#as allies relatives friends all turn against him

[sistertotheknowitall]

Some Guy on Fear Gas (can apparently turn invisible)

Masterpost

“Danny was supposed to be in class today.”

There was a round of sighs in the coms. See Danny didn’t react in the same manner as the rest of the population when exposed to fear toxin (or in general, but they were mostly used to that). See Danny didn’t scream, he didn’t cry, he didn’t get violent. He got unnervingly paranoid.

He got so unnervingly paranoid about being watched, specifically by the government if the muttered and whispered words were to be believed. His eyes tracked nothing while he slowly moved around invisible people. It wasn't like dealing with someone in an active hallucination experiencing a psychotic break. It was like dealing with someone in a paranoid delusion. He wouldn't let any of the bats near him and often took off, disappearing into the chaos.

Four months into seeing this kid everywhere and their suspicions were confirmed when he literally disappeared after the second time being poisoned.

Danny was a meta and he was afraid.

That’s not the reason for the exasperation felt by this family though. It was what always happened after. The first time he ignored every vigilantly when they tried to bring it up. After the second time he attempted to avoid everyone, extended family included.

(He had asked Kate if she was also Batman’s kid. “More like their aunt.” “Oh okay so it really is a family business. Like that show Unnatural. You don't happen to have also lost your parents at a relatively young age and now go on to fight a dark presence in their honor, do you?.” Kate had stared passively at him, the others had warned her. “….. okay… are you more of a Zuko honor type?”)

However, it was like the universe conspired against Danny. Even Bruce agreed that there had to be some god or being doing this (nothing is ever a coincidence). They kinda felt bad for him. He was very obviously trying to avoid them and he was either really bad at being evasive or a deity was laugh at him. Once he had thrown himself behind a lamp pole smaller than himself and closed his eyes to avoid Stephanie.

(It was very awkward. He could turn invisible and knew they knew so why…..? She had politely continued past so not to embarrass the poor guy further. Cause this was embarrassing and they both knew it.)

Finally it was Duke who pulled them all out of limbo. He had come across Danny on the roof of another bank. A lesser known capital union closer to crime ally this time.

Danny hadn’t been avoiding Duke in the same manner as everyone else. He still stopped to give Duke food but he never spoke and he ran after. Duke thought it would be weird to chase him but it was also weird to turn around, have an orange shoved into his hands then watch his friend run away.

However, this time Danny didn’t run as Duke approached so Duke sat next to him. Pulling out a granola bar, he handed it to Danny, “that’s why you feed me all the time right? Cause you know how many calories we need as metas.”

Danny had laughed, “no actually, that was a bit that morphed into a habit. I just thought it was funny.”

“….what.”

“Don’t get me wrong, now that we’re friends I am more than happy to feed you but yeah. The first candy bar was a thank you and then the second time I thought ‘I have fruit.’”

“….. wow… okay.” There went his plan of empathizing. They sat in silence as Duke tried to reorganize his thoughts.

“I’m sorry for avoiding you all.” Duke turned his head to face Danny, who kept his eyes forward, “you know no one cares that you’re a meta.” “Obviously. It wasn’t the invisibility that I was upset about," Danny said.

“The muttering. The paranoia.” Danny grimaced and didn’t say anything.

“You don’t have to tell us till you’re ready, man. Just let us know if you need help. Please, are you safe?”

Danny nodded and Duke nodded back and they had both continued to sit. When they parted ways Danny handed Duke a small bag of chips.

Danny had apologized everyone one at a time even though they had heard it from Duke. Danny never explained nor did he want to talk about his it. His power of invisibility was also a subject off limits. All of them were worried but they didn’t want to force him to talk about it. They had to trust that he would one day feel comfortable doing so with any or all of them. (Still, it was hard seeing their friend so paranoid that he flinched back from them. )

Post Six

[pyroangelo]

God it makes me so weirdly happy that Kipperlily was honestly a nothing rival to Riz. At every turn her Masterminding was fucked up by his friends.

Kristen jumped in and decided to run for president instead of Riz because Ally couldn’t stand Kipperlily’s type A personality.

Fig was in German Shepard mode constantly and prevented Kipperlily from ever coming after Kristen

Fabian’s lofi study sessions open to the entire school kept the Bad Kids names in everyone’s mouths and constantly bolstered Kristen’s campaign. Meanwhile Kipperlily’s intensity weirded other kids out.

A literal horde of dragons attacked Fabian’s Birthday Bash/Voting Booth Celebration, and yet they fully killed Oisin’s grandma and several of his relatives while smoking with the very Rogue teacher Kipperlily had to threaten to get a pass in Rogue studies.

And then when it finally came to blows in a fight. Kipperlily slashes at Riz for 7 points of damage, he turns around and slices her with his epic ninja Sword of Shadows for triple that damage. He baffles her by jumping into lava to make a play and finally he uses his Blindsight plus his combat experience to ready an action for the moment Kipperlily tried for another attack at him to cast Hold Person right over the lava she would emerge over from stealthing.

Kipperlily wishes, WISHES she was half the adventurer Riz Gukgak is, and she accepted rage and frustration to try and close the gap. But just like that 5 foot gap she attempted to jump she fell short and straight into Riz’s sight.

“Very good on paper, but no practical application.”

Kipperlily was nothing to Riz but another minion in a fight against his real antagonists, she’s another Dane or Penelope that collaborated with a corrupt adult to further her own story but she had no substance to her other than her rage and her hatred of the Bad Kids. She thought she could be Riz’s BBEG but how could she ever shine in the spotlight like a real villain when all she ever did was hide and kill rats.

[waiting-for-a-sunny-day]

If Geto and Gojo were so close, why didn't Geto try to convince Gojo to defect with him?

Because Geto knew that Gojo’s support would guarantee his success, but that success would come at the cost of hurting Gojo.

I believe that Geto cared more about protecting Gojo than he cared about building a better world.

..

Let me explain…

First, let’s talk about why it would’ve made sense for Geto to ask Gojo to join him:

(1) Gojo would’ve been Geto’s most important / most powerful ally

By the time of Geto’s defection, Gojo is already the strongest sorcerer in existence. He and Geto are two of only three special grade sorcerers. Having them both on the same side is essentially an automatic win.

(2) Gojo should’ve been (relatively) easy to persuade

Gojo had already told Geto that he didn't like having to save the weak and didn't care about the moral justifications for it…

…Geto has also seen that Gojo doesn’t always value / protect human life. He was ready to massacre the Time Vessel Association without reason, but ultimately he didn't, because he deferred to Geto's judgement…

…and, most importantly, they are best friends on a DEEP, unparalleled level. Geto is Gojo’s “one and only” best friend.

If Geto was truly dedicated to changing the world order, Gojo should’ve been the first and most important person that he tried to recruit to his insurgency / cult / mission.

BUT

Not only does Geto make zero effort to reach out to / recruit Gojo, he actively avoids him and pushes him away...

- - - - - Keep reading cut - - - - -

After he kills the 112 non-sorcerers, Geto runs into Shoko in Shinjuku. He happily approaches her and willingly answers her questions.

Look at his smiling face in their interactions:

But, when Shoko calls Gojo, Geto leaves before Gojo shows up. Gojo tracks him down anyway and demands an explanation. Geto still doesn’t want to talk about it (“You already heard it.”)

It's strange, right? Geto loves talking about his vision of a better world with everyone else.

Then, there is this confusing progression of dialog:

Geto is hurt/annoyed that Gojo doesn’t believe in him, so he points out that Gojo’s argument against his plan is invalid. The plan is possible (“You could do it”), therefore (according to Gojo’s own logic) it’s not “pointless.”

In a way, Geto is admitting that he knows it would make the most sense for Gojo to join him.

But before Gojo can respond, Geto pivots to saying something extremely hurtful. He's questioning who Gojo is / would be if he wasn't the strongest. Is there really anything more to him? (See more detail in my post here).

Then, in the very next panel Geto turns and starts walking away.

In summary: (1) Geto avoids Gojo, (2) Geto only argues in favor of his plan when Gojo forces/baits him, (3) Upon invalidating Gojo’s opposition to his plan, Geto immediately puts emotional distance between them, (4) Geto then puts physical distance between them.

Why is Geto trying so hard to make sure that Gojo won’t follow him?

Is he just being prideful about doing this on his own? Is he so angry at Gojo's arrogance that he'd jeopardize the success of his life's mission over it?

These arguments aren't in line with Geto's characterization / known motivations (see the end of this post, if you're interested in more on that.)

Geto's main motivation is (a twisted form of) compassion. He wants to end the suffering of sorcerers.

He is a thoughtful, contemplative person, and would've thought about the ramifications of recruiting Gojo.

What are the ramifications?

If Gojo joins the cause, Geto’s plan would succeed, but Gojo would suffer for it.

Like anyone who joins Geto's cult, Gojo would become a pariah / fugitive from Jujutsu society. He’d kill people. He’d kill other sorcerers.

But because Gojo has the singular level of strength/ability to kill non-sorcerers en masse, he would commit the vast majority (or all) of the murder / destruction. The legal, social, and mental impacts would be most severe on Gojo.

(Also, at this point, I think Geto may still question whether he’s made the right choice. It’s difficult to go from a hardline stance on protecting non-sorcerers to wanting to gen0c1de them, within the span of a year, without any lingering ethical qualms. So he may be worried about moral costs to Gojo as well.)

Let’s remember that Geto (canonically) deeply loves Gojo. Gojo is his one and only best friend. Geto worries about Gojo when he overworks himself protecting Riko. Geto is shocked when Toji kills Riko in front of him, but he only flies into a rage when he thinks Toji has killed Gojo. (Again, see my post here for more on how much Geto loves Gojo).

So, it makes sense that Geto is ready to make sacrifices to create a better world, but it’s a cost he’s willing to put on his own head. Not Gojo's.

Ultimately, Geto cares more about Gojo than he cares about achieving the mission he has dedicated his life to.

The last thing Geto says to him is this:

What he's really asking Gojo is: "Have you stopped loving me, now that I've committed myself to this dark path? Would you kill me to save them?"

If Gojo hates Geto enough that he’d kill him, then Geto never had a chance of recruiting Gojo in the first place.

Of course, Gojo can’t make himself hurt Geto. He still loves Geto too much.

Geto protected Gojo by pushing him away.

___

Addendum:

I'll also argue against two other possible explanations for Geto's behavior.

(1) Geto is jealous / prideful /wants to build his own legacy without Gojo stealing the spotlight

Geto has clear motivations for his goals and they’re not egotistical. He wants to end the suffering of sorcerers caused by non-sorcerers’ existence (e.g., Riko’s death, Mimiko & Nanako’s abuse).

Geto’s pride isn’t hurt when Gojo becomes the strongest. The only thing that bothers Geto is that they’re getting sent on separate missions.

After Gojo becomes stronger that him, Geto still has overt affection for Gojo (e.g., he asks Haibara to bring back sweets from his mission so he can share with Gojo).

Although Geto does believe in his superiority over non-sorcerers, he doesn't feel superior over other sorcerers and doesn't struggle with his 'inferiority' to Gojo.

Does Gojo’s lack of faith in Geto’s ability (calling his goal “impossible”), spur Geto to want to prove himself? Yes, probably. But Geto had already been avoiding Gojo before he said that. And I don’t believe that wanting to prove himself to Gojo would overshadow his stronger motivation to build a better world for sorcerers.

(2) He thinks Gojo actually is too moral to join him

After Geto kills the 112 non-sorcerers, Gojo is shocked and upset by what’s happened, but not once does he insult Geto or imply that Geto has done something unforgivable. In fact, he’s practically begging Geto to explain himself because he wants to be able to justify his actions. And, again, Gojo’s argument against Geto’s plan is NOT that “it’s wrong,” it’s that “it’s impossible.”

[whereispearlescentmoon]

Can’t stop thinking about despite playing two of the most similar games (in that they are the two winners who had no allies throughout their season and were consistently shut out every time they tried to make a friend), Scar and Pearl had completely opposite wins. Warning long post ahead.

Pearl didn’t have a second to bask in her win. Grian sat for a second before jumping off that cliff. He had a moment to feel the weight of winning, even if it felt bad. For Scott it was relief. “We finally did it!” Said like a man who is beaten and bloodied but just about alive. Yes he is struck down, but there was a moment of victory. But then we get to Pearl. By the nature of the game, there is no second where she gets to just be the winner.

She doesn’t get to stand in blood stained snow, staring over the body of her opponent. She doesn’t get to feel Grian’s grief or Scott’s relief or Martyn’s euphoria. She is dead a millisecond after the crown touched her head. Torn to shred by heat, an irony to how she has been tearing herself apart with cold the whole time. A game spent alone and suffering, maybe it is merciful that she didn’t have a moment to be properly alone but maybe it is cruel to not even allow her the small moment of joy in her victory. Her episode fades out as she speaks in death, not words about herself or her win, but about the only person who she really wanted by her side.

She gets back to Hermitcraft and desperately tries to remember what it felt like to wear a crown. It was so fast. Of all the ironies, there is still a signal tower to be built at her base, still a king to overthrow. She stares at Ren’s crown and wonders if hers looked like that. She tries it on after they’ve killed him. Not quite. Too opulent, too bejeweled. Hers was sleeker, she knows. They all go to the Empires server and she stares at all the crowns around her. Some are more like hats or headdresses, some wear nothing at all. None are anything like what she thinks hers was like, not that she would ask to try them on. There was something more etherial, less handmade than those the emperors wear. Tango crowns her Queen of Decked Out 2 and places a massive and intimidating thing on her head. Her winner’s crown wasn’t nearly as heavy as the one she wears around the rest of season 9. It was small, a circlet more than anything. And it was freezing cold in the second it touched her, likely because the metal didn’t have any time to absorb her body heat in that snowy forest. She still doesn’t know what it looked like. No one ever will.

Scar is the opposite. Grian got to cut his celebration short when it felt more like dancing on graves than a win. Scott and Martyn are both struck down by unseen forces, forces that know that this kind of world isn’t meant to last. But Scar is the only winner to leave his episode alive. He can keep turning in his task over and over and over, but surely the dopamine hit of extra hearts must wear off at some point. Maybe by the time it did, he had too many to die in any efficient manner. Maybe he trapped himself like that.

He is properly alone any how. He has all the time in the world to celebrate. All the time in the world to clutch Pearl’s body, the one person who actually fought for him even against one of her own allies. All the time in the world to stare at blood soaked fields, at bases burnt and torn apart by explosions. Listening to nothing but the wind where there was once banter and laughs and screams. His crown is too heavy but he finds he cannot take it off. He stares at his reflection for hours sometimes. The memory of it will imprint in his mind forever.

He finds Mailbox and Matchbox, still tucked underground. He fends them off as he makes graves for Bdubs and Pearl. Mumbo’s been gone a few days, his body already moved. He buries Joel by Lizzie’s pumpkin house rather than his own helter-skelter. Theres no body for Lizzie, no one to bury Joel next to. He finds the Roomies’ base relatively untouched and moves Cleo, Etho and Grian there. Cleo had said she wanted to die at home. Jimmy is already buried near the doghouse, and Scar lays Martyn next to him. The Heart Foundation base is destroyed, so he takes pains to rebuild it before burying BigB, Skizz, and Tango among the cherry blossom leaves. He even manages to fix up the lottery system, not that there’s much use for it now. Sometimes he just pulls a name to look at it, grateful that the papers with Skizz’s handwriting and nicknames survived. He saves Gem and the Scott’s for last. He tells himself that it’s because their base is all the way up in the mountain, that it may be trapped. Really it’s because he can’t help but feel some guilt looking at Scott, who died for Gem, only for Scar to strike her down anyways. He doesn’t know which cottage belongs to who, he was never up here long enough to ask, so he buries the three of them all in a row out front. He explores and rebuilds all the places he was not welcome.

[j-k-writes]

The Bronze Targaryen - 11

Summary - War is brewing in Westeros, but Rhaenyra is determined to avoid it for as long as possible (to the frustration of her husband).

Warnings - General HOTD warnings, canon character death, minor violence between family members ((Y/N) and Daemon)

The end of season one! I'm putting this series on a bit of a hiatus while I figure out my plans for season two (thank you, Ryan Condal, for making my life miserable) but do not fret I have stories to hold y'all over in the mean time.

“What is our standing?” 

“We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men at arms.” Daemon spoke, “Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I’ll have some support there but I cannot speak to the numbers.” 

“We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, Bar Emmon.” 

“As well as Coldwater, Sheet, and Tollett.” (Y/N) turned to Rhaenyra, “Runestone stands behind you. I have no doubt Lady Arryn will as well, the Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin.” 

He watched as Rhaenyra gave him a grateful smile and placed a marker on the table. 

“Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, your grace. With Prince Daemon’s acquiescence, I’ve already sent raven to Lord Grover.” 

Both (Y/N) and Rhaenyra paused at Maester Gerardys’ words, they both looked up at the Prince. (Y/N) narrowed his eyes at his father, who did not look the least apologetic as Rhaenyra spoke, “Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war.” 

“I am going to treat with him myself.” (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at his father’s boldness, watching as he and Rhaenyra glared at each other from across the room. His father had been falling into tendencies (Y/N) had hoped he’d grown out of these past days, and the new Consort was unsure how to feel about it. 

“What of Storm’s End and Winterfell?” 

“There has never lived a Stark who forgot an oath. And with House Stark the North will follow.” 

“Lord Borros Baratheon will need to be reminded of his father’s promises.” Rhaenyra said, voice tight. More markers were placed around the table, the promise of war becoming stronger and stronger with each clang against the wooden table. “What news from Driftmark?” 

“Lord Corlys sails for Dragonstone.” Rhaenys said. 

“To declare for his Queen?” (Y/N) asked. 

“The Velayron fleet is in my husband’s yoke.” (Y/N) frowned, unable to stop the hot flash of anger in his chest at her words. “He decides where they sail.” 

“We shall pray for both you and your husband's support. Just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake’s return to good health. There’s no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare to make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet.” Rhaenyra spoke before (Y/N) could open his mouth to speak his offense at Rhaenys’ answer. “And our enemies?” 

“We have no friends among the Lannisters. Tyland has served the hand too long to turn against him. And Otto Hightower needs the Lannister fleet.” 

“Without the Lannisters we are not like to find any allies west of the Golden Tooth.” Both (Y/N) and Rhaenyra frowned. 

“The Riverlands are essential, your Grace.” Daemon spoke. (Y/N) cringed inwardly at the knowledge that Daemon was making good points for all of his boldness and made eye contact with Rhaenyra from across the table.

“Pray forgive my bluntness, your Grace. But talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that not has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons.” 

“The Greens have dragons as well.” Rhaenyra responded. 

“They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Vermithor-” (Y/N) winced at his father’s words, taking in a deep breath as his father continued on his rant. “-Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer.” 

“Daemon none of our dragons have been to war.” 

(Y/N) grabbed his father’s arm, bringing him in close so that his words did not go any further than their small shared bubble. “And need I remind you, we do not have Vermithor until I am recovered.” He bit out, face hot as he spoke. 

Daemon ignored him, causing (Y/N) to throw his head back and sigh, “There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Silverwing dwells on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the three wild dragons, all of whom nest here.” 

“And who is to ride them?” Rhaenyra sounded as exasperated with Daemon as (Y/N) felt. 

“Dragonstone has 13 to their 4. I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont. Now…we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizable host. Here, at Harrenhal.” Daemon spoke, ignoring his Queen’s question. “We cut off the west, surround Kingslanding with the Dragons and we could have every Green head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns.” 

“Your Grace.” Ser Erryk spoke up, and (Y/N) relaxed, grateful for the interruption. “A ship has been sighted offshore. A lone galleon flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon.” 

(Y/N) straightened in his seat, grabbing his cane as his father shouted out commands to the men around them. He stood making his way toward his wife, she was frowning as Daemon exited the room flanked by guards and lords. 

“Follow him.” Rhaenyra said, “Make sure he doesn’t do anything rash.” 

“And you?” 

The smile she gave him did not reach her eyes, “Just go.”

(Y/N) kept one hand on his cane and the other on his sword as he watched Otto Hightower and his posse of Knights approach. Otto looked between (Y/N) and Daemon, chin up in the air and posture straight as the oak branch up his ass. 

“I come at the behest of the Dowager Queen Alicent, mother of King Aegon, Second of His Name, Lord and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms.” He spoke. “I’ve been directed to deliver her message only to Princess Rhaenyra. Where is the Princess?” 

Otto and his men were startled at the sound of Syrax’s screech overhead, causing (Y/N)’s lips to curve up in a smile. Syrax’s landing caused stones of the bridge to crack and fall off the side, and the she-dragon continued to growl and screech at the men as Rhaenyra dismounted and walked through the crowd. She took her place between (Y/N) and Daemon, turning to face Otto. 

“Princess Rhaenyra.” 

“I’m Queen Rhaenyra now. And you all are traitors to the realm.” Rhaenyra spat. 

Otto took her statement in stride, continuing on as if she’d never spoken. “King Aegon Targaryen, Second of His Name in his wisdom and desire for peace-” (Y/N) scoffed, but yet again Otto continued on. “-is offering terms. Acknowledge Aegon as king and swear obeisance before the Iron Throne. In exchange, His Grace will confirm your possession of Dragonstone. It will pass to your trueborn son, Jacaerys, upon your death. Lucerys will be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Runestone-” 

“He is my legitimate heir.” (Y/N) stepped forward, but Rhaenyra shot her arm out, blocking his path. 

“-and all the lands and holdings of House Royce.” Otto looked smug as (Y/N) begrudgingly heeded his wife and stepped back. “Your sons Aegon and Viserys will also be given places of high honor at court: Aegon the Younger as the King’s squire, Viserys as his cupbearer. Finally, the King, in his good grace, will pardon any knight or lord who conspired against his ascent.” 

“I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken usurper cunt of a king.” (Y/N) said, hand flexing around his sword. 

“Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne. He wears the Conqueror’s crown, wields the Conqueror’s sword, has the Conqueror’s name. He was anointed by a septon of the faith in the eyes of thousands. Every symbol of legitimacy belongs to him. And then there is Stark, Tully, Baratheon. Houses that have already received and are at present, considering generous terms from their king.” Otto spoke, causing (Y/N) to laugh. 

“Generous? You have offered us things we already have.” 

“Stark, Tully, Baratheon all swore to me when King Viserys named me his heir.” Rhaenyra said, and (Y/N) could see the anger deep inside her bubbling to the surface. 

“Stale oaths will not put you on the Iron Throne, Princess. The succession changed the day your father sired a son. I only regret that you and he were the last to see the truth of it.” 

“You are no more Hand than Aegon is king.” Rhaenyra moved toward the man before (Y/N) could have time to respond. She rushed the man, seething, grabbing the silver hand pinned on his chest. She ripped the pendant off, tossing it over the side of the bridge. “Fucking traitor.” 

Once again Otto was undisturbed by the show of anger, “Grand Maester.” 

“What the fuck is this?” He heard his father ask as Otto grabbed a folded-up piece of parchment from the Grand Maester, handing it to Rhaenyra. (Y/N) could not see Rhaenyra’s reaction from where he was standing, but his stomach turned at the sight of her angry posture softening ever so slightly as she looked at the paper. 

“Queen Alicent has not forgotten the love you once had for each other. No blood need be spilled, so the realm can carry on in peace.” Otto said softly to Rhaenyra. “Queen Alicent eagerly awaits your answer.” 

“She can have her answer now, stuffed in her father’s mouth along with his withered cock. Let’s end this mummer’s farce.” Daemon and the knights around him drew their swords, and (Y/N) smiled as Otto’s knights tensed. (Y/N) took a step forward, not bothering to draw his sword. (The scabbard was really only by his side for show, for he was practically useless with it until he could manage to bring his arm above his head without aggravating the wound in his shoulder.) “Ser Erryk, bring me Lord Hightower so I may take the pleasure myself.” 

Syrax roared, causing the stones they were standing on to shake and the men behind Otto drew their weapons in retaliation. Before anyone could make a move Rhaenyra turned on them. 

“No.” She said, and the men around him stood down. (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at her, but she did not look at him as she continued. “Kingslanding will have my answer on the morrow.” 

(Y/N) gaped as Otto Hightower and his crowd of traitors walked away completely whole. Daemon huffed and puffed in frustration the whole way up to the keep, but (Y/N) paid his grumblings no mind. His shock was aimed wholly on Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra would not look at him as they walked, or limped in (Y/N)’s case, and (Y/N) feared the worst. He bit his tongue as the council resumed, sorting through his scattered thoughts before he said something rash in front of the council. 

He’d only wished his father could have the same sort of self control. 

“It’s no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer. But dragons can kill dragons. And have.” Daemon spoke. “The simple truth is this: we have more dragons than Aegon, even with (Y/N) recovering.” 

“Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war-” Rhaenyra sighed, “Everything burned.” 

“War has its casualties whether dragons are involved or not.” He mumbled from his seat. His voice was merely a whisper but Rhaenyra heard him anyway and shot him a subtle glare. 

“I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone.” She said it to the room, but it was clear the words were directed to her husband and uncle. 

“Are you considering the Hightowers’ terms, your Grace?” (Y/N) straightened to attention as Lord Bartimos asked the question at the forefront of his mind, on everyone's mind, apparently. 

“As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos? Ensuring peace and unity? Or that I sit the Iron Throne, no matter the cost?” (Y/N) sighed at her words, frustration building as Daemon responded. 

“That’s your father talking.” 

“My father’s dead. And he chose me as his successor. To defend the realm, not cast it headlong into war.” 

“They have already declared war, Rhaenrya.” (Y/N) could not help the bite in his words. His frustration and exhaustion finally boiling over despite his attempts at holding it down until he and Rhaenyra were in private. 

“Clear the room.” The lords looked between the two warily but they left without complaints. As soon as the door shut behind the last lord Rhaenyra rounded on (Y/N), practically sneering. “Does the promise of war excite you?” 

“I just ended one war, Rhaenyra. My last wish is to start another, but you cannot bend the knee to the Hightowers.” (Y/N) sighed, collapsing into his chair. The action brought attention to the wound in his shoulder, and he swallowed a groan of pain. He was dreading this war, but he was not going to sit in denial. Unless they were to take the Hightower’s terms, and (Y/N) would die before he let that happen, war was inevitable. 

“If you could take the Iron Throne without putting Otto Hightower’s head on a spike, would you?” (Y/N) could not help but scoff at her question. 

“Are you not angry?” 

“I should declare war because I’m angry?” 

“No.” (Y/N) said between gritted teeth, “Because it’s your duty as Queen to crush rebellion.” 

“My oath reaches beyond our personal ambitions.” Did she not understand? How could she not understand what this slight meant for their family? 

“Personal ambitions? Rhaenyra this is your birthright and they have stolen it from you the same way they tried to steal it from Luke. To bend the knee now-” 

“Shut up and listen to me. You are acting like your father.” (Y/N)’s mouth shut with a click, his words dying on his tongue. Rhaenyra continued on, ignoring the rising anger in her husband. “My father told me something when he named me heir, The Conqueror’s Dream.” 

“A dream?” (Y/N) scoffed, but Rhaenyra ignored him. 

“A Song of Ice and Fire, a coming war against the darkness in the North. The realm must be united if it is to survive, so you must understand why I am so reluctant to plunge it into war.” She spoke with such certainty that (Y/N) almost wanted to concede to her. 

Almost. “You are in denial, Rhaenyra.” He said, forcing his voice level. He was not his father and he would not take his frustration out on his wife, even if she was part of its origin. “There is to be a war over this. I do not want it, but I have accepted it and so should you.”

(Y/N) felt himself drifting off in his chair as the lords argued around him, barely letting Rhaenyra get a word in. His body throbbed, a few new bruises added onto them courtesy of his father’s drunken anger. 

He’d sought the man out last night, too keyed up from his argument with Rhaenyra to go to their bedroom. He’d knocked on Daemon’s door hoping to drown in the wine his father no doubt had already brought up from the kitchens. Instead he’d found himself thrown into the wall after a particularly nasty screaming match that had multiple guards running into the room.  

One snide comment about Rhaenyra's choices was all it had taken for (Y/N)’s already simmering anger to rise to the surface. Rhaenyra could frustrate them both to the grave, but she was still their Queen, and Daemon needed to give her his respect, especially in the presence of the other lords.

His father had not seen it that way. 

“The Lord of the Tides, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.” (Y/N) snapped to attention at the sound of Ser Eyrrk’s voice. 

“My lords.” Lord Corlys nodded to the lords around them as he limped down the steps and toward Rhaenyra. He looked well despite his injuries although the grimace he gave with every step betrayed just how healed he truly was. 

“Lord Corlys. It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again. I extend my deepest condolences for the loss of your son, and heir.” Rhaenyra said. 

“I’m very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man.” Corlys looked around the room, gaze falling on (Y/N) for a moment before he spoke again. “Where is Daemon?” 

“There were other concerns which demanded my father’s attention.” (Y/N) responded, and Rhaenyra pursed her lips, having heard about these other concerns from a concerned guard the night before. She had not been happy at his father’s regressions in anger management, even less so with his decision to take his frustrations out on his already injured son. 

Corlys hummed, obviously too familiar with Daemon’s temper. “Your declared allies?” 

“Yes.” 

“Too few to win a war for the throne.” 

“Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark.” 

“Hope is the fool’s ally.” (Y/N) frowned at the Sea Snake’s words, the lord of the tides was correct in his statement but that did not mean (Y/N) had to appreciate the sentiment. 

“House Arryn shares blood with my house, but all of them swore oaths to me.” Rhaenyra was losing her patience. 

“As did House Hightower, if I remember.” 

“As did you, Lord Corlys.” 

The room went silent at Rhaenyra’s statement, but (Y/N) simply smiled. He hid his soft laugh behind his hand turning in his chair to get a better view of Lord Corlys as the Lord seemed to ponder her unspoken question. 

‘To who are you loyal to?’ 

“Your father’s realm was one of justice and honor. Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand. You have the full support of our fleet and House, your Grace.” Lord Corlys bowed his head to Rhaenyra who sputtered. She recovered quickly, turning to look at Rhaenys who simply nodded with a smile. 

“You honor me, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys.” She straightened, letting her demeanor shift back to that of Queen. “But, as I said to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war’s first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand.” 

“You do not mean to act?” 

“Taking caution does not mean standing fast.” Rhaenyra shot him a subtle yet harsh look as she spoke. “I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war.” 

“The consequence of Laenor’s sacrifice and my near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Triarchy have been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours. If we further seal the gullet we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to Kingslanding.” The mood of the room immediately brightened at Corlys’ words. 

“I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself.” 

“When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround Kingslanding, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens’ surrender.” 

(Y/N) smiled at the sudden mood change amongst the lords of their council. Rhaenyra herself was not immune to the feeling and (Y/N) watched as her mouth curved up in a small smile as she watched the room. “If we are to have enough swords to surround Kingslanding, we must first secure the support of Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm’s End.” 

“I’ll prepare the ravens, your Grace.” Maester Gerardys moved to leave the room but Jace interrupted before he could. 

“We should bear those messages.” Everyone turned to look at the young prince. “Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they’re more convincing. Send us.” 

(Y/N) smiled at his son, “He’s right.” 

“Very well.” Rhaenyra caught his eye from across the table and smiled. “Prince Jacaerys will fly north. First to the Eyrie, to see my mother’s cousin and his father’s liege Lady, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm’s End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And the cost of breaking them.”

The gods, old and new, gave him no warning that day. There was no warning, no omen, for him to heed as they said their goodbyes. As he looks back on that day he wonders what he would have done differently if there had been. 

“It's been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men. And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms we must answer to their gods.” Rhaenyra spoke. “If you take this errand, you go as messenger not as warriors. You must take no part in any fighting. Swear it to me now.” 

“Under the eyes of the old and new gods.” (Y/N) added as the book was presented to his sons, and Jace smiled at the obvious disdain in which (Y/N) regarded The Seven. (Y/N) looked over his boys as they swore, locking eyes with their mother as they did so. Jace was as confident as (Y/N) had expected a boy of his age to be. He was still green and eager to prove himself to the realm. 

“Thank you.” Rhaenyra turned to Jace. “Cregan Stark is closer to your age than to mine. I would hope, that as men, you can find some common interest.” 

“The North follows the Old Gods as House Royce does, Jace.” (Y/N) added, smiling. “Do with that what you will.” 

Jace smiled back at him, head held high. “Yes, your Grace.” 

Luke was less confident, which brought a small frown to (Y/N)’s face. He did not comment on it, remembering himself when he first began to fall under the pressure and critique of the court. Luke was younger than he was when Rhea died, and Daemon brought him to Kingslanding, and he no doubt felt more pressure than (Y/N) could have imagined at his age. 

“Storm’s End is a short flight from here. Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm and his dragon. I expect you will receive a very warm welcome.” 

“Yes, Mother- your Grace.” Luke stumbled, and (Y/N) gave him a reassuring smile. 

He touched his shoulder gently, bringing his voice to a whisper so that only Luke could hear him. “Do not worry, tresy. You are simply going to remind Lord Borros of his oath, if you cannot convince him he is already lost to us.” 

Luke nodded, and (Y/N) kissed his head. He grabbed Jace next, who only gave a small protest as his father laughed and kissed his cheek. All three Royce’s turned to look at their Queen who nodded. 

“Go to it then.” 

(Y/N) had not thought to be worried as he watched his eldest sons fly off. It was only a few days later, when they received a raven assuring them of Jace’s safe arrival in the Vale, that (Y/N) began to worry about his younger son, and even then, he brushed it off. He told himself that perhaps Luke had just forgotten to write, and he did not know Lord Borros, but he would not put it past the man to not bother sending a raven. Rhaenyra began to worry immediately, watching the sky at every opportunity as if Luke would suddenly appear on Arrax to assure his mother of his safety. She would not hear (Y/N)'s excuses, and months later, in his grief, (Y/N) realized he was simply doing what he had yelled at Rhaenyra for doing not days before. 

Living in denial. 

They were in a council meeting when Daemon received the news. (Y/N) was immediately on edge at the look on his father’s face as he took both he and Rhaenyra aside. Rhaenyra and (Y/N) watched as his father struggled to find the words, turning his body so that he did not have to look at them as he spoke. 

(Y/N) did not need Daemon to speak to know what the raven had said. 

He vaguely remembers Rhaenyra’s gasp as Daemon finally got the words out. She turned away from both men as she processed the words, doubling over and clutching her stomach, sobs began to rack her body. (Y/N) stumbled as the voices in the room faded from him and his vision tunneled, Daemon reached to steady him but (Y/N) pushed his father away. He threw his cane across the room with a shout as the tears began to fall. His hands met the council table with a loud slam and he swept the nearest items off the table. The clatter of the items meeting the stone floor was not loud enough to drown out his curses and pleading words. 

His father approached him when his body finally gave up on him, his legs unable to support his weight without his cane to steady him. He held him up, pulling him close to his chest. As (Y/N) sobbed, fists pounding against his father’s chest, Daemon leaned in close. 

“An eye for an eye, a son for a son.” Daemon cupped his cheeks, forcing (Y/N) to look at him through his tears. “Your son will be avenged.”

---

Translations -

Tresy - son

[hmslusitania]

Either 16 or 21 or both or neither

There was no specified ship, so it ended up being kind of pre-relationship TimKon

The party had been a questionable choice, Tim can admit that now. Nothing says “I’m so totally over a relationship, see how fine I’m doing!” like throwing a Halloween party, drinking a little too much at the sight of his ex-girlfriend making out with her new girlfriend who is, for most purposes, Tim’s sister, and then retreating to the bathroom because his more recent ex-boyfriend had actually taken him up on the invitation and brought a plus one.

Which is why he’s hiding in the bathtub in his own bathroom, not totally shielded from view by the novelty map of Faerûn shower curtain Steph had helped him pick out. At least it matches the elf ears that had seemed like a good idea six hours ago, and at least the porcelain he’s resting his face against is cooling and pleasant.

His relative peace — generally not helped by the thumping of the bass from the stereo in the party beyond his room — is interrupted an unknowable amount of time later by the bathroom door opening without a knock, and then he’s in the company of…

“What are you supposed to be?” Tim asks without lifting his head from the side of the tub.

Kon looks down at his “costume” which includes fingerless gloves, a denim jacket, and a black and red buffalo check shirt.

“Breakfast Club?” Kon prompts.

Tim blinks at him.

“Come on, we watched it for YJ movie night like last month,” Kon reminds him.

“I wasn’t there,” Tim says, miserable, and sags a little farther into the comforting embrace of the side of the tub.

“We were gonna do a whole group thing, right, except we decided you’d for sure have to be Ally Sheedy, not Emilio Estevez or Anthony Michael Hall,” Kon continues, unphased by Tim’s demeanour. “But then Cissie wanted to dress up like Wendy instead, and I’m pretty sure Cassie’s dressed up like me, which is kinda a head trip. And Bart had some whole situation where he can’t make our party because he got roped into babysitting Jai and Irey while they go trick-or-treating, because as screwy as my family might be, only when you’re a member of the West-Allen family do you really get to go babysit your, uh…”

“Second cousins,” Tim supplies.

“Huh, I definitely thought that was gonna be a weirder chain of relationship,” Kon says.

He sits on the bathmat next to Tim’s head and pokes him in the side of the face.

“Stop,” Tim says.

“So is there a particular reason you’re hiding from your own party in your bathroom?” Kon asks.

“I’m bitterly single?” Tim replies.

Kon considers him. “So, I get why you invited Steph, because she’s still for sure one of your best friends, and I’m pretty sure you’re, like, contractually obliged to invite Cass to events, and they’re a matched set. But like… your civilian ex-boyfriend who likes to conspiracy theory about the majority of the rest of your guests?”

Tim groans and shuts his eyes, only to have Kon pry one of them open and stare at him up close.

“I wanted to prove I was, like, mature and evolved and so totally over it,” Tim says, and feels stupid even saying it.

“Which is why you’re drunk in your bathtub, sure, yeah, I get that,” Kon says, and smiles when Tim rolls his eyes.

“You don’t have to be in here being nice to me, you can just like… enjoy the party,” Tim says.

“The party where my ex-girlfriend is dressed up in my clothes and making out with our other very good friend who’s dressed up like my all time fictional crush? That party?” Kon asks, and Tim snorts.

“Do you ever think about the fact you dated two girls named Cassandra and both of them turned out to be gay?” Tim asks.

“With really similar taste in women, also,” Kon adds. “And, like, yeah, every once in a while.”

Tim hums and closes his eyes again, but this time, Kon doesn’t pry his eyes open.

“I know you’re mad at me,” Tim mumbles finally. “You didn’t have to come.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Kon says, and this time the physical botherment he inflicts is tweaking the elf ear Tim had spent a stupid amount of time gluing on. “I was questioning your judgement, which is so not the same thing.”

“Judgement I definitely didn’t improve by throwing this party, right?” Tim guesses. Kon makes a noncommittal noise.

“Like I get that you have a thing for blonds with a penchant for getting into trouble, but…” Kon says.

“Not just blonds,” Tim mumbles before he can think better of it. He blinks when he realises what he’s said and finds Kon staring at him curiously. “I’m really fine, Kon, you can go enjoy the party.”

“Nah,” Kon says, and before Tim can move to stop him, he clambers over the side of the tub to squish into the narrow space between Tim and the shower wall, his combat boots which have a certain authenticity that say they might have been Pa Kent’s from the ’60s clunking against the basin. Kon wriggles his shoulders trying to get comfortable for a second, and then gives up and wraps his arm around Tim. It’s just for the better use of space, Tim’s sure, but it’s… it’s really nice. And when Kon tugs him sideways until Tim rolls over so he’s resting the side of his face on Kon’s chest rather than on the side of the tub, it’s so damn pleasant he can barely stand it. “I’d much, much rather be in here with you.”

It makes Tim’s heart flutter in his chest and he knows Kon can hear that, which is just embarrassing, and which he can only sort of blame on the alcohol.

“Yeah, okay, Bender,” he says, trying desperately to hit annoyed.

Kon gives him a full belly laugh that echoes off the bathroom tile, and squeezes him just a little closer. “I knew you’d seen the Breakfast Club before.”

Tim rolls his eyes and smacks Kon in the stomach with a light, open palm. It gets him another laugh, and maybe, just maybe, this party hadn’t been the worst idea after all.

[viktorscane]

🐦‍⬛👑

‘in the bedroom after the war’

when technoblade left the dream smp. phil adjusted relatively quickly. after all, the two had spent plenty of time away from each other in the past and he knew it was only a matter of time before they would see each other again.

one thing he would never quite get used to though, was the quiet. while techno was never a super talkative person the creaking of the wooden floorboards, the mumbling to himself, the front door opening and closing often as the piglin hybrid went about his daily chores, the dogs barking, the scribbling of quill on parchment. all sounds that were inherently technoblade were suddenly gone.

the first few days were hard, a grief settling over phil’s heart as he tried to navigate the silence and understand why his closest companion left so suddenly. on the fourth day, though he awoke to the usual caw-ing of his crows outside. he rolls over, the sun streaming in through the window bathing the room in a beautiful pink and golden glow. it was peaceful and quiet as his new life typically was.

he stirs more and finally pushes himself up out of the large, empty bed. pushing himself down the stairs to the still smoldering fire. he throws a few logs on top, adding water into the kettle perched atop it. reminding himself to add only enough for himself, as he had been making enough to serve two the last few days.

he rubs his eyes sleepily, giving a crow a light scratch on the head as he passes it. it caws shrilly, staring pointedly at the seed bag in the corner of the kitchen. “i know, i know.” he mutters. “let me make my tea first, mate.”

he opens a cabinet to grab a mug from the shelf, he notices that most of the clean mugs were on the highest shelf. most of them being varying shades of red and pink, belonging to techno. phil sighs and pushes himself onto his tiptoes and reaching almost blindly to get one. the shelf buckles a bit under the weight and the closest mug tips and down it goes.

it hits the ground with a loud thud, phil swears and rubs his temple with annoyance.

dropza LOL dropza dropza OLD AGE LOL fallza E

he pauses, quiet voices echoing around his brain. he takes a step backwards looking around the room to find the source of the voices. only being met with more quiet chants of ‘PHIL!’

it took a moment for his tired mind to process that these voices existed in his mind, but were very much real. he wracks his brain for some sort of explanation, he hadn’t hit his head recently right? was the events of the last few weeks finally taking a toll on his psyche?

he listens to the chants for a second longer, the mumbling blended together mostly but some things stuck out to him. one phrase in particular was very very familiar.

BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!

it was a phrase that techno mumbled to himself often and had mentioned that the voices in his head spoke that phrase like a mantra. from his understanding, when technoblade had ascended to godhood the voices were a side effect. they mostly rambled about whatever he was doing in the moment but they also helped him during combat to give him information about the other party. they were bloodthirsty and violent but techno always regarded them as a part of him.

phil bends down and picks up the mug, it remarkably hadn’t broken in the fall. he turns it over in his hands brushing the dust off of it. he runs his fingers over the crown that had been carved into the front of the clay. he remembered techno sitting down with his dagger on the steps of their home and working at the clay. it was clumsily made and the crown was crooked, lines shaky and uneven. but it was so inherently techno that it made phil smile fondly.

the voices rumbled on about what felt like nonesense in the background as phil sets it down on the counter, bracing himself against it.

he could only take this as a sign from his long time companion, friend and ally. sending his greatest assets to phil as if to tell him that he’s okay. his heart ached but he persevered, tipping the boiling water into the mug and adding the tea bag in. he pushes open the curtains, staring out the window towards the brilliant pink and gold that was slowly fading away from the sky as the daylight began to filter in.

“hello there, old friend.” he says softly.

[kaznejis]

Forever is the sweetest con- Dutch Van Der Linde x Reader

Turning your gaze to the paper, your eyes instantly zoned in on a particular collection of capitalised words. Your breath stuttered in your throat, lodging itself there as you felt John’s mournful gaze burning into the side of your face. His name. The notorious reputation that followed him no matter how far he ran was proceeding him, though it appeared that he hadn’t run far this time. Dutch Van Der Linde was in Tall Trees- the same patch of forest located only a short ride from the Beecher’s Hope's front gate.

A/N: Hi! I actually wrote and posted this to AO3 YEARS ago, but after a recent replay of RDR2 I decided to fix up some mistakes in this fic and post it on here! I hope you enjoy.

Word Count: 9287 / Read it on AO3!

NOTORIOUS BAD MAN ALIVE —--------------------------------------------

A dispatch from Tall Trees reports a sighting of infamous outlaw Dutch Van Der Linde, who has been on a bloody run from the law for many years now. The notorious Dutch’s Boys gang once plagued this state, but it was believed to have disbanded as long ago as 1899. Two of his henchmen - Hosea Matthews and Arthur Morgan - were both killed in separate raids by Pinkerton agents that same year. Gang members Bill Williamson, Micah Bell, John Marston, and Charles Smith are still believed to be at large. But most notably, Dutch’s supposed lover - rumored to have allied with the opposing powers during the gang’s infamous civil war - Y/N L/N has been seen haunting our states, donning bounty hunter wear. Will our young outlaw-turned-heroine be the one to finally end Van Der Linde’s tyranny?

Either way, law enforcement have pledged to continue searching for Van Der Linde, who still has one of the largest bounties on his head for kill or capture.

-

Eventually, the hands that were once calloused from gun slinging and knife wielding grew used to the arduous task of milking Betsy, Beecher's Hope’s famed prize cow- tuning to the rhythm of milking a cow that only really took a liking to the young Jack Marston. Swiping a palm through the mounting sweat on your forehead, you glared at the cow as it huffed.

“I hate this as much as you do, honey,” You turned slightly to retrieve the second bucket to be filled, “But we all want to eat, so you’re going to give me every last drop of that milk of yours.”

The cow’s ears merely twitched, the animal equivalent to a relenting eye roll.

You gave one right back.

“You tell her.” Abigail chuckled from behind you, pacing forward to lean against Betsy’s stall, “I’m not surprised John has you down here today, Ol’ Missy here tried to feed him a hoof at the slightest sign that he was about to milk her.”

You snorted, an image of John’s hat flying from his head and into the neighboring stall entering your mind, “She’s just stubborn is all, she’ll like me more than Jack soon, you’ll see.”

“I don’t doubt it,” She laughed, easing the weight of one of the buckets brimming with milk as you stood, ”Hey, walk back to the house with me. John said he has something to show you.”

“Oh?” You furrowed your eyebrows, a thick feeling began to lodge in your throat. The cautiousness of years on the run still lingering despite the secure life you now lived. “Any idea what it was?”

She shrugged, “He refused to tell me so probably some bounty hunting stuff. The silly man.”

You nodded; calming yourself as you deposited the contents of the bucket into a jug. You were safe, things had been relatively safe since you’d stumbled into the last remnants of the gang in the Blackwater Saloon. You had entered the building desperate for a comfortable bed and a hot meal- only to leave brimming with whiskey and laughter, a permanent room available to you mere minutes from your original destination. You had stared up at the stars that night, laying in the comfortable night time breeze upon the house’s deck as Rufus had snuffled at your hands, excited at the premise of a new friend.

Fatigue rotted the depths of your being, having followed the cold trail of Micah Bell for the better part of eight years. You had vowed that fateful night, as he forced you to point a gun at the only man you had and would ever truly love, that you would kill him. Globs of spit and blood flickered from your mouth as you had fled upon your steed, screaming likewise threats of revenge and murder as he had hunted you- the red of his vest merging with the rage in his eyes.

Micah had always wanted you dead.

You had been an obstacle before his beloved leader, the gem in the notorious Dutch Van Der Linde’s eyes. His sweet, his darling, his largest weakness.

The O’Driscolls had known it, the Pinkertons had known it and Micah Bell had known it.

His hackles raised everytime you neared, steering Dutch away in order to discuss his new “plan”. It had grown severe in Beaver Hollow, the drapes of Dutch’s once-welcoming tent consistently closed as he drowned within his own mind. You had moved into Tilly’s tent, terrified of Dutch’s inherent darkness breaching your own soul even despite the love you felt for him.

Micah had pounced then- Dutch’s last flicker of lightness being efficiently snuffed out. His once dormant toxicities were pampered and brought to life; riches and Micah became the forefront of his racing thoughts. You were simply lost in the tide.

“Now that I come to think of it,” Abigail placed her jug into the cart and spun to face you, “John looked like he was holding a newspaper of some sort- I think there was something of interest in it.”

Squinting, you turned to face the house- sure enough, John was sitting upon the front steps; a newspaper open within his hands. His face uncharacteristically devoid of emotion, “I’ll head over to him now, thanks Abigail.”

You spared a wave as you both went your separate ways, meeting eyes with John as he somberly raised his eyes, “Who died?” You joked, standing before him with your hands on your hips, “You look like you’re preparing to draw.”

John only swallowed, his jaw tightening as he looked away- almost as if he couldn’t bring himself to look into your eyes.

“John?”

“I think you’ll need to sit down, Y/N.” You quickly obliged, the scratch of his accent carrying a sorrowful timber; rougher than ever. lowering yourself beside him and wringing your hands together- the previous dread now returned at a higher fervor, taking residence within the pit of your stomach.

“What’s going on?”

John finally turned to you, his eyes filled with a dangerous mix of pity and anger, “I’m so sorry Y/N, I knew I shouldn’t have bought this place. I really should have looked into the area first.” he stood suddenly, his boots scuffing against the gravel as scrubbed at his face. Almost as if he was punishing himself for his supposed mistake.

“John?” You guffawed, straightening in your seat as you gaped at him, “What are you talking about? We’ve been over this, this is the perfect place for your family. It’s where Abigail wanted to be!”

The gravity of the situation weighed upon your conscience suddenly, John hadn’t been this stressed in months- having left the life of an outlaw to become an established father and farm handler. Whilst the weight of his past did prevail, the future had not previously posed any issue.

John nodded somberly, his eyes fixing upon a huddle of trees in the too-near distance.

“You know what happens in Tall Trees, don’t you?” You nodded and turned towards the trees yourself, urging him to continue. You’d had many runs in with the Skinner Brothers since moving in. “It’s filled with dangerous people, a fugitive paradise for people who are still like how we used to be.”

He stopped then, looking down to the newspaper within his hands. You noted that it was heavily crumpled, as if he’d been about to tear it up though decided against it at the last second, “You need to read this for yourself, I think.”

“Okay.” You spoke tentatively, peeling the newspaper from his hands as he gripped it reluctantly- as if to protect you from what you were about to read. You loved that about John, always willing to take the brunt at his own expense in order to protect the ones he loved. A trait carried from Arthur, you thought, stealing a look at the worn hat upon John’s head.

You looked away, the pain of loss forever present at the back of your mind. It lingered like a festering wound- oozing and growing at the merest memory of the pain. Arthur had given up everything for the safety of the remnants of the group; sometimes you wondered if it should have been you.

Turning your gaze to the paper, your eyes instantly zoned in on a particular collection of capitalized words. Your breath stuttered in your throat, lodging itself there as you felt John’s mournful gaze burning into the side of your face.

His name.

The notorious reputation that followed him no matter how far he ran was proceeding him, though it appeared that he hadn’t run far this time. Dutch Van Der Linde was in Tall Trees- the same patch of forest located only a short ride from the Beecher’s Hope front gate.

-

“So, to dismiss the elephant in the room, are you going to hunt the bastard down?”

“Sadie!” Abigail choked, glaring at the woman across from her- having just barely managed to coax you out of your room and into a seat at the dinner table.The news had left you partially catatonic- a haze feeding into your limbs as you had fled from John, curling up against the wall of your room until the cool glaze of Abigail’s palm had rubbed your shoulder. The usual buzzing cacophony of sound during dinner had become a mournful silence prior to Sadie’s announcement; each member treading on eggshells around you. Even Jack had barely spoken, having heard scattered tales of the time of the Van Der Linde gang, much to Abigail’s disapproval.

“What?” Sadie shook her head, stabbing a lump of beef with her fork threateningly. “The only reason I’m not already knee deep in those woods is for Y/N,” she turned to you then, her blonde plait glowing in the evening tint, “It’s your call hun. If anyone other than me had taken action against those damn O’Driscolls in Jake’s name; I’d never have forgiven ‘em.”

Abigail nodded in agreement, placing a hand beside your plate barely skimming your fingers, “We will support you in whatever you do Y/N.”

A scoff sounded from the end of the table, Uncle spat crumbs across the table as he spoke, mouth filled with stew, “I say we kill the bastard, especially if he’s allied with those wretched Skinner Brothers.”

The group stayed silent at that- all too aware of the extent of Uncle’s horrific injuries. You or Charles would regularly return from a hunt with ointment, to which Abigail would apply to Uncle’s injuries; her hums attempting to drown out his screams and cries. But nothing could amount to the nightmares that Uncle endured- reliving the torture he endured night after night. His alcohol dependency had only seemed to worsen. Not taking action against a Skinner-allied Dutch would only feel like betrayal.

John was the first to speak up, taking on the authoritative tone he seemed to muster during severe circumstances, “Either way, we need to decide what we’re doing fast.” John spoke, ever the strategic, “No matter the connections we used to have with Dutch, he’s going to be as unpredictable as ever. He cannot be trusted, not so close to Jack.”

“He could be here for us.” Charles regarded the matter for the first time, his deep baritone carrying a rougher tone, “It’s too much of a coincidence that he’s here so soon after you properly settled down.”

The sound of your spoon dropping filled the silence that followed, everyone turned as you placed your head into your hands- grinding your palms into the tears that filled your eyes, “I’ve gone so long.”

“Y/N it’s okay-”

“I’ve gone so long,” You repeated, dribbles of snot clouding upon your upper lip, “'I've been able to forget about him. All these years, I’ve been able to focus on other things-” A sob escaped from your lips as you refused to meet the sympathetic eyes surrounding you. “Why did he have to do this now?”

You broke down then, folding into Abigail’s embrace as she stroked your hair, coaxing the pained cries out of you. “Why don’t we run you a bath? A hot bath and a good nights’ sleep will do your mind some good.”

Nodding slowly, you wiped your face without a care towards the stains that would now grace your sleeves. Abigail led you towards the comfort of the chair before the fireplace as Charles jogged ahead to prepare you a bath- promising to add an array of the herbs he had recently discovered to be of abundance in the area. The joy you had felt during previous dinners had been long abandoned.

-

When the bathwater had long gone still and cold, the longer-lasting bubbles floating alongside the waves traced upon the water- the memories finally set themselves free, the tranquility of the soak loosening the long-secured walls within your mind.

The days spent leading up to the initial heist in a camp not far from your own, long morning’s tucked up in animal furs and Dutch’s arms as the Blackwater heat and assurance of soon-to-come-riches washed over you. The subsequent plight, Dutch’s eyes constantly swiveling back towards you from his wagon as you had chosen to ride upon your own horse; the way he had protested against this decision, digging his heels in even despite the fangs of the law snapping at them mere minutes away. Your safety being his first priority.

You had shut him out during the short stay at Colter- furious that he had prioritized you before his duties as the leader of the gang. Furious that he had put you before young Jack, the other women, the wide span of injuries slowing the gang to a desperate stagger. But no, he had snapped at you; waving desperately towards the wagon the last of the women were piling into as you shook your head- tightening your horse’s reins. He had cast your wrist into his iron grip then, his eyes hard and swarming with anger; a mirror image to the swaths of the law’s blood coating his shirt sleeves. The blood of an innocent woman.

With shaking limbs, you had snatched your hand away and mounted before kicking your horse into a gallop, following the others who had already enacted their hasty departure.

With only mere seconds free to himself during those cold days, Dutch had tried- he’d stared determinedly at you during every speech and attempted to corner you at every given moment. You had successfully evaded his advances every time, opting to escape into the mounting snow outside of your cabin in opposition to being with a man you weren’t sure you could trust anymore. It was Arthur who successfully infiltrated your movement, joining you at one of the scarce campfires the gang had managed to light.

“You’re driving him mad, Y/N.”

“Oh, Arthur.” You shook your head, poking the embers with a stick. “You of all people know that he’s already there.”

He sniffed, a short flash of amusement crossing his face before it was replaced with sobriety. “Maybe. I wasn’t at the massacre, I didn’t see exactly what he did-”

“He killed an innocent woman, Arthur. Right in front of me and then had the audacity to claim that my safety was the most important thing to him.”

“Yes, I want to beat him senseless for the way he’s damned us too, I promise you.” He scratched his beard tentatively, almost searching for the correct words to say, “But… no matter what he did, we need to stick together, Y/N.” A pause. “And if his only source of light is snuffed out, there’s no way we’re getting out of here.”

“Don’t make this my fault, Arthur.”

“I’m not, Y/N. You know I’m not. But we are all starving and cold and tired. We need a right-minded leader to get out of here and once we do, we can judge Dutch all we want.”

You laughed then, a foreign sound in the somber setting; Arthur had grinned crookedly too, wrapping an arm around shoulder as he pulled you into his side. “Alright, I’ll talk to him..soon.”

Arthur had simply huffed, rolling his eyes and giving you a pat on the head as he rose- behind on his schedule of carrying the burden of the gang. You had remained at that campfire for some time after that, dwelling within your own conflicting thoughts.

Sitting in the bathtub, you felt the same affliction as you did all of those long years ago, even despite being so much younger and naïve at that time. You wanted to run out there, into the darkness of the forests and deep troughs of moss, into the arms of your lost love. But another part of you, the part that had grown and hardened with age, the part that hated Dutch Van Der Linde with every fiber of its existence- wanted vengeance. It wanted to provide Sadie and John with your vital blessing to go out there and capture him, kill him even.

Despite the years you had garnered since settling eyes on Dutch, you didn’t trust yourself to follow through with ending it all yourself; you didn’t trust yourself not to melt entirely within his presence. His charisma would sway you, his ability to flirt and coerce would be an instant match for your own stoic toughness. You couldn’t possibly know what he looked like anymore- but your betraying conscience conjured an image of his trimmed mustache complimenting his sharp jaw, his towering stature and taut muscles- those same muscles that had pinned you down night after night, the same ones that belonged to the only body that had ever truly pleasured you. The rings that adorned his fingers, each one a symbol of masculinity and fabrication, glinting in the moonlight as he smoked his complimentary, post-orgasm cigar.

Your insides tingled as you recalled the way he used to ravage you, the hungry glint of his eyes from between your thighs or the heavy pants that would spill from his lips as he buried his head into the sweaty base of your throat, his sex-tousled hair drawing paths against your skin, lighting the fuses beneath your jaw and throat.

Mr. Van De Linde had always been the embodiment of seduction- whether in his manipulative nature or in the coital bed you shared. You doubted that this feature had hardly changed.

Which is why you could-

“Y/N?”

You sprung from your dazed position within the tub, jumping and wrapping linens around your soaked body, “Sorry- uh- Yes?”

“Are you okay? You’ve been in there for a while now?” It was Jack, probably worried sick about you alongside the rest of the family.

“I’m fine.” you spluttered, desperately wringing out your sopping hair as you opened the door, plastering on a half-convincing smile, “I won’t burst into tears on you again, I promise.”

He simply nodded, a concerned look in his eyes that frighteningly reminded you of his own father. A look far too old for his youthful features, “I just wanted to check that you weren’t drowning in there. The bath is far too deep for me sometimes.”

Ruffling his hair, you laughed- mood slightly improved, “Don’t worry about me Jackie- just had a little blast from the past is all.”

He nodded, though a pensive look flashed across his face.

“What?”

“I don’t have many memories from back then,” you nodded, encouraging him to continue, “but I do remember you and Uncle- sorry, you and Mr. Van Der Linde.” He looked at you sadly, possibly seeing the shock and grief that instantly sunk into your face, “Sometimes, you’d be so happy but then other days all that could be heard was your fights… I remember once it got so bad that Ma wouldn’t let me out of that room in that big house. But I also remember when you went missing for a day or two, he’d practically torn the place apart with the worry that you’d been taken.” He paused again as you watched him through tear-blurred eyes, “I’m sorry that he’s come back Y/N.”

Sniffling, you wrapped your arms around Jack, allowing your tears to slip into his hair, “I’m sorry that you had to experience that, Jackie,” you pulled back, cupping his cheeks and tightening your lips, “I hope to God that you never have to deal with something like that. Promise me you won’t let it happen?”

“I promise, Y/N,”

“Good. Good boy.”

“But… Do you still love him Y/N?”

Your teeth clacked shut, the sound resounding throughout the thin hallway. Not even when you and Dutch had been together had anybody dared question the true status of your relationship- opting for sympathetic smiles or knowing looks alike in respect for their brash leader. Shaking your thoughts, you attempted a warm smile, guiding Jack towards the living room. “Love is a complicated thing Jack, part of me hopes that you’ll never have to experience the woes of it but the happiness it brings outweighs everything,” tightening your robe around your chest, you sat beside Jack before the hearth of the fireplace, “Dutch could render me happy or sad at any given moment, the power he held over me was…terrifying.” Jack nodded, his eyes glinting curiously with the fire’s light, “But I think I did love him. Maybe I still do, but that doesn’t matter anymore because he’s not a good man.”

“You deserve a good man, Y/N.”

You chuckled, a real source of warmth and comfort finally replacing the cold of the bathwater, “Maybe. I look forward to the day that I finally meet one.”

“I think Uncle Arthur was a good man.”

“Yeah.” A lone buck sauntered along the hills surrounding Beecher’s Hope, its ears pricking towards Tall Trees. “He was.”

-

Shadows of branches intertwined and floated amongst the ceiling of your room, a light breeze filtering in from the opened window. You had opted to retire to bed early, skipping the usual drinks you would share with the rest of the family around the fire. You couldn’t face them, the pitious glances and the sway of alcohol would be too much, an easy passageway into spilling your darkest secrets.

The smell of alcohol had a tendency to remind you of Dutch, anyway. The acrid taste of whiskey and cigars mixed to create an unashamedly addictive scent; the taste of it upon his lips practically doubling the initial effect.

Not only had Dutch Van Der Linde always been an object of seduction, but he had become an object of addiction too. He had been the one to tie your dependency to cigarettes during your time in the gang, having quickly picked up his habit of smoking a cigarette in the event of anything extraordinary. You would regularly smoke together post-sex, bathing in the privilege of sharing one, or even two, of his prized cigars- picking up on his ever-watchful eyes as you wrapped your lips around the blunt and puffed; always making sure to add an air of extravagance as you exhaled.

The thought had you scrambling at the bottom of your mattress, searching for the stash of cigarettes you had stowed there for the event of emergency. You swore to yourself you had quit, but living a Dutch-less existence required other outlets.

Low and behold, you had smoked the last of them after attempting to round up a herd of sheep the week prior.

You swore, jumping out of bed and pulling the mattress back further to no avail. “It’s fine.” You mumbled to yourself, checking your wardrobe and dresser subsequently, “It’s fine.”

In all honesty, you could do with the fresh air- your room had quickly begun to forego the open window and grow stuffy with the weight of your own sinful mind. Though, your objection to facing the others still remained steady- leading you to hoist yourself out of the bedroom window and onto the saddle of your horse.

Blackwater remained a constant bustle of energy even within the darkness of night, having returned to its pre-Van Der Linde glory as a portside town. The city itself acted as a constant reminder to what Dutch had done, marking the beginning of his true tyranny as the blood of the innocent Heidi McCourt had splattered along the sidewalk and his very own shirt sleeves. You had only learned her name from the bench before the boardwalk- “We remember Heidi McCourt” scratched into the base of the wood, only a minute of research informed you of exactly who that was. But upon further residence within Blackwater- you learned of the hatred felt towards the notorious members of the gang; cutouts of previous gang members pinned to dartboards and littered with darts and even bullets alike.

Despite your pardons, the people of Blackwater had never forgotten what you had done.

Your hair was longer now, providing the disguise necessary to lay low. Besides, your bounty hunter escapades had quickly taken over any true resemblance to the you that had resided within the gang; the very newspaper detailing Dutch’s return had coined you a “heroine”. It was good to know that people knew you mostly for your good, the version of yourself eight years prior would have feared your very being.

Dismounting your steed, you patted her side as you pulled out a set of twin revolvers- ever aware of the new threat that lurked nearby. The thought that he could be anywhere made you shiver despite the warmth of Summer as you jogged towards the grocer, apologizing for your late arrival as it was near closing time. The man waved you off, rolling his eyes as he continued to sweep the shop floor.

Maybe chivalry was dead, you smirked to yourself as you requested a pack of premiums. The man nodded, but before he could bend to grab the cigarettes he paled, sweat beginning to bead at his temple as he whimpered- seemingly catatonic in place. Rising your eyes to the dusty window, your lips pursed as you spotted at least four figures behind you in the reflection, all obviously armed.

“Raise your hands darlin’.” A gruff voice spoke, the traditional accent carried by the Skinner brothers.

“I’m just grabbing some cigarettes,” You spoke firmly, your hands lowering towards your revolvers, “Just let me leave and we don’t need to have any issues.”

The men began to cackle at that, you could hear the sound of them clapping at each other’s backs and howling like dogs. The shopkeeper remained cowered beneath the counter, frozen in place as his eyes pleaded at you to do something- the stoic shopkeeper from mere minutes ago was no longer present.

“You think we’re just gonna let an infamous bounty hunter like you leave just like that?” The speaker spat at the ground, a display of disgust. “Do you know how many of our brothers you’ve killed?”

Chuckling, you rose your eyes. “I think they use the word infamous for a reason, you know.” You turned, spinning your revolvers and executing two of the men in a split second; time slowing as bullets lodged into each of their skulls. Tearing through skin and bone, the sound of the bullets pinging into the wall shattered their amusement, the fallout spraying their faces with blood.

The remaining men had barely even reached for their weapons before you delivered bullets into their heart and kneecaps respectively, the latter would live but never walk again; able to enforce the resounding fear of your presence into the outlaw community. Stepping over the bodies, you leaned over the survivor- clutching his shattered legs as he screamed and cried.

“Never underestimate me again.” You spat, mimicking his revolting action from earlier.

Despite his cries, the man laughed at your statement- his rotten teeth and stringy hair coated in the blood of his assailants. “Oh, Sweetheart,” he rose to rest on his elbow, his hitched breath releasing in pained pants, “We didn’t.”

Your eyes widened, you were only rewarded for a split second to prepare for the barrage of gunfire that attacked the storefront. Rolling backwards, you surveyed the frenetic gunfire from behind one of the many shelves and calculated how grossly outnumbered you truly were- at least ten men awaited outside, the group very obviously having not underestimated you.

You quickly discovered that the shopkeeper had locked himself in the back room- leaving you isolated with the threat of the Skinner Brothers. Without a second thought, you scaled the shop counter- loading your revolvers with bullets and replacing the empty space with the money in your pockets; it would serve you little purpose now.

You had no choice but to fight, your stubbornness making cowering and hiding not an option- if you went down, it had to happen fighting. You knew that your death would be gruesome, the feeling of the rough, splintering wood against your back and the tight press of your boots against the wall would not be the last thing you ever saw. You knew that you would be waking up again. Closing your eyes, you said a prayer- for your family. For Jack’s strength and innocence, for Abigail’s love, for John’s unwavering loyalty and for Sadie’s strength. You prayed for Dutch, prayed that despite all of his evil and wrongdoing, that he would not see you in the condition you were bound to be in. That he would not be the one to inflict the pain to come upon you.

Time slowed once again as you rose, meeting the men as they slammed open the shop door- grossly outnumbered as you had calculated. Vision blurring, you shot widely- fighting for your life as men collapsed throughout the room. The flash of gunfire and the glint of throwing knives blinded you.

Finally, you ran out of bullets. The bodies of vile, disgusting men surrounded you. The bodies of the men that had terrorized your family. As an arrow lodged itself into your unguarded chest, you felt nothing but vindication.

-

Blinking, the sound of dripping rang throughout your brain as your senses faltered. Slower than usual.

You couldn’t move your arms or legs.

“I can’t-” You stuttered, fidgeting and shaking, “I- can’t…I can’t move.”

No one replied, only the sounds of your unsteady breaths could be heard, each one followed by that dripping sound. The horror of the situation dawned upon you, you had been right. You had woken up.

The skinner brothers hadn’t killed you.

Your cheeks felt wet, slicken with tears and something else as you heaved and pushed against your confinements.

Boots crunched along grass then, the sound of a rolling glass bottle rung beside your head.

“Who’s going to shut her up this time then?” A misty voice spoke nearby, it was followed by a mixture of sounds, to which your brain couldn’t decipher. It almost sounded like they were fighting over who would finish you off. You continued to cry then, your brain running at a speed faster than you could manage as the pain outweighed any coherent conscience. Finally, your eyes managed to peel themselves open.

To your horror, the dripping sound was your own blood- oozing from a cut on your arm that dribbled down through your fingers and onto the gravel below. You were tied to a wooden frame, similar to what Uncle had been tied to- though the fire had not yet been lit below you. The shine of the sun above you told you that not only had it been multiple hours, but that they were saving your sacrifice for the following night. Your body adorned a number of cuts though the arrow wound within your stomach had been messily patched up.

“They’re keeping me alive.” You mouthed, your eyes flitting around your surroundings as they welled with tears. You were within tall trees- deep in the forest and past the border lines you had previously ventured towards; they were ensuring that you would not be found.

“Have you found any takers for her?”

“Hm?” A large man looked towards a smaller man only a few steps from you.

“Any takers?” the smaller man rolled his eyes, socking the larger man in the arm, “Has anyone posed any offers to purchase her?”

Your ears rung as you squeezed your eyes closed, feigning sleep as you listened in on the conversation. They were keeping you alive to sell you, they were aware of your worth as a ruthless bounty hunter. It was their job to strip you of everything you had so they could sell a bounty hunter reduced to nothing to the highest bidder- a fate potentially worse than the fate of the Skinner brothers.

Before you could squirm frantically, the larger man spoke, “We have actually- some man spotted the poster up near Manzanita Post, claims he has some personal business to settle. Hefty sum, he’ll be here within the hour.”

The younger man grinned, his molten teeth dull in the sun’s light, “Personal? Damn, she must have taken out someone close.”

The larger man hummed as they departed their posts, moving towards the larger group of men. Your heart thumped in your chest as you squirmed- using any tactic you had ever learned from your fellow outlaws to perform any attempt at escape. But all was to no avail- the Skinners knew damn well how to hold a hostage.

Closing your eyes, you laid back. Every ounce of fight that had resided within you during that initial fight had vanished. There was nothing left, you had nothing left- all you could do was wait for what came next.

“Look at this pretty lady.” A voice spoke above you soon after that thought, a Skinner with a patchy ginger beard hovered in your eye line, a menacing grin upon your face. “What are we gonna do with you?

Fellow skinners laughed as a sharp pain, a knife, punctured your side- you’d experienced stabbings before, but not in this state. You succumbed to the urge to scream, the sound tearing from your throat and laced with terror. The man grinned, twisting the knife before wrenching it out and watching as you panted through the pain.

“It’s alright Darlin’. We all have to pay penance for our actions sometimes, seeing as you killed my father and all.”

You grinned, the feeling of blood dripping from your scabbing lips pushed aside as humor filled you, “Am I supposed to know who you’re referring to?” The mans’ eyes darkened at that, though just as he went to resume his torture, a deafening shot resounded throughout the forest.

You could only watch as the man collapsed backwards, blood spraying your already coated skin in thick beads. The background noise within the camp instantly dropped, all present turning to face their attacker- though none dared to retaliate.

“For the sum I’m paying, I’d hope my investment would be in pristine condition.”

The worst of your nightmares paled in comparison to what you saw as you turned. Dutch Van Der Linde stood at the edge of camp, tall and boisterous as ever. A repeater laid pointed within his hands, complimented by black rings adorning his fingers and aimed ready for whoever dared to step forward. The black waistcoat and linen shirts had been replaced with a silk black shirt, the sleeves rolled and the top button undone in respect of the humidity of West Elizabeth. No hat laid upon his head now, his hair curling at the nape of his neck and slicked back with pomade. He looked rich, luxurious. He didn’t look like the most wanted man in America.

It seemed that his obsession with finery had never dispersed.

You heaved, grappling at the wooden frame as you hoped, prayed, and begged for any way to escape. Any route other than having to go with him. The mere sight of him invoked sickness, suffering and fear- you felt like you had regressed, all progression made dispersed at the sound of his voice.

“Sir…You are free to take her.” The larger man whimpered, despite Dutch’s smaller frame, the man lowered himself to one knee; bowing his head. You scoffed, shaking your head as tears of anguish and defeat rolled down your face.

“Free?” Dutch sneered, his lips curling as he stepped before the cowering man, “I would hope so- seeing the state of her. What am I supposed to do with her if she looks like that?”

“Of- of course, Sir.” Multiple Skinners nodded in agreement, joining in bowing before the renowned criminal mastermind.

“Good.” Dutch spoke calmly, his features void of all emotion. You shook, in fear of what was to happen. In fear of the man you had previously thought you had left behind, the man you had presumed long dead. But part of you, the long cold and dormant part that had loved him. The part of you that yearned and starved, that had dragged you on that late-night outing in the first place- it longed for him.

Before anyone could blink, fathom the possibility of Dutch’s evolved tyranny over the years- he pressed the repeater’s trigger; ending the lives of the men bent to his will with a parade of clean headshots. You were no stranger to brutality, especially not Dutch’s, but your position was significantly more vulnerable than theirs; you could do nothing but bend to Dutch’s will.

As the last bullet sounded and the last man fell, Dutch wasted no time in slinging the repeater upon his shoulder and advancing towards you. Dutch reached you then, staring down at your dwindling and shivering form. Your groggy brain registered the crease of his brow, the red lining of his eyes and the worried curl in his lips.

He composed himself quickly, a mask settling as he moved to cut open your bindings. “The man was right, what am I going to do with you Y/N?”

-

You faded in and out of consciousness in the back of a cart- effectively bleeding out onto what felt like boar pelts. Dutch had instructed you to hold on as he fled from the camp, leaving the Skinner’s to decompose in his wake- a fleeing devil and all. The canopy above Tall Trees swirled above you, the sun remaining high in the sky throughout the journey. It could have been minutes or hours.

“Alright Princess,” Dutch said from the driver’s speech above, refusing to look back at you, “Hold on, we’re nearly there now.”

The use of your old, long unused nickname made you recoil- Dutch had always been one for sweet remarks, but he especially favored Princess- he was the beast, you were the innocent beauty. It created the rhetoric that you were to be protected, despite the major contributions you had made towards the camp on many occasions. You had to fight to be sent on missions, Dutch would respond with cold refusal; opting to insult you brashly in order to supposedly keep you safe. At his worst, you had stormed from camp; jumping onto the back of your horse and galloping away, ignoring the pleas of the gang. It was only when you didn’t return that worry had set in, three days you had been missing- later found by Arthur near Emerald Ranch. You had later learned that Dutch had practically torn the camp and nearby settlements apart; his shirtsleeves painted in red as he had searched for you- knocking down anyone in his way.

“Don’t call me that.” You mumbled groggily, using all of your energy to deliver a retort.

“What? Princess?”

You gritted your teeth, Dutch-induced-irritation felt like home- the gritting of your teeth and press of fingernails all too familiar when in his company. As the cart halted to a stop, Dutch leaped over the back of the wagon, instantly picking you up and taking you into a nearby tent.

“Okay Y/N,” he spoke hastily, flitting around the tent as he artfully bandaged up your wounds and poured health cure down your throat, “You’re going to stay alive because even though I did get you for free in the end- I’ve put a lot on the line for this.”

The utterance of your name blindsided you, the specific phonetic variation of your name on Dutch’s lips a foreign concept to you. Though at the same time, it felt right. Like returning home. But he hadn’t changed, you told yourself. He was still rude, materialistic, and conniving. You may have been better off staying with the Skinners. As he pressed into the stab wound in your side- you felt your consciousness fading, the pain blurring your vision and eliciting shouts from your throat.

“Go to sleep,” he mumbled as you felt a hand ridden with jewels caress your hair, “We have a lot to discuss.”

When you next awoke, the hum of night surrounded you as the crackling of a fire sounded nearby. You were laid upon a pile of warm pelts, a thin cross stitch blanket laid over your frame, covering the injuries that each individually created a cold ache. The tent you laid in was a decent size, though smaller than what you had previously slept in with Dutch- it was filled with mismatched furniture; pieces that he had presumably scavenged due to the inability to show his face anywhere. A thin cloth shirt lay beside you; to which you awkwardly pulled on, careful to avoid the extent of your injuries, in favor of losing your long destroyed and stained clothes. From your position you could see a horse, the Count, strong and faithful as ever though its once pristine, shining coat was greyer with what could be presumed as turmoil and age.

Dutch filtered into your vision next, sat beside the horse and facing away from you- his back solid and strong as ever, posture perfect as he cleaned the repeater that you had only seen to inflict pain. You attempted to rise from the bed, instantly wincing as a burn resounded within your side- that gained Dutch’s attention as he spun, his features wearing a look of shock.

“Finally,” He smirked, placing the gun on the ground and rising to come and meet you, “I thought you’d never wake up Princess.”

You glared at him, both for the nickname and his forceful attempts to lay you back down, “I’m a renowned bounty hunter now, you know.”

“Oh, I know that,” A grin marred his features, though it didn’t quite meet his eyes, “I’ve seen you all over the papers- the wonderful tales of justice and empowerment. Always a great read.”

“It isn’t a fantasy story to enjoy over breakfast,” You snapped, “I’m finally doing something good with my life, going straight and working alongside the law. Not against it.”

Dutch scoffed, always the cynic in the face of accomplishment “You’re nothing but a tool to them Y/N- one wrong move, one slightly unlawful kill and you’re finished.”

You cut him off with a laugh then, scrubbing a hand against your eyes in disbelief, “You are seeing me for the first time in eight years and you are seriously giving me a lecture right now?” You paused, preparing to deliver a punch, “The public are betting on me to do it you know, to kill you.”

Dutch stood then, an unbridled rage in his eyes as he towered over you, though he only spoke two words. “You wouldn’t.”

You shrugged, smirking up at him cynically, “How would you know? We haven’t seen each other in eight years, Dutch- the last time we did see each other, you betrayed me.”

“Betrayed you?” Dutch raged, “I never betrayed you; my gun never faltered in your direction though I remember you sending a number of shots my way.”

“You killed Arthur.”

Dutch swallowed, his throat bobbing; the weight of your accusation infecting the strength of his shoulders and setting stone within his chest. He spoke slowly, each word laced with venom as spit flew from the lips, “How would you know?”

“I saw,” your voice shook with anger, “I followed him up there. I saw what you did. I saw the way he begged. I saw the way you left his body lying there. If I hadn’t been there- he would have been left behind to rot.”

“I did what had to be done.” His voice cracked, emotion tiding the way over any rational thought, “I did…what had to be done.”

Shaking your head, you turned from him; the severity of your injuries rendering you useless, unable to run. Dutch refused to move from your peripheral, his gaze heady and severe upon the back of your head. “Leave me alone.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Dutch paused, his fists clenched and hair falling into his eyes, the pomade long worn off, “Because, I miss you Y/N.”

“Bullshit.”

“Y/N,” Dutch was pleading now, grasping at your shoulders and arms, his hands skimming any skin he could find; the actions of a starved man, “No matter what I do, no matter where I go, who I’m with, what semblance of riches I am able to grasp- you never leave my mind,” He gulped, no stopping now, “I’ve been reading about you for years but when I saw that poster up in Manzanita Post, I went insane with worry- I thought I’d be collecting your dead body but when I saw you strung up there I felt even worse; I practically felt the pain you felt.”

“Seriously?” You spat, “You felt my pain? I was being tortured and you spin this to be about you?”

“Princess that’s not-”

“Leave it Dutch,” You growled, slapping away his encroaching hands, “You haven’t changed.”

“What was wrong with me before? I was a leader, I kept you all alive. And what do I get for that? Nothing.”

“You ruined us!” You yelled, “You ruined me! My life since leaving you has been reduced to nothing but surviving, I can’t fade into the background anymore because of the target you placed upon our backs Dutch.”

“You had a choice, you could have left whenever you wanted.”

“But, I couldn’t. Anytime I left I’d be watched like a hawk Dutch. I was finally free, but now you’ve reigned me in again.”

Dutch laughed then, a fabricated cackle as he clutched his stomach- though the grin above his face did not reach his eyes. “I saved your life, Princess.”

“My fate there would have been better than this.”

“Ah, I see.”

The two of you sat in petulant silence then, too stubborn to back down as the weight of trauma and regret outweighed any semblance of forgiveness. The stale air of silence continued for days as you recovered- Dutch would check your injuries and bring you meals whilst you were still bedbound; allowing for only small glimpses of contact as he opted to spend as much time as possible outside of the tent; favoring humidity and his horse over your company. As you recovered, you began to venture outside of the warmth of the bed- opting to explore the surrounding wilderness, ignoring Dutch’s ever watchful gaze. It seemed his possessive streak had never ended, possibly having worsened seeing as though he had the gall to stroll into the camp of some of the most ruthless killers in the state.

In your solitude, you thought of home. You thought of your little bedroom in Beecher’s Hope, a place you could finally call your own. You thought of the family dinners you were missing; Abigail’s horrendous cooking feeling like a distant memory as you ate only scavenged animal meat and local berries. You thought of nighttime bonfires, morning coffee and the glow of the sun upon the crops during the afternoons; sweat congregating at your forehead as you had earned your keep. You missed home, you missed home like you had once missed Dutch.

The knowledge that you couldn’t have both was heartbreaking- serenity and Dutch was not an amicable match. Dutch only brought destruction and suffering; you hadn’t spoken properly in days due to his inability to see the point of others, his leading mindset never faltering. Dutch could simply never be a part of a family. You glanced over at him from your perch then, watched as he brushed down The Count; taking care to smooth down its hair and whisper sweet nothings into its ear.

Everytime he acted contrary to his real self you felt your heart shatter.

You stood then, unable to bear the weight of loaded silence any longer. “I spotted a river down the hill, I’m going to go and wash myself down.”

Dutch paused, seemingly shocked by the sound of your voice, “I’ll join you.”

“Dutch-”

“No, Y/N.” Dutch spoke firmly, raising a hand towards you, “Your injuries are too severe, if you slip and open up your side, your death will be in my hands.”

Rolling your eyes, you pushed past him and sauntered down the hill; listening as his footsteps followed. The silence continued as you walked, all too aware that you would have to remove at least some articles of clothing before him. It was nothing he’d never seen before of course, but it had been years since a man had seen your body in that way- you couldn’t account for your actions if his heated gaze met yours after so long.

“Turn around.”

Dutch grinned, turning slowly with his hands on his hips, “It’s nothing I’ve never seen before, Princess.”

You knew he would say that. You merely scoffed in reply.

As you stripped, you became too aware of the sensitivity of your injuries; the ache in your shoulder, the sting in your stomach and the pain in your side. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” Dutch called, back still turned.

“I don’t-” You screwed your eyes shut, dreading what was to come, “I don’t think I can wash myself.”

“Okay,” Dutch spoke slowly, turning though his eyes remained closed, “Do you want me to help you?”

Gulping, you nodded frantically, “Yes.” You spoke hastily- terrified that if you didn’t respond quick enough then the moment would be over. Part of you felt disgusted at yourself, disgusted at your lack of resistance towards the man that had broken your heart. But, the other part of you felt thrilled; electrified, brought back to life at the thought of him truly touching your skin again. Rolling back his shirt sleeves, he approached; his uncaring facade refusing to break as he helped you peel your shirt from your arms, instantly exposing your bare breasts as you had foregone upper undergarments in favor of allowing your injuries to heal. You gulped, refusing to look at him as he moved to unbutton your pants, stifling groans as you felt the linen brush over a sore spot. He shushed you comfortingly, discarding your pants to the side. Beads of sweat had formed at the base of his temple.

He began to lower you into the cool tide then, cupping water within his palm and pouring it onto your head; shushing you soothingly as he did so. His finger constantly skimmed your body- the edges of your breasts, the inside of your thighs, the corners of your mouth. Your lips pursed as you stared up into his eyes; to which he resolutely stared back, the mask finally breaking. He could’ve done anything to you in that moment- pinned you down beneath the water, stolen your last breaths.

You dwelled on whether that would be the case if anyone other than you laid within his arms.

“Dutch,” you gulped, your throat running dry as you attempted to voice your feelings, “We shouldn’t be doing this.” Your voice came out as a whisper.

Dutch blinked at you, his finger tracing a path down the side of your face- his voice croaked as he spoke, half-speaking half-groaning, “Princess.” The sound of his resistance breaking was mesmerizing and you laid compliantly as his finger began to circle your nipple; creating goosebumps in its wake.

“Tell me to stop, Y/N.”

“I- I can’t.” Your head spun as he moved his hand downwards, holding you steady as he reached down to swirl a ringed finger around your clit. The feeling of the stark cold of the ring matched with the heat of his skin elicited a guttural moan, your eyes rolling backwards as he began to pleasure you. His throat bobbed as he stared down at you, his eyes darkening and intense as he watched you break apart, a familiar mirage of the past. The semblance of a woman could break even the strongest of men.

You broke entirely, gripping Dutch’s hair and smashing your faces together; drenching his shirt in water and kissing him messily. His tongue dove into your mouth as he pinned your face against his own with his free hand, continuing his ministrations upon your clit. You groaned into his mouth, working at the sopping buttons of his shirt. You were all too accustomed to his rough nature during intimacy, often opting to pin you down and clutch your hair over soft, sweet actions. You had cared in the past, but now you couldn’t, opting to claw at his back and hair; scratching his scalp and drawing lines down his back.

Just as you reached for his pants, he stopped; pulling away with swollen lips and ruffled, wet hair- “I’m sorry Darling, we can’t do this here,” he breathed, moving his hand upwards to cup at your breast, “Let’s get you up to my tent and then we can continue.”

You shook your head, eyes pleading and begging, “We can do it on the shoreline, please we can’t stop now.” You knew that if you stopped, you wouldn’t be able to continue; the disgust and horror would set in. Dutch nodded reluctantly, a tinge of suspicion lingering in his eyes. You stumbled out of the water; collapsing together as you hastily pulled his pants from his body before lowering yourself onto his cock. He groaned huskily, his hands flying to your hips as he threw his head back. He had been craving this.

As you rocked and rolled together- you knew that this couldn't happen again. Dutch Van Der Linde was not safe- you could not let him enter your sphere any further. You moaned and cried and whimpered- relishing every last touch and taste and feeling. The sweat congregating between your bodies was slick and hot- connecting every last fiber of skin.

This couldn’t happen again, you told yourself, this couldn’t happen again.

Afterwards, you laid together at the shoreline- naked and bare to the forest as you laid in Dutch’s arms. He told you stories- stories of his time on the run, moments where he thought of you, moments where he caught glimpses of you in the paper, glimpses of you told in the fireside tales of other outlaws. You laughed, smiled, complied- gave him exactly what he wanted- you told him stories of the gang; neglecting important details though providing him with the skeletons of true stories. He too smiled, his lips curling genuinely as he placed a kiss into your hair.

Just before sleep overruled him, he informed you of his plan. His plan for the two of you, how you would travel together in his wagon; find a farmhouse and make a living there. You smiled, agreeing.

But it was the life you already had.

When dawn hit, you crawled out of his arms; allowing yourself one last look before you fled- into the dangers of Tall Trees and the semblance of home that lay just past it. You had to return to your family.

[sorio99]

Sonic Movie 3 Spoilers below the cut, because I have thoughts.

I love how, in the argument about using the Master Emerald again, when it seems like it’s going to turn into a full on fight, it’s KNUCKLES who backs down first. KNUCKLES! The Echidna who, infamously, will stop at nothing, is willing to attack anyone, even his allies, and ESPECIALLY Sonic, if it means defending the Master Emerald. The one who, in the last movie, was fully willing to kill Sonic if it meant protecting the Emerald. And when Sonic tells him, to his face, that he’s going to use the Master Emerald…he backs down, and he trusts Sonic. My heart!

Like many, I was disappointed they were doing the SA2 style story without Amy (at least until mid-credits), but I think the way they handled Shadow being talked down was actually handled beautifully. In the games, Shadow realizes he’s been wrong this whole time because he sees something of Maria in Amy, and remembers what really mattered to her. In the film, it’s him seeing HIMSELF in Sonic, and realizing that there’s still a way to move on. It’s great.

The way they handled Shadow in general was amazing. I think Keanu did an excellent job, of course, but I really appreciate the nuance the writers gave him. He clearly realizes very early on that he doesn’t actually want to destroy the world, he doesn’t even seem to want to hurt anyone until Sonic really starts yapping. But he feels like, with the whole world against him and the loss of Maria, he has no choice but to go through with the Eclipse Cannon plan. It’s heartbreaking, and makes his (relatively) hopeful ending all the more deserved.

Oh my God, the flashbacks to Maria and Shadow. This kid had less screen time than “Ambiguously Evil GUN Lady”, and it still managed to tug at my heartstrings.

I noticed, in the sequence where Gerald, Maria, and Shadow are trying to escape, Walters tells the soldier “Those are kids” not “She’s a kid” or “There’s a kid”. It sort of just hammers home that, yeah, for as much as he is a potentially dangerous Alien, Shadow is still basically a child at this point. Possibly less than a year old, even. And I guess that’s always true for Shadow during the raid, huh? He’s just a kid struggling with things he can’t control. And then the military kill his only real friend.

I’m SO glad they didn’t just give GUN the full hero makeover, I was SO scared they were going to. Not only did they kill the little girl (by “accident”, sure, but they were still aiming a gun at her to begin with), but they explicitly agreed to the building of the Eclipse Cannon, and even had Gerald build it WHILE IMPRISONED in exchange for his freedom, when prior to this we see no evidence he actually did ANYTHING WRONG. Yes, Commander Walters is mostly a good guy, but the organization as a whole is still very clearly NOT to be trusted, to the point where his successor is framed as a direct antagonist. And they don’t even know about the Black Arms!

You know, I was kinda expecting them to do SOME explaining for how Gerald is alive in the modern day, like maybe he was in stasis all this time, or Maria was his child instead of his grandchild, but nope. They just went with “Yeah, this dude’s over a hundred years old, and he’s still able to run around being a genocidal nihilist.”

I love how, even though the ARK and the nose laser aren’t in this, they still have Gerald putting his mustache on the side of the Cannon. It’s just a nice touch.

Stone is always one of the highlights for the movies, but I especially liked how he was portrayed here. Especially with the theme for Eggman that he’s never really had anyone, I’m glad they acknowledged that Stone was the only person who ever cared about or loved him. And with Sonic 2, while it was pretty explicit that Stone was in love with him, here they make it clear that, while Robotnik might not be fully capable of that kind of love, he did still appreciate Stone in the end and, at least from how I read that final broadcast, reciprocated as much as he could. Sometimes, even bad guys have a heart.

So, they were definitely setting up for a Shadow spin-off with this film, right? Like, either a spin-off movie or TV show, because there are just so many loose ends with him arriving via Black Comet, showing up fully formed with no explanation, the confirmation that he survived WITH consciousness in the post-credits stinger. Also, he might still fully have the Chaos Emeralds after the battle. You just KNOW they’re going to be doing something with him between now and Sonic 5.

I know there’s definitely room for survival, given Shadow was up there with him and him surviving against all odds before, but with Jim Carrey having already tried to retire before this, and the man not getting any younger, I think there’s a very good chance Robotnik is actually dead in the Movie continuity now. Wouldn’t be the first time a Sonic spin-off canonically killed off Robotnik (looking at you, Ken), and the way he went out feels very fitting for the character. Of course, there’s every chance he shows up in the next movie as Mr. Tinker, but I think he might actually be toast.

I have no idea what they’re going to do for Sonic 4 (although hopefully it’s better than the game), but I cannot wait to see Amy on the big screen. My girl looks GREAT. No idea who they’ll get to voice her, since the studio clearly learned their lesson with Colleen’s cameo in the first mid-credits (though Colleen is still one of the best VAs in the films), but I’m excited to see her kick ass and maybe flirt with Sonic. Fingers crossed!

LIVE AND LEARN! Hanging on the edge of tomorrow!

[beware-of-pity]

Sins of the Father(s) I

Masterlist

-Next

Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x Reader

Crossposted on Ao3

Summary:

Bruce and you had known each other for as long as you could remember. His father and yours had been best pals and business patterns before Thomas Wayne and his wife Martha had met their demise in that dark ally when Bruce was just nine. You, on the other hand, were not privy to what he had gone through after your father was mysteriously assassinated while conducting his political campaign as he ran for senator of the state of New Jersey after years as Gotham's mayor. Upon the demise filling both of your lives and that of the people of Gotham, Bruce swore vengeance against all criminals, an oath tempered by a sense of justice for which he trained himself physically and intellectually, all to become Gotham City's guardian and protector. Now, two years into this project of his, which you've been kept in the dark of, you've both lost sight of one another. In hopes of getting closer once more, you invited him for Sunday's lunch. Unbeknown to your doubts, he comes.

A/N : I will make a master list soon, if anyone wants to be tagged in future chapters, please comment so. This is written with in mind The Batman (2022) and The Penguin (2024), so spoilers ahead. The first few chapters take place before the events of the movie.I tried to get Matt Reeves' characterization of him as best as I could. I absolutely love that we got an inexperienced, wet, always on the verge of tears, Bruce. He's so hot.

Chapter I: The deal

 The air was crispy, and the gravel of the pathway churned under the wheels of his polished, black, vintage sports car. The last days of October had brought nothing but continuous rain and chills of cold air, but to his luck, this Sunday morning was mostly filled with grey clouds littering the sky and a hint of mist in the air. What a better sign that winter would soon be upon Gotham. As he stirred the wheel to direct his car towards the closed gate where beyond laid a mansion too familiar to his liking, all he could think about was why he had accepted your invitation for Sunday’s lunch. Maybe it was because you had practically begged him on the phone or because it wasn’t the first time he had turned you down in a month. Eventually, his guilt over the neglect he was ensuring over your relationship got to him, which prompted him to call you back and accept the invitation. Despite the night of fighting crimes and the darkness lying beyond the shadows the Saturday night before; for the sake of the occasion, he had turned in ‘relatively’ early from his nocturnal schedule to get some sleep before having to drive to Bristol Township, a few miles outside of Gotham City. Still, he would lie if he were not to say that his eyes did sting a bit at the strong light of the day, which he had almost forgotten the feels of as it grazed his skin. Fortunately for him, he always had a pair of sunglasses lying around, even in the car he barely drove.

He cursed your father, at times, for having built your family home so far away, but he knew he never did so in bad faith. It was as if he was still joking with him, like when he was still alive - how they would banter like a father and son would, which they had been for a time. Your father and his had been close friends and business partners when they were both alive. Best pals, they would call each other, so your families had spent a lot of time together. He fondly cherished those memories of his childhood, coming from a time when he remembered what genuine happiness felt like, which had now turned into a ghost of the past. The Sundays spent at the now burned-down Wayne Manor, the lunches, the dinners, the times you two played together, chasing each other around in the gardens until you would fall and scrap your knee and cry bloody murder - but also like how you would not want anyone but him beside you as your mother cleaned your wounds and bandaged those up. How after that you would not let go of his hand, how you would follow him around like a puppy, or a chick following its mother. He supposed it was because you were younger than him and sought out someone your age to help you through the world. But now? He barely saw you, and what he mostly heard from you came from the news, seeing as you had become a relatively known public figure, or your scarce and few phone calls, which he admitted were not few because you didn’t call, but because he barely had the time to answer them. Maybe it was that which had brought him to accept your invitation, and despite how he had been beating himself up for doing so during his ride here, the moment the mansion had come over the horizon and grazed his eyesight, something else too stirred in him.

Longing. Longing for a past that was just that, the past. For a time that would no longer be, one he would never get back because the world had taken it from him. Now the question was….was he willing to let himself back into what he had left behind to become the darkness that fought what lurked in it?

He didn’t have the time to think of an answer to that question, as he pulled the car into its lowest gear, allowing it to stop in front of the gate where a security guard was stationed. When he presses to the window, with a second double-take, seeing him inside, the guard smiles and greets him.

“Welcome, Mr Wayne. They’ve been expecting you” Bruce strains a smile, an unfamiliar sight on his face, as the guard waves him in.

When he parks at the front of the double door of your family home, a valet opens the door for him, who he leaves the keys of his car so he can move it out of the way, before he turns to the door, now open and with a butler he knows all too well, smiling down at him in front of it. “Mr Wayne, how good to see you again” Michal, your mother's butler, had practically raised him to a degree, or so he would think, just as Alfred had done, so the awkward pull he felt made him feel a stir of uneasiness. Could he be normal for a minute? He chastises himself; he doesn’t want people who he had been around all his life to suddenly think he had snubbed up and was too good to be in their presence because of how reserved he had become.

“It’s good to see you too, Michal” The same strained and small smile he gave the guard at the gate is back on his face, this time, less tense than the previous one “Please, please, come in, it’s too cold to be standing around” Michal hushed him inside. Seems like the heater of the house had been turned on, the drastic change of air making him shiver slightly “Let me take your coat” he allowed for it to be pulled from his frame. His dark, rich material suit, which Alfred had forced upon him, made him feel like a stuffed turkey at the Kentucky Derby, but he had allowed it so when Alfred had reprimanded him about keeping appearances, even with people he considered family. As he looked around the familiar environment he had not been in for a long time, he had not noticed the approaching figure beside him. A detective he was, and he could not feel a snooping mother crawling around.

“Oh, Bruce!” Your mother Marcia always had a fondness for him, especially before her son, your brother, was born, and often had coddled him and rinsed him with affection like he had been her own. His mother and yours had shared the same friendship your fathers had; he knew she had been especially heartbroken at the loss of her friend and for her to go through the same thing with her husband, made Bruce deeply feel for her.

“Mrs Estermont” the lines on his often hardened face, softened. The more he stayed here the more he felt himself melting out of his usual cold and unpassed self. His jaw relaxed under the motherly kisses she was bestowing on his stubbled cheeks “Oh, please. Marcia’s fine. No need for formalities, dear” she said. Bruce strained another smile “Marcia then”

Before he could put another word in, your mother was calling for your siblings to come and greet him. “You must see them, they’ve grown so much I’m sure you won’t recognize them,” she said, obviously proud of the two.

Indeed, it was a drastic change to now have a twenty-year-old boy and a nineteen-year-old girl standing in front of him when he mostly remembered them as a seventeen and fifteen-year-old duo. Had time passed so fast? Or maybe it was him losing time…

“Uncle Bruce” your sister’s voice brought him back to the reality now standing in front of him. Elena was the youngest, and now she had grown into a pretty young woman. He remembered her with brown shoulder-length hair, which she now sported Into a black wolf cut, delicately styled and many earrings, too many than he remembered. Your brother was no different; he too had grown his hair, and not only that, as he now stood taller than he had last time, though still not as tall as him.

“You two look good,” he said, his voice lighter than usual “You’ve certainly grown” While your sister gloated at his praise, your brother smiled mischievously “She’s still short” He knew well how this would end if he did not put a stop to it before it was too late. So, before your sister could protest, he said calmly “She will grow, in time” he said “No need to rush, huh?”

Your mother smiled “Bruce is right. No need to rush nature”, she said “Now, off you go and don’t cause any trouble”

He watched as the two scouted off, now just him and your mother again.

“You look pale, and you look thin” she pointed out bluntly but with a hint of underlying concern in her words. He sighed “I’m fine”, then he smiled slightly “Nothing a good lunch cannot cure, am I right?”

Marcia nodded her head, happy with his words “I suppose you’re right. I should be happy you even came. (Y/N) would have killed me had I asked her to ask you another time”

Bruce raised a brow slightly but kept neutral about her words “Had I had the time I would have come” he reassured “I know” she strained a smile “I just worry”

“Of course, you do” reassurance was what your mother needed most now and he wanted to give her as much as he could “And it’s my fault, I should have been around more” he shook his head. He only had himself to blame for the predicament he found himself in. She, in turn, shook her head as well “Nonsense, deary. You’re a grown man now, it’s normal for you to have taken over every responsibility your father once held.”

Bruce wasn’t sure if he would ever tell her that his connection to your family wasn’t the only thing he was neglecting. The stocks of Wayne Enterprises had been plummeting as of late, and he didn’t know how many papers he had to sign in those meetings with his accountants, Alfred forced him to attend, to recover the losses his negligence had been the cause of. And again, once more, there was no one else to blame but himself. He would be lying if he were to say he did not particularly care about keeping the company afloat. He used the funds he got out of it to fund his nightly crusades, making his bat suit, his gadgets, and the construction of his Batcave - all funded by the company his father had built, which he was currently sailing into a slow bankruptcy. He wasn’t sure your mother would take kindly to such revelation when Alfred didn’t, something his butler always reprimanded him for. He only nodded along to your mother’s words, as if in agreement.

“How’s (Y/N)?” He asked. Your mother sighed, a hint of exasperation in it “she’s….as busy as ever” she said “It was as hard to get you to accept your invitation as much as it was to get her out of Gotham to visit me”

Bruce chuckles drily - that sounds like you. “Does she not visit you often?” He asks “less and less these days,” She says, “It’s always an excuse with her. ‘I have a hearing on Tuesday’ or ‘I need to prepare a speech for Friday’”

It was obvious your mother was not pleased with you avoiding coming to visit, even with good reasoning “It’s a wonder I got her here today, and even now, she’s cooped up in her father’s office, working”

That catches him off guard slightly. He looks at her, thrown, to which Marcia catches on quickly “It’s hers now” Bruce didn’t know if he could understand the emotions your mother filled her words with “In his will, he gave it to her” fondness though was surely one of them.  He could see her, spacing in her thoughts slightly “I still cannot get myself to go in there” something significant in his voice as it quieted “I know.” There’s a finality in his words, the underlying understanding between the two deeper than they both realised. He could almost see it atop the staircase in Wayne Tower, the double doors of his parents’ room locked in a thick chain coiled crudely through the handles, a padlock sealing whoever stood in front of them off from whatever was beyond. He shakes the memory out of his mind

“Do you mind if I….?” His voice trails at the end, but the unsaid words were louder than those he spoke “If you want”, the warmth in her voice was almost a reassurance to him “Only if you think you…” She, too, it seems, cannot bring herself to finish her sentence, but Bruce understands what she wants to say more than if she had said it. “Bruce?” Her calling to him stops him in his tracks before he can step into the staircase “Please….talk to her” Bruce's expression falls slightly. He had not willed himself to admit so, but he had been slightly excited to see you again, but the mention of your father's office and your mother’s plea of conversation brought a wave of mixed emotions.

A sense of nostalgia for the memories he had shared with your father in that office, but also a pang of sadness at the absence he now felt. “….I will,” he replied, his voice slightly quieter. The wooden stairs creaked under the weight of his steps, though the sounds were muffled by the carpet covering them. He made his way to the office, his thoughts swirling in his head. He remembered the times he had spent in there with your father, discussing business and politics or just chatting over a glass of expensive bourbon that he probably was too young to drink. Your father had taught him a lot of things, preparing him to become the man he could have become in his father’s stead had things gone.. differently. Those memories now seemed distant and bittersweet, marred by grief and pain. As he reached the door, he raised his hand to knock, but before he could do so, he heard the sound of your voice from inside. Your mother had not told him you were with someone.

He paused, listening to the tone of your voice and the words you were saying, trying to decipher what was going on behind the door. "I don't care what you think, you've never taken this seriously" your voice was strained and serious "I will not take the fallout of the consequences of your actions coming to bite back at you” Though he knew it was wrong of him, he pushed towards the door to listen in. "you don't understand, you've got to help me out" he didn't know this other voice "I...I didn't kno-“ "you think i should throw myself at your feet to help you out after you lost me half of my father's assets to my uncle?" you asked, "for the sake of you?" you asked almost incredulous. He could almost sense it, the anger and disappointment in your voice, but also a hint of resignation.

“I didn’t know what I wanted” the other woman’s voice was now quiet and closed in “only what was expected of me” "You think I care?" you asked "You've helped your husband ruin my life, content yourself with that, aunt” His brows picked at the dressing of the woman, the realization of what he was listening in dawning on him . He could hear the deep sigh you let out "I'm part of the City Council now, I cannot just go around and get involved in marital spats" Bruce's ears perked up at the mention of you being part of the City Council. He felt a pang of guilt at missing out on this important development in your life which he had learned from the news on the TV. But it also filled him with pride. He always knew you had the potential to make a real difference in Gotham….like your father.

The room went quiet for a moment before the hushed conversation continued "I'll see what I can do", you said quietly, "but I cannot make any promises and remember, you’ll owe me for this” The tension in the room seemed to lessen, and he could almost feel so even from the outside. After a few moments, the sound of footsteps approached the door. Bruce instinctively let go of the doorknob, walking a few steps back as if he had just arrived, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. The door opened, revealing your aunt, who appeared relieved yet sombre. Mascara ran down he slashes, a clear sign of her previous distress, and her hair had become slightly untamed. The fried end caused by the bleach in her hair was seriously not helping her in making her look better. She caught a glimpse of Bruce, surprised by his presence, but quickly composed herself and gave him a thin smile. "Bruce....how you've grown," she said quietly. He nodded in acknowledgement, his eyes darting briefly to your office before looking back at your aunt. "Ms. Estermont" he greeted her, his voice calm and polite. He couldn't help but wonder what had just transpired between you two. “Bruce?” Your voice called from within, a hint of surprise and perhaps, he wanted to believe, excitement. Your aunt seemed to sober “I’ll go” she said “it was nice seeing you again, Bruce” Bruce gave her a polit nod of acknowledgement, moving aside, watching as she walked away, his thoughts still on the conversation he had overheard. As soon as she was gone, he turned his gaze back towards your office, his heart pounding slightly in his chest.

Sitting down in the same chair your father used to sit in, you cut his very image. The dark leather almost engulfs your frame in it. Bruce took in the sight, of you sitting in the very same chair your father had once occupied, a pang of nostalgia mixed with sorrow filling his heart. You looked so much like him, with the same intense gaze and determination etched on your features. The image of you, so reminiscent of your father, tugged at his heartstrings. He had always been fond of your father, who had been a mentor and a friend to him. Seeing you now, taking up the reigns and sitting in his chair, was a bittersweet reminder of the past.

"Bruce" you smiled "Come in,come in"Bruce hesitantly stepped into the office, his eyes locked on your smile. He tried to push aside the guilt he felt for overhearing your conversation, replaced by the warm feeling he always got when you smiled at him. He will not mention what he had heard, he had decided. 

"I'm glad you could make it" you said "i don't think I could go another month without seeing you” His heart skipped a beat at your words. It warmed him to know that you missed him just as much as he had missed you in these past months. "It's good to see you too" he replied, a rare, genuine smile spreading across his face. "two months,huh?" you asked "we saw each other last in August, it's October now” Bruce nodded in agreement, realizing just how much time had passed since the last time he had seen you. "Yeah..." he admitted, his voice softer than usual. "Life just seemed to get busier and busier." It was the excuse he had been telling himself for the past few months, but deep down, he knew he had been avoiding you, trying to hide his alter ego from you. "I'm sure you are, now more than ever,no?"

His heart skipped a bit at your words. What did you know? Have you figured it out? Is that why you had asked him here? Was this all a ploy-

“I mean, I heard about your stocks plummeting, I’m sure you’ve been busier than ever with the company” You finished your sentence and he mentally beat himself up for what thoughts he just had. Even if you had figured it out, why was he suddenly thinking of an escape plan? You were his childhood best friend…the last thing you would do is turn in him to the authorities.

“Yeah…” he fidgeted slightly with his hands, his heart still racing from the spiral he had gone through. You smiled "I'm just glad you accepted my invite," you said "I've missed you, and....I've been worried” Bruce's heart squeezed at your words. He could hear the worry in your voice and could see it in your eyes. He knew he had been distant, and he felt guilty for making you worry. "I've missed you too," he said quietly, taking a few steps closer to your desk. "please, sit" you said, "make yourself at home, it is, after all, no?" With the many times he had spent in this house, his name might as well be on the lease.  He settled into the chair, allowing himself to feel at ease in your presence. As he sat there, he realised just how much he had missed being in your company. The soft lighting in your office, the familiar scent of old books mixed with the faint smell of your perfume, the tickling of the old cloak. It all brought back a wave of nostalgic memories.

"you haven't changed anything, I see," he said, his voice as always never above a murmur "I couldn't bring myself to," you said "It feels like, he's still here even after all those years, watching over me as I took in his steps”

Bruce's heart ached at your words. He could hear the hint of sadness and nostalgia in your voice, the pain of your father's absence still fresh in your mind. "He would be proud of you, you know that right?" he said gently, his gaze fixed on you. "I'd like to think so too," you said "but I still have a long way before I feel like I've reached the point where he would tell me that” He leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the edge of your desk. "You're being too hard on yourself," he said, his voice soft but earnest. "From what I've seen, you've already accomplished so much.” The truth in his words was so that you could not dispute them "You're on the City Council now" he added, a note of admiration in his voice. "You're making a real difference in Gotham. Your father would be absolutely proud of you, just like I am.”

"you've heard?" you asked with joy “I entered in September when the session began but I will be sworn in in January, I participate how I can for now, but I’m planning on building a coalition”

“that seems like a plan” he said “"You should feel proud. Not just anyone can be on the City Council. It's impressive, really”

You scoffed “It's certainly a job when you're opposing people like Mitchell and his second-in-command Tomlin,” you said, slumping slightly in the chair, that was almost too big for you ", especially with the upcoming elections. Oh, god, help me so, if he puts forward another motion to discuss to take away from Reál's rising numbers”

Bruce listened intently, noticing the exhaustion in your tone. The mention of upcoming elections and Mitchell's continuous attempts to undermine Reál's progress was concerning. "Don't let him wear you down," he said, his voice firm and supportive. "You're smarter and more capable than he is. You just need to stay focused and strategic.”

"easy for you to say when you don't have to deal with him almost every day" you retorted "god, I hope he loses so I won't have to deal with him”

“That’s one way to see it” he said with a hilt of his mouth “The better way. I need him out of my hair” you pointed

you turned your wrist to look at the time"Lunch is in about an hour" you said "can I offer you anything? Coffe? Wine?” To which he shook his head “I’m fine” “Oh, come on, Bruce. You can ask for anything,” you said “Don’t be shy” He watched as you stood to walk to the cabinet your father kept his ‘indulgences’, as he used to call them. “Alright, fine” he relented “cup of wine, red”

The cup in his hand felt heavy even when it wasn’t filled even halfway, the cristal shone in the light coming through the heavy curtains “Come with me?” he raised a brow at your question and only then did he notice you had reached in a drawer for the pack of cigarettes now in your hands.  He hadn't expected you to have cigarettes hidden in your office, especially considering how strongly you had opposed your father's smoking habit in the past. His gaze flickered between the pack and your face, wondering if this was just a one-time thing or if you had developed a habit yourself. Perceptive as ever, you took his silent question as your eyes locked “I always told him those would kill him” you fiddled with the packet “In the end he did die…just not from them”

The reference to your father's passing brings a pang of empathy to his chest. He remembered the countless times you had scolded your father, trying to discourage him from smoking. He could hear the resignation in your voice now, accepting the fact that your father's death hadn't been caused by cigarettes but by something else altogether. “Were those his?” He asked “yes” you paused “Now they’re mine” He knew the consequences of smoking all too well, and the thought of you giving in to that habit both concerned and frustrated him. “….I’ll come with you” he said, his voice betraying a hint of resignation and reluctance as he stood from the chair

“Jesus Christ, is it cold” you said once you were both walking in the back of the house, the gravel shifting as you walked along the path. You two were both covered in your coats and yet it seemed the weather was getting the better of you two. Bruce shivered slightly as the cold air hit him. He wrapped his coat tighter around his body, a contrast to the warm feeling he usually felt with you. "Yeah, it's freezing" he agreed, his breath visible in the cold air. He sipped at his cup, hoping for the wine to warm him slightly.

He watched as you placed the cigarette between your lips, the familiar taste of tobacco filling your mouth, he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. He knew how much you had fought with your father about his smoking habits, and now here he was, watching you indulge in this killer of a drug. Once lit, you took a long drag, feeling the nicotine fill your lungs. The harshness of the smoke stung your throat, but you welcomed the familiar sensation. Once exhaled, the smoke dispersed into the cold air, creating a cloud around you two. “I didn’t know you smoked” he pointed “You never told me when you called”

“I don’t” you said “This…is a once in-blue moon kind of thing” “It’s still a thing” he pointed out “Please, Bruce, spare me your cloak of self-righteousness” you huffed “Your objectivity over what I do died the day you pulled away from me” your words were biting…..but they were not untrue. He winced slightly, wanting to rebuff but the words died right on the tip of his tongue “I’m sorry” is all he could master “It’s fine” you reassured “We’re not children anymore….we cannot spend every waking moment together. I understand that”

“Still” he protested “I feel like I’ve abandoned you in a way”

You exhaled your previous drag “You can make it up to me”

He raised a brow “How?” Curiosity waned at him, awaiting your response and suggestion

You smiled with an underline of mischievousness “How about lunch?” You asked, “I’m free next Thursday”

Of course, his first response was to run away and tell you no. Could he commit again to something that wasn’t his vigilante work? But you…you weren’t just someone, you were his friend, his constant and comfort, who had been with him through thick and thin. He couldn’t just ditch you as he had in the past year after his activities had picked up after he had befriended Gordon and the signal was put into place. His grip on the glass of his cup tightened slightly. He pondered your offer for a moment, his mind racing to find an excuse. "I appreciate the offer," he said, his voice laced with a hint of hesitation. God, he hated this, he hated that he couldn't be honest with you about everything. He nodded against his best interest “Thursday then”

He only hoped he would not regret this.

[bumblesimagines]

When Fire Meets Fate

Part 11

Request: Yes or No

Officially putting this series on hiatus!

~~~

While a war had yet to officially break out, everyone knew it was inevitable. Neither side would give up without a fight. Preparations were made and the Painted Table was lit for the first time in many years. Candles were lit and slipped under the table, the glow of the fire illuminating the carved map. (Y/N) gazed over the table as pieces were set across it, only looking away when his wife entered the room under her new title.

"Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm," Daemon announced as everyone bowed their heads to her, himself included. (Y/N) watched the uncertainty that passed over Rhaenyra briefly, her gaze drifting around the room. As a princess, she'd been given much attention, mostly lords and ladies attempting to get in the good graces of her father. But now, she was queen and everyone looked to her for guidance instead of mere approval. She stepped forward, pausing and looking back at the guards escorting her. Rhaenyra lifted her hand, motioning for them to stop, and turned back, stopping again when Rhaena offered her wine. 

"Thank you, Rhaena," Rhaenyra spoke softly, nodding for her to join her on her walk to the table. She nodded for Baela as well and set her cup down, looking over the map and inhaling deeply. She looked up at her husband and he stared back, quirking at brow at her silence. When she realized they were all waiting for her, she swallowed and glanced back at the map."What is our standing?"

"We have thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three hundred men-at-arms," Daemon answered, glancing at (Y/N) with a small frown. "Dragonstone is relatively easy to defend, but as an instrument of conquest, our army leaves much to be desired. We have sent word to my loyal men in the City Watch. I'll have some support there but I cannot speak to the numbers."

"We already have declarations from Celtigar and Staunton, Massey, Darklyn, and Bar Emmon." The maester listed off as the men present bowed their heads in turn. Jace retrieved the pieces and began setting them across the map to show their allies. Rhaenyra nodded and lifted her hand to point. 

"My lady mother was an Arryn. The Vale will not turn cloak against their own kin."

"Riverrun was always a close friend to your father, Your Grace. With Prince Daemon's permission, I've already sent ravens to Lord Grover." The maester piped in again and (Y/N) looked toward Daemon who avoided his eyes.

"Lord Grover is fickle and easily swayed. He will need to be convinced of the strength of our position and that we will support him should it come to war." Rhaenyra pointed out and Daemon nodded.

"I am going to treat with him myself."

"We should look toward Winterfell as well as Storm's End. Starks are known for their loyalty and rarely- if ever- do they break oaths. House Stark could prove to be a strong ally and if they're with us, so is the North. However, Lord Borros Baratheon did not bend the knee when Her Grace was declared heir, his father did. He is someone who will likely need to be convinced but it'll be worth doing if he becomes an ally." (Y/N) spoke up and a knight set a piece above Winterfell. Rhaenyra nodded to herself, growing confident in her new position. Her eyes lingered over one of the names and she turned toward Rhaenys.

"What news from Driftmark?"

"Lord Coryls sails for Dragonstone,"

"To declare for his Queen?" Daemon tilted his head, earning a frown from the older woman.

"The Velaryon fleet is in my husband's yoke. He decides where they sail." Rhaenys reminded the man and Rhaenyra nodded, sighing softly.

"We shall pray for you and your husband's support. Just as we prayed nightly for the Sea Snake's return to good health." Rhaenyra told her pointedly. "There's no port on the Narrow Sea that would dare make an enemy of the Velaryon fleet." Rhaenyra turned back to the table and cleared her throat. "And our enemies?"

"Without a doubt, not a single Hightower will support our cause, kin or not, and Tylan Lannister has stood by Otto Hightower for far too long to turn against him which means the Lannister Fleet is at his disposal. Without the Lannisters, we are sure to have no friends west of Golden Tooth." (Y/N) answered, gazing down at the map as enemies were marked.

"The Riverlands are essential, Your Grace," Daemon muttered.

"Pray forgive my bluntness, Your Grace, but talk of men is moot. Your cause owns a power that has not been seen in this world since the days of Old Valyria. Dragons!" One lord piped in and Rhaenyra glanced at him, gaze casting over those present.

"The Greens have dragons as well-"

"They have three adults, by my count. We have Syrax, Caraxes, and Meleys. Your sons have Vermax, Arrax, and Tyraxes. Baela has Moondancer." Daemon interrupted, drawing a glare from Rhaenyra. 

"None of our dragons have been to war."

"There are also unclaimed dragons. Seasmoke still resides on Driftmark. Vermithor and Silverwing dwell on the Dragonmont, still riderless. Then there are the four wild dragons, all of whom nest here." 

"And who is to ride them?"

"Dragonstone has thirteen to their four. I also have a score of eggs incubating in the Dragonmont." Daemon retrieved a piece and made his way around the table. "Now, we need a place to gather, a toehold large enough to house a sizeable host. Here, at Harrenhal. We cut off the west, and surround King's Landing with dragons. And we could have ever Green's head mounted on spikes before the fucking moon turns." He explained, placing the piece in hand on Harrenhal. The same castle that had seen Harwin's death. (Y/N) wrapped his fingers tightly around his wrist at the thought of going to such a place.

"Your Grace, a ship has been sighted offshore: a lone galleon flying a banner of a three-headed green dragon." The knight, Ser Erryk, revealed as he approached them. Rhaenyra turned to look at her husband as Daemon gave off instructions and walked away. (Y/N) moved around the table and stood beside his wife. 

"If I see my father, I fear I will not be able to hold my anger. You must go and show you will not back down. Otto will have your head, regardless if you do as he says or not. He is not afraid of having others get their hands dirty for him." (Y/N) spoke to her quietly and Rhaenyra nodded, placing her hand over his before stepping away to deal with the traitors.

                    ✶        ✶       ✶       ✶       ✶       ✶

Gazing down at the table, Rhaenyra held a distant look in her eye. The page Alicent had sent her, a memory from their youth, had shaken Rhaenyra. One couldn't simply turn on someone they'd loved once so dearly. But she couldn't forget the betrayal of naming Aegon as king. (Y/N) watched his wife as planning and discussion continued.

"It's no easy thing for a man to be a dragonslayer. But dragons can kill dragons. And have. The simple truth is this: we have more dragons than Aegon." Daemon continued his idea, the plan he'd conjured without their input. His behavior toward them after the passing of King Viserys had considerably soured (Y/N) view of him.

"Viserys spoke often of the Valyrian histories. I know them well. When dragons flew to war... everything burned. I do not wish to rule over a kingdom of ash and bone." Rhaenyra asserted coldly, her growing irritation with her uncle beginning to spill over.

"Are you considering the Hightowers' terms, Your Grace?"

"As Queen, what is my true duty to the realm, Lord Bartimos? Ensuring peace and unity? Or that I sit the Iron Throne no matter the cost?" Rhaenyra questioned, earning a scoff from Daemon.

"That's your father talking."

"My father's dead. And he chose me as his successor... to defend the realm, not cast it headlong into war." 

"The enemy have declared war! What are you going to do about it?"

"Everybody out!" (Y/N) bellowed suddenly, slamming his palm into the table and even making Ser Erryk flinch slightly from his outburst. The lords and knights quietly shuffled out of the room, leaving the couple and Daemon alone. The silver-haired prince paced before the fireplace, glancing toward his friend every few steps. (Y/N) closed his eyes for a moment and turned to look at Daemon, taking slow steps toward the man. "You are mourning your brother, I know that. I've mourned a brother too long ago. But you are allowing your anger to guide your tongue-"

"I am not-"

"Do not interrupt me whilst I am speaking, Daemon!" (Y/N) shouted at him and the prince narrowed his eyes but fell silent regardless. Inhaling deeply and moving closer, (Y/N) continued, "I understand you wish to act as quickly as possible to avenge what happened to Viserys and to help your beloved niece take back what was stolen from her. But I refuse to stand by as you challenge us, unknowingly or not. I care for you, Daemon. Years ago prior to coming to Dragonstone, I wouldn't have given a damn if you passed away in battle. But now I do. You're my family and I know you care for me as well. It is why I've allowed you to speak out of turn, to speak down to us. You have more experience and knowledge of battles, I acknowledge that but Rhaenyra is your queen now and you will treat her as such. Because as much as I care for you, you are not the only man we know with experience who is willing to help us. Question Queen Rhaenyra publicly like that again... and you will be replaced. Have I made myself clear?" 

Staring into his (E/C) eyes, Daemon clenched his jaw, exhaling through his nose and nodding. "Very clear, My King." He muttered lowly and stepped away, walking away from the two and retrieving Dark Sister. He looked back at them over his shoulder before exiting the room. (Y/N) watched him leave, feeling Rhaenyra place a hand on his back. 

"You've done well by me, Husband. Not many can threaten my uncle and live." Rhaenyra murmured, hand slipping from his back to his cheek. She smiled softly at him and leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. "There is something I must tell you... it is one of the reasons I hesitate on war."

"What is it?"

"The Song of Ice and Fire," Rhaenyra whispered, glancing toward the door and sighing softly. "When my father named me heir, he told me a prophecy Aegon the Conqueror had. He claimed that the property foretold the coming of a winter so deadly it ended the world of men. He said to survive, all of Westeros needed to be united and a Targaryen needed to sit the Iron Throne. He had me swear an oath to keep this secret and I am sharing it with you now because I know you will not share it with anyone." 

A soft breath escaped his lips and he reached up to touch Rhaenyra's cheek. "And you believe this prophecy?."

"I know it sounds like nonsense but the way my father spoke about it... I believe that sooner or later, this winter will descend upon Westeros. I cannot allow myself to plunge the kingdoms into war and leave a broken mess for Jace and Luke to mend whilst battling a deadly winter." Rhaenyra told him softly, resting her hand over her husband's and releasing a soft sigh. "The future children of our sons deserve a peaceful future, regardless of whether this prophecy is true or not."

"I understand, Nyra. Whatever you decide, you will have my support."

                    ✶        ✶       ✶       ✶       ✶       ✶

Standing beside his wife's chair, he listened to what felt like endless arguing between lords. Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, absentmindedly listening to them, mind filled with worries and plans. The couple still needed to decide on what to do; risking war or accepting the terms. Both choices would have consequences. Dire consequences that could result in bloodshed regardless of what Otto claimed. His father's words couldn't be trusted, even if he said to be a messenger for Queen Alicent. 

"The Lord of the Tides!" Ser Erryk announced loudly, drawing the couple from their thoughts and toward the doors as the man entered, cane in hand. The sight of him brought Rhaenyra to her feet, a soft gasp leaving her. "Lord Corlys Velaryon... and his wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen." 

Lord Corlys entered the room with a limp, his neck heavily bandaged but his strength could not be doubted. Rhaenys stood beside him proudly and their granddaughters followed behind them, both looking equally relieved and pleased to see their grandsire back on his feet. "My lords." He greeted them hoarsely.

"Lord Corlys... It brings much relief to see you hale and healthy again." Rhaenyra spoke softly, smiling at the man. Lord Corlys studied her for a moment, gaze briefly shifting onto (Y/N).

"I'm very sorry about your father, Princess. He was a good man." Rhaenyra's gaze turned down when he regarded her with her old title but Lord Corlys' attention had turned toward his granddaughters as they took their places beside Jace and Luke. Glancing at his wife, he limped toward the table and swept his gaze over the room. "And where is Daemon? I am aware he's quite close to you both."

"Prince Daemon is attending to other matters at the moment." (Y/N) answered and Lord Corlys hummed, moved around the table, and studied the map, taking note of allies and enemies.

"Your declared allies?"

"Yes."

"Too few to win a war for the throne." He pointed out, lifting his eyes toward the couple.

Rhaenyra stepped forward, clearing her throat. "Well, we would also hope to have the support of Houses Arryn, Baratheon, and Stark."

"Hope... is the fool's ally," Lord Corlys said bluntly and Rhaenyra glanced back at the map, pursing her lips slightly. 

"Both Arryn and Baratheon share blood with my house. But all of them swore oaths to me." 

"As did House Hightower, if I remember correctly." His gaze flickered toward (Y/N).

"As did you, Lord Corlys." Rhaenyra's reminder made the man fall silent, his eyes meeting his wife's before he turned and gazed upon his granddaughters and their stance beside the two Velaryon boys. He nodded lightly and looked back at Rhaenyra.

"Your father's realm... was one of justice and honor. Our houses are bound by common blood and common cause. This Hightower treason cannot stand." Lord Corlys voiced. Rhaenyra's brows furrowed at his wording, glancing back to her husband. "You have the full support of our fleet and house, Your Grace." 

"You honor me, Lord Corlys." Rhaenyra breathed and when Lord Corlys looked toward his wife, they knew Princess Rhaenys had much to do with his decision. Turning to look at the woman, Rhaenyra nodded with a thankful smile. Inhaling, Rhaenyra gazed over the map with a more relaxed figure. "But, as I said, to my bannermen, I made a promise to my father to hold the realm strong and united. If war's first stroke is to fall, it will not be by my hand."

"You do not mean to act?"

"Taking caution does not mean standing fast. I wish to know who my allies are before I send them to war." Rhaenyra responded, watching him step closer. Lord Corlys nodded along to her words, looking back down at the Painted Table.

"The consequence to my... near-demise in the Stepstones is that we now control them. I took care to fully garrison the territory this time. A total blockade of the shipping lanes will be in place in days, if not already. The Triacrhy have been routed. The Narrow Sea is ours." Lord Corlys revealed. Rhaenyra's eyes widened and she glanced around at her supporters, releasing a breath of relief. "If we... further seal the Gullet, we can cut off all seaborne travel and trade to King's Landing."

"I shall take Meleys and patrol the Gullet myself." Princess Rhaenys said, coming to a stop beside Rhaenyra and nodding to her in support. 

"When we drain the Narrow Sea, we can surround King's Landing, lay siege to the Red Keep, and force the Greens to surrender." Lord Bartimos offered his plan but (Y/N) stepped forward, gazing down at the table.

"While that plan may work, we first need enough men to surround King's Landing and those men can be provided to us through Winterfell, the Eyrie, and Storm's End." (Y/N) chimed in, turning his eyes onto the maester who bowed his head in turn.

"I'll prepare the ravens."

"We should bear those messages," Jace spoke up, pulling his parents' attention away from the table and toward him. "Dragons can fly faster than ravens and they're more convincing. Send us." He explained, holding his mother's gaze. 

"The Prince is right, Your Grace." Lord Corlys agreed, turning to look at the two. 

Rhaenyra looked at her husband and met his eyes, brows, and lips twitching. Her eyes told him enough of her concerns but when he gently wrapped his fingers around her wrists and nodded, she inhaled deeply. "Very well. Prince Jacaerys will fly north. First to the Eyrie to see my mother's cousin, the Lady Jeyne Arryn, and then to Winterfell to treat with Lord Cregan Stark for the support of the North. Prince Lucerys will fly south to Storm's End and treat with Lord Borros Baratheon. We must remind these lords of the oaths they swore. And... the cost of breaking them." 

With that, the room dispersed and Rhaenyra headed up to one of the many balconies after writing the messages as their sons prepared for their departure. (Y/N) joined her on the balcony, placing his hand over hers and staring out at the sea. Their sons would be heading off into the world as man-grown, helping them on their quest. But (Y/N) couldn't shake the lingering feeling that something was wrong. 

"I believe we'll garner the support of House Stark and House Arryn. House Baratheon worries me. Lord Borros is not exactly an easy man to sway and the fact he himself didn't swear oath... He'll use that as reasoning enough." (Y/N) muttered quietly, turning his head to look at his wife. Rhaenyra looked down at the letters in her hands and sighed.

"We must have faith." She whispered and (Y/N) sighed, looking back out at sea. Rhaenyra turned around as the boys approached them and she smiled softly. "It's been said that as Targaryens, we are closer to gods than to men. And the Iron Throne puts us a touch closer, perhaps. But, if we are to serve the Seven Kingdoms, we must answer to their gods. If you take this errand, you go as messengers... not as warriors. You must take no part in any fighting. Swear it to me now under the eyes of the Seven." Ser Eryyk stepped closer with the book, extending his arms forward.

"I swear it." Luke reached out first, resting his hand on the book as he spoke. (Y/N) turned around to look at them, swallowing down the worry bubbling up in his chest.

"I swear it." Jace followed after a moment of hesitance, resting his hand on the book as well. 

"Thank you." Rhaenyra nodded to Ser Erryk and stepped forward, looking down at the letters. "Cregan Stark is... closer to your age than he is mine. I hope that as men you can find some common interests." 

"Yes, Your Grace." Jace took the letters from his mother, safely tucking them away.

Turning her attention away from her eldest and onto Luke, Rhaenyra took in the worried look on his face. "Storm's End is a short flight from here. Lord Borros is an eternally proud man. He will be honored to host a prince of the realm and his dragon. I expect you will receive a very warm welcome." Rhaenyra assured, placing the letter in Luke's hand and smiling fondly. 

"Yes, Mother- Y-Your Grace." Luke stammered, ears turning a soft pink.

"Do not freight if they prove to be stubborn. Your safety is much more important to us than their support." (Y/N) said, stepping forward and reaching out to touch Jace's arm before looking down at Luke. "Come home safely. That is all I ask for."

"We will," Jace assured and placed a hand on Luke's shoulder, smiling widely at his brother. Luke returned the smile and nodded to his father before Rhaenyra dismissed them, watching them walk away. As they walked, Jace spoke to his brother, lightly shaking his shoulder and smiling down at him. They could only assume it was an attempt at easing Luke's anxiety regarding his flight. It'd be his first time traveling alone without his brother or parents to guide or protect him. Jace had been born with the ferocity and confidence of his mother. A headstrong, stubborn young man. But Luke... Luke reminded (Y/N) so much of his sister. Kind, soft-hearted. A sweet boy in a cruel world. 

"They will be... They will be alright." Rhaenyra whispered to herself, tilting her head toward the sky and blinking away the tears forming in her eyes. Breathing out through her mouth, she nodded to herself and stepped toward the stone railing, resting her palms against it. (Y/N) inhaled and stood beside his wife, pleading with the Mother to bring his boys back home safely. He closed his eyes and made one last silent plea to the gods above before opening them and watching Arrax and Vermax take to the skies alongside Meleys. (Y/N) watched Arrax take a turn, breaking off from the trio first and disappearing into dark storm clouds. The two waited until Vermax and Meleys disappeared from view before stepping away from the balcony, reaching for each other's hands as they returned inside.

Only a day or two had passed with no word from either of their sons. The feeling in (Y/N)'s chest had intensified, leaving him unable to find much sleep at night as he stayed up, gazing toward the balcony in hopes of seeing the outline of dragons approaching. Rhaenyra had similar issues although she'd been able to get at least a few more hours of sleep than him before they forced themselves out of bed and to the Painted Table for more planning.

The Hightower could only stare blankly at the table, offering input when asked and dismissing the worries of his wife. His gaze lifted from the soft glow of the table when Rhaenyra placed a hand on his shoulder, attention directed toward her uncle who walked toward them with a glum look on his face. (Y/N) straightened up, holding Daemon's gaze as the men stopped before them. The silver-haired prince glanced at the other lords, reaching out a hand to touch (Y/N)'s arm and leading them toward the fireplace to speak privately. 

"I have received..." Daemon began but found himself unable to continue whilst looking at them. He turned away and faced the flames of the fireplace, taking in a deep breath before continuing. "I have received word from Storm's End that... that parts of Arrax have washed up onshore. Lord Borros states a dispute had occurred between Prince Aemond and Prince Lucerys before both princes' departed. It is to be believed Prince Aemond killed Prince Lucerys." 

(Y/N) felt his vision spin, feet staggering backward as he took in Daemon's words. The prince quickly steadied the man, muttering his apologies to the couple. Rhaenyra stumbled forward, lifting a hand toward Daemon when he attempted to reach toward her. Her lips parted, watery eyes staring into the flames, and hands coming to rest on her abdomen. She nearly doubled over, sobs beginning to shake her shoulders violently. (Y/N) could hardly breathe, feeling as if his lungs were being squeezed for every last drop of air. He leaned forward, resting his hand on the stone wall and taking in breaths, holding a clenched fist to his chest as the tears fell from his eyes.

Leaning in, Daemon whispered to the grieving man, "An eye for an eye, a son for a son. Lucerys shall be avenged."

[thedo0zyslider]

Martyn is...not very happy with how things have turned out thus far. Things with him personally, he means. The game has been relatively normal so far, expect for a few more purple symbols than usual that is.

Currently, Martyn is curled up in the Big Dogs Shack, hiding in bed like a child. It's for a very good reason, part of him thinks so anyways. The rest of thinks it's a pretty stupid one, and that he's too old for all this....this shit he would do as a teenager. But here he is anyways.

Against his will, his tail flicks in agitation again. Martyn groans and buries his head into the pillow. He had a new stupid tail and new stupid ears that just seemed to have a mind of their own! He doesn't want to a damn cat! He's a Big Dog, for gods sake!

Well, it's not that he doesn’t want to be a cat. He quite likes the animals, and he's a cat person at the end of the day. It's just.....They'd made him into a calico cat. The species that is, for the most part, female. And Martyn has been away from all that stuff for a while. He's been done transitioning for years now, so why'd They have to make him a blummin' calico cat!? They know how sensitive he is about it! (Or at least, he thinks they do...) Buncha jerks...

He turns in the bed again, just as the door creakes open. It seems the other Big Dog has entered their base. Martyn knows it's Jimmy, because his friends footsteps are familiar to him as breathing is. And also he's the only one it could be, realistically.

"Martyn! There you are!" Jimmy says, his footsteps growing closer to the bed. Much to Martyn’s dread. "I've been looking-"

The blonde knows he will have to force himself up with a sigh, because of he doesn't, the canary will just do it for him. So Martyn sits up, turning to face his old friend, able to feel his ears flattened against his skull already. "....Hi Tim."

"I was gonna ask why you were hiding but...I think I know why." Jimmy mumbles, taking a few hesitant steps closer. His wings are pressed tightly to his back, and his whole body language is one of caution. It's nice, that's he's being all considerate.

"Obvious innit it." Marytn huffs, his ally sitting down on the bed next to him. He shakes the covers off himself, properly revealing the tail as well. Jimmy’s eyes flick towards it, and his eyes widened with something. He thinks it's a new understanding of the situation.

"You scared to go outside now?" The canary asks, shuffling closer. Martyn let's him, until their shoulders are touching. The touch is comforting, something he kinda needs in the moment.

"Yes!" He groans, burying his head into Jimmy’s chest. The other just lets out a huff, and removes him, so they can have this conversation face to face. "What if someone-"

"You really think anyone here is gonna be like that?" Jimmy asks, raising an eyebrow. And Martyn has to be really off his game, for Tim to be the smart one here. Its usually the other way around in these scenarios. "Besides, four of us already know."

"I know. Sorry." He sighs, running a hand through his hair; which had gotten a little messy during all the flopping around he'd just done. "Old habits I guess."

"It's fine." Jimmy smiled earnestly, reaching out a hand. He gave an experimental scratch behind Martyn's ears, and the other couldn't help but lean into it. He didn’t want to lean into it, that was an instinctual thing! The blonde still didn't want to be a cat, and never would be.

"I knew that would work!" The canary smiled, looking stupidly pleased with himself. Martyn let out another groan, his face flushing in embarrassment. He totally didn't lean into it when Jimmy went to give another scratch, and he certainly did not purr about it either.

"You little rascal." He huffs, moving away so Jimmy can longer reach him. The canary just laughs, and lamely tires to chase after him. As a result, Martyn ends up on the floor giggling, and closer to the door.

Jimmy leaves him a few minutes later, saying he should consider going outside. Now that he's feeling better and all. Martyn hums, and takes that into some real consideration.

Maybe he will finally leave his house...

______________________________________________________________

Once leaving the house, Martyn isn't to sure where to go. He doesn't really wanna run into anyone and face any questions about the....everything. Unless whoever he runs into is one of five people. Those five being the four that already know, and the only other person that has weird gender stuff. That he knows of, anyways.

So he ends up knocking on his ex soulmates door, and praying no one else is home.

The front door opens, and the blonde suddenly wonders if this was a bad idea, and if he should be regretting all his life choices.

"Martyn. What do you want?" Cleo asks, leaning against her front doorway. They don't look displeased to see him, but they also don't look to happy either. Martyn ignores that, the look the zombie is shooting him, the growing ball of anxiety in his stomach, and tries to force out words instead.

"Um well, you see-" He begins, a little unsure. As if right on cue, his tail starts flicking. Cleo notices, and raises a curious eyebrow The blonde holds back a sigh at the movement he cannot yet control, and gestures to the ears now atop his head. "It's about....this."

"Okay, you're a calico cat now...?" The zombie says, not quite getting it. Which is fair, considering he has never talked about it before. (Something he probably should've done with his damn soulmate back in Double Life, but the past's the past and this is the present.)

"And calicos can only be...." Martyn trails off, letting the statement finish itself. He knows Cleo's smart enough to work it out.

"Oh." She says, her eyes lighting up in understanding. They stop leaning on the doorway, and move out of it completely. "Get inside."

"Thanks." Martyn says, slipping inside their house. God, even all his movements fell cat like now. Which sucks big time. It's making him feel worse, if anything.

"Don't mention it." Cleo says, shutting the door behind both of them. No one else seems to be home, since the house is quiet expect for the sounds the pair makes. Martyn is grateful for this, because he doesn't want Etho to overhear this, and Grian already knows. The zombie shows him to where one of their beds are, and gestures for him to sit.

"So....does anyone know about it?" They ask, watching as Martyn awkwardly plops himself down on the white bedsheets. On a bed Etho probably stole a few weeks back, no less.

"Yeah. Jimmy, Pearl, Grian, and Bigb." He says, wrapping his new tail around his legs. He strongly resists the urge to kneed the bed. "And you now, I guess."

"So whoever makes these games just forced you to come out, basically." Cleo says, sitting in the opposite side of the bed next to him. She looks a little pissed at that, so much so Martyn believes she would fight the Watchers herself. He's touched by the implied sentiment, really.

"Yeah..." Martyn mumbles. If he's upset by it, and he definitely is, the blonde tries not to show it. He doesn't wanna dampen the mood more than his presence normally does.

Cleo repeats the same sentiment Jimmy had just an hour before, and Martyn wants to scream just a little bit. "Well, no ones gonna hate you for it."

"I know! Jimmy already told me that." He said, throwing his arms up in the air a bit. Like a petulant child would. "It's just scary."

He continues with a sigh, putting his hands back down and clutching them at his sides. Martyn wonders if there are any hidden claws he could unsheathe and accidently dig into his flesh. "And Ren. Ren won't know. And I kinda wanted to tell him before anyone else...."

"I think he'll find out, in his own Ren way probably." Cleo says, surprisingly reassuring. Martyn doesn't know why he's surprised, when this is exactly what he came here for. "I just have a feeling like that."

"....Okay." Martyn mumbles, somehow, feeling reassured by those words. Some part deep down in him knows that Cleo is right, and that Ren will find out in his own, diggty dog like way. Like he was always going too.

"You should just walk around, honestly. No hiding the tail or the ears." Cleo says with an easy shrug. And for some reason, Martyn finds himself taking their advice. But it's always been like that, he takes the zombies advice almost on instinct. Like some part of him knows that she's admittedly smarter about some things.

It was just another weird thing about their relationship, he supposes.

"Really?" Martyn says, consideration made clear in his tone. "They're gonna say something..."

Cleo just snorts, and gives him a little bit of a look. "Do you think Bdubs is smart enough to put two and two together? Or Joel? They'll probably just think you have cute little ears now."

"You have a point..." Martyn mumbled, now actually somewhat sold on his ex-soulmates idea. His tail flicked again, but probbaly with a more positive emrion than it had before. "....You think these are cute?" He added with a sly little smile, not one to miss that comment at the end there.

"Get out before I make you." Cleo snorted, going to try and shove him off the bed. Martyn held back a giggle, and quickly doged out of their reach. It didn't work fully, as they manged to shove him just a little bit.

"Yes ma'am." Martyn said, getting off and the bed and to his feet with a slight stumble. "Lovely speaking to ya" The blonde called over his shoulder, not looking back as he made his way towards the door.

"Can't say the same here." Cleo yelled after him, but it clearly wasn't too serious, and there was a slight laugh in her tone still.

Martyn smiled at the sound, and let the house feeling much more confident than he did when he had entered.

______________________________________________________________

In taking Cleo’s advice, Martyn had decided to just do so chores. Said chores included boring and mundane things, like gathering wood, stone, food, and maybe placing a couple of cheeky sweet berry bushes down here and there. Just in case they did manage to nick someone.

He would not seek out people like he normally would. The blonde decided go just simply be for once. Whoever found him found him, and he would face the questions and stares when they did.

It wasn't of any surprise to him when Pearl was the first person he spotted. Martyn had a feeling something like that would happen, especially since he was a little near to the mounders base.

He spotted his friend as she left her base, slipping outside of the Mounders walls to do whatever. Pearl hadn’t spotted him just yet, but he couldn't just not call out a greeting, that would be rude. And he wasn't gonna be rude to Pearl, of all people.

"Hi Pearl!" Martyn yelled out, throwing his arm up in a friendly wave.

The brunette looked up in suprise, her head twisting around rapidly. When Pearl finally saw where he friend was standing, her eyes lit up. "Martyn! Hi!"

He smiled back, and walked forward, so they could talk easier. As he moved forward, he saw the way Pearl’s eye widened at the sight of his ears, and suddenly had a very good idea of what her reaction was going to be.

"Your ears!" Pearl says when they are standing infront of each other, reaching to cup his face. Martyn let's her, very aware of the fur that now lines his cheeks as well. She squishes them in wonder, before going to fiddle with his ears. The blonde can only let out an amused huff at all her prodding, leaning into the contact on newly formed instincts.

"Yeah, I'm a cat now." He responds, cheekily flicking his tail around her legs. Pearl lets out a gasp, her eyes moving towards the new apendage.

"And you have a tail!" Pearl almost squeals her words out, watching the blonde's tail flick with even more wonder if her eyes. If that was even possible. Martyn almost has to hold back a chuckle.

"Yep. And I'm a calico." He says, trying really really hard to hide the sourness he feels over it. But apparently he doesn't try hard enough, because Pearl still catches it, and a frown stretches across her features.

"If anyone's rude to you, I'll kill them myself." Pearl says firmly, giving him another scratch behind the ear, for she is still holding his face in her hands.

"Greens can't kill people!" Martyn giggles, leaning into the touch without even thinking about it anymore.

"Doesn't matter!" Pearl says a little too cheerfully, rubbing the fur on his cheeks again. Martyn had forgotten half his friends were cat people, admittedly like himself, and that a lot of them were going to have this reaction. So today, and maybe the next few, were going to be filled with a lot of this. A lot of pets and ear scratches. Not that he exactly hated it, it was just something the blonde now had to get used too.

"We should go show B and Grian! And Jimmy!" Pearl exclaimed after a moment of rather comforting pets, her eyes lighting up once more.

"Tim's already seen me!" Martyn says, letting his cheeks get properly smushed, like a grandma would do.

"Well BigB and Gri havent!" Pearl's insistent on it. And before the blonde knows what's happenings she's grabbed him by the hand, and is now taking him towards BigB's weird hole base. Martyn accepts his face, holding back a few more laughs as he does so.

They thankfully find BigB at his own place, and not the heart foundation, exactly as Pearl had thought they would. She flags their friend down by calling out his name until he hears her, mainly because neither of them really know where he would be hiding in his labyrinth of a base. This strategy works surprisingly well.

BigB appears from around a corner, like some sort of damn ghost, and Martyn has to stop himself from jumping out of his skin. And to both of their surprises, Grian follows behind him, wings a little messy. They had to have been in the mines then, for the parrots wings to be full of that much soot and dust.

The two men approch them cheerfully, and rhe blonde forgets everything Cleo, Pearl and Jimmy had been telling him all day. He figures this is going to become routine for the day, and maybe the one after that.

"Martyn," BigB said, studying his friend carefully. Like the difference wasn't obvious. The blonde tried to shrink under his gaze, acutely aware if the way his tail flicked behind him. "You're a cat now."

"Isn't he adorable!?" Pearl exclaimed, going to rub his ears again. Martyn wrinkled his nose at that, and moved away best he could. Just because he had ears didn't mean Pearl could pet him all she wanted. Though she would damn well try, regardless of his opinion on it.

Grian snickered, watching his tail move from side to side in amusement. "Not so much of a big dog now, eh?"

"Oh hush, bird brain." Martyn snorted, suddenly smacking the avian in the leg with the very tail he was so amused by.

"Hey!" Grian squawked lightly, his wings starting to flare out behind him. Martyn smiled smuggly, and shuffled a little out if the way, knowing his friend was not afraid to smack someone. With his hands or his wings. The other two people laughed at their antics, giggles filling the air.

Maybe Cleo was right after all. Maybe walking around wasn't such a bad idea after all. Even if Pearl and BigB were insistent on showing him off to everyone.

It's not really what Martyn had in mind for the day, but he'll go with it. Especially if it's with these three people. Maybe Jimmy will even join them, and make his day even more unexpected.

Yeah, yeah that would be nice. A day running around with those four, just like they used too. That would be nice.

______________________________________________________________

By the end of the day, Martyn had been paraded around to everyone. Every member of the server had seen his new tail and ears, and most of them had fawned over it and called him cute. And maybe he has attempted to scratch a few certain people for such comments as well. Not many, just a few. To test if he had claws is all.

There were only two interactions that stuck out in his mind, ones that he would probably replay over and over again in his head for a few days at least. And the first one happened when he stumbled across an old teammate

He found Scott once Pearl brought him up to the cherry Blossom, still dragging him around by the hand like a toddler. Martyn just let her do so, not wanting to kill her enthusiasm. And the cherry trees did smell rather nice, now that he had a better sense of smell on him. So going up the pink mountain wasn't all too bad, even if his feet were staring to tire from all the walking he'd done. BigB had long since left them for that excat reason, actually, and Martyn couldn't fault him. There were walking around the whole server without a horse.

After marveling at him for a few minutes, Gem takes Pearl into her house for something, a trade the blonde thinks. Impulse hadn’t been home at the time, reportedly with Bdubs or Skizz. Which just leaves Martyn and Scott, the two men standing in a silence that is only a little bit stilted.

Matyn awkwardly shoves his hands in his hoodie pockets, tail flicking against some loose cherry petals on the ground. He feels like there's something they should talk about, considering how close they were last game. A game he knows they both remember. Thankfully, Scott wants to get to the point, taking a few thoughtful steps closer to the blonde.

Scott hummed, scanning over his ears and tail. He'd clearly figuired it out, why Martyn was a calico. He'd probabky done so instantly, actually, knowing Scott and how stupidly perspectives he tended to be. "You never told me, back on the island."

"Never came up." Martyn shrugged. Yet his tail still flicked uneasily, old memroies making some part of him feel unsure about this situation. Even though he knew not to be. "You're not mad, are you?"

"Nope." Scott smiled reassuringly, bumping their shoulders together. "I wish you had, but I understand why you didn't."

Martyn smiled back at him, and playfully flicked his tail around the others legs. "So you're not mad?"

"Not at all." Scott confirmed, right as Gem and Pearl excited the formers house, stuff now being carried in both of the women's arms. Martyn internally groaned at the thought of having to lug that around with them, and hoped Pearl had the sanity to make a stop back at home before going anywhere else.

The next encounter he remembered was at the end of the day, on his way home. As sunset was falling and just under an hour after he and Pearl had parted ways.

On his way back to the mesa, he runs into Tango. Or rather, he runs into Ren in Tango's body, as some part of him is saying.

He's not going to question, or even think about why They decided to do that. Martyn just feels his breath hitch, and his limbs go stone cold.

The two of them just stand there for a moment, looking and staring in what has to be either shock or awe. Martyn cannot tell which.

Ren stares back at him knowingly, through Tango's red eyes, and Martyn has never felt so observed in his life. It's as if his old friend is searching every inch of him, taking in everything so he never forgets it again. And his new features as well, features he stares at way too long for Martyn to be comfortable with.

Ren slash Tango opens his mouth to speak, and for a moment Martyn is a little scared. He's scared of what the other will say, and what cruel words might be hurled at him.

Then he remembers that this all nonsense, and that these people are his friends. They are not like those people, they are not like that.

He remembers Cleo and Jimmy’s words for what has to be the seventh time that day, and feels a little better once more.

"Hey." The other man says, tentative.

Martyn mumbles back. "Hey."

Ren slash- he's just going to call him Ren, since that's who's really speaking here, let's out a small smile. Martyn misses his dog ears and the little fangs you could always see when he moved his mouth. Not to say Tango was and looking or anything, his body just wasn't the right fit for this one particular dog guy. "Been a while, hasn't it?"

"Yeah." Martyn smiled, feeling himself go a bit less stiff by the moment.

"Your ears," Ren says, sounding a little uncertain of how to broach this topic. Martyn can't blame him for it, because he isn't quite sure either. "You never told me before."

"I didn't know how." The blonde says, honest. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it's not a big deal." Ren smiles gently. Martyn smiles back, no longer feeling scared anymore.

Everyone was right. No one would get mad at him. His friends were not those kinda people.

"Well, Tim's waiting for me back at Baxter." He continues after a moment moment now comfortable silence. "See you a different time?"

"Yeah, a different time." Ren confirms, giving him a small wave as he starts to turn away. The blonde waves back.

"Makre sure Tango knows somehow, will you? I don't want him being left out." He gives one last request. He'd hate for one of their group to be left out because of them, after all.

"Will do!" Ren calls, and that is where their meeting ends. Both men go back to their own homes, confident they will see each other once again. Maybe not here, but elsewhere, in a different place maybe.

Martyn goes home, to his syupid little dog house, feeling a lot better than he had when he woke up that morning.

[jayflying]

Please give no stranger curses au lore for Lizzie if you have any, i love this girl so much

Age is a difficult thing to measure for Players. Time flows at different rates between worlds, "time causes aging" is not universally true, and even death by old age simply causes a Player to reincarnate, regaining their memory as they mature again. Because of this, Players can be kind of... weird, about how they describe their own age, and who they consider to be "older" or "younger" than them.

But if you ask anyone who knows of her? LDShadowLady is old. The kind of old you don't want to pick fights with. The kind of reputation you respect, or else. Over her lifetimes, she has experimented with her own Player magic enough that she has elevated it to an art form. She may not have the raw power of a god, but she has enough experience and creativity that to any mortal she is just as dangerous.

In her youth, it was that skill and talent for violence which made her a close friend and ally to the God of Champions. Many of his worlds, his games and challenges, were at least partly her design. She still doesn't understand why he chose to vanish from his domain, or why he did so without warning. Lizzie misses him. (Smajor was a good friend.)

As for where she enters relevance in this story, though: unsurprisingly, the answer starts with Joel. A distinct lack of Joel.

Lizzie and Joel have been together for a long time, across many lifetimes, so short absences and solo adventures are nothing new or unusual. Eight months of radio-silence, though? And failing to show up to a date he had organized? Probably meant something was wrong.

When Lizzie finds the Life Games, she understands exactly what she is looking at. She's played a few games like this in her time, after all. Helped run quite a few more, though hers were always kinder. She takes her time, carefully crafting protections against the game's magic, then dives in with a few clear goals in mind.

Find her husband.

Raise as little suspicion as possible.

Escape with Joel at the end of the game.

All things considered, the hardest part is probably pretending that any of the spells and curses cast over this world actually affect her. She keeps forgetting that, from everyone else's perspective, this game is serious. Sometimes it's a struggle to hold her tongue. And when the boogeyman curse falls on her, she awkwardly fumbles her attempts to play along. At least the red-life bloodlust is easier to feign.

Somehow, amidst all the chaos of Last Life's end, as literal gods take to the battlefield, Lizzie's husband rescuing mission is one of the few things that goes relatively according to plan. (She's really not sure how it turned out so well.) Even if they don't quite make it out alive, she does manage to work a little bit of magic and ensure they reincarnate together, in the same world.

They'll meet again. It's only a matter of time. She almost hopes they meet before they remember who they are, this time. It's been a while since the last time she and Joel have gotten to experience falling in love all over again.

[skylarstark4826]

As Wakandan aircrafts came in to escort the people of Wakanda back home from the sinking sea leopard, Namor and Shuri worked diligently to help and put their people at ease. It was clear that the people of Talokan wanted to kill all of the Wakandan’s, but they wouldn’t dare disobey K’uk’ulkan. Despite the tension between the two worlds, they all worked together to clean up their mess.

Attuma and Namora worked with Okoye and Aneka to coordinate plans on how they would get the sinking ship back to Wakanda. Any falling bodies and vibranium weapons that had slipped into the sea would have to be collected and taken back or hidden in Talokan as well. They couldn’t afford to leave an ounce of vibranium behind to be discovered by a greedy nation.

Namora found the entire affair irritating, but Attuma seemed eager to be around the former General. Standing closer than he probably should and happily accepting any glares Okoye tossed his way.

After helping a few of the wounded become stable, Shuri approached the god king.

“Namor.”

His gaze lifted to meet hers before he excused himself from his discussion with a few of his warriors. “Shuri.”

“Thanks for all the help with this.”

He shook his head. “No need. We both played a part in this.”

“No. I wanted a peaceful solution.” Her eyes stung. “And you killed my mother.”

“Because she killed my people and stole you and the scientist away.”

“We could have talked about this. In what world would spilling more blood solve anything.”

“You tell me.”

“You robbed me of the only relative I had left after I told you about all of my losses.” Her eyes grew wet. “You burned down my world, so it was only fair that I returned the favor.” K’uk’ulkan watched her turn away while cursing under her breath softly as a few tears began to fall. “Nevermind. I don’t know why I even approached you.”

He moved around her and stopped her retreat. “Why did you approach me?”

She wiped her tears away. “You won’t help.”

He frowned. “I will help you do anything you wish.”

“Anything?”

“Yes.” His eyes were soft. “It is the least I can do. Besides, helping you will legitimize our treaty.”

Shuri met his gaze. “I want to give my friend a parting gift, but the parts I need to finish her gift are at the bottom of the river you had your people attack us on in Boston.”

“Your friend?”

“The scientist you tried to kill.”

His eyes darkened. “Shuri I am not-”

“-Eh?” She approached him, invading his space with hell in her eyes. “You said you would help me with anything.” She tapped a clawed finger against his chest. “And you will.”

His eyes matched her anger as he grabbed her wrist. “You will owe me.”

“You are in no position to ask me for anything.” She snatched her wrist away.

Everyone fell silent and turned to watch their rulers glare each other down.

“Do not take my kindness for granted, Shuri.”

“I promised to keep your people and secret safe. My allies are not your enemies, K’uk’ulkan.”

His temper was assuaged by the use of his name. 

“Fine.” He grumbled. “I will get the parts and bring them to you.”

“Thank you.” She walked away before moving to help her people. 

The god king watched her before refocusing on the warriors he was talking to. 

**-**

After returning to Talokan and getting his people situated, Namor began to swim away from the hidden city.

Namora was hot in his heels, moving in front of him with her teal dress billowing around her like the tendrils of an octopus. 

“K’uk’ulkan.” Her dark brown eyes burned into him. “Ba’ax ka beetik?” 

He exhaled at her inquiries about what he planned on doing. He knew that she was aware of his plans. It was a hollow question. One she had hoped would make him turn around and return to his people who were desperately trying to understand why he would yield to the Black Panther.

He didn’t have the energy to fight right now.

He exhaled before pleading.  “Namora, meent’ uts.”

She could see he was exhausted from the endeavors the day had thrown his way.

After seeing his injuries and missing wing, she couldn’t wrap her head around why he wished to be so cordial with the new queen.

There was no point in stopping him. He would do what he wanted no matter what she said.

And if he was going to help the surface people, he would have no choice but to do it on his own.

“Kanantabáa.” She huffed before swimming back to the city behind him.

Sure, it meant, take care of yourself.

But the way she had said was a kind way of telling him to go get burned by Shuri again.

He understood the root of her frustration.

She had finally been given the opportunity to burn down the world, and he stole it from her.

He stole it away from all of his people.

In fact, the only person who seemed the tiniest bit okay with the alliance was Attuma.

He never voiced it, but the way he followed and acted around one of the Wakandan warriors earlier provided a lot of damning evidence.

The god king swam to Boston to find the missing parts of the scientist’s car as agreed.

He spent half of the night gathering what he felt belonged to the car.

The scientist’s car was not the only vehicle that had ever lost its parts under the stupid bridge.

Things would have been easier if he knew what was missing, but he knew better than to pester Shuri.

He gathered a few extra parts to be sure he fulfilled the young queen’s wish.

He had found a net amongst the sunken clutter to tote the parts back with and worked diligently to secure everything before he began his journey to Wakanda.

He arrived in Wakanda a few hours before sunrise and hauled the net of car parts out of the river with a grunt.

A few fishermen stopped in horror to stare at him before a few members of the Dora Milaje were contacted and alerted.

Before he could step a foot off the wooden dock, the General of the Dora Milaje stood before him with hellfire in her eyes.

“Why are you here?”

“Shuri asked me to bring her these sunken car parts.”

Ayo narrowed her eyes. “At this hour?”

“I did not ask her when I should bring it. I only told her that I would.” He stared the warrior down. “You can ask her if you do not believe me.”

He watched the warrior turn around while her subordinates stared holes into the god king.

She spoke in xhosa for a moment or two before making a sound that made the warriors with her stand down.

“Come.” Ayo looked over her shoulder at him before she began to walk away.

Namor followed, uncaring of the warriors that walked around him as they took the shortest and least scenic route to Shuri’s lab.

Shuri sat in her lab surrounded by empty cups of coffee while Griot displayed a holographic projection of the car.

“The hard part will be making sure the wiring is done correctly. If you make a mistake and hook them up to the wrong terminals, it will cause the circuit to fry.” Griot explained as he zoomed in and highlighted the parts of his concern.

Shuri sighed. “Yes. I know. That’s why I’m learning how to do it.” She waved a book at the hologram as she scowled at the AI. “You know what would be great?”

“What would be great?” He quipped.

“If you did it for me.”

“I apologize for not being advanced enough to do such a thing for you. I could find someone to help as an alternative.”

“Everyone else has gone home to their family.”

“Then perhaps you should go get some sleep and wait until the morning.”

“What part of us building a car in one night do you not understand?”

“Oh I understand the objective. I personally believe that building a car in a night is a terrible plan.” He countered.

“Well, thankfully I didn’t ask you.” She huffed before looking up as Ayo approached her with Namor behind her.

“I’ve done as you said.” Ayo gestured to the talokanil king behind her. “But I don’t like the idea of you two being alone.”

“What? Are you scared he’s going to kill another Queen of Wakanda?” Shuri arched a brow.

Ayo frowned. “Yes.”

“He won’t.” She looked past her to stare at the god king.

“And if he does?”

“You’ll find him dead next to me.”

The general shook her head before letting out a defeated sigh. “Griot, please alert me if anything seems amiss with the fish man. I do not wish to lose the last member of the royal family.”

“Yes General.”

Ayo slammed the base of her spear on the floor before leading the warriors out of the room.

Shuri looked at the god king for a moment before glancing at the net. “Are those the parts?”

“I think so.”

Her eyes moved to meet his. “Are your hands capable of building things or can they only kill and destroy?”

“They are capable of building as well.” He stared at her as he clenched his jaw.

“Like assembling car parts?”

“Perhaps.”

“If you can help me rebuild this car-” She pointed at the halfway completed vehicle behind her. “-I think I am delirious enough to say I could possibly look at you without wanting to knock your head off.”

He snorted as he walked past her to look at what she had finished so far. “Well, you’ve gotten pretty far.” He tilted his head as he looked at the parts she had painted. “Tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll give it a shot.”

“Let’s finish adding the parts I have and then we can sort through what you brought.”

“You need to finish wiring the car before adding on any additional parts, Queen Shuri.” Griot corrected. “Avoiding this step and moving forward will only make things more difficult later on.”

“Ugh.” Shuri groaned before tapping her head with the book. “Then I guess we have to start with that stupid shit first.”

K’uk’ulkan gently plucked the book from her hands before she could harm herself further. “Go rest your eyes. I will wake you once I’m done with all the wiring.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He stared at her. “You need rest after everything we endured today.”

“So do you.”

“You were stabbed.”

“I’ve healed.”

“Healed does not mean rested.”

“I have caffeine. I’m perfectly capable of-”

“-you have several empty paper cups on your desk-”

“-of coffee-”

“-which is a sign that you’ll feel sick if you continue to deny yourself rest, Shuri.”

His voice thundered over hers, forcing her into silence.

“I assure you.” His voice softened as he gently touched her shoulder. “You do not have to worry. This car will be finished in a timely manner.”

The queen nodded slowly. “You better wake me up when you’re done with the wiring. I can’t afford to not have this ready for RiRi’s departure.”

“It will be done.” He nodded before gently nudging her away. “Go.”

She wrinkled her nose as the warmth of his hand lingered on her skin before retreating to a large beanbag chair in the corner of her lab.

Shuri watched him open the book and begin to read.

The lab was filled with a comfortable silence that was occasionally disturbed by the turning of pages and the soft whispers of Griot and K’uk’ulkan as he looked at the hologram before refocusing on the book.

Her eyes grew heavy as she slowly began to relax.

She blinked slowly three times before she dozed off with a sigh.

She could only hope that K’uk’ulkan would keep his word.

**-**

When Shuri’s eyes opened, she was in an empty lab wrapped in a Talokanil shawl on her bean bag.

Her brows furrowed as she recalled seeing the god king wearing it when he talked to her calmly under the blue glow of bioluminescent cave worms in his grotto.

She didn’t recall seeing him wearing it last night and it was warm and dry.

She pressed her nose to the patterned fabric before tossing it off of her.

It smelled exactly like him.

Like sea salt and a distinct cologne, she could not pin.

It would have been heavenly if she didn’t have so many bad memories attached to him.

How had she slept so peacefully wrapped up in it?

How did she even get wrapped up in it?

“What is the meaning of this?!”

Her panic was assuaged by Griot’s voice.

“The King of Talokan gifted that to you while you were sleeping.”

“Why?”

“You were restless. He had a warrior with a hammerhead skull headdress bring it.”

“Where is Namor now?”

“He went home.”

“What about helping me with the car?”

“The car is finished.”

“F-Finished?” She blinked before hurrying across the lab. “Holy shit-” She stared at RiRi’s car. “-how? When- W-Why didn’t anyone wake me up!?! I didn’t want him to build the entire thing by himself. When did he even finish-”

“-please allow me to answer these few questions before you ask anymore.” Griot hummed. “Yes. The car was finished a little after sunrise. Namor did not feel like disturbing you from your slumber and felt that finishing the car would help remove at least one burden from your plate.” Shuri examined the car in disbelief as the AI continued to speak. “As for how…K’uk’ulkan is a fast learner and once he sets his mind on something, he can finish things pretty quickly. It took him only a few hours to figure everything out. He said that it seemed like an abstract puzzle. It was truly something to watch him piece it all together.”

“He’s a genius.” She breathed out as she inspected his handiwork before pressing her fingers to her lips in shock. “Griot. as much as I hate to say it…” She whispered. “…I have to thank him.”

“Perhaps you should thank him later? He looked very exhausted upon his departure.”

Shuri nodded quickly. “O-Of course.” She clasped her hands together. “I should go get dressed and cleaned up. RiRi will be leaving soon.”

“In two hours to be exact.”

“Thank you.” She whispered before doing a tiny happy dance and heading towards the exit.

“Don’t forget your gifted shawl.”

Shuri walked towards the abandoned garment and plucked it off the floor. “Thanks.”

**-**

After gifting RiRi her fixed car the queen saw her friend off and retreated to her room.

She dug in a drawer until she found the shell her Mother had used to summon the god king.

As much as she hated him for what he did, she knew that a small thank you was due.

Shuri waited until sunset before she made her way to a quiet secluded part of the river, dawning his shawl as the evening breeze attempted to nip at her.

The Queen blew into the shell and placed it in the water before standing up.

She stayed ankle deep in the water as she waited patiently for the any signs of the god king.

Ten minutes passed before Namor’s head popped above the water.

“You called?” He huffed as he made his way towards her.

“Yes. I wanted to say thanks.” She hesitated as she looked up at him as he stood before her. “For helping with the car.”

“Griot did it.”

“Don’t lie. Griot told me everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“Yeah, well you didn’t have to gift me this shawl.”

He looked her over. “You were restless.”

“So you had a warrior bring it?”

“I didn’t think alerting your paranoid general would end well.”

“Right.”

“Besides, he was already in Wakanda.”

“For what?”

“There is a warrior that piques his interest.”

“The one he was fighting yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“Okoye is going to give him hell.” Shuri snorted as she began to retreat to the pebbled shore.

He chuckled as he followed after her. “He will be fine.”

They sat down on the ground and stared out at the water in silence.

“You know… when I was about to kill you…” She paused. “…it was my mother who told me not to do it.”

K’uk’ulkan remained silent.

“I was so close, but she told me to show you who I am.”

“And you are?” He murmured as he continued to look at the water.

“Angry.” She took a deep breath before exhaling. “I am not my brother, but I am also not like my cousin.” She looked down at her feet. “Sometimes I think of ways I could have done things differently to save my brother… my mother… my home…my people.” Tears fell down her face and she quickly wiped them away. “You told me I was Queen now, but I never wished to be queen.”

“I left you to speak with your mother and came home to a dead warrior and a dying handmaid.”

Shuri closed her eyes as she recalled Nakia’s actions. “I didn’t want that to happen.”

“But it happened and so you were punished.”

“Punished to get even or punished because you didn’t know how to work through your grief?”

“Both.” He clenched his jaw. “I could not save that handmaid when she asked.” He clenched his hands into fists. “You understand what it feels like to be useless when someone is dying.”

Shuri stared at him with wet eyes. “I would never do what you did.”

“What if someone killed your brother?”

She opened her mouth before closing it.

“If someone demanded to come to Wakanda and then killed your brother while you were away, on their way out, you would understand.” His dark eyes held hers. “You would do what I did without hesitation.” He whispered.

“Then I am not ready to be queen.”

“So you’re throwing away your title?”

“Until I’ve earned it.”

“Then what will you do?”

“Leave.” She exhaled softly.

“Leave?”

“I am heading to Haiti tomorrow to grieve my brother and mother.”

“For how long?”

“However long it takes to heal the wounds on my heart.”

He took a deep breath before exhaling. “Why are you telling me?”

“Maybe you can work on healing your own wounds in my absence.” She tilted her head. “Maybe things will be different between us once we’ve healed and worked through our loses.” She hesitated. “Maybe we could try being friends.”

“Like we originally intended?”

“Like we originally intended.”

He offered a tired smile. “I will not get my hopes up.”

“Nor will I.” She smiled back at him before getting up. “You should go get some sleep.”

He got up and nodded. “I appreciated talking to you.” She watched him step in the water and pick up the shell before turning back towards her. “If you ever need help building something while in Haiti, you know how to reach me.”

Shuri gently grabbed the wet shell before holding it to her chest. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “Take care of yourself.”

“Only if you do.”

He laughed softly before turning back to the water. “Goodbye, Shuri.”

“Goodbye, K’uk’ulkan.”

He dived into the water and with that he was gone.

Shuri stared at the water before turning around and walking away.

[melodiclune]

In a world where only Reds could be hostile, and peace was relatively easy to attain, one man refused. He killed more people as a Green than Red, triumphing against all odds with a Red for an ally. The sun shone down on them brightly as he had to, in the end, take the life of the Red who had stuck to him all this time.

In a world where trust was unattainable, and all that was permanent was the unknown possibility of a kill from anyone, anywhere, one man refused. He trusted his allies beyond anything else and refused to kill, even if it meant he lost his own life. The stars were bright in the sky as in the end, he brings his sword down, not in his name, but in revenge for his fallen allies.

In a world where soulmates existed, where everyone was bound to one person by an unbreakable thread, to carry forward with you and let yourself be carried through the tides of time, one woman was refused. Her soulmate denied her as much as she denied him, and none besides herself and her pets were worth her time. In the end, after all the carnage, even as she mourns her dog, all she has is the feel of dynamite going off. Her soulmate does something for her, for the first and last time.

In a world where time was precious and allies were valuable despite the distrust, where the alliances were so strong they'd triumph any required kills, one man refused. Where fairness was part of the game more than any other time, he brought down his sword on unsuspecting friend and foe alike, the taste of blood morphing into time he wanted to win, to live.

In a world where the secrets were stronger than ever, and alliances helped each other clear their tasks and work together, one man refused. After trying many times to join them and only being greeted with rejections, he turns away. Allying and betraying people alike, his only true allegiance to himself. After all, the name of the game was never to stay friends, but to complete your tasks.

[astronautbeans]

working on an au I'm calling Rosethorn au :) it's a medieval fantasty au where the hermits/life series members are the representations of various concepts :D

for now the focus on the fic I'm writing is Gem being the representation of Life and Etho of Death and how they become friends and fall in love <3

it got me thinking of what other concepts other characters could be, so here's a few!

Gem - Life represents life, light, creation, energy. queen of Dawn, protector of all living things, 'Bringer of Light'. using her energy she can give life and create it, e.g. her blood will rapidly grow plants or restore barren ground. she sees it as her duty to help anyone she can, whoever they might be

Etho - Death represents death, darkness, destruction. referred to as 'Death’s favourite soldier' or similar. effortlessly uses his powers to take people to the grave, usually drawn to raging wars or towns plagued by sickness. is often rumoured to be a sadistic person that loves to kill, although he simply misses being around people and has taken to simply doing what he does best as Death's soldier

Jimmy - Peace represents peace and calmness, a tranquility. often misunderstood as Death, as he usually finds himself gently guiding others to the grave. (distant) relative of Gem.

Tango - War represents war and conflict. his very presence gets people on edge. wherever he goes, conflict follows. he is the Commander of King Joel's armies. always looking for fights and conflicts, he is one to seek out every opportunity to sow seeds for war. he is Jimmy's polar opposite, meaning that however much they'd love each other they can never be what they want to be without destroying everything around them (this is what drives him, it makes him rage against the entire world and especially those that gave him this role).

Joel - Chaos represents chaos, disorder, madness. King of Dreaded Dusk. Often referred to as 'the Mad King', 'the King of the North' or 'the Dreaded King'. he wants nothing more than to cause chaos in the world, to see others fall, to see people lose themselves to madness. his kingdom being named Dreaded Dusk is a direct play on Dawn, as he believes he will be the downfall of men and the bringer of night (aka insanity and chaos).

Cleo - Undeath represents undeath, being neither dead nor alive, and the state everything and everyone finds itself in just before they're truly dead. has the power over undead ones, as well as the power to turn people into the undead. they are the polar opposite of both Gem and Etho. they are King Joel's closest ally, although not loyal to the crown of Dreaded Dusk.

that's all for now!! suggestions are very welcome :D new posts will have the #rosethorn au tag