#and why should he be honored in death? when his life was as fabricated as the world he lived and died in?

[localvoidcat]

for the guy that got his eyes exploded by literal satan they really did him dirty with that scene . im elaborating more under the tags though

[derww]

DAY TWO: MACE

The mace is, of course, important. But Clown wants the mace because he wants to prove that he can be peaceful – just doesn't want to. And, also:

– You have to participate, – says Squiddo to him, and something in their intonation makes Clown feel like she's not joking. So he joins.

And he actually enjoys it – after all, he has his days off from being a mass murderer. He likes to do funny, cool, and cute stuff. Yeah, it's a little strange to be like that to someone besides his close friends, but he manages easily. It became a good change of the rhythm, even if it was just for a few weeks.

And, dismissing how obvious it is that he is pretending, he is the perfect candidate for the mace: a strong fighter who has redeemed himself passed, ready to protect the weak. True warrior of the peace. A symbol of hope. Is it that Minute wanted to be the last time?

When the Mace Keepers invite him on a walk in the middle of the night, they lead him up the tall mountain, a peak towering over the world. The air here is thin and almost sweet, the colors are hidden by undertones, and dense clouds hide the ground below. It's truly peaceful up here. Maybe some other version of him could have gotten used to it.

– You won, – they say, looking at him with pride. – you are truly worthy.

For some reason, all of them are smiling. Their hands are all empty. They are nodding.

– But none of us have the mace, – 4CVIT remarks cryptically, – not Squiddo, not MrCube and not even me. Its Master Oogway who got to actually take care of it.

They step aside, showing a small hillock located under a spreading willow tree. The grass is silvered under the moonlight. Firmament is strewn with myriads of stars.

At one point, there's no one there. He blinks, and there appears a figure. They are completely hidden in a dark robe, and their fabrics shine down like a waterfall. The Mace Keepers applaud them, as if approving the spectacular appearance.  

The figure removes a long purple hood. Branzy looks different – stricter, taller, and with the white hair pulled back in a braid – but it's still him. He's smiling. 

– Hello, gorgerous, – Clown says, – an honor to see you again.

Branzy smiles and blushes and laughs, but he needs to keep the composure, so he does.

– You had worked really hard to get here, – Branzy says, and he can't stop smiling and he looks Clown straight in the eyes, – reminding us all that yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mistery, but today is a gift. And whats why it's called a present.

He solemnly presents him with the mace – takes it out of a sealed briefcase, from a purple silk pillow, and carefully holds it, not like a warrior but like an archivist, and he hands it to Clown.

And he accepts it, feeling the weight of responsibility and echoes of the warmth of other people's hands, and Keepers congratulate him and applaud, and everything is finally exactly as it should be – and then he changes his grip, wind charges into the sky, and with the eerie rumble strikes 4C, bringing him instant death.

It's too easy to kill them, weak and defensless, who had just given him the strongest power in the world. Squiddo and MrCube live only a little longer, but they too get decimated into dust. Mace shines, overflowing with power. Clown turns around and looks up at Branzy. and lowers the mace.

– I missed you, – he says warmly and takes out the mask. They look into each other's eyes for a moment. And then they hug.

– I missed you too, Clown, – Branzy agrees, caressing his hair, – you are the ray of sunshine in my life.

– Aw-w, dear, – Clown gives in and kisses him in the cheek, and Branzy, finally taking down all the officiousness and seriousness, happily giggles, – you never fail to make me smile.

They have less than an hour. He is happy nonetheless.

[fatherphilia]

madara x his niece, where it’s like an arranged marriage and she like refuses and her family pretty much force her to marry madara, and angsty and shii pls with a cherry on top😘

i love you /p anon. you get me ♡ i need madara to wreck his cute niece.

tw. age gap (both are adults) , incest , dubcon , arranged marriage under cut

they say that a woman’s wedding day is supposed to be the happiest day of her life. it was meant to be a day of joy and celebration where you become intertwined with your other half until the day that death parts you both.

as a young girl, that was how you dreamed your wedding to be as well. that you’d one day walk down the aisle to unite with the man of your dreams, embrace him in front of your family and share that magical kiss after the “i do’s.”

there had been nothing magical about your wedding day though, rather you’d describe it as the worst day of your life.

“mom! please..”, you had cried out, your cheeks puffy from all the crying you had done earlier and eyes wet with tears while you clung to the sleeve of your mothers arm. “i don’t want to marry him! i want nothing to do with him.”

the woman who you thought would love you above all else in the world shook her head, a clear look of disapproval on her stern face as she bent down to wipe the tears from your eyes. “if you cry so much, you’ll ruin the makeup we spent so long doing.” she scolded. “your uncle is a very nice man for agreeing to this marriage. he’ll put you in a position of power, dear. you should feel honored.”

the words your mother had spoken to you before the ceremony stuck with you as a reminder of why you’d been forced into this.

there was no honor to be felt whenever your eyes locked with the man you had trusted while growing up. he was your uncle, the man you had played lovingly in the background with as a young girl and the man who you thought of as nothing more than family.

to you, it was a loveless relationship. one your parents forced you into when you’d reach adulthood because your uncle needed an heir and he was one of the most powerful shinobi in the clan. the trust you felt in your uncle had soured the moment your parents informed you of the wedding.

you had cried, kicked, screamed, everything you could do to refuse this arrangement. how could they do this to you? you were their only daughter! didn’t they care about your happiness?

it only hurt worse when you had to meet with your other uncle the day before the marriage. the brother of your soon to be husband.

“woah- hey, there.. there.” your uncle, izuna murmured as he leaned in to wipe the tears threatening to spill from the corner of your eyes. you clasped onto the man like a scared child, hiccuping and shaking from all you’d been told.

uncle izuna, who you’d always thought to be so sweet, hugged you gently, his hand trying to rub soothing circles into your back while you cried into his shoulder. “what’s wrong?”, he had asked, his voice sounding so gentle.

your worries spilled from your lips before you could stop them. “i don’t want to marry uncle madara! please don’t let them make me marry him!” you pleaded, your hands clenching the fabric of his shirt as izuna stared at you with wide eyes. “i’m your niece too, uncle.. can’t you stop this?”

izuna merely shook his head and the warmth you had felt in his arms vanished as he pulled back. “my brother might look harsh but i’m sure you’ll both grow to love each other very much.” he then reached a hand up to pat you on the head.

your uncle, your mother. neither of them did anything to stop this.

and, so, you were left to continue the wedding; a painful ceremony full of pretty flowers and decorations that haunted you as you walked past. the cheering and smiling faces of your family feeling like a taunt when you reached the end of the aisle.

people describe their wedding kiss as something they didn’t want to be over with so soon. however for you, it couldn’t end soon enough. there was no love to be felt in the way your arms stiffly wrapped around him to return the quick peck and your discomfort was obvious with the way you pulled back just as quickly.

you’d do anything to have this stupid ceremony be all over with but when it was truly done and over, you ended up wishing it had lasted longer…

because, now you were making the slow return to your new husbands house with the expectation of the two of you consummating your marriage. your body shaking and your feet aching in your heels as you followed behind the large imposing man.

“make yourself comfortable.” he said to you as he opened the door to the bedroom, leaving you with little choice but to follow his guidance as your were ushered on to the bed.

awkwardly, you sat on the very edge, a nervous expression on your face. “um- i’m actually feeling quite tired, uncle-“

“we’re married. just call me madara.” he interjected.

you bit your lip before continuing. “madara.. i- i think it would be best if i just went to bed instead! i don’t think i’ll be able to stay awake for much longer.”

the man’s eyebrow shot up and a deep chuckle left his throat as he approached you. “do you think i’m going to bore you to asleep?” your heart jumped in fear as he leaned forward to hold your chin in his hand as he tipped your face towards him so you were meeting his gaze. “i’ll be doing most of the work. you won’t tire yourself out.”

you attempted to pull away but he tugged you back closer, his hands finding purchase on your back as his fingers pulled down the zipper. “everyone does this on their wedding night.” he commented bluntly. “if we don’t do it now then when?”

any attempt you had at pulling away now was fruitless as his hands pulled the dress from your body and pushed you down onto your back.

there was a rather obvious smirk on his face. “you’ll be expected to produce my heir. might as well start now.” his finger trailed across your collarbone and down to your breast bone, his lips following soon after as they trailed messy wet kisses down your exposed skin.

“i really don’t want to—” you’re cut off by the sound of your own voice, a pathetic and meager squeak of surprise leaving your lips as your uncle rubs his finger right over your clothed pussy with an amused grin.

there was another chuckle from him as he spoke, “no need to lie. you’re positively soaked down here.” his fingers pressed against the wet spot you hadn’t realized was there, eliciting another embarrassed noise from your lips.

his large stature kept you from being able to push him off, his firm grip on your thigh keeping your leg down while he slipped a finger into the lacy white panties you’d been forced to wear for your wedding day.

“there, there.” it was like you were a child being chastised again. “i know you enjoy it,” he remarked as one of his thick fingers slipped between your glistening folds with such ease you began to feel ashamed of the way your body was responding to your uncles touch.

the noises of his finger thrusting in and out your pussy with a wet ‘squelch’ had your face burning as soft moans left your lips.

it wasn’t long till he was sliding another one into your virgin pussy, his fingers curling and stroking your walls in a motion that made your gut feel like it was twisting as an unknown heat bubbled up in your stomach. “m-madara—”, you cried out, feeling utterly confused but the man on top of you kept that confident smile on his lips.

his hands slip out of your aching pussy which clenched around nothing, that sudden rushing feeling towards something leaving you swiftly as your panted.

you couldn’t explain it, you didn’t want this but now that there was nothing in you, you felt so.. empty.

your uncle, your new husband, grinned down at you as he popped the buttons of his pants and that was when you first got a glimpse at the bulge between his thighs. to you, it seemed abnormally large especially when he tugged off his boxers and his thick cock was freed from its confinements.

it felt so though your heart was dropping in your throat and your face flushed which seemed to amuse your husband greatly. “you’re staring”, he pointed out but he seemed to be enjoying the attention.

the head of his cock nudged against your wet entrance and you gasped, your body trembling. you couldn’t even begin to fathom how such a thing would fit inside of you.

“it’s- it’s probably too big!”, you blurted out.

madara paused, as if surprised by your outburst but the surprise soon turned back to amusement as he leaned closer to you, his hot breath against your lips. “trying to flatter me?”, he teased as he captured you in for a kiss.

you struggled, squirming as his lips melded against yours, his warmth encapsulating you as you felt the head of his cock breach your entrance. the thick tip sliding in with heavy resistance as your body tightened and clenched around it.

your new husband grunted but seemed undeterred by your bodies less than desirable response. “hm.”, he hummed as he gripped the base of his cock and pushed it further into your tight heat. “your body will get used to it soon.”

soon? it didn’t feel like soon. not with the way it felt like your insides were being split apart by him, your back arching and body quivering as you tried to pull away but his hand pulled you back in trying to pull you down snugly on his clock.

it hurt. tears pricked the corners of your eyes. it was all too much for you to handle and you closed your eyes, trying to imagine you were somewhere else.

trying to imagine you were with anyone else except your uncle.

madara leaning in, kissing the tears the corner of your eye as he completely bottomed out, the full length of his cock sheathed inside of your poor body.

“you’re crying for nothing. it wasn’t that bad.” he said with a groan as he slid his cock back just a bit before thrusting back up into your wet heat brutally.

your pathetic squeals were quick to turn into soft moans as your squirmed beneath him, his cock kissing your cervix with every thrust as your body jerked with every movement and the bed beneath the two of you creaked.

his hips rutted up against you, setting a rough pace as he pulled your leg up into a position that ached so he could push himself in deeper and faster. it wasn’t long before that unknown warm feeling bubbled up inside of you once more. your insides feeling as though they were coiling or tightening before a release followed, your slick fluids coating the man’s thick cock.

madara groaned, feeling your tight pussy clench around his cock. his hips stilling as he emptied his load into you, the sudden warmth of his seed filling your sensitive pussy; thick globs of his cum dripping down onto the bed sheets as he pulled out slowly.

there was nothing you could do but feel confused and dazed, even when the man leaned in to place a kiss upon your lips and stroke your hair. he spokes slowly, his deep voice filling your ears, “see? i knew you’d come around.” his hand then moved down to touch your stomach.

“you should hope that it worked the first time.”

[tiddygame]

Ghoap god type au part 7!

Edit: I cannot count [I put six instead of seven]

Ao3 /// part 1 /// part 2 /// part 3 /// part 4 /// part 5 /// part 6 /// part 7 /// part 8 /// part 9

this was going to start with a bar fight however it ran far too long. but if you would like to read 1700 words of ghost beating people up, here you go!

@imjustheretofightforlove / @pieckyghost / @life-as-a-gamergirl

[and lmk if you want to be tagged!]

Look, in his defense, he may have thrown the first punch, but Ghost wasn’t the one who started the fight. 

No, that honor belonged to the man who made grabby hands at the barmaid. It’s not Ghost’s fault that the man’s friends still chose to pick a fight after watching their buddy get his shit wrecked. 

Just because Ghost enjoyed getting to beat the fuck out of them doesn’t mean he was the aggressor! But the city’s guards didn’t see it that way. So, until they saw reason, he was running through the freezing, dark, and dreary streets looking for a place to hide. 

Luckily, a place to hide seemed to find him.

At least, that’s what it felt like when he was yanked into an alleyway and dragged behind a building. He was too broke to have to worry about a mugging and if the mystery person managed to murder him, he’d be more impressed than anything else.

However, his alleyway savior was neither a mugger nor a murderer.

“Ghost.” The god of death looked rather exasperated.

“Oh, hello Soap,” Ghost greeted cheerily, still high off of adrenaline, panting not from exertion but the thrill of the chase.

Soap did not share Ghost’s enthusiasm. In fact, he looked like he was about to combust as he buried his face in his hands and griped inaudible curses. Ghost looked around the area, too energetic to sit still and wait for Soap to collect himself.

Instead of the musty back alley he was expecting to see, he found a small courtyard formed in the middle of a block of buildings. There were benches along the walls and garden beds with lanterns to highlight the landscaping. 

The riverside city was certainly one of the most… ostentatious places he’d ever seen, much less been in. It was meant for people rich enough to afford balconies overlooking courtyards and paved roads. All of it set his teeth on edge but the flowers were pretty at least.

The courtyard wasn’t a good hiding place by any means, but it beat getting chased through the streets by armed guards. While it was open, it appeared blissfully vacant of people, only violets and pansies present to witness his grand escape. 

The god gathered himself with a deep breath and asked simply, “Why?”

Ghost huffed a breathy laugh and answered with a question of his own, “Why not?”

Soap’s exasperation only worsened at that. “Why not? This is why not!” Soap whisper yelled, grabbing Ghost’s hand to gesture at his bloody knuckles. He threw Ghost’s hand back down like he was slamming a door after an argument and walked off. He began pacing a small area, never getting too close to the mouth of the alley, with his head in his hands once again.

Ghost didn’t feel any sympathy, this was retribution for all of the stress the god had unintentionally inflicted unto Ghost. Honestly, it was funny to see him stressed over something as simple as a little fight in a tavern.

Ghost peeked around the edge of the alley as he checked the bloody fabric of his face mask, feeling his nose and making sure everything was still in place. While he didn’t feel any bone protruding out from where it should be, he could feel something wet and warm.

He looked down at his fingers to see how bad the bleeding was, finding small splotches of blood. It was certainly bleeding enough to be an annoyance, but as long as it stopped at some point it would probably be fine. Probably.

Hearing footsteps, he was already stepping out of sight and behind the building when Soap grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He wondered if the target of his brutal (but deserved) punishment was some high-ranking official; Ghost had never seen such a big deal made out of a simple brawl. 

“Do you know why I’m here?” Soap asked suddenly, gripping his arm tighter and turning his attention solely to Soap.

Now fully focused, he noticed that the god looked much closer to what his original depictions had shown. He was no longer a generic looking guy with a few similar features, but a mostly accurate recreation of the god of death. 

“Your eyes are blue,” Ghost noted instead of answering.

Soap looked like he was on the verge of mania. “I am here,” he said rather aggressively, “Because someone just died in a bar!”

Ghost checked his pulse.

“Not you, ye’ stupid fucking idiot! The man you attacked!” Soap’s accent was thicker in his anger even as he tried to keep his voice down.

“Attacked is a strong wor— Wait, I killed him?” He knew the man looked like a cowardly little bitch but he didn’t think he was that fragile.

“Yes!” Aside from the insanity, Soap’s tone was hard to pick up on. He didn’t know if the god was happy, disappointed, or plain driven mad. Knowing Ghost’s unmistakable ability to provoke people, it was probably a mix of the last two.

Retracing the fight, Ghost muttered to himself, “I guess I did slam his head against the bar…” He paused, thinking further before he added, ”And break a window with his face…”

“And what did you do after breaking the window?” Soap prompted, his tone making it clear he already knew the answer.

“I, uh,” Ghost stuttered. He didn’t want to admit it, feeling a little silly for being surprised he died once he reflected on the fight.

“Yes?”

“I threw him out of the window,” Ghost muttered like he was a kid admitting to stealing a cookie.

In his defense, the bar was full of people and he wanted to move the fight outside to avoid any innocent patrons becoming collateral. It was only a coincidence that the easiest way to do that was via the window. Again, not his fault. And it was only a ground floor window; It wasn’t like he fell a couple of stories or anything.

“And?”

Ghost remained silent for a while like he could wait out Soap’s patience and avoid answering the question. It didn’t work. He wasn’t ashamed of his actions per se but he didn’t feel like answering for them either.

“And I beat him into the ground. A lot.” 

‘A lot’ was an understatement. He probably still had some of the creep’s teeth stuck in his knuckles. As brutal as it was, it was still deserved. If the dude didn’t want to get murdered he shouldn’t have been so easy to kill. Not Ghost’s fault that the creep was weak minded and weak skulled.

Soap interrupted his recollecting, “Do you not see the problem here?”

“No?” Ghost answered with the truth on instinct before he remembered self-preservation. “I mean— his death, what a shame, truly — A tragedy even!” Ghost pretended to mourn, not caring enough to try to make it convincing.

“No it’s not,” Soap shut down immediately. “But you committed a murder.”

Ghost nodded once, “Yes.”

“And the guards are going to be looking for a murderer.”

Ghost nodded again, “Yes.” That is, in fact, how the law works.

“Ghost!”

“Soap!”

Soap looked ready to start his own brawl. “How the fuck do you plan on getting out of here without getting arrested?!”

Oh, was that the problem Soap had?

“Run,” Ghost answered plainly. There was a very long pause as they stared at each other, Soap both pissed and exasperated while Ghost enjoyed the show. 

Their little stare down was broken up when guards entered through a different side of the courtyard. As soon as they saw the pair, orders were shouted and several very well armed men rushed towards them.

“Speaking of running…” Ghost didn’t hesitate, grabbing Soap’s wrist and following his previously stated plan to avoid arrest. 

He ran, dragging along the god of death through the alley in a reversal of his rescue from however many minutes earlier. He made sure to keep a firm grasp on the god as they rounded the corner and booked it down the streets. 

Ghost wasn’t worried about losing him, he just wanted to drag Soap along as payback for… some transgression Soap had surely caused at some point. Yeah, Ghost couldn’t think of one specific example that substantiated turning him into an accomplice to murder right at that moment, but Soap still deserved it.

Or maybe Ghost was just an asshole. Either way, he wasn’t letting the god pop out of existence just because they might get charged for a capital offense.

They were still a ways from city limits and with the number of guards on their asses, there was no way they’d be able to hide again. Ghost headed towards the river, hoping the waterline would give them a clear path to follow away from the city without risk of them going in circles.

“Ghost,” Soap shouted behind him without any hint of breathlessness despite their running, “Please tell me you have a plan!”

Ghost’s response was much more breathy. “I already told you,” Ghost grinned behind his bloody face mask, “Run!”

The cobbled streets were covered in rain puddles in various states of freezing; Some cracked and splashed underfoot and some threatened to send them sprawling on the ground. He could barely hear the late-night dockworkers milling about over the sound of thundering footsteps.

Ghost took random turns in the hopes that it would prevent the guards from realizing his destination and setting a trap. Even then, they were still at a disadvantage. Each turn could be a dead end and the men chasing them would know the city in and out while Ghost was (literally) playing it by ear.

Though his strategy of going down whatever street took his fancy paid off in the end. They landed on a street that was more occupied, one with people wandering around but more importantly, horses. Ghost took a second to survey them, finding the most expensive looking one and running towards it.

There was very little space between them and the guards. Ghost yanked the reins from the hitching post and lept on, startling the poor horse. He half-helped/half-dragged Soap up behind him, urging the horse on as soon as his feet were off the ground. 

Now with the advantage, he went straight for the docks. The guards weren’t able to keep up and the distance between them grew. Soap was clinging on to him as tight as he could with both arms encircled around his midsection; Ghost didn’t know if it was to make sure he didn’t fall or to make sure that if he did fall, he’d take Ghost down with him. 

Considering he’d just been dragged through icy streets being chased by men with spears, it was probably the latter.

Ghost’s theory about the docks giving them a path out was validated soon enough. While the paved road turned back into the city, there was a clearshot out into the surrounding plains, a partially worn path following the shoreline.

He didn’t slow down until the lights of the city had faded into twinkles amongst the dark horizon. With no other plan materializing, he continued along the grassy shore. The river’s slow erosion had chipped away at the bank until it became more of a miniature riverside cliff, a wall of mud and rocks lifting them away from the edge of the water.

He watched as their barely-there reflection leisurely chased them along the water, the deceptively fast current distorting the picture. His breath visibly puffed out as he laughed at the fact that his half-baked plan worked.

He leaned down a little, petting the horse’s neck; Without him, Ghost would probably be halfway to being tossed off a mountain by that point. The frogs sang them a beautiful chorus to applaud their escape, their croaking smothering any other calls from the wildlife.

“Ghost,” Soap called quietly, getting his attention. Glancing behind him, he could barely see the god resting his cheek against Ghost’s shoulder, staring off to the side and watching the river.

“Yes?” he answered, keeping the quiet tone that Soap had started, not wanting to break the calm that had settled over them.

Soap murmured, “Do you normally do this?”

“Beat a man to death or run from the cops?” Ghost asked.

Soap chuckled, “No, I’ve been with you for long enough to know that beating someone to death isn’t unusual for you. I meant the murder charge and grand escape on horseback.”

“Normally I don’t get caught.”

“So the ‘throwing someone out the window and beating them in the street with a crowd watching’ is new.”

“Eh,” Ghost shrugged but felt bad for the reflexive action when it jostled where Soap was resting his head. “Depends on your definition of crowd.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Soap asked, lifting his head and pulling away slightly to stare at him baffled before he quickly added, “Actually, wait— no. I don’t want to know. Keep your secrets.”

The sudden change in heart had Ghost chuckling as well. It was the lightest he had felt in… years, probably. 

The realization almost sent him on yet another introspective spiral but he shook the thought from his head, refusing to do such deep level thinking after the chaotic night they’d had.

He pulled his cloak tighter, mostly to busy his hands, and Soap scooted closer, wrapping his arms around him, once again acting like he had any body heat to share. But, exactly like last time, Ghost appreciated the notion nonetheless and didn’t say anything. 

The warmness of the gesture made up for the lack of heat.

Ew, gods, what the fuck was that?

“Soap?”

The god somehow pressed closer. “Yes?”

“I think,” Ghost started the sentence without knowing what he was thinking. “I might be drunk…”

Soap dropped his head against Ghost’s shoulder and sighed, “Motherfucker…”

Whether it was cursing Ghost, the situation in general, or both didn’t matter, it made Ghost crack up either way. It started with quiet chuckles but the more he thought about the absurdity of the situation, the funnier everything got, ending with them both laughing like idiots at nothing in particular.

No, he wasn’t drunk, he had to be fucking wasted. He didn't think he drank that much, but he felt that too-many-glasses-in floaty feeling all the same.

Soap tried to hide his laughter by ducking his head but it didn’t help his cause when he ducked closer to Ghost. When the god managed to get a hold of himself, he squeezed his arms again and Ghost thought he was about to let go, but instead Soap only held on tighter, hooking his chin over Ghost’s shoulder like a koala.

Ghost settled his left hand over Soap’s arms, an attempt at assurance that he wouldn’t let him fall. They rode on in silence only a moment longer before Soap spoke again, using that same quiet tone from earlier.

“Stop down by the shore there?” he requested, pointing to a low point where the bank actually met the water. 

Ghost wordlessly nodded, steering his stolen steed towards the water. He dismounted and offered Soap his hand, who gratefully accepted the offer for help. Soap moved slowly like he was nervous and tried to gradually slide off the side.

When Soap’s feet hit the ground, Ghost grabbed his waist to steady him with Soap’s hand grabbing his shoulder in return. There was a pause after which Soap patted his shoulder and nodded his thanks before walking on towards the water. Admittedly, he likely would have been fine with or without Ghost’s help, but he wanted to keep his silent promise about not letting Soap fall.

Besides, it’s not like he dismounted on his own the last time he was on a horse…

…Fuck. 

Ghost just made a fool of himself, didn’t he? 

He tried not to outwardly groan at his own idiocy. It’s not like Soap is a god or anything, of course he needed Ghost’s help! 

Did Soap smile because he was thankful or because he was trying not to laugh? Or was it an awkward smile from Ghost overstepping? He internally sighed at his own incompetence and followed Soap to the bank.

Soap was kneeling down with his hand in the water to check the temperature and only spared him a glance when he huffed and sat down.

Ghost peeled off his soaked mask and shivered at the winter air hitting the wet blood. His nose was still bleeding and suffocating himself with his own blood sounded like a pretty shitty way to end such a great night.

He pulled the collar of his cloak up to his neck to compensate for the newfound lack of protection from the cold. He tried to lick his lips to alleviate the chapped feeling but grimaced when all he could taste was blood. 

Apparently his scrunching his nose  and spitting to the side was enough to draw Soap’s attention as he turned from the river and commenced his favorite hobby: staring.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” Ghost asked with a grin, knowing his face was covered in his own blood.

“Gods, you’re stupid,” Soap muttered. He stood, shook out his hand, marched over to Ghost, and yanked his mask out of his hands. Soap fiddled with the fabric, finding the non-bloodsoaked side and holding onto it as he dipped it in the river.

Once it was to his liking, he kneeled down next to him and grabbed his chin. Ghost had never seen someone be able to do something angrily yet gently, but Soap managed to do it as he wiped away the blood and checked for damage. 

Even though the water was freezing, it felt nice on the scrapes and soon to be bruises that adorned his face. Ghost knew that his nose was fine, he’d just checked it, but he had a feeling that trying to tell Soap that wouldn’t do much of anything beyond adding further proof to the god’s stubbornness.

When he was done, Soap didn’t say anything, only hummed in what Ghost assumed was some type of approval. He would have thought that was it, but based on the way the god paused and stared at his knuckles before rinsing the mask again, he had a feeling there was still more to come.

Soap was somehow even gentler as he cleaned his hands, knowing they housed more cuts and scrapes that were significantly more sensitive than the few shallow ones around his face. He took his time, being very careful and rinsing the improvised rag several times so as to not smear more blood and dirt on what he was trying to clean.

Despite knowing the futility, Ghost couldn’t help but prod, “You know I’m just going to clean everything myself when I get back to camp, right?” The running water was a good start, but the cuts would still need to be properly disinfected. “I’m not that stupid,” he defended with a (slightly painful) huff of laughter.

Soap shook his head as he answered, “No, I know, I just… I can’t not check it myself, I—” Soap registered the second half of his statement and got a weird look, “I know you’re not stupid. I’m doing this because I want to, not because I think you’re helpless.”

Ghost didn’t know how to respond to the much more serious answer to his joking jab at himself. “I was joking,” he clarified in case Soap missed his tone.

“Yeah,” Soap dismissed without looking up and continued cleaning away dried blood.

Gods, all of this conversation shit was easier when he didn’t give a fuck. What do normal people do when they fuck up a conversation? Bring up something else to talk about? Apologize? Make a joke at their own expense? (Well, that was what started it, so probably not that one.)

Apparently he was stuck ruminating on his lack of social skills longer than Soap was as the god had already finished cleaning his knuckles. He rinsed the mask again but dropped it on the grass next to Ghost.

Soap asked in a much softer tone, “How do your ribs feel? Sore?”

The switch threw Ghost off before he finally answered, “A little.” It was an honest answer as he knew both that Soap would check them regardless of what he said and that he was going to regret a lot of his decisions in the morning when the bruising really set in. 

“Hmph,” was all the god said in response, not buying Ghost’s nonchalance.

Soap reached forward slowly, his palms snaking under his cloak but staying over his tunic and hesitantly resting against his ribcage. Ghost had braced for unpleasantness, but really, it didn’t feel like anything at all. That would change when he started actually checking for any abnormalities, but at least the contact itself didn’t hurt.

Soap looked to the side and closed his eyes, completely focused on feeling for any breaks and listening for any sign of pain from Ghost. It did hurt when his hands pressed, but it wasn’t too bad, at least not when compared to getting into a drunken pub brawl.

Soap was methodical in his examination. He started at his lower ribs and set a pattern to follow; First he’d check around the middle of his chest, then move his hands out, then check his sides, and then he moved up. He seemed to focus on two, maybe three ribs with each pass.

The touch left him feeling all weird and tingly. It didn’t hurt but he did feel oddly anxious yet he didn’t feel like he needed to stop Soap. It was that same feeling he had in the temple when the god made his first entrance. It was the feeling of knowing that he should hate it, that his skin should be crawling, but instead finding it almost… nice.

Several minutes later, Soap sat back and did a quick once over. “If any of them are fractured, it’s just a crack.”

“So carry on as normal,” Ghost said, mostly just to get a rise out of him.

It worked, Soap giving him a nasty look that read, ‘Take it easy, or I’ll break them myself.’

Knowing the god would do it, Ghost held his hands up in surrender. He sniffled but felt something warm drip from his nose and grumbled at the fact that he disrupted the clot that had formed.

Soap was already on it, grabbing the discarded mask and holding it up to his nose, waiting for him to take it. Medical exam through with, Ghost groaned as he slowly leaned back and tried to lay against the soft grass. Tried, because Soap immediately grabbed his shoulder to hold him up and tilted his head back down.

“You’re not supposed to tilt your head back with a nosebleed, stupid,” he chastised, joining him in sitting on the bank. It was much warmer with the god next to him.

“Oh so you can call me stupid but when I do it, there’s a problem,” Ghost jokingly complained, not able to let sleeping dogs lie.

“Yes, because we both know that I don’t actually mean it when I call you stupid, stupid.”

Ghost rolled his eyes, unable to think of a good retort to respond jokingly nor a genuine rebuttal. As the conversation fell away, he carefully looked up without tilting his head back in fear of drawing Soap’s ire. It was more than a little awkward and strained his eyes but it allowed him to watch the sky without incurring the wrath of god.

The dark night looked a little lighter with the sheet of gray clouds hanging over the moon, illuminated by the stars. He could see how fast the wind was moving as small, nearly imperceptible shadows rippled across the cloudy blanket and hustled along the sky.

He almost didn’t notice when the snow first started falling. 

The little white flecks managed to blend in amongst the sparse trees that dotted the other side of the river but stood out once they fell against the darker and much more solid bluff. It fell lazily with most melting as soon as they hit the ground. 

Ghost thinks they only sat there watching the river and snow for a few minutes, long enough for his nosebleed to clot again and let him pocket the dirtied mask. With the ground colder, the snow began to ever so slowly accumulate with a barely noticeable white dusting gathering across the green prairie. 

Soap sighed, stood, wiped off his undirtied pants, and offered Ghost his hand. “You’ve had a long night. Don’t want it to end with hypothermia, aye?”

“C’mon,” Soap muttered with that stupid fucking look of not-pity. “You’re gonna get cold.”

Ghost groaned as he stretched the best he could with his ribs, “What is it with you and me freezing to death…”

“Oh, sorry for wanting to keep you alive,” Soap grouched sarcastically.

Ghost grabbed the offered hand and took his time as he stood, the soreness and exhaustion kicking him harder after the small rest. 

“Bold, coming from the god of death,” Ghost rebutted, slowly trudging forwards.

“Just get on the damn horse,” Soap snapped back, his smile giving away the lack of anger behind his words.

Ghost did as he was told and once on, held out his hand to return the favor and help Soap up. While he had definitely made a fool of himself earlier by “helping” him down, Soap would certainly need help here. Getting on behind someone else was always much trickier than mounting first; You had less room to maneuver, less hand holds to grab, and a whole person in your way. 

(Ghost was desperately trying to defend his second stupid instinctual decision of the night.)

But just like last time, regardless of his true feelings on the offer, Soap simply smiled and accepted the help. His only reassurance was that Ghost did indeed have to put more strength than he thought he would into lifting him. 

Maybe he hadn’t made himself look like an ass…? It was wishful thinking, but it made him feel better so he was sticking to it.

Once he was up and situated, Soap grumbled just loud enough for Ghost to hear, “Maybe if ye’d stop tryin’ to stay outside when it was freezing, I wouldnae have to worry about you dying from the cold.”

Pained chuckles snuck out from Ghost even as he tried to hold them down. When he failed he wasn’t sure if he was more upset about the stabbing pain in his ribs or the fact that he laughed at Soap’s quip.

Ghost shook his head and urged the horse along, slowly pulling away from the riverside to find a road. He had to be careful; He knew where camp was relative to the city, but if he got too close to the outskirts, they’d be running again.

Soap was happy to continue his impression of a limpet, grabbing onto him as tight as he could. He thought he made it clear that he wouldn’t let Soap fall, but perhaps not. Ghost once more dropped his hand down to rest over Soap’s as a reminder that he’d catch him.

“Why did you go out to the tavern?”

Ghost almost shivered at the sudden words with how close they were to his ear. It wasn’t too loud, no, but it wasn’t until he spoke that Ghost truly realized how close Soap was to his neck. He was sure that if the god breathed, he’d have felt the words against the shell of his ear. 

Ghost composed himself before he could make things weird again. “What, is there something wrong with me getting a drink?”

“No, but this is the first time in the six months we’ve known each other that ye’ve gone drinking. Figured something might’ve caused it.”

He forgot the original question and balked, “Gods, six months?”

“Yup,” Soap huffed, “Since… what? Midsummer?”

“Damn,” Ghost shook his head, “Can’t believe I’ve put up with you for that long.”

Soap shoved his shoulder lightly, “Just answer the question.”

The smile that had been growing on his lips shrank. “Got into an argument with the general. We’re supposed to be moving out to hit some isolated camp in a few weeks — he’s hoping it has some information they need or something.”

“Ah,” Soap nodded sardonically, “A celebratory drink then.”

Ghost scoffed, too angry at the memories of why he set out in the first place to play along with the joke.

Soap stayed silent until he couldn’t hold back anymore. “You don’t have to follow him, you know.”

He sighed tiredly, “Soap, please, we’ve been over this, just let—”

“Yeah, I know.”

The disappointment infecting his tone left Ghost wanting to restart the entire night just for the chance to fix Soap’s sudden sorrow. He had to remind himself that Soap’s disappointment was his own fault and not Ghost’s. He still felt bad.

This time it was Soap that offered the obvious though very appreciated change in topic. “What are you planning to do with the horse?”

Ghost didn’t catch the question, lost in the pervasive sad tone that hovered around them and had to ask Soap to repeat himself.

“The horse,” Soap patted his side for emphasis, “What are you planning on doing with him?”

“Oh,” Ghost absently responded as he thought about it. “Oh shit…” 

What the hell does he do with the horse?

The heavy atmosphere was still too heavy for a laugh but Soap got pretty close. He suggested, “You could take him back to camp?”

Ghost shook his head, “I don’t think that would end well.” He was a good horse, but Ghost didn’t think it would be fair to send him off to war just because he was good at running from some guards.

Soap threw out another suggestion, “Could turn ‘im loose?”

“No!”

Despite being sat behind him, Soap sarcastically held his hands up in surrender, “Was just saying, damn.” As soon as the little joke was done he went right back to clinging onto Ghost like a magnet. “What about… dropping him in some farmer’s pasture?”

Ghost hummed, “I doubt that would end well for him either.” Too many worst case scenarios flashed through his head, all foretelling ways he could be hurt by their oversight. 

And the farmer could get charged for that creep’s murder. That would probably be bad too, Ghost supposed. Not as bad as the horse getting hurt, but still bad.

“Well you can’t return him,” Soap commented, thinking aloud as he tried to figure out a solution.

“…Hey, Soap?”

He immediately turned it down, “No. Absolutely not.”

Ghost leaned back against him to get in his way as he protested, “You don’t know what I was going to say!”

“I know it was stupid!”

“Didn’t you just chastise me for calling myself stupid?”

“Well, yes but that’s— You know what? Okay.” Soap sighed heavily and put on an overly cheerful tone, “Ghost, what was your idea?”

“Drop him off in the city then run like hell.”

“See!” Soap shouted, gesturing wildly around Ghost, “Stupid!”

Ghost paused on the road and glanced back and forth between the way to camp and the way to the city. He remembered the road they grabbed him from, maybe it wouldn’t be too hard to find it again…

He surreptitiously tugged the reins towards the town.

“No! I— I’ll do it, for fuck’s sake!” Soap huffed, grabbing his shoulders to stop him. “They probably already have posters with your face on ‘em on every corner and you want to go back for a horse?” Soap asked rhetorically.

Ghost ignored the god’s dramatics and asked, “How do I know you’d actually return him?”

“Because I know that if I don’t, you’d prove my theory about ye’ being able to kill a god!”

Ghost sighed and shook his head, not wanting a repeat of their prior debate. If it meant Soap safely returned the horse, then so be it. 

Of all consequences to come from beating a man to death, he didn’t think grand theft horse would be one of his main concerns. 

He turned away from the city and continued towards the camp, unconsciously slowing the closer they got. When they inevitably reached the trail that led to its gates, he came to a full stop. They sat in silence as Ghost came to the realization that he didn’t want the night to end.

He internally scoffed at the epiphany, wondering if he magically forgot about downing a whole bottle, the effects of his drinking still weighing heavily on his judgment.

That old friend’s voice was back again.

You’re not drunk. It’s called being happy, dipshit.

Ghost immediately rejected the idea as ramblings from a tombstone.

I might be dead but I’m still right.

Ghost really wished that the very unhelpful opinions of a dead man would stay in the grave with him. Even if he might, might have had an ever so slight, practically miniscule, insignificant point…

He dismounted but didn’t move towards camp. The snow had petered off but was picking back up, Ghost’s cloak waving in the wind.

“Thanks for saving me from the death penalty,” Ghost said, a small smile pulling at his lips, no longer hidden by his pocketed mask. Soap moved up, taking the reins, presumably readying for the wonderful task of innocently returning a stolen horse.

“Of Course. If not you, who else would put up with me?” Soap asked with a matching expression. Ghost pet the horse’s mane one last time, letting his hand drop to Soap’s leg.

“Guess you’re stuck with me,” Ghost said, trying not to smile like a drunken idiot. 

Soap pulled the reins and began on his journey for reverse horse theft, throwing back with a tone that Ghost wasn’t sure he could convince himself was purely sarcastic, “Not too bad of a fate, I don’t think.”

Ghost scoffed and would have hurled insults at him in response but Soap was too far away. Instead, he stood there like a fool and watched him ride away in what he didn’t doubt was a rather creepy manner. 

He felt something bubbling in his throat that, for once, wasn’t anxiety. His chest felt weird and fluffy, like it was suddenly easier to breathe. He felt… Happy. 

Ghost felt happy. 

[doingitforbokuto]

The White Knight - Chapter Eleven

-> KNIGHT! KITA SHINSUKE X PRINCESS! READER

-> Previous Chapter

-> Series Masterlist

Summary: The past is something you cannot outrun - especially if it is a man chasing you for revenge.

Words: 2,089

Warnings: descriptions of blood and death

Kita's Point Of View 

The other man was still standing tall, unmoved in front of him. His large frame seemed to fill out almost all of the space in between the houses that framed each side of the street. It was impossible, but in Kita's mind he grew bigger and bigger every second that he looked at him until he was taller than any man he had ever seen. He was a giant and he had come to crush Kita under his foot. 

“So? What do you have to say for yourself?” Michael hissed. “Is there anything you can say to pretend like what you did was right?” 

“I didn't do anything,” Kita replied. 

“That's the problem!” Michael leapt at him, catching Kita completely off-guard. He didn't see him coming. Not when he appeared on the street, not when he jumped him, not when he pushed him into the wall next to him, not when he grabbed Kita's collar so tight the fabric started cutting into his skin. He didn't remember the last time he felt this frozen in place, this scared and numb at the same time. His limbs were heavy and useless, dangling by his side while his brain was still trying to comprehend what was going on. Why was Michael here? Was he going to take revenge for what happened to Ediva? Was he going to kill Kita now? Did he deserve it?

“What are you here for?” Kita asked, still dumbfounded.

“When I heard that you had entered the service of the very family you hurt, I couldn't believe it at first. I obviously don't have a very.. high opinion of you.” He looked like he was about to spit in Kita's face. “It is obvious that you enjoy taking advantage of people that can better your standing. But I thought you had at least this much honor left in you.” 

“It is my honor that made me come here.” 

“Oh, is it?” If looks could kill, Kita would have dropped dead right then and there. But Michael couldn't kill him like this - and he probably did not want to kill him in plain sight. Instead, his grip on his collar tightened, his knuckles pressed deeper into Kita’s flesh, pushing him against the stone wall. “Do you think your little princess would find it very honorable of you to come here after you've killed her cousin? Are you trying to make her life more miserable now, too?”

“I did not kill Ediva -” 

“Oh, did you not?” Kita could see how every muscle in Michaels’s face seemed to tighten up, contorting his face into a frightening mask of wrath and fury. “Did you not abandon her when it was your duty to protect her? Did you not let her run into the enemies’ arms when you should have held her back? While I was trying to save her?” 

Yew, he did abandon her. Kita could remember everything that happened that day. Some people forget the horrible things that happened to them and the people they care about if it is too horrible to bear. Not Kita. Kita's mind was filled with pictures of that day. 

The castle, almost overrun by enemies. Ediva's knight searching desperately for the lost lady. Ediva, running hand in hand with a man she shouldn't be with. Kita, finding her after her knight had been slain. Him trying to urge her back into her chambers, where she would hopefully be safe. Her eyes looking up at Kita with that pleading look. “Please,” she had said. “Please, let me go. I want to be with him. Please.” So he let her go. He saw her run away. He saw her be with the man she loved. Then, he saw her dead body. He saw her gown sticking to her frame, covered in blood, next to a man with rough hands and soft eyes that stayed open as if to look at her, even after a sword was stuck through his chest. He saw Michael next to the bodies of enemies. He saw Michael cry next to Ediva's cooling body. He heard Michael tell him how he tried to fend the enemy off before they killed her. How he had failed. 

And then he heard himself confessing everything to Michael. How she wanted to leave because she was in love with a peasant. How she wanted to use the cover of the battle to hide away. How he had let her go. How he had told her to go this way, because there would be less fighting there. How he came down here to check if she had made it. The words spilled out of his mouth, he could not stop them, but he knew he should have. He knew it back then, too, that they would be of no comfort to any one. Least of all Lord Michael.

It hard to accept that the woman you love is dead, even when she is laying right in front of you, covered in blood. It is even harder to accept that she is dead because she was in love with someone else. So in love in fact, that she is willing to leave her family, her friends, her wealth, her everything behind just to be with him. So much so that she would run with him through a battlefield, just to have the smallest chance of making it out alive with him by her side. Just so she does not have to stay by your side. 

It is hard to accept. And as it seemed, Michael had not the strength to accept it, even now.

“You should have protected her,” Michael's voice was as hard as steel and it cut as deep as a sword. “If you had done what you were supposed to do, she would still be here. She would be alive, she would be with-” He swallowed.

She would not be with him. They both knew it. She could have been with him, she could have stayed with the man she was set to marry - but she didn't. Because she didn't love him. And even if she would still be alive, even if she would be by his side now, that would not change her feelings for him. 

“I am sorry I did not protect her.” Kita did not know what else to say. “And I am only here to try and make up for my mistakes. I am not trying to take advantage of the princess. I am here to keep her safe.”

“Oh, are you?” The mockery in Michael's voice was honey sweet and venomous at the same time. “How has that been going for you?”

He knew. He knew about Garret. He knew about Kita's failure to keep you from danger. He knew Kita was a knight that could not keep his protégé from harm. He knew Kita was selfish when he entered your service. But what was he supposed to do?! He needed to make up for his past mistakes, to fix what he had done. 

“You can't keep her safe and you know it.” 

Michael's words froze Kita's blood in his veins. “Are you threatening me?” If he dared even think about hurting you - 

“Oh, no. I want to see our princess safe. I just know that with you by her side, she won't be. So I think it would be best if you left. Don't you?” 

“Only death will take me from my lady's side.” Yes, he was selfish. But he swore an oath. He swore to protect you - and he would. 

“We will see about that.” With a huff, Michael released his grip on him and just as quickly as he had appeared, he disappeared again. What was he going to do now?

—

Ethan's Point Of View 

Things were not easy since Garret's attack on you. But then again, when were things ever easy for a royal? At least the two of you reconciled. Ethan had not even imagined that you would forgive him so easily - that you would think there was nothing to forgive in the first place. 

The guilt was not yet lifted off of his shoulders but it seemed so much lighter now. For the first time in weeks, he could go on about his day without feeling like the world was about to crumble around him if he did not perform his duties perfectly. He had sorted through all of the royal guards by now, making sure that none of them had ever acted in a way that made them suspicious in any way. So, the castle seemed a safer place for now, even with the arrival of Lord Michael. It calmed his nerves to know that Kita was by your side, too. 

Ethan had not known much about your knight and before, he had to confess that he did not care about him much. Since the king had decided that the search for a suitor for you was to be put on hold, Ethan had not thought that you would be in danger any longer. And even if so, if Kita had managed to work his way this high up, he had to be a good knight, skilled in combat. 

Yes, he had teased you at first when he heard about how ‘cowardly’ Kita had behaved when you first chose him, but there was never any real fear in Ethan's mind. 

But now that you two had spoken for a bit, he could see just how much you trusted your knight. When you recalled how calmly he faced the danger of Garret's attack, how he took care of you afterwards, how he had been the one to keep you calm, to look after the wound, Ethan felt reassured that you had picked the right man. He even felt a little guilty for how he had teased you back when you chose Kita. It was obvious how highly you thought of him. 

So, it was a welcome opportunity to be able to talk about Kita with Lord Michael, who had seen him in combat.

The king had ordered Ethan to give the Lord some company after he arrived at the castle. For some time had he wished to come and visit the royal court, but the king had always refused to invite him. Too much did it pain him to think of having to talk to someone who was so close to his late wife’s family. 

Lord Michael's family had always had good relations with the Queen's family, and many marriages had been formed over the years. The last one that was supposed to come together was the one between the Lord Michael himself and your cousin Ediva. 

For some time had the lord longed for the lady's favor and it was well known how happy he had been after the engagement had been formed. It was a shame that the war had taken her life, along with so many other honorable people. 

Ethan wished he had known her better, but he could not remember her clearly. Though his mother often mentioned letters she had received from her young friend and relative, he had only met her once. His mother always spoke of her as a girl who would grow into a smart, kind hearted woman with time. Maybe she would even come and stay at the court for a while after her marriage. But that idea was lost due to the death of both the Queen and the Lady Ediva herself.

It would have been nice to have known someone who he could speak to about his mother every now and then. His father was still too grieved by her untimely death to speak much about her and until just now he would not have dared bring her up around you in fear of receiving the same harsh words from you as he often did from his father for mentioning her. 

Ethan imagined that Lord Michael would react somewhat the same if he asked him about Lady Ediva. Though they had not been wed, it was obvious how much He had cared for her. So instead, Ethan wanted to ask him about Sir Kita. They had both served in a battle together and since Ethan had not seen how Kita acted in the face of danger himself just yet, he was interested to see if your high opinion of him was founded - or if it was just an infatuation. What did Lord Michael have to say about your favored knight? 

[goth-iqqa]

BLAME THE ROSES

Chapter Two- The Son, the Crippled, and the Queen

(Revised and edited)

18+ MDI

Life can only be paid with death. After the demise of Princess Allysanne, a cursed couple brings forth a new life across the Narrow Sea, unbeknownst to the war approaching.

Daemon × Fem!reader, Aegon II × reader

Warnings: angst, cheating, smut, neglect, violence, death/gore. mentions of suicide. kidnappina. dub con, non con, (Targ)incest, pregnancy, miscarriage.

AN: I’m sorry this took so long, idk what happened, pls forgive me. Im not very confident in this chapter, so just bear with me. Also if you’re reading this, thank you for your support💕ily all!!!!

THE MOMENT LADY Y/N BEGAN her descent into fire and blood was in the tourney to Jacaerys name, settled above the chants for gore and the clash of swords from men who proudly raised to the young prince. She sat next to Rhaenyra then, charmed away by the rows of bannermen and knights who crossed the burning grounds for a glorious victory, honored to their house and their lords.

It had only been a few hours since her arrival, the feast had yet to begin, and the first round of champions was set to battle. Princess Rhaenyra did not spare a moment alone for the youngest, before the scurry of pastries entered the great hall and the abrupt facade of the girl-child fell, she slithered her arms around hers with a promise to a festive slaughter of blooms. Thorns of the mighty, she called it. “You’re to be part of the Dragon soon, you will sit with us.”

Before the ground painted red, in the passing of her ripening, her ladies in waiting tugged at the strings of her dress, suffocating and tightening over bruised skin and shattered bones to the smallest silhouette her father deemed perfect. One, the oldest woman, greyer and quieter than a mouse, rubbed scented oils behind her young lady’s ears, her arms, and between her legs down below.

“Why?” Y/N asked, confused.

Her voice went dead between the ears of her maids when a knock at the door caused their heads to lower down and welcome the golden prince into his youngest daughter’s quarters. The veils of oak doors opened and Calyx Endo, dressed in black and threads of gold, stood before them, underneath the gaze of a frail sun, a smile spread across his face.

“My,” he stilled when he saw her dress. “You are beautiful, my dear girl.” Long fabrics of soft orange and yellow sunsets, woven with the symbol of her house, stretched to the floor and danced behind her figure. A jaguar, threaded with black and silver gists of precious stones remained at the pleats of her skirt, thin in rows for the aloof weather. “The most beautiful girl I have ever seen, indeed.”

“You speak lies, Father. I could never compare to the beauty of your oldest daughter. Lady Aelle is the one who should stand here, rather than me.”

Though Y/N would never speak ill of her sisters, Aelle, the oldest sired by the prince and his first wife, was the only one she spared. Aelle Endo was not wise, and—according to the jabs the young princess would often taunt—a cunt with poor skills to maintain herself afloat. One who failed in her wifely duties and carried vines of whores wrapped around her fingers and beneath her feet. If their father's wealth was thinning, Aelle would be the one to blame.

“She’d do anything to remain in your grace, Father.” She stepped away from the hands of her maids and forward to her father. Her fingers fixed and stretched the collar of his shirt. “Aelle would be more than willing to marry a child. She would not greed for more, a queen gets all the gold she desires. My sister does not have an empty hand to play if I’m allowed to say.”

Calyx chuckled. “You are right, Aelle would do anything. She is rogue and careless. I could never trust someone as sloppy as your sister is. Which is why you’re here, not her. Is that not what you wanted? To be a queen?”

“I’d be past my prime when Prince Jace sits the Iron Throne.”

“You are a child, my dear. You are much too young to think of your gray years.” He added, “I was as old as Prince Jace is now when I first wed. Aelle’s mother was nearly five and ten. Age is not a matter of concern.”

“It is, Father, it is to me. Lady Baela and Rhaena have equal name days as the prince. Who’s to say Princess Rhaenyra will choose me over the granddaughters of the Sea Snake?”

“You mustn’t worry too much,” his hands reached to hold her face and his thumbs soothed the furrow of her eyebrows. “All you’re to do is be yourself. Teach the princess to play chess without a board, make her king bend to your will. It would not be the first time a black king falls to a white queen.”

Y/N only nodded in her father’s embrace. Choosing to continue adorning her ears and fingers with golden jewelry, her maids crowded her once more. “The Tourney will be starting soon. We must make haste. The King wishes to meet you before then.”

The princess pursed her lips, like she usually did when she was disconcerted. And while that had the habit of irking her father, as long as she was not airing out her frustrations or speaking wild schemes in a game of chess, Calyx Endo was content. “Fetch Midnight, as well. He will be your gift to the prince.”

They were not the first ones to arrive, though not the last, judging by the empty row of the box where the sons of the King were meant to sit. Rhaenyra pulled her to the seat beside hers, smiling as she prepared herself to gossip with her future daughter-by-law about the different knights and ladies present. Mere heads, sworn to her and bent to her rule over them in the years to come. Hers…and the hereafter queen that lolled at her side.

It was a few more moments before the King finally rose to greet the ecstatic crowds of commoners, high lords, and knights gathered beneath the sun. He rose amidst the cheering of the tribunes below them. "Be welcome!" The crowd began to quiet down as he began his welcome discourse. "I know many of you have traveled long leagues to be at these games. But I promise, you will not return disappointed."

Y/N heard a scoff come from beside her. A pale shadow, dressed in green and flattered by the beauty of his ancestors, flumped onto the chair meant for her father.

"When I look at the fine knights in these lists, I see a group without equal in our histories. On this auspicious day, ten years ago, the realm was blessed with Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, my first grandson! I am happy to share this blessing among all of you,”

She looked at him, for the first time. The line of his silver scalp dancing above his shoulders, the flicker in his lilac eyes, the tip of his crooked nose, and down to the muddy boots on his feet. “I am Aegon,” he leaned with confidence and the titter of a drunken man. “Prince Aegon. And you are…?”

“Y/N,” she simply answered. “I am Y/N Endo.”

“Ah, the princess of Manmo. Mother spoke plenty of you.”

“May the light of the Seven shine upon all combatants!” King Viserys concluded with a smile, raising his hands benevolently before returning to his seat. The crowd cheered and clapped, as did all sitting in the royal square, some more or less enthusiastically.

The games began at once. Red painted the ground before long and delicate petals soothed the ache in the shouts of the people who roared after more, bashing a man for another. Y/N did not react. Not when the skull of a knight exploded beneath the fist of a bare cavalier of no house. She remained still, watching the bits of flesh spread to the walk so gently like opals of red roses. The body of the knight writhed in its last breath before falling deadly still, in foolish honor.

“What a shame,” Aegon leaned toward her once more. “Baratheon knights tend to put on a show before their end. Your brother made him squeal like a pig.”

“My brother is quite skilled, my prince,” Y/N said, pleased and raised in pride for the brother she loved most. “It is no surprise, at all.”

“That is known. It is said he fought alongside my uncle in the Stepstones when he was just a boy. Beheaded many dornishmen in battle, the knight of Blood and Steel they called him. I need not wonder if they’re just rumors anymore, Ser Syrion Corgel has proven himself quite well.”

Y/N shook her head, though her expression never changed. “My apologies, Your Grace, but you are wrong. It would be impossible for Syrion to aid in the Daughters’ War. He’s only a year younger than me, and I was only a babe when the siege came to an end.”

Below them, the drums rolled in anticipation as a King's Guard mounted the black flag and red crest of House Targaryen onto the barrel across from their shortened square.

“It was my oldest brother,” she continued. “Ser Haenys Endo, who fought along the sellsword army. He was a fine knight, and he died, with honor, as one.”

In truth, Y/N did not know many things about the War for the Stepstones or her eldest brother. A once-named heir, Haenys Endo was the only son fathered by the Solstice prince and his second wife, spared by the gods on his twentieth name day when the sword of another and the crest of a sun and a spear slew his body whole.

It was a shame, the young princess often said. She didn't remember his face anymore, puzzles of the brother she once knew were twisted and foggy in her mind, the remembrance only in the words and stories her father uttered. The bronze child, a death paid for her birth.

For a moment, Aegon appeared to register her words. She watched him, his mouth opened then closed when it seemed a joke and a taunt threatened to spill from his cracked lips. “I did not know, my lady. I simply assumed Ser Syrion was—“

“Brother?” At last, Princess Rhaenyra acknowledged the missed beat. When her question to the young girl went unanswered, and the soft grunts of discomfort disappeared, Rhaenyra turned to Y/N. She had wondered if the gore had been too much for her like it’d done in the much younger years, but her eyes landed on Aegon and she worried much more. “Are you not meant to sit beside Aemond?”

“Aemond is an idiot,” Aegon answered with a shrug. “I much rather this view, sister.”

“I’m sure your mother will not be pleased to hear you speak of our brother that way.” Rhaenyra’s eyes moved to Y/N and a smile perched on her lips. “Do you wish to change seats?”

“It is quite alright, thank you, princess.”

A pale hand soon fell over hers, embracing cold fingers in familiar warmth. “I’ve got you a gift,” Rhaenyra said, excitedly. “You used to enjoy playing Cavysse when I first met you. Do you still play?”

Y/N nodded. “I do. It’s the one thing that takes my head off all chaos.” Marriage, her father, her brother, her mother, the young princess could not decide which one. “I could not think of a more pleasurable way to relax.”

Both Aegon and Rhaenyra laughed.

“Well, yes,” the crown princess straightened her poise but the flicker of tease did not leave her eyes. “It is a mind-consuming process, I imagine. I could never keep up when you spoke about it, Cavysse and chess. A passionate little girl you were then. I almost wondered if you spoke anything other than kings and queens across black and white squares,” she said. “I hope in your stay, you will teach me to play.”

While not everything spoken of the princess was true, her love did truly lie in the pieces of wood and a simple checkered board. Even when the cards flipped, and the ashes of a lost dream roamed in the wake, Y/N remained aside the gift she most treasured. A gift from the other princess she came to love most. “I’d be honored to.”

“If you decide to spend the years to come in Dragonstone, you will need a partner to play with.”

“If I decide?”

“If you decide,” Rhaenyra repeated, “To wed my son. I will not agree to the union unless you’ve chosen for yourself. Your father is a man who speaks to please, I do not wish you to be rattled and swayed by his words, as well.”

“My Father is—“

“For his first challenge,” The loud drums announced to the crowds below them. “ Prince Daemon chooses Ser Syrion Corgel, sworn protector of Bilge and the golden islands of Manmo.”

Upon his name, Y/N’s response went quiet and she jerked her eyes to the battlefield once again. The bastard of Alanis Endo moved forward, mounted in the black stallion of his sister, and he bowed his head to the King, lifting his helmet when he turned in her direction. He smiled, confidently, shimmering in the light and fortified in clatters of silver armor. “I would kindly ask for Princess Rhaenyra’s favour.”

On the opposite end of the field, the churlish princess could see Daemon Targaryen staring, intensely, at the exchange between the bastard of Manmo and the crown princess while his squire polished the red lance in his fist. Rhaenyra, upon the tease of her husband, Laenor Velaryon, blessed the weapon of the knight with a wistful smile and a crown of red roses, delicately looped through the heavy metal lance and let it fall to the leathered grip.

“Best of luck, Ser Syrion.”

Y/N smiled, proudly, when Princess Rhaenyra returned to her seat and the beat of the drums began again. The familiarity of the scene brought a sudden chill to her back, a spark that traveled to her limbs and goosebumps painted the flawless skin of her arms and beneath her skirt. Her fists tightened in anticipation as she neared the edge of her seat.

The crowd cheered, and with one simple kick of the heels against their horse's sides, the two were off, hurtling toward one another at a speed so high. For a moment, Y/N could not distinguish their armor, had she not seen the crests carved into their shields, she would not know who declared for each side of those tribunes.

“You said your brother was skilled,” the boy at her side chimed above a whisper. “I hope he’s skilled and wise enough not to return home a corpse, my lady.”

She flinched at Aegon’s words, unwillingly, but she did not bother to reply.

Syrion was skilled, a strong cavalier, and strangely, was as much an enigma to his contemporaries as to his sister. His commanding presence drew men to his sword, Thorn, yet he had no close friends, save for his sisters, Y/N and Saera, the companions of his youth and first breath. Women were drawn to him, the princess often joked, but Ser Syrion remained ever faithful to his knighthood and the blade he wielded with passion.

The brother (the only one) she loved most, Y/N never failed to let others know. Not the people of court, not the dragons that watched as she stood and approached the rim of the balcony, silently standing next to the dwarf who watched everything, alone.

Below, in the field, Syrion and the prince neared the center in chanting mares. Her brother was quick to the task, leaning only slightly forward to ram his lance into Prince Daemon’s shoulder, almost knocking the cur off his horse. Y/N gritted her teeth, anxiously, when the silver prince managed to tighten his hold and remain on the horse until they each reached the other end of the stadium. Regaining his previous position, Daemon hurtled toward her brother once again, determined to be the only one left on his horse by the end of this.

Y/N saw it coming before her brother did. In the bite, Prince Daemon decided to stick his lance in front of her horse, the mare, much faster than smarter, rammed into the blunt curve of his weapon, a cry left the stallion’s lips when he dropped to the ground, still. His eye was raptured and carved by the lance that pierced through his skull, Y/N gasped. Her fists tightened, her knuckles turned white and they seemed to explode when she looked at his rider.

Her brother, Syrion had been thrown to the ground, folded at an awkward stance in the dirt beneath the petals, his back twisted and his arm broken. His armor was dented from the impact, edged and digging into his bruising flesh.

Despite it all, the Prince seemed perfectly content to ignore the scene he had just caused, instead he trotted his horse over to the royal box. Daemon spared only a glance her way, smirking, as he greeted his daughters and requested his youngest’s favour for the next round.

The crowd cheered hesitantly as two guards rushed to aid the defeated off the field.

Ser Syrion Corgel never got up.

According to her maids, when the hours of the owl painted the Red Keep in its dark veil, Y/N remained at her brother’s side, loyally. It was said, when the news of the incident traveled to the ears of the young princess, she’d not taken kindly to the butcher of her brother. Surely, if it were any true, Grand Maester Mellos, faithful and true to his duty, did not expect the dagger drawn to his neck, threatened by the vicious Volantene tongue.

The curtains had risen, and light flickered from the sun above into the window from the highest peak of the castle. Among the soft clatters and whispers of maesters, shuttled in the sheets, Syrion Corgel watched the scene take display mere feet from his own.

The blade, black with obsidian stones and chiseled to the sharpest of steels, pressed to the maester’s throat in a single breath. Much too fast for the watchful eyes and the bodies of the guards to react, the princess did not hesitate and she embraced the light drag of the dagger against old, damaged skin.

“Udligon nyke!” Y/N gritted, “Answer me! Will my brother ever stand again?”

Grand Maester Mellos took a shaky breath. His hand went to the girl’s shoulder in an attempt to thwart her attack, but the much smaller frame did not stop. Instead, she pushed forward and the blade dug deeper. “You said you will heal him. Did you not? You said he’d be fine, then why is he still unable to rise?!”

“Princess, I’ve done everything—“ the man tried to explain, “I’ve done everything in my knowledge. My hands are not powerful, my lady, I’ve read through countless books in the Citadel. There are cases in which the damage fixes itself. If we just give it a few days…perhaps, Ser Syrion will stand.”

“Perhaps? I will cut your—“

“Let him go, Y/N.” Behind them, the heavy doors pushed open and Calyx Endo marched with the confidence of a proud man. “Hurting the Maester of the King is punished by death, it is treason in the council’s eyes, my dear. Let the man go.”

It was the first time Y/N had seen her father. After his sudden disappearance, he had not heard the sudden call and cry that rioted from her throat, the tears that ran down his daughter’s cheeks when her brother failed to wake in the early hours after the battle of second sons—he’d been scheming, Y/N was sure. The look that was only carried by a man who stumbled upon a barrel of gold laced in his eyes so mischievously, for a moment, she feared him.

His hand did not waste a moment to yank the knife from her hold, separating both bodies with the cane, carved with the finest stones and of dragon glass. “Apologize,” he demanded. “Apologize for the mistake you’ve made and the inconvenience you’ve caused.”

Like a corpse, Y/N went along. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her eyes remained on the oldest man of the two. “It was not my intention, my Lord. I did not wish to harm you. You’ve done everything you could. It is not my place to expect miracles from a man who shares a table with the King. I deserve a punishment.”

She bowed, almost shamefully.

“It is quite alright.” He tried fixing himself. “I understand emotions are high. Your brother, Ser Syrion, will heal. Whether his legs will continue to function, is not up to me.”

Again, Y/N apologized. After a while, when the Maesters were gone and just the three of them remained, silence in the room was broken again. “He killed my horse!” She hissed, “He made my brother into a cripple! Why must he be free of punishment?”

“It was only a duel,” her father answered. “They both agreed to it. One of them was set to win, and Prince Daemon won.” Calyx turned to Syrion, who laid quietly on his bed. “Be only grateful you did not die, instead of the horse. Your mother would rain hellfire if you returned a corpse.”

“It is not fair.”

“I know. But it was a game, a game Syrion played and lost. It is nothing more, my dear.”

Y/N returned to her brother’s side. “I’m sorry,” Syrion was the first to speak. His voice was groggy, and his hand trembled when he reached the sheathed sword that rested aside him. “I can no longer protect you, sister. I had planned to, until my last breath, but—“ a sob choked from his throat.

“Don’t…”

She almost spoke further, a remembrance of the past, wooden swords and pit-and-patters of feet chanted by laughter then a threat to a wordless boy who forced a scar to his sister’s chest. Her eyes harden when she glanced at her brother once more: weak and bruised, frozen in the favour of the warm blanket that covered his twisted legs.

“You never needed my help, not ever.” When his arm stretched, the sword, leathered in a tunic of skin, was pushed into her own, forced into her grasp until her fist tightened around the sheath. “If I must return home, I will not leave you undefended. Thorn will remain in your hands.”

“It will not.” She tried to protest, “You will stay here, with it. Your legs will get better, and you will fight once more. You are not to give up, brother. I will not allow it.”

Syrion shook his head. “No. If you speak of my legs once again, I will be offended,” he laughed, a bitter laugh. “Stop being stubborn and receive my gift, at once. Swear to it.”

“But I—“

“Swear to it.”

For a moment, Y/N was quiet. She could not say no. The missed beat was soon fetched by the blade being unsheathed, the soft clatter resonating in the room like quiet pins. Thorn, the sword red as gore and mended by hot dragon breath, was a gift from Queen Visenya to the girl queen of the neighboring golden islands. Once said, fought the same wars Dark Sister slaughtered, wielding alongside Vaghar and the cats of black fur against great houses of the West.

Alysanne Endo, the Untamed, mother of all, the blessed, was—as books came to call—the first true friend of Visenya Targaryen. Before the crown was placed onto the head of her brother-husband, in the sky above, Vaghar rumbled and shook the clouds when the oath of loyalty came from Queen Alysanne, in all her mighty glory, sworn to the friend she loved most.

In the hours before her execution, as far as historians cared to record, the girl-queen broke her vow, and the blade of her sword bit into her flesh, breaking skin, and the last thread Queen Visenya declared a traitor. Alysanne Endo did not die painlessly, her last breath came with a curse to her friend and the line of successors that came from her blood.

“I will come back, one way or another,” Alysanne Endo seethed before the Iron Throne, King Maegor, and the dowager Queen. “And every time you’re reborn, I will drag you to the deepest veil of death before your first breath. I will hunt you till you are nothing but ash.”

And at last, in Ser Syrion’s eyes, the last queen had come back in the body of his sister. Weaker and smaller than the frame of the warrior afore, but Y/N would be one to prove him wrong. “It is said, only a true fighter is worthy enough for Thorn. You must only use it for protection. Do not taint its reputation with the blood of the innocent. Swear to it, sister.”

Y/N continued to watch the blade rather than her brother, observing the majestic splendor of red and silver. “I swear.” There wasn’t any truth in the words she said, yet only her father seemed to catch them. “I will wield this sword as honorably as you did.”

Anything but, had it been, when the young princess crossed Maegor’s Holdfast, the clatter of her newfound sword was not missed by the man with a debt to pay. Daemon Targaryen stood before her, a lamenting smile adorned his chalky face and his eyes roamed her figure whole for a while. The look of a jealous man, preying upon his daughters’ competition for a title that was not secured.

He was offended, Rhaenyra had hinted in the early hours. His daughter’s offer was placed on the table but refused for the one with a lesser name.

It did not help his aunt, Saera Targaryen, vile and rich with her words, only spoke the truth when it came to her granddaughter. “A girl so innocent on the outside”—her fist tightened over the handle of the red blade and her tongue rolled with unspoken threats—“but so cruel on the inside.”

The flower before him seemed to be anything but.

“How’s your brother?” Daemon asked. “I heard the King granted him countless aid.”

“He’s alright. The Grand Maester has faith, and so do I. It is not the first time Syrion has gotten injured in a tourney. Injuries come and go, they heal and are forgotten.”

The prince nodded his head. His eyes moved to the sword guarded in her hands. “Thorn,” he whispered, almost amused. “Last I saw it was in Ser Haeny’s hold as he slaughtered men in my name. It is nice for Dark Sister to be at its once-companion's side yet again. A good change, even. It deserves to be in the hands of someone like you, niece. People speak lively of your skills, it is no wonder.”

Y/N bit her tongue and smiled. “Perhaps you would like to help me. I do not know much about swords, a knife gifted by Otto Hightower is the closest thing I’ve held to a blade.”

“I’d enjoy bonding with the blood of my whore of an aunt, but I don't seem to have enough time. Should you be in urgent need, seek the help of tainted bastards like yourself, niece. Perhaps one like your brother will teach you well.”

Daemon smirked then pushed past her.

“Prince Daemon,” Y/N called. He turned to face her. “I hope you are careful at night. It is your tendency to escape into the tunnels of the Red Keep, you might not know what hides in the darkness. You are aging, and your senses must be going mute. I will pray for your safety…uncle.”

A quiet oath was made when she was the one to walk away.

1 | 2 3

[pgoeltz]

David Crosby has died. This one is tough for me. David was a part of my life since my high school days, when I was a huge fan of The Byrds. The first time I met David, was in RCA Studios in LA. It was 1968, I had taken my first ride on an airplane with Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Casady, from Jefferson Airplane,( I know, I know!) flying from San Francisco, on PSA Airlines, with stewardesses who were all beautiful, and in tight pink miniskirts! Jefferson Airplane were actually considering me as a drummer! Buddy Miles was also on the flight. It was memorable trip for several reasons. First, I was staying with Jorma and he had a bunch of visitors during the day. (Recording sessions, were at night, of course) A couple of notable visitors were Jim Morrison, and Eric Clapton who had brought a cassette of a band he was super exited about. They were called "The Band". We went to the studio and I was just hanging out, with you know, Jefferson Airplane! And after awhile David Crosby walks in the studio wearing the famous green cape, and carrying a guitar. The band finished what they were working on and David breaks out his guitar, and they gather around him as he presents them with a song, called "Triad", that The Byrds didn't want to touch, because of the provocative lyrics; "Why can't we be three?" It was beautiful, haunting, and done in what was turning into the modal tune that would turn out to be a big part of David's sound. It was a heady trip for a teenager. I never made it into the Airplane, but to this day, remain friends with Jorma and Jack. And not too much time later, I was in Santana. All good!

I think it was 1970 I bought my first home in Mill Valley. I believe the price was $62,000! Croz was one of the few LA musicians that was hanging out in Marin County with the Dead, and on Fulton St. in SF with the Airplane. David was living on a houseboat in Sausalito. He loved boats. We ran into each other a few times, and we really connected. We took a liking to each other. We both had an affinity, actually, a passion, for the Welsh Poet, Dylan Thomas. We would read him out loud to each other. "Under Milkwood"..."the sloeback, crowblack, fishing boat bobbing sea". One day I was in Wally Heider Studios in SF, recording "Abraxas" with Santana. Creedence Clearwater was recording there as well. David had booked the big room downstairs, and word was going around how these sessions were becoming rather epic. Neil Young, Jack Casady, Jorma, Grace Slick, Jerry Garcia and other members of the Dead, and oh, Joni Mitchell.

At some point Croz learned we were recording upstairs and came upstairs and asked myself and Gregg Rolie to come downstairs and play. We went down and entered the room, and the strong and pungent smell of really good pot, and incense, combined with the red, dimmed lighting, and Indian fabrics, letting you know that you were in a high class hippy vibe recording room. We played and it was such a different vibe than Santana, of course. It really felt like hippy music to me. It was so open, and cozy, so floaty! It felt strange, to be honest. It was an honor to be playing with these folks, of course. Garcia was always a welcome, uplifting presence.

Later in life, David had a realistic approach to life, knowing that he had escaped death more than several times, and he made the most of, recording some of his best material in his late 70's. He squeezed the most out his artistic life and, just two weeks ago was talking about going back on the road. I saw some of those shows, and the shows with Graham Nash They were all magnificent. Here's to you, my friend, my brother. I'm going smoke a big fat one now in honor of you, while listening to your music.

"DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT.

OLD AGE SHOULD BURN AND RAVE AT CLOSE OF DAY;

RAGE, RAGE, RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT.

THOUGH WISE MEN AT THEIR END KNOW DARK IS RIGHT

BECAUSE THEIR WORDS HAD FORKED NO LIGHTENING, THEY

DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT.

[cryptid-killjoy]

Annabel Lee Van Helsing - Witch at Halloween Town High - FC: Jenna Ortega

Connections & Background

Pets -Persephone the Frankenweenie poodle - resurrected

Victor Frankenstein - The daughter of a girl he knew back in school when he first lost Zero, Elsa Van Helsing. It was during the era of calling him Sparky after using the lightning to bring him back. It always sort of bothered Victor Zero was the nickname that stuck since Jack Skellington gave it to him and there's bad blood there. But, what matters in this story is Annabel's mother was around when he lost Sparky. Things never did work out long term between him and that lady. It wasn't meant to be. It was a long story involving things that did not go according to plan. That said it was still Victor's honor to bring Persephone back when time came. The mother was the only person who understood his pain when he first lost Zero. He didn't want her daughter to feel it either. Thus Persephone the poodle was resurrected.

Zero - Obviously, he loves the dog. The girl comes with the territory.

Elsa Van Helsing - Her mother, who knew Dr. Frankenstein. Father deceased. Hence why she couldn't handle one more death for her daughter and reached out to Victor about the poodle. (FC: Eva Green)

HISTORY OF THE NAME VAN HELSING - and why Thomas Laveau is a minor connection: Van Helsing is a well known name for a monster hunter. This is also a well known name of a hunter who became a monster. The Mr. Van Helsing has similarities to Thomas and back in the day would have walked in the same circles Thomas did in his hunter days. But, just like Thomas he learned not all supernaturals were monsters. Elsa Van Helsing was who adapted this road for him. Thomas and Elsa may not know each other personally, but he'd know the name. He'd know the man. He should be able to understand instantly who she is if he hears her last name or the child's. She still goes by Mrs. Van Helsing or even Widow Van Helsing to this day.

So, what's Annabel's story other than being the daughter of a girl cool enough to like someone as strange and unusual as Victor back in the day? She doesn't really have one yet. But, this does make her accustomed to the bizzare. She's not put off by darker things. She's trying to grow up and in high school now. Her mother moved her to Halloween Town after her powers got out of her control and decided a magic school would be best after all.

Her family moved from Nola when the politics got scary. It's how they're alive and kicking today nor trapped in Feral. They miss Nola since most her childhood was there. Her mother Elsa still recalls it fondly. Forced to abandon ship Elsa Van Helsing started life anew in a little town a ways away called New Holland. It was a small farm town, boring in it's way. But, Annabel was the sort of personality that could entertain herself. What was most important was they were safe from the coven wars in Nola.

Power Specialty

Mummification - Can dry out and preserve bodies with her mind. It has no practical outlet so far in her life other than trying to control it enough to make beef jerky instantly. So, she'll usually have some in her pockets and try to share. Other than that she blow Chip's mind in the taxidermy world. All that work and she'll just think it to make it happen. Although, it can be a little scary as someone wouldn't have to be dead first to start the process. She has done it out of anger as most kids do with their magic learning to control. Vertigo Inducement - She can cause a person to feel flush, disorientation, vertigo, confusion, or even unconsciousness if she goes far enough. It's derivative of the other power by controlling it to a much lesser degree.

Hobbies

She'll seem like one of those crochet girls, but it's a little different. Collecting her poodle's hair after it's been groomed and using it to make fabric on a loom. She'll make anything from poodle wool socks to beanies and blankets.

Enjoys watching ferret legging. It might be her favorite sport.

Paints with unusual mediums like pigments made from her own blood on treated hides.

[phoenixyfriend]

Rex and Anakin Raise a Family: Part Four

Part One, Part Two, Part Three – Chrono

Warnings: grief, resentment, lactation, animal death

----

For all that Anakin had said he could handle the twins, Rex still takes one in the sling as they go into town. They don't have a hoverpram yet, and neither of them could figure out a way to fold the fabric to securely hold the babies' heads up. Anakin takes Luke, and Rex takes Leia, and they ignore the whispers that still follow them.

The General keeps just behind his shoulder when they get to the hardware shop that carries the closest paint they can find in such a small town. It's not meant for armor, really, but speeder paint will do the trick for now. Rex's hands shake as he picks out the shades he needs, and the young Rodian at the register almost asks about it.

The issue isn't pressed.

They make their way back to the cottage, and Leia starts fussing fifteen minutes past the town's edge. Anakin looks like he wants to offer to take her back, but Rex is fine. He can comfort her. He can--

Anakin takes the paint, floating it along in the air before them, freeing Rex's hands to focus on the infant strapped to his chest.

"I'll feed her as soon as we get back," Anakin says, low and calm. "She's a little hungry."

Pacifier, then. They're only a few minutes out, by now. She can wait for them to get back to where exchanging the twins won't involve juggling.

Rex feels eyes on him, looks up and sees the soft, quiet smile on his General's face, and ducks his head back to Leia.

She glares up at him as well as a newborn can, sucking angrily on the paci in her mouth. Rex has no idea if she's actually upset or if her face just naturally follows such an expression, but it's adorable nonetheless. He hums to her, nonsense without words.

He's never learned lullabies; they picked up drinking songs in the field and from local soldiers, from their Jedi, war songs from their trainers, pop songs from the radio. A few learned lullabies, those who loved children and wanted their own, one day, brothers like Waxer who would have adopted Numa in a heartbeat if it had been an option.

He wants to learn lullabies. He wants to be able to sing children's songs to these tiny, helpless lives he holds in his hands, day in and day out. He wants to learn Mandalorian songs, real ones, not just battle chants and mourning melodies. He wants to be able to raise them with the childhood he didn't have.

"Rex? Door's open."

He looks up, and Anakin's standing on the porch, pulling the keys from the lock and gesturing in with his head. Rex hadn't even realized he'd stopped walking, subconsciously waiting for the blockage of the door to be handled. It's easier to focus on the children.

The paint gets sent to the backyard--trapped fumes wouldn’t be good for the children--and Rex lays Leia down in her crib. Anakin urges him to the backyard, says I’ll handle it about anything Rex uses to delay, and it’s only a few minutes later that Rex finds himself sitting on the grass, armor spread across a sheet of disposable flimsi, paints and brushes at the ready. He doesn’t quite remember setting it up, but he must have.

Anakin joins him, a twin in each arm and the Force laying out a picnic blanket. Leia’s nursing, swaddled up but content to suckle, and Luke seems happy to doze when Anakin sets him down on the cotton gingham. It’s a warm day, with a light breeze, and the babies are where the wind won’t carry the paint fumes.

“I’m here if you need me,” Anakin promises, though his attention drifts immediately to his daughter.

Rex begins to paint.

----

His remembrances are endless.

Every brother he’s ever known, every general he’s met, every small commander and random civilian, everyone he loved and knew. He lights a pyre, sings under his breath and tries not to break in a way that can’t be patched together. He mourns the tubies and cadets, the Jedi younglings, names he never learned and now never would.

Anakin gets Japor from somewhere, carves it whenever he’s too jittery to sleep and the twins are asleep. Rex recognizes a few symbols, like the open circle fleet, like Fives’ helmet eel, like Ahsoka’s markings. There are more, though, that are wholly unfamiliar, things he thinks are born of desert sands and binary suns, rough and painful and deeper in Anakin’s heart than even the Jedi.

He asks about the one for Fives, when he sees it.

He hides his anger.

Explanations, first.

“It’s an apology,” his General tells him, eyes distant. “I should have listened to him. I didn’t. The carvings are regrets, broken trust... that sort of thing. I’m part of why he died, and in that, part of why the rest is gone. He and his memory deserve a place of honor.”

Rex considers that, and accepts it.

Fives deserves an apology. The General recognizes that.

The General recognizes that he fucked up.

This is a good thing.

Rex lets go of his anger, still curled tight to his chest after months, as best he can.

He’s not very good at it, but he can try.

Luke starts crying, and Rex gets up to warm a bottle.

----

“I need to stay close to home until the twins are a little older,” Rex says. Teskarim, the woman at the childcare store, tilts her head to encourage him to continue. “I’m... I’ve never been anything but a soldier, and nobody here needs security services, but I can hunt. Do you know if there’s any kind of licenses required, or lists of which animals are legal hunt and which are endangered?”

“I... don’t,” she says, chewing her bottom lip. “But I think the butcher’s shop can probably point you in the right direction.”

Damn. He’d been hoping he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone new today.

“Thanks,” he sighs, and shells out some of the local currency for more formula.

----

The butcher has answers, and preferences. Rex isn’t much of a trapper, but he’s a hell of a shot, and decent enough scout and tracker. He listens to what there is to hear, and mentally takes all the notes he can. There aren’t any licenses needed in this hemisphere, but there are legally-defined hunting seasons for different creatures. The butcher knows when the optimal times of day are, which parts of the nearby forest and mountains are best to stake out, and so on.

Rex tells Anakin about his plan. He gets a slow blink in response, a cringe in what he thinks is guilt, and an offer to meditate for the best direction to take when he goes out. He accepts the offer in the spirit its meant, and sets out the next morning with the expectation that he may need to spend a few nights out under the leaves and stars.

The calm and quiet are their own kind of comfort. He’s loyal to Anakin, and he already loves the twins, but there’s a part of him that needs to be away from natborns right now. Anakin was a Jedi, a general, and fought in the metaphorical trenches with the rest of them, but he wasn’t a brother.

They grieve many of the same people, but they do not grieve the same way.

Rex needs the solitude. Not forever, not even for very long, but he needs it.

It takes two days, but he finds one of the in-season creatures, a creature shaped much like an Alderaan deer, but larger, and with longer fur. It’s darker in color, too, and he gives it a bit of time to wander about until he can be sure it’s a male, and he’s not about to leave some fawns without a mother. The shot is clean, and it doesn’t take him very long to tie it up and sling it over his shoulders to bring back to town.

The trek back takes hours, and the creature on his back is a pain to carry, but it’s almost worth the looks he gets from the civvies. Eyes bulge out the sockets at the sight of him, and he’s glad his helmet hides his smirk. He’s Kamino stock, hardened by over three years on the front lines, and there’s a pride in how easy the physical things are for him. It’s not impossible for a natborn to carry this kind of creature this far without help, but it’s uncommon.

He kind of likes the attention, now that it doesn’t come with the many prejudices that being a clone always had.

Anakin meets him at the butcher’s, one twin on his chest and the other on his back.

Seems he’s found a solution to that.

“Here to help me barter a fair payment?” Rex asks, and gets a too-charming grin in response.

“Well, I’ve been doing it most of my life,” Anakin says, cheery in a way that feels pasted on. “And I’ll have a trick to know if we’re being cheated.”

It’s a solid response, but Rex doesn’t like it. He takes note of the bags under Anakins eyes. “Have you been sleeping, sir?”

“Twins,” the man himself says. “And don’t call me ‘sir,’ Rex, we’ve been over this.”

“You need to sleep, General.”

Anakin pouts at him, probably because of the title. “I can handle two days alone, Captain.”

Rex rolls his eyes and sidles through the entrance of the butcher’s shop.

They’ve got this.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Draw your swords, pt.9

Summary: Darkling’s secrets are soon to be unveiled, just in time for a trip to the Fold.

Warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of alcohol, implied sexual content

Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four // Part five // Part six // Part seven // Part eight  

=================================

The Darkling walked with a spring in his step. Residents of Little Palace have gotten used to his skulking in black keftas he wore like second skin. Never before had they seen him smile as much as he did on this particular day – as if he found the secret to happiness.

In truth, the Darkling refused to let himself hope for much. He simply hoped she’d allow him to kiss her now without receiving a death threat for it. It felt incredibly dangerous how foolishly addicted he is to his fickle wife. He never wanted anyone as much as he wanted her.

“General”, Fedyor joined him on his right, while Ivan silently took his left side. They both kept a reasonable distance from Kirigan, two steps behind at all times.

“What reason did you have to knock on my door this morning?” Kirigan’s voice is leveled, but his words are a death trap. There’s nothing more the general hates than his Grisha interrupting his private time – regardless if Y/N is with him or not. Unless there’s a burning issue at hand, he disliked being bothered unnecessarily.

“We’ve intercepted a few interesting stories you might like”, Ivan responds calmly, unafraid of his temperamental general. After all the years they’ve known each other, Ivan could read Kirigan’s mood easily. Despite his discontent, Kirigan is chipper for the first time in a long time. In fact, Ivan can’t even remember the last time his general was this happy...or happy at all.

“What kind?” Darkling asked, but his attention was undeniably divided as he caught sight of Y/N. 

She walked across the hallway with a purpose – determined to raise hell and he found it incredibly sexy. She paused for a moment, her gaze meeting his briefly. When she pursed her lips, his twitched at the corners – a smile starting to form.

“Sun Summoner kind”, Fedyor spoke in a hushed voice.

Kirigan’s smile falters, his eyes leaving Y/N’s. “Follow me”, he barked on order before walking in the opposite direction. 

All his life, the Darkling had been searching for the Sun Summoner. Every whisper of their existence turned out to be nothing but a fabrication, but something felt different now.

Once inside the map room, he leaned with his palms on the table. Kirigan didn’t say anything for a moment or ask for more information, but then his mouth moved on their own accord.

“Is it true?”

Glancing at each other, Ivan and Fedyor silently argued who should deliver the news.

“I asked you a question”, the general growled out, looking at them over his shoulder and the intensity of his glare had erased his earlier happiness.

“Nothing is confirmed yet, but we have quite a lot of accounts from the people surrounding the forest.” Ivan replied.

The Darkling made a sort of a grunting noise that Ivan didn’t know what to make of. The shadows covered the windows swiftly, engulfing the room in darkness as his left eye narrowed ever so slightly.

“The forest?”

Fedyor clears his throat, “Near the border.”

“Near the fold”, Ivan adds.

“I want”, he paused. Running his fingers through his hair, his shadows killed every source of outside light. “We need to prepare for a trip to the armies stationed at the fold.”

Nodding, Ivan looked to Fedyor and his deep-set frown.

“Are we to cross?” Fedyor asks.

The Darkling’s face is stone, his eyes unblinking. “Would it be a problem for you?”

Breath caught in his throat, Fedyor’s heart started to race. “No.”

“Good”, Kirigan remarked. “Prepare everything for departure in no more than a week.”

Sending them off, the Darkling sat in his chair. He wants so many things. His fingers graze his chin as he sighs – there would be no leaving without Y/N following. It’s not in her nature to do nothing and if she learns of the reasons behind his departure, he might lose her. The path of less resistance is to convince her the trip is to prove he’s honored his promise to her. He had sent the instructions yesterday and while she did force his hand on it, he didn’t hate her for it. If he’s bound for hell, at least it’s not a false one. She hates him, but she’s honest with him. He appreciated that.

Finding the Sun Summoner will change everything – for once, he will have a partner who can understand the weight of his past choices. He regrets too many things he’s done, but he was rarely given a choice. They broke the wrong parts of him, in the end, he showed them what happens when they laid a hand on those he cares for. That included Y/N now. If anything, she was a priority. Y/N is the only one he has left in this world.

While the Darkling pondered on the possibility of a Sun Summoner being true, Y/N sat in the library with a pile of books at each side.

The lingering effect of Aleksander’s gaze upon her and his devilish smirk had warmed her up in a way she least expected. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if time stopped or her heart did.

Shaking her head, she flipped the page in frustration. Her skin still burned bright from where he touched her. No amount of bathing can erase the fact she belonged to him now.

Swallowing thickly, she groaned. In all the books she had found, barely few had any information on the shadow summoner. Aside from Morozova creatures that serve as amplifiers, Y/N found mere mentions of a black heretic and the creation of the fold.

Her neck hurt, her eyes felt like they’re being pierced with needles and there was no saving her mind from all the theories she concocted. Leaning back in her chair, she huffed. Rubbing her eyes, she slammed the book closed before standing in frustration.

She didn’t want to love Aleksander, to risk her heart and life. She didn’t want to lay in bed, always afraid of what he might do if one day she’s not careful enough and he learns the truth. Naively, she hoped he’d either stand with her or just walk away but that’s not the Kirigan she knows. He wouldn’t forgive, it’s not in his nature.

Placing the books where she can find them in the morning, she headed to her room. Genya was kind enough to send a servant with lunch, but Y/N missed dinner entirely. Engrossed in books all day, she hardly felt any hunger.

At least not the kind of hunger food could satisfy.

Walking into the room, she hadn’t expected to find Aleksander sat at the bottom of their bed….shirtless.

Standing, he narrowed his eyes at her. “You weren’t at dinner.”

She raised a brow, “Wasn’t hungry.”

Kirigan crossed his arms over his bare chest, the movement making the muscles in his stomach flicker.

“Get dressed”, she quipped.

He smiled, “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“I’m surprised you don’t have a mirror in every corner of this Palace, since you love yourself so much.”

He laughed wholeheartedly as she just turned away, clamping a hand over her mouth. She couldn’t let herself laugh with him. Every moment like this feels like the world is spinning, making her resolution fragile. She’s aching to let him in, but it would be a mistake. She feels it in his bones, he’s not honest with her.

Caring for a man like him is dangerous, like standing in the eye of a hurricane.

“We’ll leave Little Palace in a week”, Aleksander speaks, “Just as you asked of me.”

She stares at him, disbelief and joy colliding. And it’s the look in his eyes, the hopeful, terrified look in those dark skies that disarms her.

“Why do I feel like there’s a catch?”

Running the tip of his tongue along his lower lip, Aleksander takes a step closer. “You’ll ride with me.”

Pursing her lips, she nods without ever breaking eye contact. “And?”

A breathless chuckle passes his lips, “You’ll have to wear a special kefta. One that won’t let you get hurt easily.”

Taking a deep breath, she tilts her head up, “And?”

Suppressing a smile, he raises an eyebrow. “You’ll be equipped with a weapon of choice. I believe you’re more than familiar with guns as a soldier of the First army.”

Raising both eyebrows in response, she takes a step closer to him. “Swords”, she notes.

Humming, his eyes widen ever so slightly as he waits for her to continue.

“I prefer swords”, she touched his face gently with the back of her hand.

“Of course”, he breathes out. A soft smile spreads across his lips, “Draw your swords if you see an enemy in sight.”

“Even if it’s my husband?” Her lips remain parted, her eyes flickering to his chest where she raised her hand to.

“I don’t care, as long as you keep yourself safe.”

She held her breath as his words resonated with her mind. How can he be so callous one day and then offer up his life for her to take. No game had ever made her question every single word that left someone’s lips before. Sometimes she’d look at him and see through the mask he shows the world and other times she couldn’t see anything other than her own reflection in his eyes as if his soul didn’t exist at all.

“Since when do you care?” She frowns, gnawing on the inside of her cheek.

Letting out a heavy sigh, his eyes flicker to the hand she splayed against his bare chest. Just the simple touch of her hand made him want more. It was becoming too hard to pretend he hates her. What he truly hates is how human she is – what is he supposed to do when her hair turns grey and he’s still young? How will he survive when someone takes her to exact vengeance against him? Will he be too late to save her then?

When your world comes to a stop and the value of life is amplified by those dead before their time in gruesome ways, it feels like an earthquake shakes the very foundations life is built on. But when the walls start falling, past and future no longer exist, only the moment you’re in and the first person that comes to mind when those walls are gone is what your life is all about. For Aleksander, that person is Y/N.

Looking into her eyes, his hands cup her face, “Since I had to spend five days believing you’re dead.”

He wanted to wrap Y/N in his arms and tell her he would never let her walk away, not after he had a taste of what it means to be with her. He wanted to tell her his love is unconditional and that his soul is hers, even if she didn’t want to give him hers. He would wait, as patiently and as stubbornly as he did by now and that she will never lose him because even if he wished, he can’t scrub his heart clean of her. And he never wanted to.

“I thought you’d protect me?” She raised an eyebrow, teasing him.

She had become his heart, his reason to live. She lit a fire within, something he had lost over time and while she’s completely unaware of it, if the world tried to take her from him, the Darkling would wage war to make sure she remains by his side.

Blinking slow, a faint smile upon his lips, the Darkling tilts his head slightly to the left. “Would you allow it?”

There is nothing in the world he wanted more than to kiss her again, but this time around Aleksander decided to let her make the move. She is tender, but fierce. To understand a woman like her, one must realize that the former is who she is and the latter is what life demanded of her.

“Not likely”, she remarks and he throws his head back, chuckling.

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she wets her lips in thought and he can’t help but think this is a well-designed trap for him to say the wrong thing and for her to use it as excuse to put distance between them rather than face her own desires and he was almost certain those desires included him.

“You want me”, he whispers in her ear as his fingertips slide up her spine and to the back of her neck, “And it’s killing you.”

“Physical attraction means nothing”, her voice is low, but unwavering.

Aleksander bites the inside of his lower lip in anticipation of her pushing him away and storming off, but even as he waits, he feels her hips press closer to him as if she’s telling him he won’t be left alone. Not again.

“Yet you’re here”, he grins. Tucking her hair behind her left ear, he admired how firm she stands in her opposition.

“So are you”, she quipped,. 

A cocky smile appears on his lips, tiny wrinkles forming around his dark eyes as he holds her gaze bravely, unwavering even when her gaze becomes a glare.

Biting her lower lip, contemplating the right move, Y/N could hardly fight her desire for him. Her head knew he it would be unwise, but her heart screamed at her to kiss him and those butterflies in her stomach felt more like killer bees as the need to feel him inside her had taken over every rational thought she generated.

One hand caressing his lean cheek, she gave into her primal instincts as she slammed her lips against his and Aleksander’s own heart leapt inside his chest. 

Their need for each other was urgent. Y/N grabbed a handful of flesh and muscle on Aleksander’s back. He gasped and laughed throatily at her haste. When her hands clawed at him again, he grasped both hands in one of his and held them over her head. She struggled to free herself, but he was too strong. When he entered her, she gasped, then moved her hips up to meet his.

He released her hands and she pulled him closer and closer to her. They made love quickly, almost harshly, before they found the sweet release they longed for. Aleksander collapsed on top of her, their bodies still joined as one when their minds gave in, slowly drifting to sleep.

Just like the previous morning, he remained in the bed, his arms wrapped around her tightly. 

She barely saw him during the day as the week progressed, but their nights were spent together – entangled mess of limbs, desperate moans and needy pleas neither held back. She’d close her eyes in his embrace and begin her day the same way.

“You don’t have much time”, Genya warned as Y/N dressed in haste. She decided to dress for the trip, it was the only way she could fit in a few hours in the library.

“I won’t be long”, she smiled at her friend.

Licking her lips, Genya took her by the hand. “What is it that you’re looking for?”

Y/N clenched her teeth, wondering if she should tell Genya. Something inside her warned against it – she didn’t tell anyone his name is Aleksander, feeling privileged to know such information. If she’s wrong and she can trust him, she didn’t want to poison anyone else with her doubt beforehand. A single book remained unread on her pile of very thick books she went through.

“Just trying to learn”, Y/N shrugged.

Nodding, Genya smiles, “In case we don’t see each other before you leave, I have to implore you to reconsider David as an ally.”

“I will”, Y/N promised and she would. Someone in Aleksander’s inner circle could be of use to her.

Going through the pages, she felt exhausted. Spending all her time in ancient books didn’t seem to be of use, but for once the text made sense. It spoke of the black heretic and the many names he’s been called in history.

“He walks the earth with a power only the saints could possess. They call him The Black Heretic, The Shadow King, The Starless Saint, Staski, Eryk, Leonid – numerous names that he exchanged for each lifetime he was given and by now it must be at least a few hundred lifetimes of darkness. His name – true name was lost throughout the centuries, occasionally heard as a whisper carried in the wind.”

Wide eyed, she read through the text of a scholar who described the Black Heretic and his powers, his entire lineage being his mother who remained unnamed and…him.

“He has no descendants?” Y/N’s lips quiver. If he has no descendants and his line begins and ends with him, how would Aleksander even exist?

Unless…

No.

It would be impossible, would it not?

“Numerous names that he exchanged for each lifetime he was given”, she reads aloud only to cover her own mouth in face of a startling epiphany. It was as she noticed the dark connection between the great mystery, the horrific realization set in.

“Pardon me, miss, but General Kirigan has sent for you”, a servant frightened her.

Taking the book in haste, Y/N stood on her shaky legs. Mouth dry, she pressed her lips in a thin line.

“Thank you”, she walked out so quickly, barely containing her quick and shallow breaths. Sweating profusely, she felt as if the black kefta she wore weighed down on her like battle armor.

Was it not her armor? Was this not a constant war she’s struggled with?

Aleksander…Kirigan…The Darkling…who is he?

“Are you ready?” Aleksander is waiting by the door with a small smile on his lips. His hand is opened for her to take, but she ignores it. If she took his hand, he’d feel the shakiness she’s trying so hard to steady.

Mounting his black stallion, she tucked the book safely inside her inner pocket.

“I’ll take the reins”, she informed him as he took his place behind her.

She heard him scoff, “I’m the general.” 

Is Aleksander even his real name?

Are the stories about him true? 

“On this side of the fold, so am I”, she gripped the reins and the stallion obeyed.

Riding a horse always helped her clear her mind, but this time it seemed impossible. 

When she married Kirigan, she believed she would marry an old, unattractive man…As it turns out, she got the old part right.

=============================

A/N - I’m not quite happy with this chapter, but I wanted to post today to keep my streak going. Also, i suck at writing a summary, like WHY IS THAT?! xD It’s Eid, so I’m tired and sleepy, forgive my grammar and prepare for things to heat up in the next chapters. Thank you all for sticking with the story and all the feedback, it honestly gives me life and will to keep writing. I also finally found the books in my native tongue, at least the Grisha trilogy and Six of crows duology and I’m really excited to dive into it and further my understanding of Darkling as a brilliantly written villain that is a multi-dimensional being with, let’s be honest, actually good points. I may not be happy about his willingness to commit mass murder, but I kinda see where he’s coming from and I really can’t wait to know more about the situation as it is in the books.  

Tags: @bruxa0007 @rangotangomango @kaitlyn2907 @thestoryofmylife9 @shelivesindaydreamswme @hxrgreeves @safetyhtom @kaqua @savannah-elliott @all-art-is-quite-useless  @azure23x @girlmadeofavocados @ashdab2611 @acciorudolphx @ladyblablabla @wckedheart @xceafh @sanna2020 @tarkanelima-blog @takethee @mellifluous-cosmos @marvel-ousnesss @tea-effect @starlightofsolaria @p3nny4urth0ught5 @blackbirddaredevil23 @sarcastic-and-cool @slytherinsbiggestproblem @within-thehollowcrown @notthatchhavi @musicconversedance @freakytillthemoon  @lgkoval @honeyofthegods @queenmalhinewahine @misselsbells06  @whatthefluffrichard @aami98 @britriestbr @itsfangirlmendes @padme-parker @readingsssssssss @runawayolives @thehighladyofasgard @emlynblack @keithseabrook27 @dailydoseofchoices @deceivedeer @olympiacosplay @pansysgirlfriend @extrakyloren  @daybleedsintonightfa11 @thoughts-and-funnies @weirdowithnobeardo @folkloresworld​

PART 10

[syubub]

BTS cuddle habits

Hi guys! I wanted to have a fun little silly read on what their cuddle habits are! It's cute and light and soft so I thought it might be nice!

Disclaimer: this is entertainment only and not to be taken as fact. This is only my interpretation!

Oki let's begin

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Seokjin

The first thing I thought of when I saw this is that he's not a strong grip cuddle kinda guy

He's more of the "if you're there and need cuddles I'll do it I guess" kinda guy

I think too he's very vigilant and whomever he is cuddling he is very aware of how to maximize the other person's comfort?

Like it almost seems for him, he'd be fine without cuddles

It's just not important to him as much as it is for others

But he knows that some people feel good when they get cuddles

So

All this to say

He doesn't preticularly seek out cuddles and prefers to be the one doing the cuddling

He knows that it's a way to give others comfort

It's definitely a low energy kinda thing for him too

I think any kinda pseudo cuddle would be preferable

Like, "I'm laying next to you and tapping your head, does that count"

Lol

It's a way to show comfort and to show that he's there for the person.

Definitely takes that time to learn more about why the person might be sad or in need of cuddles

It's a perfect time to talk it out

Definitely platonic cuddles wouldn't faze him at all

10/10

Very comforting

He'd give advice if needed or prompted

Wouldn't particularly tangle himself up with the other person

More like comforting "I'm here for you" back rubs and taps

Playing with hair

Yoongi

STOP

Yoongi no

Okay

So

He's definitely more cuddly with his s.o than he his with friends

His cuddle style is very balanced

Probably likes to mirror his cuddle buddy

So like, facing each other

Probably holding hands

Also spooning and he'd be down for little spoon or big spoon depending on how he's feeling

Let me get a bit honest here

Cuddling for yoon is like holding the entire world

Sounds dramatic lol

It's a super intimate thing to share personal space like that

Even more than sex for him because the only objective is comfort and holding space for him and his person

Kinda. Intimacy in any form that it takes is really special and intense for him when it regards someone he truly cares for

This is about cuddles and not about how yoongi regards the act of bumping uglies

So

Platonic cuddles are a little less... wanted for him

Not that he hates it or anything. He just likes his space and would actively search for platonic cuddles often if every (if he knew a more physically affectionate person really needed to be held and comforted he wouldn't mind providing that but its just not something he typically looks for)

Because the thought of sharing such close personal space with someone is quite.. daunting? He feels a bit flustered

This is all heavily focused on yoongi preferring to have his cuddles with the people that he has the utmost respect for and trusts with his life

Definitely most comfortable with a romantic partner though

Definitely would love to have his hair played with and would reciprocate the favor

When things get rough in his head I think he would prefer to be held

Or like

I heard "held together"

Oof yoobi

Overall it's seems to be an act of trust and love and respect and anyone who gets a yoongi cuddle should feel honored

You guys

Just look at this cards

I CANT

Hoseok

Yo

Hobi Is definitely an enthusiastic cuddle buddy

Probs prefers to hold the other person

Definitely loves platonic cuddles all the way

Very much physical affection

Also very light and fun and giggly

Like, yoons is a more emotionally heavy feel

But hobis is so light and fun and recharging

It's not the destination

Like its not an event to have cuddles for him

It's almost as natural and fluid as just going in for a hug?

It's a continuation of a hug

Hobi snuggles more than cuddles?

Like any burst of affection he just goes in for a snuggle squeeze

I think as a human his body temperature is just always warm too

Versatile cuddles

Kinda octopus-esque

Can be kinda like a quick little battery charge for him

A good solid hobi cuddle would be like transporting to a new world where there are no worries

Very nice and secure

Would probably like sunshine cuddles or outdoor cuddles (without bugs)

I think sometimes he just likes to share his space with other people

Very warm friendly lovely I love it

Namjoon

Joon

Joo

Bb

Soft

Talk about tension release lol

Cuddles for him aren't something he seeks out often but when he does...

It's like taking the cap off of a soda

Definitely a daydream type

Idk why but I think he cuddles himself? Like when he's super stressed

He probably hugs himself

Or maybe he has a weighted blanket?

He definitely has a calm way to sooth himself

But with other people

I think he likes more mellow, soft type cuddles

Definitely a repetitive movement type of person

Like gently tapping/patting or making shapes

I can't tell of he would like that or if that's what he does

Probably drifts to sleep if cuddling for a longer time lol

It's very seren and lovely energy tbh

A sleepy morning type of cuddle would probably help him calmly sort his thoughts and plans for the day

Just time to exist

Platonic cuddles y e s

Like I said, it wouldn't be something that I would see him searching for often at all

But its very helpful for him when he does

This makes me think of one time I went to a park with my friend

we found a nice patch of soft grass and had a nice little cuddle just existing in each others presence and feeling a nice soft breeze bring in the sweet summer smell

It was just kinda like time stopped and I could daydream and look at my priorities without feeling overwhelmed by them??

Like having a person physically with you to anchor you to reality and provide comfort

Idk it's just such a nice lovely type of thing that is really special when those moments come around

Jimin

Definitely loves cuddles

We know this

But this is really sweet

It's very emotionally fulfilling and I think it's an easy way for him to show his love and appreciation for someone

This sounds dumb but I think he physically tries to morph his body to other people?

Like cling film?

It's really cute?

Tbh any kinds of cuddle is a good cuddle for chim

I think physical touch just in general is really important for him

cuddles make him feel loved bc sometimes he needs to be reminded

Definitely will cuddle or be cuddled

With the 8 of wands I think he just kinda goes with the flow really

The ace of cups makes me almost see it as an exchange of energy?

Like swapping good vibes or recharging your good vibes

It's really sweet

I bet he'd be the type to make it a special event on occasion

Like all the blankets and pillows and a movie or book or album or something

And just be comfy

Comfy is the best way to describe this

Comfy

10000% platonic cuddles

No one is spared

(Some are spared)

It's not like he's attached to them or needs them to breath

But physical touch is really important for him

And this is very optimal

I also think he'd be the type to go for drive by cuddles?

The 8 of wands can be a fast card so

Quick cuddles

Little snuggles

V good

10/10

wouldn't mind face to face cuddles at all

THIS ALL JUST FEELS SO WARM AND NICE

like a freshly washed blanket that's all warm and smells nice

Yes

Taehyung

Jesus

It was hard enough trying to interpret normal cards and you throw me this shit??

Here we go

It's definitely a mental resting point to have some good cuddles

Tae can be quite a physical person too so it doesn't suprise me to see

It almost feels solitary?

But not physically obviously

Kinda like joon he really benefits from having a reality anchor

But

He might be physically resting

And his mind is resting too

But??

It's like he fucking Astral projects or some shit

Hear me out

It's like having a safe and comfortable environment being with someone you trust

He just kinda

Lifts up??

Like this might seem like daydreams to him but it's like... the Astral?

Lol definitely unexpected

It's not like this everytime

He benefits from cuddles when he is having a hard time and needs comfort

Also just because it's something that he finds relaxing

But like, let me explain

Death is like letting go of attachments

Four of swords can be like meditation

Wheel of fortune can be like opportunity or destiny?

And like, we all know tae has his angel and stuff

I think maybe his angel or guides or whatever take any opportunity where he is in a good enough state to just... yank him up to them??

THIS SOUNDS DUMB

But think about it

If he's comfortable and in a mental state where this is possible, it would be the perfect opportunity??

Like?

I want to expand on this later maybe

It doesn't exclusively happen when he's cuddling its just a time where his mind is open to it?

Also yes platonic cuddles yes yes yes

Wtf tae?

Jungkook

These are all the cards that came out and all of them are relevant apparently

So

Firstly let's look at that lovers card and the magician

He's definitely down for a good cuddle and it's a sign of trust for him

Having a nice restful time where he can idly chat with someone probably helps him work through situations in his head

The magician can signify a powerful man...

I think he really enjoys being held and like, holding people tightly

Like it feels more secure like that

Definitely a release of stress and worry

Probably prefers cuddles more in the evening after he's worked hard and done stuff bc then he feels like he's earned the right to relax

Definitely down for platonic cuddles but with people he knows super well

This might sound weird but

I bet if the chance to cuddle arrives and it's not a suprise like "hey come here and cuddle" kinda thing he'd prepare

Like if there was a movie night and he knows it's gonna be nice and comfy he'd probably wear his favorite hoodie or shirt or whatever and pjs or sweatpants or whatever

Whip out the nice body butter

Some good smells

Fresh fabric softener smells

In a 100% not creepy and very platonic way

That sounds sarcastic but its not

Its called self care

Would also be the type to seek out cuddles if he has a bad day

Like the kind to flop down beside someone or put his head in their lap and just non verbally demand cuddles?

Like, have you ever been super frustrated and you just need someone to pet your hair? Or like hold you bc your working out your own shit internally?

Yes

It probably doesn't happen often and not when something really big is bothering him

Just smaller things

Would like repetitive motions/soothing motions

The six of swords make me think soft rocking would put him directly to sleep lol

Kinda like cars too

Very nice very nice

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This was intresting and I didn't really know what it would be like but I didn't think it would be this lol tae was unexpected

Who are you guys most like? I think I'm maybe part jungkook and part yoongi? I'm not the most touchy feely person with friends but I am a lot more with partners. Jungkookie style cuddles is me when I'm around people that I've know for forever and are really good friends. Pull out good blankets, clothes, candles ect. Anything for optimal comfort. Joon style cuddles definitely sound like the most relaxing thing in the planet and makes me a bit nostalgic

[legguk]

Hi!! So,

it's my ( literal ) first time writing fanfiction, so I'm pretty new at this stuff, but Lady Dimitrescu is all I was able to think about for weeks and I >needed< to do something about it.

( If you want some context, I wrote this thinking “what if Alcina survived?” - Alcina's pov )

———

The fall,

The end of everything you once loved

Ethan Winters.

You woke up... somehow, you woke up. The frigid air hitting your fresh wounds felt like a jolt send by reality, as if one says "you're still alive" -

- and oh how you were starting to hate that feeling.

Laying on the demolished floor of your castle, muscles twitching in pain, mouth open gasping for air... that's how you are, how you will remember yourself from now on. A defeated dragon, a crushed woman, a dead mother.

You should get up, you should let go of your carcass and crawl your way back into the warmth of your home, you should—

—you should be dead, actually. Resting on death's cold embrace along with your daughters.

Daughters.

God, your daughters.

The memories flood your mind with a painful, unbearable reminder; they're gone, dead, crystalized - gone. They're gone. Your lovely daughters, your pride and joy, the main reason you'd open up your eyes in the morning...

...Bela,

Cassandra,

Daniela....

Their names are long cold, not yet forgotten - no, never forgotten - but somewhere else, as they don't belong here anymore; not on your arms, tucking them to bed. Not on your hands, caressing their faces. Not on your lips, kissing their foreheads. Not on your tongue, as you say them.

A raspy scream leaves your throat, it sounds disturbing.

You sob, hot tears trailing down your cheeks and neck, small cries for help find their way into the wind, disappearing with less importance then when they materialized.

You cannot recall for how long you stayed at that very same position, perhaps some hours, perhaps a day, but you are certain that at some point you were overcame by tiredness and collapsed - probably the best to do for now.

xxx

And so, rises the moon and the stars watch upon your limp body, the night howling a merciful wind and singing a melodic song. Grunting, you push yourself up with your elbows, sitting up and facing the sky through the hole you've made on the roof... and the levels above...

A huge carcass sits besides you, it's wings bended on itself and it's big mouth open to whoever would like to have a peek; you probably changed back into your normal body while unconscious... Now that you can see it clearly, you notice the damage that man-thing did to you... by heavens, how were you still alive and...

Oh. The castle. You look forward, taking in the horizon - the stars look exclusively shiny tonight - you breath in, the dusty air causes you to chough a few times. Stretching your neck a bit to see your whole house, you tell yourself it looks.. fine, actually, ignoring the broken windows. The broken windows.

It's cold. You shiver harshly, panting as the air meets your bare back and rumbles through your lungs, making you hug yourself, - you're naked, you just realized - the winter in Romania is truly kind to no one.

Your legs tremble with just the thought of trying to stand on your feet. You don't rush to do it either, let the wintry breeze take in your wounds, make it sting, burn it, freeze it; freeze your body along.

“To die. To die is to live. To live without them, that's torture. To live without their presence, absent of their scents, to not hear them, nor see their faces again, that's worse than death; far, far worse. How could I ever walk into that damned house without the heavenly sounds of their laughs, the tapping of their feet as they walk free, the steadiness of their heartbeats, reminding me that my own still beats.

Beats for them. For them only.

And they're gone.

So who shall my heart beat for? Myself? No, that wouldn't do. I will rip it out from my chest if I must, sacrifice it to any god who may hear me, all so I could spend five more minutes with them. Then I'd die in peace and find them at my arms again at whatever comes after this poor life.

But I'm here.”

You still hold yourself as you stare at a castle's - broken - window, new warm tears hanging the same trail the old and now dry ones did, a silent cry.

Your intrusive thoughts were abruptly cut by a loud noise from the inside of the castle, making you jump up, gathering all your last strengths to stand and walk a few shaky steps closer to home. The more you walked, the louder the noises got; a little rustle became a bang, and your tiptoing became a sprint, you hold yourself as tight as you can, ignoring the bleeding, the cold air spiking your lungs, how insanely fast you heartbeat was. You need to get there, protect the last remnant of them you still have.

The gates felt heavy now, even for you, who would open them with one hand. Where is your strength now? The fearless dragon who'd do anything to protect her house? Perhaps she died on that fall, and now all there's left is a shadow of what you were one day.

With much pain, you open the big doors, leading to the comfort of your house; you don't get in, you throw yourself in. The warm atmosphere engulfed you like a summer kiss on a winter storm, all you needed to ground yourself to reality for now. Grabbing some sheets laying over an old counter, you wrap yourself in it – oh, that's gonna get soaked in blood, but that's not of your concern now – moving incredibly fast for someone as hurt as yourself, you follow the continuous sounds that could not mean something good. The main doors are open, the cellar is unlocked as well, that idiotic man-thing couldn't even close the doors once he finished slaughtering your home? Imbecile.

You stand at the library's door now, suddenly frozen; you know what happened in there... do you really want to get in? Are you truly ready to face it again? Maybe you should take a step back and walk away, it would be the most logical decision to take now.

But what is logic when the heart screams? What is the brain for once your emotions take the best of you? You can't walk away. Put some honor on your name. Save the last bit of your daughter that fate is still conceiving you. Your chest rises and falls completely out of coordination, your fists close around the fabric involving your body; get ready, you're going in; gather the last bit of courage you have inside yourself and blast these doors.

And so you do.

You bring those pieces of wood to the ground, the only barrier between you and the reality you couldn't accept; a guttural growl forms in your chest as you see a lycan approach your child's crystalized body; you're blind with ire, sorrow, protectorship - you name it - and it makes you shout at the top of your lungs as you dilacerate the filthy beasts you'd bat your eye at. A bloody trail of corpses marks your way through the castle grounds, your claws dripping with fresh sanguine fluid - which you can't tell if it's from the creatures or from yourself - the crimson path follows you all the way to the other wing of mansion like a spirit who must haunt you for eternity.

You scream like a feral animal, blood soaking the once white cloth around your form; the scream becomes a shriek, which descends to a yelp, ending as a furious cry. You can feel the anger leaving you, like the waters of a waterfall; explosive, big portions of water falling into a numb, deaden lake. Hopefully those waters will carry you with them, you shall fall and sink at a anesthetizing lagoon.

You kneel, eyes closed, eyebrows frowned; a loud sigh fills the deafening silence in the air, your mind is blank – better, your mind is red, scarlet red mixed with black, ire and grief. Slowly, your head lower itself so you're facing the floor.

The big Lady Dimitrescu,

kneeling on a pool of blood, defeated.

•

“Lady Dimitrescu!”

Who..? The voice was so far yet so close, you try your best to focus on the direction of the calls but your nerves just won't cooperate.

“Lady!”

Who would be calling for you? Is your mind playing tricks on you now? And since when you were laying on the floor? Too many questions for too little answers. You try to stand up, but a sharp pain on your side made you cry out and fall on your back, face knotted in pain – perhaps your adrenaline rush was keeping you from feeling what was really happening with your body, and now you feel like you're betraying yourself for that.

A small figure approaches you in a fast pace, causing you to unleash your claws one more time and snarl at the not-so-possible threat; you were hurt. Vulnerable. Letting someone close was the last thing you wanted now. The humanoid thing backs away a few steps with your aggressive reaction, hands on their chest, visibly afraid – even though your vision is quite blurry, you identify their expression: scared, desperate, sorrowful – they call out once more, almost shouting.

“Please, Lady Dimitrescu, let me help!”

Ah... Help... The now clearer feminine voice washes over you - a wave of compassion - as if hope has found its way to your house again. Well, it better go away again, or you'll drag it out yourself.

“Out.” was all that left your lips, your intense gaze locking with hers, a silent yet not so discrete warning; although you had only said one word, it was well understood by the woman, who stepped away, eyes still meeting yours, a dreadful cast hang on her face.

Still, she didn't left.

Is that girl testing her luck? It can only be. Once again you warn her: “Leave. I will not repeat myself.”

Her posture stiffens, after a moment of silence she looks at the door, truly wondering about leaving or not; her body turns around, her knuckles going white from how hard she was grabbing the fabric on her chest – she's conflicted. But why? Who is she, after all? – A long, defeated sigh leaves her, as if she knows there is no choice left.

“Allow me to help.” A failed effort on trying to sound confident; her voice is full of tears and her tone is oscillating – it makes you wonder if she has been crying – The human walks towards you, trying not to make any eye contact; you can't stand on your feet, you left hand is pressed on your injured side, the other is open and directing your now extended nails towards her.

Oh how funny it is, no?

The predator being cornered by the prey. The dragon being trapped by the rabbit. How ridiculous it is.

Her extremely shaky hands hang in front of her, trying to say she won't hurt you – oh if she only knew it's going to be the other way round. – One step closer.. Her lips and chin tremble; Another. Your claws grow bigger, eyes peering through her soul; another step, your eyebrows frown, her eyes are teary. The last step - your blood is boiling hot, your nerves on edge; you are still the predator. - a slicing sound and a half-scream saturate the air for a millisecond, just for silence to overfill it once more. Red splashes over the room again, on your face, on your chest, but mostly on the floor, where the girl was thrown at.

An agonizing scream leaves her throat - what a miracle, she remains alive - both of her hands cover her face, blood spilling all over her; what a sight, you would most definitely enjoy this very much on another situation. She cries out in despair, making you face the ceiling and close your eyes, a tired look on your face – you just want all this to end, you don't have any more patience for this. You want to crawl back into your bed and starve, you want to destroy this place, make it abandoned ruins of what one day was a home; you want to kill that damned sickening man-thing, kill this foolish girl for perturbing your grieving, and then yourself.

The woman captures your attention once again, she is kneeling, her body facing yours, her right hand presses her ripped face, the other makes its slow way up to you, although she is trembling, she manages to keep her hand steady enough to hand you a little green flask with a yellow-y label; You look closer, 'treatment disinfectant' it says... Oh you can only be joking. You feel like slaughtering the girl right this instant, but takes in a deep breath and holds the flask, her hand immediately falling along with her body. Is she dead? No, her slow yet consistent breathing exclaims that she is still alive – you honestly find it a bit offensive – You should, but you cannot bring yourself to finish the human; you should end her suffering, but now she caught your attention; and besides, she wants to help, doesn't she? then the price she'll pay is staying alive.

———

hahaaa I'm so nervous about posting this,,, ,

and yes! It is a alcina x maiden fic! I do plan it to be slow burn, and if some you liked it and read it till here, please like and/or reblog and I'll post chapter 2!

( posted on Ao3! Name: “The woman in your castle” )

( chapter 2 posted!! )

[sunnyville36]

Mamihlapinatapai {part 1}

See {overview} for more info!

Pairing: Bang Chan x Female Reader

Themes: royal au, medieval au, court intrigue, arranged marriage, original characters, mutual pining, slow burn

Warnings: mentions of death/war, emotionally abusive parents

Rating: Mature

Word count: 4.2k

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

Mamihlapinatapai - (noun, Yagán origin) a silent acknowledgement and understanding between two people, who are both wishing or thinking the same thing (and are both unwilling to initiate)

Bond  |  Kingdom of Gu, present day

“Good morning, Your Highness,” you called, entering the prince’s room and walking to open the curtains, revealing the cloudless sky behind them.  Of course a beautiful day like today would have to be ruined by the very event you were here to collect Chan for.

Chan’s head peeked out from around the dressing panel, smiling softly as you pressed the shirt he’d clearly been looking for into his hands. “Good morning Y/n.”

“Your father’s in quite the foul mood this morning,” you said, leaving Chan to finish changing as you tidied up his dresser and prepared the many pins and beads bearing the royal crest that would adorn his formal attire for today.

You could hear the scowl in his voice as he grumbled, “Only he could manage to be upset during an event solely orchestrated by him and his insufferable band of so-called advisors.”

You nodded your head, indulging him in his ranting.  Better he get it all out now with only you here to hear than cause a scene in front of the court.  The prince took his responsibilities seriously and hardly ever openly clashed with his father, no matter how much they disagreed.  But this had been an exceedingly upsetting matter for him, and, by extension, you as well.  You’d spent the majority of the last week attempting to keep the peace between him and his father, as well as show your support for your friend as best you could.

Chan stepped out from behind the screen, and you had to stop yourself from doing a double take at the man in front of you.  A far cry from his normal outfit of loose breeches and dirtied, tattered tunics, his cleanly pressed white shirt was tucked neatly into snug fitting black trousers, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim figure.  You were sure he hated the confines of such an ensemble, but you were equally sure he would turn every head in the kingdom during today’s events, and you smiled at having the privilege to see him here first as he struck a nonchalant pose and asked, “So, how do I look?”

“Very handsome,” you replied, stepping up to pin his bright red cloak around his shoulders and set to work attaching the fineries to the outside.

“You do as well.  Look very nice, I mean,” he corrected sheepishly, pose all but forgotten and head tilting forward as a blush formed on his cheeks.

You glanced upward, smoothing his hair that had gotten tousled from his rushed dressing.  “Thank you, Your Highness,” you replied quietly.  You decided to throw in a humorous quip, hoping to lighten his mood as you finished decorating the course, red fabric.  “We couldn’t have the prince’s personal attendant looking like she’d just had a spar with a knight and lost, now could we?”

“Certainly not,” he laughed, then quieted as he continued, “And you’re still wearing the flower.”

You reached your hand absently up to the flower that was perched behind your ear, and you felt his fingertips ghost over yours as he gently pushed your hair to sit behind it.

“Of course, Your Highness.  Is it not our tradition that I wear it until it is completely bare of petals?”

“Mhmm… our tradition,” he hummed, his hand lingering next to your cheek.

“We really must be h-heading out.”  You cringed at the unsteadiness of your voice.  You needed to get out of here, needed to get him out of here.  You straightened the clasps of his cloak and tapped your hands on his chest.

“There.  Now you look like a real prince charming,” you said, forcing a smile to your lips that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He shook his head as he half chuckled, half grimaced at your words, lips forming into a straight line.  “Then I suppose we must go meet my future wife.”

You Have My Bow  |  Kingdom of Gu, 19 years ago

“Mama, Mama, look what Papa made for me!” you squealed, bounding into your tightly-packed cottage and nearly crashing into your mother’s legs as she stood boiling soup at the stove.

Your father had taken you to the woods that morning, your favorite place to go with him when he had a rare spare moment away from the castle.  You had thought he was taking you for your usual ritual: fishing by the river’s edge in the hopes of catching something to use for dinner.  Instead, when you reached the riverbank, your father knelt down and pulled a tiny child’s bow from his knapsack, small enough to fit in your four-year-old hands.

“I’m going to teach you how to use this bow Y/n.  Not many girls will know how to, but you need to be able to fend for yourself and your mother if anything should ever happen to me.”

“Why would anything happen to you Papa?”

“Well, Papa helps the king to keep our home safe, and there are some people who might want to make it unsafe.”

“Like the Lajorans?  Or the Mirohans?  The ones with the missing princess?!  Or the Sillans?  I heard old man Jerrald talking outside the tavern, and he said Lajorans like to ...”

“Yes, just like those,” your father interrupted your enthusiastic babbling, “though you shouldn’t believe everything old man Jerrald says, alright?”  You nodded as he continued, “The king does everything he can to keep the peace, but sometimes our peoples get into fights.  Really big ones, where people use swords and bows like this.  And I want to make sure that if that ever happens, if one day a fight should come here, that you can keep yourself and your mother safe.  Do you think you could do that for me, Y/n?”

You’d agreed of course, your little body bouncing with excitement as he pulled you in for a hug then took the bow and began to show you the basic principles.  The two of you had spent the rest of the day practicing, and you couldn’t be more excited to show your mother what you’d learned.

“Y/n be careful,” your mother admonished, kneeling down to your height as she gave you a tight squeeze.  “Now let’s see what that father of yours has cooked up for you this time.”

“It’s called a boo!” you all but shouted, whipping the bow out from behind your skirts and drawing back the string in a mock archer’s pose.

“A bow, Y/n, it’s called a bow sweetheart,” came your father’s voice from the doorstep.  He crossed the small space to pull your mother into a tight embrace as he said, “And be careful with that in the house, or your mother will have my head.”  You nodded back at him and he sent you a mischievous wink over her shoulder.

Your mother turned to face him with a wary smile as you started galloping in circles, pretending to ride an imaginary horse.  “Giving our already rambunctious child a deadly weapon, Minhyuk?  You want to get her into trouble, I see.”

“Julietta, you worry too much,” your father whispered, pressing his lips to her temple in a gentle kiss.  “Besides, I’d be more concerned about the trouble she’d be in if she didn’t know how to take care of herself.”

Little did you know that everything you learned that day would soon come crashing into your life, taking many precious things with it when it left.

All That Glitters Is Not Gold  |  Kingdom of Gu, present day

You struggled to keep up as you walked behind Chan, the two of you heading to the throne room where you were sure a very short tempered King Bang would be waiting to reprimand you for your tardiness.  Sure enough, when the guards opened the doors, you saw the king pacing in the small space in front of the raised thones, his head snapping up as he heard your footsteps approach.

“You’re late.  I told you to have him here 20 minutes ago Y/n, did I not?”

“It’s not her fault,” Chan defended.  “Besides, they’re not here yet, are they?”  He gestured around to the otherwise empty hall, save for the usual servants and guards, then slumped into his seat at the right hand of his father’s.

“You would do well to lose that attitude before they do arrive.  I will not have you embarrassing yourself or this court because of your petty feud with me.”  Chan gave a hollow laugh at that, eyes closing to block out the mere presence of his father.

You took your place behind Chan’s throne, hands coming up to rest on the ornately upholstered back.  You liked keeping your hands there; it made you feel like you were supporting Chan in some way, the closest you would ever come to being able to actually hold his hand the way you wanted to right now.

After a few moments, you heard the telltale sound of trumpets and the growing shuffling of a group of approaching footsteps.  Chan straightened in his seat and his father took his place at the head of the room.

The doors opened, and you were greeted by a small party of what appeared to be political ministers and guards, in the middle of whom stood a woman clad in a yellow gown.  She was beautiful, golden hair spun up into a twist and a delicate silver circlet resting above it.  You would know she was a princess from a mile away.

The Gu herald spoke first, gesturing towards the two men seated at the thrones.  “May I present His Majesty, King Bang Geun of the Gu Kingdom and his son, His Royal Highness Bang Christopher Chan, crown prince of the Gu Kingdom.”

The gaggle of people gave a quick bow, then parted to allow the woman through.  She stepped to the front, then dipped into a low curtsey.  “I am Princess Korenna Dormio of Lajor,” she spoke, her high, clear voice ringing in the chamber.  “It is a pleasure to meet you both.”

The king stood up, walking towards Korenna with you and Chan trailing behind.  He took her hand and kissed the top of it, his voice exclaiming in a fake bright tone, “We are honored you could join us in our kingdom!  May I present my son, Christopher.”

Chan stepped forward at that, hand outstretched to take hers.  “I prefer strangers to call me Chan.”

You could feel the icy gaze King Bang was sending to his son, but he pressed on, ever the politician.

“This is Y/n.  She is Chr- err Chan’s personal attendant, and will be at your service during your stay.  Go to her with whatever you may need.”

Korenna eyed you with a curious look, and you knew why.  It was unusual, though not entirely unheard of, for a prince to have a woman as his personal attendant.  Not only did they complete duties for him in the domestic sphere, but they also served a professional purpose, a sort of squire, scheduler, and strategist all in one, roles typically reserved for men.  The unique circumstances surrounding the time of your’s and Chan’s upbringing had made having you as his attendant a logical choice, but you could understand her concern about the man she was supposed to marry spending most of his time in the company of a woman she knew nothing about.

You knelt into a curtsey, head leaning forward as you heard Korenna’s voice.  “A pleasure to meet you Y/n.”

“You as well, Your Grace,” you responded.  Glancing up, you saw that Chan was not even looking in her direction, gaze apparently trained on a fascinating branch just outside the rightmost window.  Well this was off to a wonderful start.

“Very well,” King Bang said tentatively, “I will let you two become acquainted.  Y/n, I believe you were given their itinerary for the day?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

As the king made his way to mingle with the rest of Korenna’s visiting party, Chan turned to the both of you, eyes almost glaring at the princess.

“I don’t want to be here, and I doubt you do either, so let’s just get all of this shit over with so we can go back to our normal lives.”  With that, he stalked towards the door, leaving you and a highly affronted Korenna to follow in his wake.

***

The next few hours only got worse.

The pair were thrust immediately into making a multitude of decisions about the wedding ceremony: What kind of flatware did they want?  Which cakes were their favorite?  How should the shrubbery around the edge of the garden be trimmed?  And all the while you stood between them, relaying information to the various servants charged with these tasks and corralling the two royals between each of their stops.

Your latest one was with the palace groundskeeper, to determine what flowers would adorn the wedding canopy.

“We can always have tulips brought in from the highlands, Your Grace.”

“Tulips are fine, but I was thinking something more along the lines of white roses or lilies.”

Chan’s annoyed huff at her words was impossible to miss.

“Can you at least try to give some input about this?”

“We’ve barely met and they have us making all these asinine decisions about something weeks away!  What do you even care what I have to say about flowers anyway?!”

“I don’t want to fight with you about this.”

“Isn’t that what your people are good at?!  Picking a fight with someone who never asked to be involved in the first place?”

You hated seeing Chan like this.  His normally kind, generous, and thoughtful demeanor, that you knew to be his real self, not just some facade put on to impress the nobles or win ladies’ affections, was being replaced by this antagonistic attitude, intent on ruining any chance of finding common ground with this woman.  You knew he was doing it to protect himself, both from his father’s antics and from his own fear of being open, of letting someone in and risking actually wanting to keep them there.  But under different circumstances, you knew he would never want to be seen treating anyone like he was right now, let alone a princess from another powerful kingdom.  And she didn’t seem to be so bad; if she felt the same malice as he felt towards her, she at least did a better job of hiding it.  You needed to stop him before he did something you knew he would regret.

“Your Highness, I believe Prince Minho wanted to brief you on the latest border patrol, seeing as he is back in the city for the time being.  Why don’t you meet with him while I escort Her Grace to the ladies afternoon tea?”

“A wonderful idea,” Chan muttered unenthusiastically and began walking towards the closest castle door as you guided the princess in the opposite direction.  You looked back and locked eyes with him, reading the expression of thanks on his face.

When you were out of earshot from Chan, Korenna turned to you almost immediately and asked, “Is he always this standoffish?”

You were unsure how to answer that question, wanting to make it clear he wasn’t always like this without getting her hopes up that he would change his attitude about this particular situation any time soon.

“His Highness is not especially fond of this arrangement.  It has nothing to do with you personally, Your Grace.”

“Well I am also not especially fond of this arrangement, but it’s the arrangement we have at present and at least I’m attempting to be civil towards him.”

“Perhaps you should tell him of your similar feelings, to establish some common ground?”

Korenna became agitated at that suggestion, visibly tensing as she said, “And risk my father finding out I feel that way.  Absolutely not.”

You understood that apprehension, that fear.  Stories of her father, King Eunther, had spread often throughout your kingdom, and from what you heard, you knew he was not someone you wanted to cross.

You walked in silence for the rest of the way, until you rounded the corner into the courtyard where you could hear ladies’ voices and the gentle clinking of fine china.  Korenna turned to you, placing her hand on your arm.

“You and him seem to be… close.  Maybe you could talk to him, ask him to try to appear like he doesn’t despise me and everything I do or say?”

You had a feeling that would only make it worse, his oldest friend asking him to grin and bear it for the “good of the kingdom.”  You also knew his political protest against his father might not be the only reason for his general disdain of everything that had happened the past week.  But Korenna seemed like she was genuinely trying to put in some effort, and you couldn’t bring yourself to outright deny her request.

“I will try, Your Grace.”

As you left Korenna in the garden, you reached up to feel for the flower by your ear, and found that all the remaining petals had fallen off.

Arrangements  |  Kingdom of Gu, 1 week ago

“Have you heard anything?  From the staff, about what this announcement might be?”

Chan was walking briskly ahead of you, voice coming out slightly strained.  You knew why; his father calling an unscheduled meeting with the entire court, alluding to some mysterious “announcement,” had everyone on edge, Chan most of all.  The king still kept his son in the dark about the majority of his political proceedings, much to Chan’s frustration and chagrin, and no one but his closest inner circle had any inkling as to what this might be about.

“No, Your Highness. It’s been quiet in the servants’ quarters; everyone is equally surprised.”

“Well, whatever it is, promise to take my side?”

“Have I ever not?”

The two of you entered the throne room, and despite your knowledge of what a full court gathering was, you were still taken aback by the sheer amount of people present.  Every nobleman, every knight, every person who wasn’t otherwise occupied was here, filling the space along the wall and facing the dias at the head of the room where King Bang sat, the empty seats to his right and left standing out amongst the crowded room.  Even Prince Minho, the king’s nephew and second in command of the royal guard after Chan, was back from his post on the Lajoran border.

Whatever this announcement was, it was serious.

Chan approached his seat next to the king as he usually did on occasions like this, but was stopped by his father’s voice.

“Chan, please remain there.  You are the subject of my announcement today.”

You saw Chan’s face pale as he remained in the center of the room.  You were still standing behind him, debating whether or not you should stay beside him or step back to one of the walls where the servants stood.  As you scanned for your mother in the crowd, that question was answered for you.

“Y/n, you too shall stay where you are.  I will have instructions for you as well.”

You bowed your head slightly in acknowledgement of his order, and took your place slightly behind Chan’s left shoulder to await whatever insane proclamation King Bang was about to make.

Nothing could have prepared you for the words that left his mouth.

“Chris, I have made you a wedding match.  You are to be married to Princess Korenna of Lajor in six week’s time.”

The entire room was silent, every person holding their breath to hear what the prince’s reaction would be.  This was not something anyone was expecting, Chan least of all.  It took every ounce of your willpower to school your face into a neutral expression as you tried to contend with the hundreds of thoughts flooding your mind.

Chan was to be married?  To someone from Lajor?  One of Gu’s oldest enemies suddenly wanted to form an alliance, and through marriage?  What would that even entail?  Who would hold what powers?  Why was the ceremony so soon?  Who would be in charge of the preparations?  How would this change your relationship with Chan?

After what felt like hours, but was more likely only several seconds, you heard Chan’s voice echoing one of your thoughts out loud.

“A Lajoran?!  But father, they are responsible for - “

“You need not remind me what they are responsible for, Christopher.”

“Then I don’t understand, how did this come about?!”

You couldn’t stop the low ringing slowly building in your ears, accompanied by a sudden wave of nausea.  You vaguely registered the king’s voice, explaining how King Eunther had approached him, how he agreed “it was time we put that mess behind us,” and how his daughter would be a suitable match for the Gu prince.  Your mind wandered, remembering how many times Chan had told you he never wanted to be used as a pawn in his father’s political games, how he hated the idea of being forced to marry a stranger.  You couldn’t seem to register any other information, thinking solely about Chan, the man you’d known since childhood, your friend, having to be married off to satisfy his father’s need for power.  Finally, a loud voice cut through the fog in your head.

“Y/n, are you listening?  Look at me when I’m talking to you, girl!”

You looked up in surprise to see the king’s unpleasant expression looking down at you.  Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Chan’s pained face turned slightly towards you, waiting to see why his father had kept you in the center of the room as well.

“I apologize, Your Majesty.”

“You will serve Princess Korenna when she arrives for her introductory stay here a week from today.”

You heard a scoff from next to you and glanced to see Chan’s face growing angrier by the second.  “First you lay this on me, now you’re taking away my servant?!  How do you expect me to cope with all of this?”

You sucked in a sharp breath at his words.  You knew he was simply talking in a language his father would understand, explaining how it would be an inconvenience for him to not have someone available at all times of the day, to keep track of his schedule, to clean his clothes, bring him his meals, prepare his horses and armor.  But you couldn’t help the sting of being referred to as a “servant”; surely Chan saw you as more than that, just as you saw him as more than just your future monarch.

“You will manage with half of her normal attention,” the king answered, his tone laced with a hint of irritation at his son’s current attitude.  “Besides, you’ll spend most of your time with Korenna, so she’ll be with the both of you regardless.”

The anger was coming off of Chan in waves, so palpable you felt like you could reach out and touch it.  Finally he set his jaw, facing his father.

“Is that all you had for me?”

“Well that’s all for the matter of the marriage yes but - “

Chan turned on his heel, walking out of the room to the sound of hushed whispers and his father’s increasingly pitiful protests.

You wanted nothing more than to run after him, to pull him into your arms and soothe him, tell him everything would be alright.  But you knew better than to leave, not having been dismissed by the king yet.  So you stood there, heart aching so badly, feeling exposed, like everyone could see the shattered pieces of it that had fallen at your feet.

“I’ll go look for him,” you heard Minho say as he passed by you, the king nodding and waving his hand to dismiss the rest of you.  You heard your mother calling for you but you ignored her, wanting to get out of that stifling room, to go somewhere, anywhere where you could be alone.  You knew where Chan had gone, where he always went when he was upset and needed time to think, but no one bothered to ask you in their search for him.

***

He returned to his room that evening like you knew he would, the door creaking open as you stood across the room ironing his rarely used formal wear with the glass smoother.

His voice came out choked as he whispered, “I’m sorry for what I said.  For referring to you as my servant.”

“It’s alright, Your Highness.  I know you were upset - “

“That’s no excuse.”

Feeling his presence close behind you, you turned to him, reaching for his hand.  “I forgive you.”

He brought his other hand to your cheek, and when you looked up, you saw his eyes staring at you, imploring you to stay, to talk to him.  It was so tempting, the desire to give in, to lean in to him and let him hold you like you knew he wanted.  But you had to be strong, for him and for yourself.  And you knew if you stayed, if you opened up to each other, tried to confront the feelings you knew you still had and could only hope he reciprocated, neither of you would ever recover.  So you took his hand from your face, holding both of his in yours between you as you said, “You should get some rest, Your Highness.”

“Y/n please,” he murmured.

“It is done.  There’s nothing you or I can do.”

He made one last attempt, turning and holding your wrist lightly, but let you go as you pulled away.  Opening the door, you wished him goodnight, desperately trying to hold in your tears as you left.  Your footsteps took you down the hall quickly, but not before you caught the small sound of a sob coming from behind his door.

{part 2}

[corpsekiller]

𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞 — 𝐭.𝐡𝐢𝐣𝐢𝐤𝐚𝐭𝐚

𝖯𝖠𝖨𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖦. toushirou hijikata x genderneutral!reader (requested)

𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖭𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲. angst, major character death, hurt and no comfort because I love to suffer.

𝖲𝖸𝖭𝖮𝖯𝖲𝖨𝖲. after a fight in one of edo's districts, hijikata is severly injured and there isn't much time left to say goodbye.

𝖠𝖴𝖳𝖧𝖮𝖱'𝖲 𝖭𝖮𝖳𝖤. i'm sorry for the long wait, university is stressing me out and i completely forgot the request, but i'm grateful for the small reminder i got a month later. thank you for your request, nonnie! this fic won't give you any serotonin, this is pain and i hope you're prepared to cry, bitches.

𝖫𝖤𝖭𝖦𝖳𝖧. 1.403 words

MASTERLIST

“I’m sorry.” His voice is strained, laced with pain and dangerous exhaustion that makes your heart pound hard and fast in your aching chest. Your fingertips, shaking in agony, ghost over his wound and pull the torn fabric of his soaked uniform aside to get a better look at the deep cut running along his ribcage and his lower abdomen. The shirt, once white and unsullied, is now tinted in a deep red that appears nearly black in the shadows of the alley the two of you are hiding in.

“Don’t apologize—”

“No, listen to me,” he coughs and grasps your wrist to catch your attention. Still, you don’t stop your ministrations, continue to work over his injury to stop the rapid loss of blood in a desperate attempt to save his life, even if that means you have to ignore the cold touch of his skin on your lower arm that wants to hinder you further. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes.

Hijikata never apologizes. He knows his worth and he’s certainly too prideful to express his regret in numerous pointless ways as he once said. You remember his exact words and it’s accompanied by the vivid memory of your third date when you asked him about the lack of apologies in his vocabulary while you were enjoying dinner in a cozy restaurant on the corner of a street. He was pouring a ton of mayonnaise over his rice when you uttered the question, playfully nudging his ego as you waited for his reply.

‘Actions speak louder than words,’ he retorted that day, lighting his cigarette with a smirk. 'Why should I waste useless words on apologies when I could erase my mistakes right away? I’m the Vice Commander of the Shinsengumi after all.'

His sword drops to the ground. The blood on the sharp blade glistens in the last rays of the setting sun and his fingers weakly reach for his weapon, grazing the leather-bound handle for a moment before he groans in defeat and lifts his hand to cup your face instead. Tenderly, he caresses a small cut in your cheekbone, wiping some of the dirt and ash that sticks to your sweaty skin.

“I’m okay, love,” you whisper shakily. Leaning into his touch, you muster up a smile and murmur a few words of condolence into the palm of his hand, then you rip a piece of your shirt and push it down on his stomach. "I'm sorry. I know it hurts, I know.."

The scream that follows is guttural and coaxes a wince of pain from your quivering lips, but you continue applying pressure, even when it feels like your arms might give out any second. Nausea settles in your body and you can taste the sour bitterness of bile on your tongue, lightheadedness momentarily clouds your mind and for a moment, you fear you’re going to black out until your lover suddenly trembles under your hands.

You have to keep going.

It’s the only thing you can possibly do, the only logical thought your brain can properly conjecture in the numbing silence after the violent battle. Enemies are scattered in every street of the district, severely injured or already dead, slaughtered by none other than the Demon Vice Commander of the Shinsengumi who sacrificed more than just his honor to protect the citizens of Edo.

To protect you.

“You’re going to be alright, Toshi. I promise.”

It’s a lie.

Toushirou knows it, can see the doubt in your teary eyes and the quiver of your lips. He’s always been aware of your courage and he doesn’t think you’re weak by any means, but at this moment, he becomes strangely aware of how brave you actually are — kneeling here with him in the massacre he created, hands covered in what he supposes is his blood and pressed tightly to the open slash on his lower abdomen, barely holding his guts inside in such a composed manner, even though violent tremors shake your entire figure as you lean over his slumped form.

He wishes he could be strong enough to comfort you.

“Y/N,” he mumbles and feebly taps his finger against your jaw. This somehow manages to distract you from the panic shooting through your veins. His voice has grown quieter and his words are swallowed by another cough. Sprinkles of blood cover his chapped lips and his chin, skin sickly pale and clammy and you immediately widen your eyes.

He’s losing too much blood, no, no—

“Y/N, listen to me,” he breathes shallowly. His hand glides over your features and comes to rest at the collar of your shirt, shakily fisting the thin material to pull you closer to him with every last ounce of strength he has left in his body. You gasp as you fall forward, barely able to catch yourself before your entire body weight lands on his injury. Still, he is relentless. So, you crane your head until your ear hovers right above his mouth.

This time, you hear what he’s trying to say.

“It’s okay.”

“No! No, no, please... Don’t say that. You’re going to survive, do you understand?” A sob finally breaks you. Tears blur your vision and burn in the small cut on your cheek, shoulders caving under the weight of the realization that your worst nightmare is about to come true. It’s not fair and you would scream at God or any other entity watching from above if you could, yet you're only able to cry as Hijikata takes your hand and intertwines his fingers with yours. His blood has reached your knees and drenches your pants as well, pools around your kneeling from until all you can see is red, red, red.

“It’s okay,” Toushirou repeats. Despite his bloodied teeth and the visible pain in his dull gaze, he gives you a gentle smile. It scares you, the serenity in his voice — how can he be so composed, when he’s so beaten and torn, dying before your very eyes and somehow still be the one who’s trying to calm you? A part of you admires him for that characteristic trait just as you did when you first met him. The other part, the reasonable fraction of you is dreading his quiescence. “It’s alright, Y/N. Remember... Remember that I love you.”

Time is running out.

You lift your hands, fingers still laced, and bring them to your lips to place a soft kiss on his knuckles. A reassuring gesture, careful and delicate as the flowers he brought you on your first date. You kept them and when they dried out, you wrapped a thread around the stems and hung them on your window, so you could look at them every morning and every night. A reminder of his love for you.

One day, you’ll bring flowers to his grave and they will dry under his name and you’ll let them be. And you will leave another bouquet the next day until you grow old and join him in the afterlife.

“I will remember, Toshi. I love you too.”

Hijikata coughs. His head rolls to the side as he takes in a shallow breath and you notice how he’s struggling to keep his eyes open for any longer, inevitably failing as they flutter close. The grasp he had on your hand grows weak and the subtle movement of his chest stops ultimately.  

And with one last breath, he’s gone.

“Toshi?” Your throat tightens and you reach out to cup his cold cheek, gently shaking his head as if his eyes would open again and he’d get to his feet and laugh at your shocked face, mumbling about you being an idiot for actually falling for his joke.

Often, it’s far more difficult to face the truth than believe a lie.

It takes you some time until the realization comes crashing down on you and when it finally does, after endlessly calling his name and begging him to wake up, you can't do anything but kneel there and sob into the crook of his neck. "No, no, please! I love you, please... open your eyes for me—"

But he's dead and you know you will never be happy again until ypu meet him on the other side of life and feel the warmth of his kiss on your lips.

[narrators-journal]

Hello, I hope you are well, can I ask Yandere Akutagawa who probably hates you for how you make us feel? I may degrade you but get mad if someone else does

I hope this is good and is what you wanted! I'm a little rusty with Yandere content, so it might be a bit subtle here. I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

As a new low ranking mafia goon you had expected some harsh bullying from your coworkers, but that didn't mean you couldn't despise them for it, or have the occassional breakdown in the headquarters bathroom or something. That was actually how you'd met your first friend-like person in the organization, Higuchi had found you fighting to not cry in the bathroom one day, and instead of belittling you for the moment of weakness, she gave you a paper towel to dab the tears from your (s/c) cheeks and assured you that she understood your predicament.

In all honesty, the harassment wouldn't be that bad if it weren't for one specific man. Akutagawa Ryuunosuke.

Akutagawa was a violent, hostile, rabid dog of a man who took any possible chance to insult you without mercy. It didn't even have to be anything that would get you into trouble or annoy him, he would belittle anything he could about you as a person, not just your work for the mafia. It had quickly lost all of the leeway you had for newbie-hazing. At least now you had a reason to blame for the prickly mafioso hating your guts. Turns out he isn't a fan of his fashion being labelled 'hot topic tween goth.' After that, you just avoided him as best you could, which seemed near impossible with how much he continued to pop up in your life, even after you'd insulted him.

Of course, Mori would pair you with the goth pretty frequently despite your reluctance, Akutagawa had a pretty variable set of jobs he could be assigned to and thus would be a good on-the-job teacher for a newbie such as yourself, but after you'd insulted the goth he didn't leave you alone like you might've thought he would. Instead, he seemed to pop up a lot more frequently, even outside of the jobs you were paired with him on. Of course, you would see the pale vampire at the headquarters when you weren't working with him, but now you had gone from seeing him maybe once a week for a task or to retrieve or deliver ill-gotten cash, to seeing him a distance behind you in the hallway of the headquarters almost every other day, or in one of the spare sitting rooms the goons had overtaken and claimed as a sort of 'break room' on nights when you'd stay super late into the night and should've been alone.

However, you couldn't really accuse the hostile man of stalking you just to glare at you or spit insults. After all, Higuchi had always had a very valid point as to why you were running into him when you brought the occurrences up, and you'd be labelled a loon for thinking he'd been trailing you just because you had spotted him in the grocery store. So, you opted to keep your mouth shut and just ignored him whenever you could get away with it.

Though, every once in a while a snide remark or two slipped out, like one had on the day he limped into the headquarters after another spat with his rival, Atsushi Nakajima.           "You look like a cat's half digested dinner," you snorted, watching the wheezing vampire flop into one of the fancy velvet chairs in the empty break room. He was still glowing a pretty vibrant red, with his coat ribbon lashing like the tail of an angry cat, but he ignored your comment and instead focused on wrapping his slashed up arm and leg in bandages. Then, just as you were beginning to leave the room to find your own place to do some paperwork, you felt fabric slither around your neck to tighten into a razor-wire choke-collar and yank you none-too-gently over to the chair Akutagawa sat in.

You weren't likely to cut an impressive figure with your (e/c) eyes wide with shock at the sudden attack, and fear at the feeling of Rashoumon's sharp edges biting into your (s/c) skin to draw blood under your bully's cold, humiliation-filled glare,          "I think you're beginning to forget your place here, newbie." He spat, his raspy growl dripping with venom, "Not only do I outrank you, but I am much stronger than you. You are nowhere near Jinko's strength, fucking Higuchi is more of a threat to me than you are, so the next time you want to feel more significant than you are and insult me, I suggest you have a fucking grave dug beforehand." He got right in your face as he spoke, barring his teeth at you with sin-worthy wrath in his grey eyes, but, just for a moment before the lethal ribbon threw you away as easily as he would a gum wrapper, he hesitated. It was brief, only a few seconds, but Akutagawa's anger lessened, and instead he leaned forward just a hair. Just as quickly as it appeared though, the moment was gone. His fury returned with a vengeance and the ribbon that held you captive launched you across the room, sending you sliding across the floor and into the wall hard enough to crack it just a bit.

You took the hint and scrambled to your feet as soon as you got some air into your lungs, coughing and wheezing as you fled the room before Rashoumon could be sent through your spine next.

Admittedly, being snippy with the vampire after he'd already been embarrassed like that hadn't been a shining example of your best timing, but you tried to move past it, and that weird moment of hesitation, and label it a learning experience. Your fellow goons however, caught wind of your confrontation and did not give you such kindness. They instead turned it into more ammunition for snide remarks about how intelligent you were.

          "Hey! Look who just walked in!" A goon you had yet to learn the name of almost crowed one day when you were eating lunch in the breakroom, just trying to watch some tv before your next job when Akutagawa had come in. "Hey, (y/n), wanna try and see if he'll knock your braincells back into place?" You just glared at the man while he continued to call you stupid and just try to instigate whatever fight he could it seemed. You didn't fall for his trap though, keeping your mouth firmly shut and not responding to his insults or assumptions of how masochistic you were. No, you instead simply returned your attention to the tv and blocked out Akutagawa's existence until you finished your lunch and left for your job.

Thankfully, it was a solo mission, a new extension of trust from Mori, and a prime chance to not only prove yourself, but to get away from the assholes you worked with. So, by the time you returned to the mafia headquarters, you were feeling pretty good and had almost completely forgotten your earlier run-in with that asshole of a goon around your lunch time.

Of course, the sky was dark by the time you returned from the job, so on top of your improved mood, you were also spared further heckling since everyone else had finished their work and gone home for the night. So, you were gratefully able to fly through the report you had to write about the mission, and cataloging of the goods you'd distributed without issue. It wasn't until you stopped by the bathroom to change out of your clothing and into some more comfortable, not-dirty clothes before your walk home that you smelled the stench of blood.

It hit you like a brick as soon as you had opened the bathroom door. The whole bathroom reeked of the dizzying smell of iron and death so badly that it poured out into the empty hallway. All it took was a few steps inside to investigate for you to spot the source of such a strong stench. A corpse huddled into the far corner across from the stalls.

Through your stinging tears, you could see that it was likely one of the other mafia goons, and judging by the one bloody tuft of hair you could see amongst the chunks of flayed flesh...it was the same goon that was messing with you earlier. Since your only identifier was the shredded and blood soaked suit that the heap of shredded flesh and spilled entrails somewhat wore and a bit of hair, you couldn't say for certain, but something in your gut told you it was the same man.

      "You know, you should really grow a spine." You whirled around to face the doorway as soon as the raspy voice spoke, (e/c) eyes wide and your hand instantly falling to the small pistol you had at your hip. But, instead of some demented intruder out to murder any mafia goons they found, you were instead met with Akutagawa. Your worst bully.

For a moment, all you could do was stare in shock, your brain frantically scrambling to recollect its composure under the pressure of an almost primal terror, just letting you stammer out a shakey,         "What?" before your legs began to turn to jello, the thick blanket of coppery blood in the air making your stomach want to escape out of your mouth. However, you put your hand on the cool glass of the sink and bit back the urge to vomit. The last thing you wanted was to give the sadistic mafioso more ammo against you in his harassment, and if he was the goon-slaughtering-psycho, you didn't want to go out because you were too busy retching to defend yourself. However, he didn't attack you. He just stood in the doorway and glared at the mutilated pile of flesh as if it had insulted his family for a moment before speaking again,         "You're supposed to be a mafia member, (y/n), you can't just let people use you as a doormat, it reflects poorly on the organization." he chided with a derisive sniff, "Grow a damned spine and begin to stand up for yourself. No one's going to 'defend your honor' like this..." He trailed off, fixing you with a cold, irritated look for a long moment before he turned on his heel with a huff, "Clean that bastard up, before he stains the linoleum anymore than he already has."

With that, Akutagawa stomped off back to wherever he'd come from. Leaving you to deal with the bloody carnage you'd discovered, and to ask yourself why he had even been here. It was the middle of the night, most everyone should be home by now, but the goth had appeared only a moment after you'd entered the bathroom, how had he shown up so quickly? He didn't bring Mori or anyone else, so it wasn't like he'd discovered the body first...

You got a sick feeling that he'd been the one to leave such a nightmarish scene. And that he'd been waiting for you to find it or something.

[indestructiblelittlefxcker]

Izzy Hands: Masculinity, Class, and Queerness

This meta is an examination of how Izzy's internalized homophobia manifests within the first season of Our Flag Means Death. Head's up: this analysis includes copious use of the word "queer" in a reclaimed context as well as references to historical anti-gay slurs. If that's not something you want to see, you should skip over this post. This is my metatextual analysis and informs my headspace for the character in RP and just like, in general.

Massive spoiler warning for all the major plot points in the first season

For the purposes of this meta I will be assuming that Izzy Hands as portrayed in the first season is a queer man. Though we haven’t learned much about his backstory, he is portrayed by an actor known for portraying queer characters, said actor has confirmed that he’s “in love with Blackbeard” and the creator of the show has described Izzy as the “jilted spouse” in the Stede-Ed-Izzy triangle. Additionally, I would go so far as to say that all of the pirates are assumed to be queer by the narrative, based on certain dialogue and the way that the narrative normalizes queer relationships between them. 

Izzy has quite a few markers of the familiar queer-coded villains in media. He’s the loyal, cuckolded sidekick to the more impressive Blackbeard, but the romantic nature of his devotion is explicit, rather than subtext. For instance, when Stede hears them arguing and titters about ‘trouble in paradise’, neither of them corrects him.  He’s small in stature with a high-pitched voice and off-putting mannerisms. He has a sadomasochistic streak, implied early on when he deliberately drags his fingers through the candle flames on Blackbeard’s desk.  He’s introduced as formidable from the get-go via his proximity to Blackbeard’s power, his ruthlessness, and his status as renowned swordsman but neither Stede nor the crew of the Revenge find him intimidating. 

Izzy and Stede are like oil and water from the beginning, disliking each other on sight. They read as opposites visually as well, Izzy in buttoned-up black, sturdy leather that, while it’s probably too hot to be real-life practical is at least resistant to the elements where Stead is in fine, jewel-toned fabrics with frilly sleeves. Izzy dismissively characterizes him as a “ponce” (notably not to his face) and Stede’s barbed tongue is constantly lancing him with disrespect, most notably calling him by the wrong name. On Stede’s part, this foreshadows the “passive aggression” skills he demonstrates to Ed in the party episode. In the abusive boarding school culture he came of age in, as a boy unwilling and/or unable to fight, he learned to use his words instead.

The differences between Stede and Izzy are immediately understood then to be class-based and also gender-performance based. The two are inextricably linked, as far as Izzy is concerned. He questions why Blackbeard would be fascinated by someone so bad at pirating—and by extension, bad at being a man. Piracy, we are told by other characters, is a blood-thirsty, dangerous, hard-living profession, typically only undertaken by people who have no other choice. As a result, Izzy seems to take offense at the fact that Stede essentially appears to be LARPing as a pirate. The world of piracy does not appear to be one that leaves room for multiple models of masculinity. You have to be tough, rough, and violent to survive—being soft is a luxury. For Izzy, Stede’s lack of traditional masculinity—more correctly, his overt flamboyance—is a privilege of his wealth and therefore not something to be respected.  Stede’s taking on a lower-class profession—and as far as Izzy’s concerned, making a mess of it—by choice. 

By contrast, when Izzy rants at Blackbeard that in their early years he was “honored to have the chance to work for the legendary Blackbeard”, he doesn’t speak of other offers he had or people he left behind in an effort to twist the knife. We get the impression, then, that Izzy’s not a man who has been given many choices about what he wants to be in this life. 

Yet for every failure of Stede’s, he has a success too. It’s true that he runs his ship aground but he then succeeds in getting the drop on Izzy and the pirates in the woods, even managing to hold Izzy at knifepoint, which seems to garner a momentary, grudging respect. Of course, Izzy later complains to Blackbeard that the ambush was “unprofessional”—truthfully a baseless critique once we learn that one of Blackbeard’s favorite battle tactics is “fuckery”. 

Izzy likes rules, even in this messy, blood-thirsty space he inhabits. In fact it seems like he depends on them. To be a proper man you have to fight the proper way, to use specific weapons and follow a set strategy (summarized in a blasé manner as “the usual” following a description of flaying a crew alive). His specialty is swords and through various dialogue, we understand him to be a renown swordsman and duelist(he cuts his own name into Stede’s shirt in a series of swift movements and receives the sincere compliment “you’re very skilled” for his intimidation efforts, which Izzy clearly perceives as mockery). He wears his dueling glove at all times, perpetually ready for combat, even though Blackbeard makes it clear that before the events of the plot, they haven’t had to really fight anyone in what might have been years at this point. Wearing the glove when he doesn’t need to serves to  remind people of who he is, and also allows him to keep a protective layer around who he is under it. He’s never totally ‘bare’. He also wears a tattoo of a ‘spade’ playing card suit on his other hand, which traditionally symbolizes swords. His swordsmanship, then, is a central tenant of his identity and by extension, his manhood. Later on, he challenges Stede to a duel for what Izzy clearly perceives to be Blackbeard’s honor and loses on a technicality, which makes Izzy furious. His success in expressions of traditional masculinity and, in his own mind his value to Blackbeard and as a man, are slipping out of his protectively-gloved grip. 

His own queerness and his masculinity are also inextricably linked. Kaz Rowe’s videos on historical queerness describe queerness in this era as “less about something that you called yourself and more something that you did”, suggesting that queer identity was not acknowledged as an umbrella but that queerness was calculated in terms of queer acts that one engaged in. Indeed, historically queerness was regulated wholly by the banning of queer acts, specifically sodomy and buggery laws and laws banning “cross-dressing” as well as those banning “vulgarity”(pornography). In the show itself, we are not explicitly told about the sexual nature of the relationship between Izzy and Blackbeard. They are portrayed in turns as a boss and a henchman, an old married couple who are headed towards divorce, and comrades-in-arms, and none of these definitions are made to contradict each other. The cast and creator of the show have confirmed Izzy’s feelings for Blackbeard to be romantic and separately, there are two different scenes where Blackbeard is violent towards Izzy and Izzy visibly appears to be aroused as a result. The first is when Blackbeard angrily pins Izzy against a wall after Izzy degrades him in a vulnerable moment. In response, Izzy strokes Blackbeard’s face and coos “there you are, I’ve missed you”  in what is easily the most tender behavior the character has displayed. The second is when Blackbeard cuts off Izzy’s toe as punishment for his disrespect; Izzy’s face is a mixture of pain and arousal in the moment and we later see him limping around the deck with the smug exhaustion of someone who has just been fucked, satisfied that “Blackbeard is himself again”. The question of if the two of them have ever had oral, intercrual or penetrative sex, then, seems immaterial considering the fact that Izzy considers Blackbeard performing violence on him to be a sexual act. 

That begs the question though, if Izzy would indeed identify himself as queer. If he has not had what other people would define as sex with Blackbeard, is he himself not “a ponce”? Trapped in the limbo of a long-time pirate partnership with a man who barely touches him, Izzy exists essentially as ‘Schrodinger's’ queer’ throughout the first season. 

Perhaps this is why in part he ties his own performance of violence to his masculinity. Izzy is seen eavesdropping on a evening where Blackbeard is teaching Stede how to fence. Hidden behind a mast, Izzy hears Blackbeard urge Stede to stab him, and then the lengthy process of Stede having to pull the sword back out again. The gag, of course, is that all the grunts and moans make it sound like the two of them are having sex, and Izzy’s face goes from shocked to sad and betrayed in a quick sequence. But while the violence is in the moment mistaken for sex, it’s simultaneously clear that for Izzy, violence is both sexual and a stand-in for sex, to say nothing of the fact that he already prizes his swordsmanship. The camaraderie generated between two men who feel comfortable enough with each other to hurt each other is invaluable to him, since in the space that they inhabit it seems to be the only acceptable way for men of their social standing to express intimacy. Also worth noting here that “sword” is commonly used as a term for “penis” in erotica. It’s pretty clear that Izzy is feeling replaced. 

Izzy shouldn’t be pitied too much on this point, however. He is absolutely the one perpetuating this cycle of violence after it’s become clear that it’s detrimental to Blackbeard at the very least. He is the one policing Blackbeard’s masculinity and telling him that unless he conforms this uber-violent masculine ideal, that he is not worthy of respect. From the beginning of the season, Blackbeard makes it clear that he’s fed up with his life, that he’s tired of maintaining this draining persona, and that he wants to explore other sides of himself. Though Izzy originally implies that he’s okay with them parting(as long as he can take some power in return), time and again he refuses to let Blackbeard go, betraying them to the English navy in the process. A heart-broken Blackbeard pins Izzy to the wall because Izzy was mocking him for having the absolute gall to have feeeeeelings when ‘everyone else’ (mostly Izzy, in truth) wants him to be an emotionless brute. Izzy’s goading is what triggers the spiral we see Blackbeard in at the end of the season. Midway through the season, Blackbeard reveals to Stede that his biggest trauma is the result of having killed his abusive father, to the point where he had to view himself in that state as a literal monster in order to cope. He cries tears of distress at the memory, at the fact that he’s “not a good person”. One has to wonder, has he ever told Izzy this? Would Izzy have cared?

Although Izzy wreaks collateral damage on Blackbeard and, by extension the crew, he is absolutely the biggest victim of his own toxic masculinity.

Per his expectation that Blackbeard is going to depose Stede and leave Izzy as the de facto leader, Izzy treats the crew like he would Blackbeard’s own with truly unearned authority, giving orders as he would on their ship. He can’t be bothered to acknowledge Stede as a captain—and by his estimation, a man—even for this brief time. 

He’s invasive too, skulking around in the shadows to learn more about the dynamics of crew. When he finds Lucius and Pete having just hooked up in the pantry, he punishes the more effeminate one of the pair, Lucius, with duties that both don’t seem terribly necessary at this current point in their journey and are also far outside the scope of Lucius’ normal duties. 

While bonding (in at least a partial attempt to skive off said punitive duties) with Fang, one of Izzy’s longtime shipmates, Lucius hears the story of how unusually choppy seas once gave Izzy seasickness so severe that he vomited profusely in front of the crew. Considered an unusual moment of physical ‘weakness’ for him, the incident earned him the nickname “Izzy the Spewer”.  Lucius is predictably amused by this and gleefully spreads the story around the crew, rechristening him “Dizzy Izzy”. 

When Izzy confronts him about bailing on the work he assigned, Lucius leverages his old nickname—and then the new one— against him. Lucius’ power in the confrontation comes not from having seen the expression of ‘weakness’ himself (he obviously wasn’t there) but in the knowledge that it exists and his willingness to address it to Izzy’s face. Izzy can’t fulfill his role as untouchable authority figure if a newcomer can dismiss him so easily. 

And beyond being a newcomer, Lucius has many of the traits that Izzy seems to despise on principle. He’s a man of letters who by his own account “doesn’t do manual labor”. He’s employed by Stede as a scribe, truly excessive on a pirate ship and a testament to Stede’s impracticality and egotism(by comparison, it’s not clear if Izzy can even read). He’s fashionable, flirty, effete, easily startled, speaks with a posh accent and has no apparent respect for authority. He’s opposite to Izzy in every way. For lack of better phrasing, it seems pretty clear that one of Izzy’s biggest problems with him is that he’s ‘too gay’. 

It’s clear that Izzy has some degree of internalized homophobia based on the language he uses to describe men that he considers to be unsuitably masculine. As previously established, he considers effeminate men to be the result of wealth-based privilege and both are one in the same in his mind, enemies via class. 

Lucius, we learn at some point, had a stint as a pickpocket and may not be nearly so posh as he appears, but that doesn’t seem of concern to Izzy, who has already decided that he’s not the ‘right kind’ of man, nor by extension, the ‘right kind’ of queer. 

Lucius is joyful in his queerness; he happily flirts with a variety of men onboard, he makes no secret of his proclivities (“I know a little something about keeping secrets—not all beards are beards if you get my drift”, the only overt acknowledgment of homophobia outside of the ship that has been referenced so far), he’s a consistent source of emotional intelligence, counseling Blackbeard and Stede about their feelings for each other through their respective lack of self-awareness. 

His strongest skill, however, seems to be his ability to let other men to be vulnerable around him. 

After the two of them hook-up, tough guy Pete becomes noticeably kinder, treating Lucius with a gentleness that could be played for laughs in contrast, but honestly just seems really sweet. Given that this character was previously chomping at the bit to “shove hot pokers up (the enemy’s) arseholes” and degrading sewing as “women’s work”, the difference is staggering. 

Similarly, Lucius gets on Fang’s good side by complimenting his appearance and expressing an interest in drawing him nude. It’s true that he’s doing this in part in an effort to get out of of work, but his sentiments don’t seem any less genuine as a result. When Fang confesses that “people don’t usually take interest in my form”, Lucius replies with full sincerity “then you’ve never met anyone worth a damn”.  Within the narrative, Lucius’ polyamorous sensibilities characterize him not as flaky or fickle, but as someone with a lot of love to give to a lot of different types of people. 

Of course Izzy can’t stand him. Lucius’ narrative is completely counter to the way that Izzy defines himself by suffering and misery and subservience. I think it’s important to consider here the historical attitude towards men having gay sex who took did the fucking versus the men who received the fucking. The man who fucked could retain his masculinity while the man who got fucked was considered effeminate, a ‘nonman’, an “invert”.  Often dubbed with the slur “Mary” or “Nancy” and later “fairy”.  Izzy’s internalized homophobia dances in a fascinating waltz with his desire to be dominated by Blackbeard. He can accept wanting to be dominated by a man, it seems, but only if that man is perceived as the manliest man who ever manned, personified as a red-eyed, smoke-monster demon man covered in guns. The idea of a relationship being built on mutual love and vulnerability seems to genuinely confuse him. 

When Izzy catches Lucius with Fang, he tries to blackmail him by threatening to tell Pete of their dalliance, using what he intends to be offensive, feminizing language in calling him “a proper little seductress”. Lucius in turn laughs in his face and calls Pete in to tell him himself and is given an approving “Nice!” from Pete for his efforts. Lucius smugly tells Izzy that he and Pete “don’t own each other”, which is like a slap in the face to Izzy who is shown to be so possessive of Blackbeard that he tells Stede that Stede has no right to call Blackbeard by his given name of Ed. 

On the topic of naming, the transition from “Izzy the Spewer” to “Dizzy Izzy” is an interesting one. The former is obviously derogatory, but also gross-sounding and masc by extension in the way it sounds like a title. “Dizzy Izzy” sounds, well, silly, and almost affectionate. It almost sounds like a drag name. The vulnerability it implies must be infuriating to him. 

As he has been shown to do, Lucius weaponizes his promiscuity against the other man and asks Izzy if he’s even been sketched, which is understood to be a come-on. Izzy is simultaneously understood to be turned on by the offer and absolutely spitting mad. He has no good answer to this that will let him keep his power or his dignity. “Oooh, daddy” he moans in response, which is presumably supposed to be a mocking impression of Lucius but makes it very clear that he’s lost the exchange. 

Honestly, the descriptor I keep returning to for this moment is “juvenile”. It reminds me of boys in high school intentionally making sex noises to embarrass their classmates. As jarring as it is to watch on screen, it fits right in with the scenes of Calico Jack and Blackbeard bro-ing out, where the world of the pirates is portrayed as one big, rowdy, gross fraternity, with all of the misogynism and internalized homophobia baggage implied. Izzy, despite his usual attempts at presenting himself with dignity, is also a product of that culture. 

And on the note of youth, I think it’s worth noting that Lucius is consistently referred to as a ‘boy’ by the other pirates despite appearing to be in his mid-twenties. One might infer that he is one of the youngest crew members. His youth directly contrasts with Izzy being firmly middle-aged as another catalyst for their conflict: Lucas has got so much about himself figured out while he’s got his whole life ahead of  him while Izzy’s still tortured, trapped and struggling with himself. 

Lucius’ youth, softness, and vulnerability are all understood to be advantages by the narrative and the scene ends with Izzy storming out and Pete praising Lucius that seeing him assert himself like that was “hot”. 

Izzy’s constant attempts to control the crew with fear, abuse and intimidation result in a vicious cycle of them undermining his authority. In contrast to Stede and his “people positive management style” (which of course still has issues within the narrative), Izzy demands from the crew an unearned sense of authority. No one would be mocking him about being “Dizzy Izzy” if he didn’t insist on projecting such an invulnerable, hardass, drill sergeant persona. Because he’s created an environment where any display of weakness is cause for punishment, he is also inviting the crew to find and exploit that weakness in him, a fact that he seems to be ignorant of. Izzy is the one insisting that a lack of physical fortitude is equivalent to personal weakness and so, with this being the one thing people can exploit about him, they continue to use it against him. When he gains possession of The Revenge as the result of his betrayal, he retitles it “Izzy’s Revenge” to which Wee John rightly states “Sounds like an intestinal condition”—Izzy punishes him severely as a result. Insults are the only leverage that the crew has over Izzy when he’s acting as a veritable tyrant. The power he has over them far outweighs the sting of a few rude words, but as far as he’s concerned, causing him offense is a capital crime. Again, he cannot conceive of being a leader as someone with mutual respect for their crew. It speaks to how, well, weak his convictions in himself are and, all told, renders his previous critique of both Blackbeard and Stede’s leadership skills to be moot. 

It’s also worth pointing out that the last time that the “Dizzy Izzy” moniker is used against him, it is in a situation where he has de facto power over the crew, though they don’t realize it. Unbeknownst to the crew, he is about to maroon them on a deserted island. Roach tosses out the name this time, showing just how thoroughly it’s been deseminated throughout the crew, along with a slightly sincere-sounding bid to “take care”. Izzy inclines his head with a stiff smile, at last, as far as he’s concerned, on the verge of getting his revenge. 

Of course, Izzy manages to make himself the victim of his ideologies while being completely blind to the collateral damage. In addition to the fact that his ego is worth more than the lives of the crew, the rigidity of his beliefs in masculinity are contributing to destroying not only his relationship with Blackbeard but Blackbeard himself. When he complains to Blackbeard that the man has become “some namby-pamby in a silken dressing gown piiiiining for his boyfriend”, he considers every part of that sentence to be detestable. In being emotional, Blackbeard is being weak, which in his estimation is effeminate, which is linked to wealth already in Izzy’s mind and to the silken dressing gown that was given to Blackbeard by Stede. And of course, the word ‘boyfriend’, an acknowledgement of a formal relationship that Izzy can’t manage to secure for himself as a person who has committed himself to serving Blackbeard. He feels Blackbeard has betrayed him emotionally, and as a result of the method, that he is by extension also a class traitor.

 As other viewers have wisely pointed out, Izzy is amazingly unaware of his own whiteness in this scene. While it’s true that both he and Blackbeard are part of this transient pirate class and are implied to have come from low-class backgrounds, Izzy is white and is shown to be afforded a level of dignity by groups like the British Navy that Blackbeard is not. Blackbeard is mourning a relationship with someone who treated him like a whole person and offered him things (physically and on an emotional level) that other people considered him unworthy of, and Izzy is functionally expressing distaste at the fact that he’s no longer acting like a hyper-masculine stereotype and telling him that he’s now unworthy of respect as a result. I can only assume this is the same selfish, horse-blinders attitude that started driving a wedge into their relationship in the first place.