive was deemed worthy of an obvious risk, however: computational errors.

When the Bugs Get Bugs

 IZ does not clearly lay out what it means for an Irken to be defective, but it gives us a general idea. Defectiveness is not something diagnosed from a code scan for this missing value or that incorrect variable. It’s not judged by one specific character trait or quality that’s abnormal for an Irken to display. “Defective” is a judgement stamp, wielded by the Control Brains when they gauge the total sum value of a life’s contribution to the species. And it’s not one given to Irkens which are merely incompetent, no. Anyone proven to be unfit for their standing is given generous opportunity for redemption or simply reassigned a more suitable occupation. If it were based on likability, we’d have seen Skoodge sent to Judgementia years ago.

Rather, it’s given to those who are viewed as so twisted that they are proven to be an existential danger to their brethren. Irkens that are so destructive to the essence of the collective that their memory must be purged from the record and their identity erased.

I adore the enthusiasm behind fans who want to view this as an analogy for disability or neurodivergence against a conformist society, but the metaphor I’m seeing is one of extreme antisocial behavior. A defective Irken screams less “adhd/autism” to me than they do serial murderers (of their own) or outright traitors. Pardon the use of a gross phrase, but it’d seem we were talking about an Irken equivalent of what the outdated gens would have dubbed the “criminally insane”. No one on screen has ever shown Skoodge or Tak the sort of concern that would get them sent to the Spike of Judgement, but when Zim was in that hot seat? NO one was doubting what his verdict would be.

^ courtesy of “The Trial’s” transcript

I think about the 40 shmillion mistakes a lot.

It’s such a vague quantity. But it sure sounds like a hell of a big one. And what mistakes… what did the lil squirt even have to compare them to? There’s no standard one person an Irken can be. Every presentation of the flaws in that code to the control brains hasn’t ended up a flaw to him.

I only started writing this because I really couldn’t stop thinking about the 40 shmillion. There’s no chronological room for bad self-modding to add up to that so quickly.  DNA replication, nature’s own sloppy and random process of creating new life, can be excused around 120,000 hiccups when duplicating with a 6 billion pair-long protein. But this kind of shuffling is under a futuristic AI’s precise eye. Yes, defects happen, but as bad as him? From birth??? How could you possibly get that many detrimental deviations from the mechanical fucking god-queen(s) of their entire homeworld?

And then it hit me.

You don’t. Not from Irk.

The hot take I’ve been charging for this entire time is thus.

Zim is not defective by any random accident. In fact, I smell the tampering of foreign sabotage.

Not only is this guy the thing his kind fears more than any else, they have every right to be shaking in their stance.

That puzzle i posed at the beginning of this journey, have you seen what I’ve seen yet?

Because the answer I was looking for as to what similarity connects an anthill, a PC, and a city from Greek legend was a most effective tactic for taking them down.

Do you know the best way to deal with a bad ant infestation? Cuz you can lay down all the raid and crushing action you want, but you won’t really be getting anywhere unless you target the pests directly at their queen. To that end, liquid ant baits are marvelous inventions- a sweet substance hiding a small amount of slow acting poison. Poison to be peacefully delivered by the stomach of an ant to the rest of her colony, poisoning her kin, who sicken more members, on and on until the queen is destroyed and the entire nest perishes. An insidious toxin to do all the work while its user never lifts a finger, pretty ingenious.

And when it comes to computers, we also have ways to attack entire networks at source, from quietly and far away. “Trojan” was a category of malware responsible for 64.31% of all cyber attacks on Windows systems in 2022, and they still make up a majority of active malware hits today. The concept is deviously simple. The malicious code is hidden within an innocent looking program, maybe even within a legitimate software that does what it’s supposed to. Once the stowaway is invited into the system, it can get down to it some sneaky, nasty, destructive work on your device. As for what those acts could look like, well, malware exists to do all kinds of things. Mostly something involving trying to get money/information from you or hijacking your computer for whatever its creator wants to use it for. And some of them will just up and wreck your shit, disable your antivirus software to open you up to more infections, disable important operations, wipe your data. Use your imagination.

And as for Troy.. well, where do you think Trojan programs got their name? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

So, Irkens have their Armada, bionic drones, and homeworld- in other words, the thriving swarm of army ants, the billions to trillions of computers they so rely on, and their nigh untouchable fortress, always at war.

And some damn crafty bastard(s) in the stars said

“Here is their sugar-bait,”

“Here is their cyber attack,”

“Here is their wooden horse.”

And one particular race is going to be getting the last laugh before long.

Nerds That Are GOATed With the Sauce

That’s right, I thought about this all the way through to finding our prime suspect. And let me tell you, NO ONE in the Galaxy reeked of fish like the Vortians did. Get over here and lemme show you my whiteboard with all the red circles and polaroids on it.

- The Means

In a way of tragic irony, Vort has contributed more than any else to the same Irken conquest that turned on them in the end. A natural talent for cutting edge engineering and technical development actually does not seem to be what Irk already came into the ring with. For how mighty and superior they view themselves, the greatest achievements of their military can actually be owed to Vortian outsourcing. When we would have gotten a look at Tallest Miyuki’s very own “finest minds” during her reign, notice something interesting about these guys below,

Zim there is the ONLY Irken to be found! Yes, transferred there because of the punchline explanation of ‘he breaks everything he touches so maybe he’ll have an affinity for weapons research’ but damn right he actually did! And still does; I don’t want it to go unsaid that Zim has shown MUCH more technological skill and innovation than near any other Irken we’ve seen.

Another fun thing to note about this is that Lard Nar was also part of this lineup, and in the transcript he was in the process of working on the blueprints for The Massive. (which leaves you with the cursed knowledge that Zim, Prisoner 777, and Lard were all familiar coworkers long before the events of the show) And that brings me back to what I’m saying about the real reason the Vort natives were enslaved and imprisoned instead of outright sweeped after conquering. The Armada needs their skills, because Vortian advancement is something their own scientists couldn’t come close to. Left to their own devices, Vort could have easily outmatched them at an earlier point in history. It’s a people that figured out infinite power sources and potentially wormhole technology, while PAKs were something a disfigured human tween with a lot of time on his hands was able to crack. If anyone could outpace and outsmart the defensive measures of the Control Brains, it’s going to be them. And what better, cleaner way to sabotage the enemy than from within. 

The very same strings of inserted code that cursed Zim with his delusions, paranoia, lust for destruction, and horrible tactics may also have blessed him with a determination and intellect higher than almost any creature alive. The saboteur gave Irk the most powerful racecar in history, and then fitted it with bicycle brakes. No matter how hard Zim tries to conform to what will give him admiration, no matter how competent he is at keeping himself alive, it’s as if he is instinctually compelled toward whatever actions will cause the MOST damage to his allies in the process. Dib may think he’s the bulwark against the invasion when, ironically, he’s fighting against the one being that’s predetermined to be the arrow that strikes Irken leadership right in their dumb, green heels. (There is also an instance in the comics where Dib figures out that Zim is the ace in the hole for total Irken eradication but that’s another fun story.)

Oh, oh HO HO, and that’s only what he’s capable of doing before the empire’s actual immune system against defects like him wakes up and notices!

Three planetary blackouts, two dead generals, and a whole swath of dead invaders was just the fucking warm up, babey! All that is merely the kind of loud disruption that you need in order to fulfil the real thing this Trojan horse exists for in the first place.

What a celebration of hubris the Spike of Judgement was. Yeah, let’s take our method of filtering the corrupted data from the hive mind, and completely centralize it on a single planet! As well, let’s have the very purging agents also be the same ones to perform the evaluations themselves, I’m sure that it would be unthinkable for any outsider to design a worm that could make it through the brains’ firewalls. Goddamn spectacular. Like inserting an infected USB into your laptop, the Tallest never realized what kind of beast they woke up by plugging that PAK into the Spike’s mainframes. Those brains were meant to handle an expected spectrum of deviation when it came to defective Irkens, never a sleeper virus of this complexity.

From here it probably won’t even matter if Zim survives much longer on Earth, his virus has already spread to the very thing relied upon to keep things like him out of the data pool in the first place. With the Judgementia brains corrupted and no higher authority to overrule them, the firewall is effectively broken, and you know what that means? Bigger cracks for future defectives to start trickling through, both spontaneous and artificial. The ideal scenario is one where a degenerating and glitched population accelerates the incompetency of the empire to the point where it just implodes on itself; nevertheless, even a disease that only slows down Operation Doom could be a game changer, by giving the rest of the little guys more time to band together a coalition strong enough to strike back when the time is right.

- The Motive

The history of these two races’ alliance is something I lament us not having more lore to pull from- how far back it goes, what the character of the Vort was like during that time, what the Irkens had offered in return- a few among dozens of questions it rears.  The implication behind how it ended lies in Zim’s creation that slayed Tallest Miyuki. Interestingly, the Empire never received the memo of what exactly went down, or, perhaps, stubbornly denied the account of the other scientists who were there that day. Neither Red/Purple nor the Judgmentia Brains had any idea that Zim’s actions led to the death of a Tallest. So, makes sense that the Vortians became the unintentional scapegoat (no pun intended) for the incident, and the rest is history.

Note: It’s also in the realm of possibility that Vort was actually the one to withdraw from the alliance instead, given that the same blob that devoured Miyuki (purely the fault of their Irken transfer) also went on to cause untold amounts of devastation. Red’s reaction to the real story stuck out to me as more telling, although.

But why am I even talking about this? Zim was decades old before war was declared on them, and either people’s regard to each other seemed strangely… respectful, if anything.

But, was Vort really a monolithic bunch? Irk was already an empire by this point, and diplomacy with those they needed something from did not mean they weren’t otherwise an aggressive force in the universe. For all we know, the alliance itself might have been coerced, or result of depraved leadership among the Vortians.  Any citizen with a conscience who could see the writing on the walls would be disgusted by giving so much aid and brown nosing to such a menace, no? I know who would have seen that writing before anyone else. Brainiacs who are smart enough to build something like The Massive and all its bells and whistles would know better than anyone just what it was all capable of in the wrong hands. The collateral damage against your own people might be a sacrifice worth making in the face of the alternative.

- The Oppurtunity

So.. that’s all well and good, yeah? A why, and a what, yet this is actually the tricky part of saving the galaxy,

Sneaking your StupidifyIrk.exe file onto the assholes’ homeworld without alerting either them or your own treacherous, weak, collaborator superiors to your actions. Infecting and releasing a random Irken alive would be far too dangerous, far too noticeable to the point where they could just be destroyed outright before given a chance to wreak real havoc.

But what about releasing a dead Irken? 🤔

PAKs are only screened for criminal flaws when errors begin to affect their body’s behaviors in destructive ways. A fully competent scientist, or soldier, or navigator performing a lifetime of loyal service to the empire and then meeting an unfortunate end? Their minds’ shadows can be accepted back into the data pool no questions asked. That’s only business as usual.

That almost makes new smeets something of a reincarnation of their ancestors. Personally, I see it kind of like replaying a video game and re-rolling your stats, even if you’re reusing your character’s name and general play style.

Either way, we come full circle to my theory about Zim’s actual origin. Maybe not “our” Zim, but the previous iteration of data that was shuffled to create his person. Whoever they were, I’m convinced that they were also an exceptional individual. They were probably pretty arrogant, but it was a more earned confidence, and they were a prodigy genius, the likes of which that was drawn to work alongside Vortian allies, as another researcher. Then, an untimely demise befell them. I couldn’t say they fell victim to some unfortunate accident, considering the cockroach durability of their body. No, I find it a lot easier to imagine they met their end in one of the more embarrassing ways for an Irken to die- A PAK stolen, disabled or forcefully detached by an assailant they might have allowed a little closer than they should have. To the homeworld, it’s a small matter. One more PAK recovered by the natives of the friendly planet, brought back home to be repurposed by the smeeteries, right?

Well, that’s what one smartass might have been hoping for.

And they really were a clever cookie, because that scheming seed is fruiting beautifully.