#best vengeful rat

[potatosonnet]

Ratboy and reading through T3M for the first time

[theweeviler]

[flwrkid14]

Tim and Danny: Love, Trust, and the Weight of Protection

part 1

Danny knows what it's like to be hunted.

It’s been his reality for as long as he can remember—forever glancing over his shoulder, never truly at ease. Between vengeful ghosts, government agents, and countless other dangers, his survival has depended solely on his instincts, his powers, and the fickleness of luck. He has his friends—two best friends and a sister who would drop everything to stand by him, who he knows would always have his back. But the weight of that reliance feels heavy, a burden he can't quite shake.

Trusting others, truly leaning on them, has always felt like a luxury he couldn’t afford. He wants to feel safe, to let someone else take some of the weight, but the thought of putting them in danger because of him? That’s a risk he can't bring himself to take.

Then he meets Tim Drake.

At first, Tim’s protectiveness doesn’t faze him. It’s Gotham. You don’t date a Wayne-adjacent vigilante and expect anything less than a little paranoia. Danny’s been through worse. A tracker on his phone? Standard. Tim pulling files on his professors? Honestly, kind of funny.

But then, Danny finds out how deep it goes.

He stumbles upon a folder on Tim’s desk—his name printed neatly on the tab. Inside? Background checks on his classmates, neighbors and friends. Surveillance reports. A detailed map of his daily routine. Heart rate data. Sleeping patterns. Eating habits. There’s even a file on Phantom.

For a moment, Danny froze.

This should terrify him—it used to. Being watched, tracked for his every move, reminded him too much of those who hunted him, who’d wanted to tear him apart and dissect him like a lab rat. His first instinct was always to run.

But at that moment? He felt... safe. The notes in the margins weren’t cold or clinical like the ones his parents would have written. No, instead, they were worried. Make sure he’s eating enough. Possible threat? Keep an eye on this one. Look for ectoplasmic spikes—could mean trouble.

This wasn’t someone trying to control him. This was someone trying to protect him.

Tim’s not like the people who hunted him in Amity Park. There’s no malice in what he does. No intent to control or hurt. It’s all fear. Love, even. Danny can see it in Tim’s eyes when he stammers through an explanation, bracing himself for anger or rejection.

He’s scared Danny will leave.

And that’s what gets Danny.

No one has ever cared for him like this, no one willing to go through such lengths just to ensure his safety. Yeah, it’s intense, maybe unhealthy, even by the standards of a world that isn’t known for its normalcy. Danny knows Sam, Tucker, and Jazz would do the same—they’ve all put their lives on the line for him before, and he loves them for it. But Tim is different.

Tim is strong enough to face the dangers of Danny’s world and carry the weight of his burdens without hesitation. It’s something Danny could never ask his friends to do—not because they wouldn’t, but because they have their own lives, their own paths. They would drop everything for him, just as Tim would, but Tim does it with the resolve of a vigilante, already living a life where protecting others is his duty. This is someone who understands the risks, who’s already made those sacrifices, and still chooses to say, “I will protect you, no matter the cost.”

So, he smiles. He kisses Tim’s cheek. And he asks, “Can I put a tracker on you too?”

The way Tim’s eyes light up? Yeah, Danny thinks. This is love.

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

The batfamily doesn’t get it.

They corner Danny one day, all serious expressions and careful words.

“Danny, we’re worried,” Dick starts, voice soft. “About Tim?” Danny tilts his head. “About both of you,” Steph says. “This… surveillance thing. It’s not normal.”

Danny shrugs. “Neither am I.”

They might understand—on some level. They’d lived through their own kind of danger, faced their own threats. But for Danny, it was different. They didn’t grow up being hunted, didn’t spend years hiding from people who wanted to tear them apart just for existing. For him, trusting the wrong person wasn’t just a risk; it was a matter of life and death.

Tim’s methods might be extreme, but Danny sees the intent behind them. It’s not control. It’s care. Tim watches his back because he knows what it’s like to lose people. Danny lets him because he knows what it’s like to be alone.

“Tim’s the first person who’s made me feel safe,” Danny tells them, voice steady. “You see obsession. I see someone who cares enough to watch my back.”

They don’t know what to say to that.

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

Their relationship isn’t conventional. But in a city like Gotham, love isn’t always soft and simple. Sometimes, it’s vigilance. Sometimes, it’s knowing someone’s tracking your heartbeat because they’d die if it ever stopped.

Tim watches over Danny. Danny watches over Tim. It’s not about control—it’s about trust. About knowing that, no matter what, someone’s got your back.

The bats worry. They whisper about boundaries, red flags and healthy relationships.

Danny doesn’t listen. He knows what he’s got.

In a world where ghosts and vigilantes collide, where danger lurks in every shadow, Danny’s finally found someone who won’t let him face it alone.

And that? That’s everything.

[jjanuaryrain]

DP x DC crossover

First pass at the first chapter of a DPxDC crossover fic (more below the break):

Jason didn’t mean to return to his grave as often as he did. Honestly. He had no intention of ever returning to the Wayne family plot in Gotham Cemetery, but life had a mysterious way of directly contradicting Jason’s desires. 

So, instead, he just found himself there. Over and over: in the dead of night, or the middle of a storm, or during a city-wide blackout. Every time, it was dark and miserable and he couldn’t remember getting there, couldn’t remember making the decision to go, but he knew he moved of his own volition. Just not how. Just not why.

Something’d been pulling him there, that much was clear. He’d mostly stopped looking for a reason, though, as none had ever become clear no matter how long he spent inspecting the grave. There were only so many times you could stare at the same plot of land and think God, why?? before it started to get a little stale, y’know? And he’d never been harmed during his unconscious wanderings – a veritable miracle in this shithole. The Jason of a few years ago probably would’ve immediately assumed Bruce had something to do with it, but in reality it felt too… Magical. Too inexplicable and supernatural to be something that the Batman would have a hand in.

Still, despite being obviously supernatural, it didn’t feel particularly dangerous. The first few times he’d found himself in front of that ridiculously lavish slab of marble, sure, he’d practically blacked out again in a haze of green-tinged fury. He was pretty sure he’d smashed the thing up that first time, but when he’d come to in front of it a few weeks later, there wasn’t a scratch on it. That could believably be Bruce’s doing.

Now, there was something almost peaceful about waking up in front of the grave he clawed himself out of all that time ago. Nearly, what, three years now? Christ, had it been that long? Jason’s work wasn’t done, not by a long shot, but he also wasn’t the same thing that pulled itself, heaving and spitting, from the dirt. He felt a little less like a vengeful spirit and a little bit more like a person when he looked at that grave now. Less like he wanted to sink his teeth into anything that moved or dared to enter his line of sight. He maybe even felt a little related to the Jason Todd that was originally laid to rest there.

Tonight was different from all those nights before it. Jason chose to be here. Awake and aware, he drove his motorcycle through the sleeting rain to the entrance of the cemetery and made his way to his grave. He had business there tonight, and his grave was the most obnoxious place he could think of to ask Dickie to meet him. If the nuisance is gonna insist on meeting, Jason’s gotta get at least a little bit of a kick out of it, right? Not like he was gonna enjoy the conversation at all otherwise. 

He knew the route intuitively, so he was sure-footed when he stepped around the large weeping willow towards the Wayne family plot. (That used to rub him the wrong way, too, being lumped in with the Waynes. But it wasn’t like there was a Todd plot to bury his empty coffin in, was there?)

Fog was rolling across the carefully manicured lawn of the cemetery when Jason approached, curling around trees and over tombstones. Only the best and brightest of the city were buried here, those whose families had enough money or sway to keep their loved one’s bodies out of the cramped landfills that were the cemeteries in areas like Burnside or, god forbid, the Narrows.

So, it stood to question why some street rat was crouched down in the fog in front of an open grave when Jason rounded the tree. In front of Jason’s open, re-dug-up grave, what the fuck.

The fucker was damn lucky that Jason’s had 3 years to get a handle on his anger, because shit. Seeing the fresh dirt piled haphazardly around his half unearthed coffin had Jason seething behind his muzzle, teeth bared almost against his will. His pulse thundered in his ears and he itched to reach for a weapon and right this wrong wrong WRONG. 

But that wasn’t Jason’s urge. That wasn’t Jason’s well-honed instinct, carved into him by countless years on the streets of Gotham. It was something far less logical and far more nefarious.

So. Jason forced his muscles to relax and dropped back into a crouch instead, curling into the stretching shadows of the weeping willow. Wait, observe, understand. Then act. It was the only piece of advice of Bruce’s that Jason had any interest in following after waking up under the ground. And it still rankled to follow it.

The thought of Bruce, that old damned fool, and his other terrible advice had Jason tensing up all over again, but he forced the rage back, swallowed it back down into that dark pit in the center of his chest. There’d be a time to unleash it, later. When he knew for damn sure that his target deserved it. For now, however…

Wait. Observe. Understand.

The street rat was mumbling to himself as he crouched over Jason’s grave, sifting through the loose dirt as if he was looking for something. Oddly, though, he didn’t seem to have a speck of dirt on him. Despite his ratty clothes – a pair of torn black cargo pants and a dingy black hoodie with a faded and crumbling NASA logo on the back – neither of them had any stains. The hoodie was worn thin around the hem and collar, though, and even from a distance Jason could see at least one section that’d been obviously mended.

Definitely not one of Gotham’s elite, then. He didn’t have the look of rich kid playing poor, either, despite the lack of mess that the streets tended to leave on people. Overall, a disjointed sight.

Curious.

Jason upped the contrast on the lenses in his domino mask and zoomed in as much as he could on the kid. If he could be called that. He was on the small side, closer to Tim’s build than Jason’s, but he appeared to be post-adolescent at the very least.

Jason scanned his person for any identifying features. He was facing away and his black hair was tied up into a short and messy ponytail that did a terrible job of holding it back, meaning Jason couldn’t get a good look at his face. His ears were in plain view, however, and decked out in black piercings and silver chains. Jason filed that information away for later. The piercings could be good markers for identification later as long as he didn’t take them out. 

And… was it just Jason’s imagination or did his ears form the barest of points at the tips?

That was interesting. Could be natural, but… well, it was Gotham. Very rarely were things here as they seemed.

Jason shifted onto the balls of his feet, eager for a closer look.

It rarely got cold enough to snow in Gotham – the best they could usually ask for was an icy sleet that melted into blackened sludge the moment it hit the streets – but as Jason crept closer, that sleeting rain began to crystalize into true flurries. They collected in the street rat’s hair, reflecting the meagre light of the cemetery’s gas lamps and making his hair and clothes appear to be an even deeper black. The image of a black hole surrounded by a glittering crown of stars flashed through Jason’s mind, there one second and gone the next, and Jason had to physically blink the vision away.

The chains on the rat’s beat up combat boots shifted and jangled as he straightened from his crouch and let out a foggy sigh into the icy December air. Jason tensed, ready to follow silently, when the kid’s head snapped to the side and he locked eyes with Jason.

Jason’s chest seized.

His gaze was sharp, icy and blue, and Jason's entire body locked up. It only lasted a moment, but he felt a wave of dread fall over him so acute that he had to resist the urge to tuck and roll away from whatever looming threat must be there. But then it was gone, leaving only a wave of goosebumps and shaky legs in its wake.

What the fuck was that?

It reminded him of that time he took a glancing blow from Mr. Freeze’s freeze gun. Jason gave a violent shiver as the feeling subsided and rolled to his feet. He didn’t know what was going on here, but hiding in the shadows wasn’t gonna get him anywhere anymore.

Sorry not sorry, B.

He rose from his crouch and stepped out fully from the long shadow of the tree, chin lifted and shoulders back. He’d gotten rid of the helmet a few months back, but the black muzzle, domino mask, and armored hood that shadowed his face worked just as well for intimidation. He knew his size, too, could be a decent deterrent for a lot of people, and he didn’t shy away from using that to his advantage. However, the street rat just stuffed his hands in his pockets and turned to face him, seemingly nonchalant.

Well, Jason was right – he wasn’t a kid. But he didn’t strike Jason as particularly adult, either. He had the barest hints of baby fat left in his cheeks, placing him at around 19 or 20 in Jason’s mind; possibly older if he had a bad case of baby face. There was a silvery web of scarring peeking out of the high neck of the gray compression shirt he wore below the hoodie. It crept out from his collar, up his neck, and just over the hinge of his jaw. It was a lucky find in terms of identifying the rat, but Jason couldn’t help a twinge of empathy.

Facial scars were a bitch.

To Jason’s surprise, it was the street rat that spoke first. And it wasn’t even to beg for his life or immediately spill his guts at the sight of the Red Hood’s signature glowing red eyes. Instead, it was a challenge.

“You gonna come tell me what this is about?” The street rat called across the increasingly snowy green. He sounded completely calm, apparently not at all phased by the Red Hood’s sudden presence in his very obvious crime scene. “Or d’ya wanna brawl about it first?” His accent was vaguely midwestern and his tone was lilting and playful. He was ballsy, Jason'd give him that. Asking the Red Hood for a fight was asking to have your teeth knocked out, but the rat didn’t seem to know that. He didn’t seem to know anything about the Red Hood at all.

For a long moment, it was just the wind and the snow between them. The air was crisp with tension and Jason wondered what the street rat was thinking. He looked utterly calm, but his body was loose in a way that Jason knew meant he could jump into action at any moment. Jason locked away the green-tinged itch to lunge or swing or tackle.

Instead, he slowly shifted out from behind the weeping willow, sweeping some of its long branches out of his way. The rat didn’t look particularly phased by his approach.

“You new to town, kid?” Jason asked lowly as he stalked forward. Because he was increasingly certain this guy hadn’t been in New Jersey let alone Gotham for longer than a week, max. “Y’ain’t gonna last long, picking fights.”

The street rat shrugged, all slouchy and nonchalant in his oversized sweatshirt. He should’ve been freezing in the newly drifting snow, but he looked perfectly comfortable. There wasn’t even a flush to his pale cheeks.

“It’s not picking a fight if we both want it,” he said. “Y’know, like consent.” Just then, there was a tug in Jason’s chest and he swore he saw a flash of green in the rat’s eyes. Jason stopped dead in his tracks.

“What–” Jason cut himself off, literally biting his tongue. There was green swamping his vision and a pushing tension in his muscles, but Jason was in control, damn it. He’d worked hard to create a leash of pure will and he wasn’t gonna let some scrawny street rat of all people break it.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, the Pits insisted. Jason shoved the thought away.

“I’m not coming on to you, by the way,” the rat continued, leaning a hip against the headstone. Jason’s headstone. He felt a snarl rise in his throat. He choked it down. “Just offering a friendly brawl before we get to talking. To get the tension out of the way, you know.”

He was saying everything so casually, but Jason was having a difficult time wrapping his head around it. Who the hell asked to be knocked around by someone three times their size? Outside of the bedroom and kink clubs, that was. Had Jason stumbled across some sort of gang initiation by accident?

When Jason didn’t respond (wait, observe, understand), the street rat’s lazy smile grew feral around the edges. Jason felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up and he instinctually braced for impact.

“C’mon,” the street rat goaded. His eyes glinted a sickeningly familiar green. “Fight me,” he hissed.

And the Pits screamed.

Jason was in motion before he could fully comprehend what was happening. He was up and sprinting across the 15 yards separating him and the street rat. He felt the snarl rip itself out of his throat and the next moment his fist connected with ice-cold flesh.

The street rat toppled over backward with a yelp, landing in the dirty snowy mix behind him. Jason was on him again before he could stop himself. There was something fizzing in his veins, rising in a viridescent wave that made his blood sing and his teeth buzz. It felt like the sweetest moments of being Red Hood – smashing a crowbar into the faces of pedophiles, kneecapping traffickers, battering the bodies of those stupid enough to break the rules in his territory, his home. His whole body was alight with an incandescent rage. It felt spectacular.

He lined up another punch, baring his teeth behind his mask, but suddenly he wasn’t touching the ground anymore. That is, until he landed in an explosion of snow a few yards away.

Jason hissed at the impact but was back on his feet immediately. Good thing, too, because the street rat was on him again in an instant. They rolled in the snow, grappling and trading blows. He elbowed the rat in the face once, twice, before he caught Jason squarely under the jaw with a knee, leaving him seeing stars.

Leaving your guard down in exchange for getting hits in – sloppy, Bruce commented in his mind. Jason seethed, tasting blood, and redoubled his efforts. The two of them broke apart and back together again and again, kicking and clawing and spitting like feral cats, until the street rat launched him against a tree with a particularly strong kick.

All of the breath punched out of him and Jason saw stars as his head and back collided with the wood. He collapsed to the ground with a groan, every part of his body aching. He struggled to get his feet back under him before the rat could slam into him again.

A cackling laugh cut through the ringing in Jason’s ears and he forced himself into a defensive position. The street rat was standing a few feet away, grinning fiercely in the now heavily falling snow – how had Jason missed that the flurries had kicked up into a full blown winter storm? The rat’s hair was mussed up from their tussling, ponytail barely clinging to life, and Jason could see blood in his teeth. The Pit crooned happily at the sight.

Wait, happy–?

“I was not expecting you to pack that much of a punch!” The street rat crowed before Jason could follow that line of thought. He cringed at the loud sound. Probably a concussion, then. “Are you sure you’re not a full ghost? Like really, man, you kinda gave me a run for my money.” He was circling his arm, likely testing the spot Jason had kicked with his steel toed boots. Jason took the reprieve as a chance to stagger more fully to his feet.

“What are you,” he asked. He didn’t entirely mean to, but his self control was pretty shot at the moment. There was blood dripping into his eye and he quickly wiped it away so as to not let it obscure his vision.

The street rat tilted his head at him like a curious dog.

“Uh, I’m like you,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean something. Jason almost hissed.

“You’re not human,” he said instead, trying to keep his voice steady.

The street rat stared at him for a long moment. His eyes were back to their icy blue, but Jason wasn’t fooled. When he tentatively took a step forward, Jason shifted a step back.

“Wait a second,” he said, holding up his hands. “Do you… not know what you are?” The question was soft, surprised, and oddly sorrowful. The wording of it itched at something under Jason’s skin. What he was? He was human… right?

“I’m human,” was all he could think to say. It sounded weak even to his ears.

The two of them just looked at each other as the snow and howling wind started to die down. Jason analyzed the slightly pointed ears and sharper-than-normal canines, recategorizing the information in his brain. The street rat opened his mouth to say something, but just then the rev of a motorbike engine sounded distantly and he flinched back. 

Familiar headlights flashed at the front gates of the cemetery and Jason remembered suddenly that he’d invited Nightwing to meet him here. Jeez, how long had they been fighting?

He wiped again at the blood streaming from his forehead, though he knew hiding the wound from Dickie would be impossible. The street rat rocked on his feet, shoving his hands into his pockets once again. He looked the most uncertain he had all night and Jason knew right then he’d lose him if he didn’t get his hands on him right now.

The rat seemed to realize the same thing, and he skipped backwards right as Jason lunged for him, avoiding being grabbed by the front of his hoodie by mere millimeters. Jason shot out his other hand to snag him by the stupid chains hanging from his belt, but between one breath and the next, the rat disappeared. Honest to god disappeared like a goddamn ghost.

The irony was not lost on him.

Jason staggered to a stop and stood, panting, in the slowly dissipating snow. A moment later, Nightwing was at his side, escrima sticks crackling in his hands. His big brother scanned the area but the street rat was nowhere to be seen. Wing turned to him, evaluating, and hissed when he saw Jason’s forehead.

“What happened?” He demanded, stowing his weapons. He reached for Jason then hesitated, hand hovering near his face, before he eventually retracted it. Jason had long since adjusted to the sting of disappointment from those almost-touches. “Jaybird?”

Jason stared at his dug-up grave sitting empty and cold a few yards away. Something glinting and green glowed from under the drifted snow.

“I think,” Jason rasped, “I just fought a ghost.”

⋆˖⁺⊹₊⋆✧⋆₊⊹⁺˖⋆

Danny floated in the expansive green of his realm. Sometimes he kept it looking like a home so that his friends and sister could visit, but when he was there alone, he liked to allow it to shift and reform along with his mood. Right now he felt empty and confused, and the space reflected that. Whorls of green surrounded him, spiraling away into the distance in time with his thoughts.

That ecto-entity in Gotham bothered him. He’d felt off, but Danny had chalked it up to the fact that Gotham itself was off. It was like a dead zone for ghostly activity despite the abundance of death and ambient ectoplasm. Maybe he should’ve known something was up when the being had approached him, then.

He’d initiated a friendly brawl to help burn off the fizzing ecto-energy that had been pumping off the guy in waves. He’d only felt energy like that from the few poltergeists he’d encountered. How was he supposed to know the guy didn’t know he was still dead?

The revelation was startling and more than a little concerning. He’d never met an ecto-entity who thought they were still alive before. Usually the whole dying and waking up in the Realms thing cleared that right up.

Was it possible the guy had skipped entering the Infinite Realms entirely and had somehow ended up back on Earth anyway? It made sense with the obvious lack of recognition he’d had of Danny, and the strange vibes he’d been putting off. Even in human form, most sentient ghosts and ecto-entities inherently recognized who Danny was, or at least his title. Apparently the aura of the Ghost King wasn’t easily missed.

So what the hell was up with Gotham dude?

Danny groaned and rubbed his face. His visit to Gotham was supposed to be an easy retrieval mission – in and out before Lady Gotham noticed his presence enough for it to become a problem. Now he not only had to return to retrieve what he missed the first time, but he should probably stick around to figure out what was up with the being he’d encountered. Even putting aside the confusion about his living status, the guy felt off. More than was normal even for Gotham, Danny was realizing.

Well. At least he had an excuse to poke around the land of the living some more. Ever since receiving the crown and ring, he’d been spending more and more time in the Infinite Realms. Not a problem, exactly, but Danny did miss Earth. He was still alive, after all, even if it was only halfway. Plus the Observants were way less likely to bother him on the living plane, especially if he was in Lady Gotham’s haunt.

Agh, right, Lady Gotham. He should probably actually address his excursions into her territory before she decided to do something about it. Even as King, he wasn’t dumb enough to mess with something as fearsome as an Earth-Borne. Ghosts that existed as concepts borne from concentrated amounts of intense emotion seeping into the Infinite Realms from the land of the living were especially gnarly to deal with. They were a bit like the Never-Born in that they didn’t operate like a typical ghost. They were more powerful and played by different rules based on the emotions that they fed off of. And with the amount of terror and dream Gotham was constantly generating, Lady Gotham was fearsome indeed.

Damn. That meant more etiquette lessons with Dorothea. While Danny could probably take Lady Gotham in a fight (he could probably take just about anyone who wasn’t an Ancient at this point) he didn’t particularly like to engage in battle if he could help it. His approach to ruling was distinctly hands-off when it came to battling (much to the chagrin of his more violence-attuned subjects). If he wanted to avoid a spat with Lady Gotham, he’d better get his ducks in a row before he dared to enter her City again.

Dorothea would be thrilled, at least. She loved nothing more than making plans for how Danny should interact with certain ghosts and entities. It soothed her Obsession, he thought, to work so closely with a King.

With a flick of his hand Danny summoned the door out of his pocket dimension and floated toward it. It’d be best to get started on learning how to approach Lady Gotham as soon as possible. He still had an artifact to hunt down and the added issue of the red eyed ecto-entity haunting Gotham. He mentally added that to the list of things to mention in his meeting with Lady Gotham. That is, if she didn’t try to smite him for invading her Haunt without warning once already.

Ghosts could be so dramatic.

⋆˖⁺⊹₊⋆✧⋆₊⊹⁺˖⋆

“This will not stand!” Damian shouted, voice echoing through the Cave. “You will return my katana to me at once before I run you through and–”

“Run me through with what, Dami,” Steph countered. “Your sword? Oh, wait.” She dangled the youngest Robin’s katana from loose fingers, just beyond his reach from where he sat in the infirmary bed. “It’s mine now, isn’t it?”

“You insipid, ungrateful–”

“Damian,” Duke chided from his seat at the bat computer. “You know what Alfred said about getting worked up.”

“Pennyworth is not my keeper. I am the blooded heir and I will not lower myself to be bossed around nor corralled by ingrates such as yourselves.”

“Then why don’t you get up,” Stephanie goaded. “C’mon, your sword’s right here.” She did a few test swipes with it through the air. Damian hissed at her.

“Stop that at once! You have no right to handle such a weapon!”

“Come get it from me then!”

“Father’s rules state that after a significant injury you aren’t to leave the infirmary bed until your health and wellness have been confirmed by–”

“An ingrate such as Alfred?” Bruce asked dryly as he entered the cave. Damian snapped his mouth shut, face pinched as if he’d sucked on a lemon. Steph cackled. “What did I say about the word ‘ingrate’ Damian?”

“But father–”

“We’ll speak about it later, son. I received word from Nightwing to expect him and Red Hood at the cave soon, ETA 2 minutes.”

That got everyone’s attention. Even Tim looked up from where he’d been poring over files on a new rogue reported in the Bowery. Damian’s katana wilted in Steph’s hand.

“Wait, Jason’s coming here?” She asked. “Willingly?” Damian used her momentary distraction to lean far out of bed and swipe the blade out of her hand. She stuck out her tongue at him.

“Yes,” was Bruce’s only response.

Tim and Duke shared a look over the top of the computer. Dick coming down from Blüdhaven was one thing, but Jason…

“Is something big going down?” Tim asked. “Or is someone, like, dying?”

“No one’s dying. Jason and Dick encountered an unknown entity and are returning to the cave to report on it.”

“An unknown entity?” Damian sounded far too excited for Bruce’s liking. “What sort of entity? Is it one we haven’t encountered before? Father, you have to allow me to–”

“We will wait for Nightwing and Red Hood’s intel before making any plans of action,” Bruce said with finality. His gathered children tittered and whispered amongst themselves but didn’t argue. A rare blessing.

A minute later, the sound of twin engines and the bay doors to the Bat Cave opening reached their ears and Bruce stalked forward to greet his sons.

“Nightwing, Red Hood. Report.”

Jason glowered at him as he took off his helmet but didn’t sneer or glare like Bruce expected. He looked tired and drawn and there was blood crusted in his hairline. Bruce’s heart gave a wounded squeeze but he’d learned long ago that his concern was not appreciated. Not when it came to Jason. Dick spoke up on his behalf, instead.

“Jay encountered somebody in Gotham Cemetery tonight,” he reported dutifully. “They left this behind,” he tossed a Wayne Enterprises containment device to Tim, who nimbly snatched it out of the air, “after they picked a fight with Jay and subsequently disappeared once I pulled up.”

“Disappeared?” Nightwing nodded.

“Yeah, into thin air apparently.”

Bruce considered this for a moment. A meta with possible teleportation abilities skulking around Gotham’s cemetery. Not a pressing issue, exactly, but one that should be looked into.

“Subject description?” Dick looked at Jason who sighed.

“Approximately 5’8” or 5’9” male with dark hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. Distinguishing factors include multiple piercings on both ears – lobe and upper lobe, multiple helixes, and a daith. Industrial piercing on the left ear. Slightly elongated canines and pointed ears. Lichtenberg scar on the left side of the neck from the jaw down to an indeterminable point beneath the clothing.”

“Did they have something to do with the Lazarus Pits?” Tim’s voice cut in before Bruce could ask more questions. Damian and Bruce both turned sharply to look at him.

“Why do you ask that, son?” Bruce asked as calmly as he could. The Lazarus Pits were a touchy topic for just about everyone, but especially Damian and Jason.

Tim didn’t respond. He just silently held up the containment device that had unfolded to reveal a glowing green amulet within its radiation-proof walls. Damian sucked in a sharp breath and hopped off the bed to join Tim in inspecting the artifact. Bruce didn’t object.

The Lazarus Pits. He dared an assessing look at Jason. He didn’t look particularly enthused at the mention of the Pits, but he also didn’t seem to be holding back that ever-present anger that hung off him like an albatross these days. He looked drawn and tired, if anything.

“They were one of Ra’s?” Bruce asked instead of demanding his children step away from the Pit-contaminated artifact. He could confront the emotions all of this inspired in him later. Right now, he needed to learn as much as he could before Jason inevitably stormed off.

“Jay said he didn’t think so,” Dick replied. “He said they were a possible meta, or possibly a, ah…” His eldest trailed off, looking at Jason, and Bruce turned his gaze to him as well. Jason met it head on.

“A ghost,” Jason finished bluntly. He had shucked off his leather jacket and draped it over his bike, leaving him in a long-sleeved black compression shirt. He looked so different from the boy Bruce remembered. Bruce frowned.

“A ghost?” Damian scoffed, looking up from where he was leaning over the containment device. “Don’t be ridiculous, Todd. Ghosts aren’t real.”

“And it was hostile?” Bruce pushed on before Jason could get into it with his youngest. He didn’t even spare Damian a glance, though.

Curious. Concerning.

“No,” Jason responded again, surprisingly forthcoming despite his one word answers. Bruce had come to expect far more of a fight when looking for information from the Red Hood.

“Jay said that although they fought, the unknown seemed to regard it more as a kind of sparring than a true fight.”

Steph snickered from the corner and Jason’s gaze flicked to her.

“Sparring? Looks to me like you got beat to hell.”

It was true. Bruce wanted to believe the report his sons were giving, but in addition to the head wound, Jason was clearly favoring his left leg and the way he stood belied an injury of some sort to his ribs. He wouldn’t be surprised if he were concussed as well, given his strangely tolerant behavior.

Jason, however, just shrugged.

“He called it a friendly brawl. Didn’t pull a weapon or go for any low blows. It was more civil than a round with the brat.” He jerked his chin at Damian.

“He did all that to you without a weapon?” Tim blurted incredulously. Then he visibly withdrew, curling back over his research. The relationship between the two of them was so strained…

“Yeah,” Jason stated simply. It was incredibly tame for an interaction between the two of them and Bruce added this to the growing catalogue of Jason’s strange behaviour after encountering this unknown.

When Jason looked away, Bruce caught Tim mouthing ‘what the fuck’ at Duke. Duke just shrugged helplessly back.

Jason’s behavior was only becoming more curious and more concerning by the moment, and it seemed everyone was noticing.

“Are you… feeling alright, Jason?” Duke asked tentatively, voicing the room’s concern for them. “You seem surprisingly mellow for someone who just brawled with a ghost.”

That got a reaction from Jason. His face cycled through a complicated dance of emotion, and Bruce caught disdain, worry, anger, and oddly enough, relief before his son managed to shut it down. The glances between his siblings signaled that they’d noticed as well.

“The Pits,” Jason began stiffly and Bruce immediately stood up straighter. “Have been… quiet. Since.”

Silence. Bruce felt his own complicated dance of emotions, though he knew better than to let it show on his face. Those handful of words were more than anyone, except perhaps Dick, had heard from Jason about his experience with the Pits. This… unknown entity must have rattled him more than Bruce had first thought.

“Jaylad,” he said softly. He tried to catch his son’s eyes, and to his surprise, Jason let him. His son’s answering look was so weary, so world-worn and wary of Bruce that he almost gave up on finding the words. But. He remembered Alfred’s quiet assertions that just because Jason pulled away didn’t mean that they should stop reaching out. How close Jason had allowed Dick to get these past few months was a testament to that.

So, instead of biting down his concern and demanding a blow by blow of the entire encounter, Bruce crossed to where Jason stood stiffly beside his bike. When Jason didn’t growl or tell him to fuck off, he placed a gentle hand on his arm. “What happened?”

There was a moment of stark silence before Jason shrugged him off. It wasn’t unexpected, but Bruce couldn’t deny the sting of pain it caused. 

“Ask Wing,” his son bit out. He turned suddenly and brushed past Bruce without actually making contact with him, feet aimed for the elevator to the manor. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Jay,” Dick protested at the same time that Bruce called, “Jason, don’t leave! We need to figure this out.”

Jason only turned around once he’d stepped inside the elevator. He gave Bruce a familiar sneer, but there were no glowing green eyes to back it up.

“You got by just fine without me for three years. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

The doors closed on Jason’s sneering face, but despite it all, deep down in Bruce’s heart, a spark of hope had begun to grow.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relieved. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…” You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a  Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

[novy2sirius]

Vietnamese Astrology Traits

• Remember that enemy signs are still fatally attracted to one another but will not last in the long run and things between them could end badly. The matrix tries to set you up and leeches off your emotional energy which is why it sets you up for failure in some cases

• Your numerology is also important and may overpower some of your astrology traits. The negative traits will only apply if you’re at a lower vibration in life

Vietnamese Signs

The Rat: favored by the matrix, if anyone hurts them the matrix will come after them, intelligent when it comes to how they navigate life, adapts to surroundings quickly, most likely to gain wealth (second to the goat, pig, and cat trine), determined, lively, manipulative, will leave out parts of stories where they did something bad, greedy, stubborn, always nervous

The Ox/buffalo: grounded, often comedians, one of the least sexual signs unless they’re born under 1/5/9 energy, loyal, leaders, lots of willpower, strong, dependable, stubborn, blunt, gaslights a lot, can be violent, communicates poorly, too judgmental of others, petty

The Tiger: masculine, good health (unless numerology goes against this), sexiest sign, good fighters/strong, strong/muscular build/fitness model body, good at body building, go getters, smooth talkers, born leader, age gracefully, they have it the hardest in the usa (the usa was founded in their enemy sign year which is the year of the monkey), most likely to cheat (especially the men), childlike temper tantrums, know it alls, aggressive

The Cat: easily understands people/natural psychologist, observant, great designers, kind, creative, stealthy, quick witted, good chess players, third smartest sign, strong money maker, shouldn’t eat eggs or chicken, pessimistic, selfish, plays lots of mind games, often insecure

The Dragon: charismatic, adventurous, intelligent with the choices they make in life, sexy, energetic, powerful, confident, masculine, great fighters, bossy, rude, complicated at times, too demanding, arrogant

The Snake: wisest sign, intuitive, seductive, calm, second most influential/persuasive sign, observant, analytical, vengeful, best liars/manipulators, holds grudges, gets jealous easily

The Horse: very hard workers (workhorses), positive, animated, energetic, warm-hearted, has it the hardest in the matrix since its enemy sign is the rat (the sign the matrix favors), stubborn, superficial, self centered, impatient, impulsive, very delusional or in denial constantly

The Goat: most likely to gain wealth other than the rat (even more than its friend signs the cat and pig), the most good looking sign, most influential/persuasive sign, nurturing/caring, romantic/flirtatious, fun energy, go with the flow, usually into both spirituality and religion (they dabble into it all), funny, high maintenance, manipulative, lazy, has a hard life, lots of anxiety, gullible, emotionally sensitive/the softest sign, needs to constantly be pampered, shouldn’t be aggressive because it ends bad

The Monkey: smartest sign, popular, funniest sign, sociable, intuitive, brave, very curious, plays games with people, selfish, liars, egotistical, untrustworthy at times, always trying to get in others business

The Rooster: confident, humorous, loyal, one track minded, passionate, independent, observant, outgoing, talkative, narcissistic, control freak, bad temper/overly aggressive at times, hypocritical, picky

The Dog: very hard working, loves attention, loyal, honest, protective of the people they love, committed to the people they love, reliable, witty, helpful, overly aggressive, exaggerates stories, stubborn at times, always paranoid

The Pig: humble, strong money maker, responsible, luckiest sign, creative, classy, foodie/food lover, they love sex, tolerant, intelligent, friendly, easily influenced by others, promiscuous, overly materialistic, laziest sign, second most likely sign to cheat, naive, overly emotional, flaky

Vietnamese Elements

Metal: always looks out for loved ones, perseverant, independent, must create their own success, enjoys their freedom, enjoys comfort, stubborn, wants a romantic partner that they can control, too demanding at times, stubborn

Water: creative, intuitive, sensitive, adaptive, empathetic, sympathetic, gains others trust easily, likable, talkative, everyone feels special around them, tries to hard to make everyone around them feel happy which can lead to sadness, people follow their lead, influences others minds easily, passive aggressive, emotionally manipulative

Wood: optimistic, open minded, good at socializing, active, confident, organized, family oriented, good marriage partner, good friends/colleagues, gets attached quickly, always improving as a person, overworks themselves, passive aggressive, gullible

Fire: ambitious, determined, leader, strong, seductive, attracts people to them easily, enthusiastic, very giving in relationships, inspires others easily, affectionate, adventurous, competitive, optimistic, always stresses, impatient, gets mad quick

Earth: wise, patient, loyal, trustworthy, perfectionist, stable, always makes challenging sacrifices for others, good at giving advice, serious, goes based on logic rather than emotions, controlling

[ii-neutral-confessions]

Neutron...

"..."

Neuuutrooon...

"...shut up."

What? I just wanna talk to you. Do you know how boring it gets being stuck with you all the time? Being a vengeful ghost 'n shit isn't as eventful as it used to be.

"..."

I'm not gonna be like that weirdo on your phone, Neutron. You know that.

"...what."

You remember that one proton you shoved in the dumpster?

"Oh, so you're gonna talk about our past victims. Cool. We're done talking."

...actually, why do you keep saying "our" and "we" when you're referring to yourself? You've been doing it a lot lately. Especially when you're thinking to yourself.

"..."

Come ooon. Nothing I can even do with this information, anyway.

"..."

Neutron?

"...hm."

Are you, like... multiple people or something? Is that it?

"...yeah, basically."

Oh. Oh shit, for real? I was joking.

"Yeah. Me 'n Neutron."

...wait. So you're not Neutron right now?

"No. Mamba."

Huh. I don't get it. I thought, like... Mamba was just Neutron's old name.

"Sort of. Not really."

You gonna explain, then? 'Cause I still don't get it.

"Didn't expect you to."

Then explain it, dumbass.

"...after I got out of jail, I wanted a new start. So I made Neutron. Let them take control 'n stuff. New person, new life. We could leave everything behind."

...huh. And you two are completely different people, right? Like its not some alternate identity thing?

"No. We're different."

...I still don't get it. What's even the difference between you two? You're both, like... emotionless 'n shit. And boring. You act the same.

Sigh. "Think of it like this. Mamba is the old me. Neutron is the new me. After jail, I did a reset and... shed my old me like a snakeskin. I still have that snakeskin. That's the old me. Mamba. The new guy's Neutron. They're separate from me. Does that make sense?"

Of course you use snake metaphors. But yeah. I get it a little better. Not much, but a little.

"Better than nothing."

...

"..."

...so that means that Mamba's the murderer one. And Neutron's, like... innocent. Never did any of that.

"That was the goal, yeah. Fresh start."

You know that, like... nobody's going to see it that way, right? The cops sure won't. I'm having trouble understanding it.

"Maybe I'll just be called crazy and locked in a rubber room. With rats or something."

Yeah. And to me, it seems like a real cheap "stay buddy-buddy with Proton" kinda thing. You could just pretend to be "Neutron" forever and not have to face all the shit you did 'cause "Neutron's" the innocent one. And they didn't do all the shit stuff. So you get to be friends with Proton forever.

."...it does look a lot like that, doesn't it?"

Uh-huh. But I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt here. 'Cause clearly you're still guilty about the shit you did. And the people you ate. And killed. So maybe you aren't pulling all this shit off to keep a friend and you've actually got a legit reason.

"Wow. Thanks a lot."

Don't mention it.

"You're awfully friendly today. No hauntings or reminders and guilt-tripping."

I got bored. And it's clear that you feel bad about killing innocent people. Maybe with some therapy 'n shit I could grow to tolerate you on a daily basis.

"Mmm. Do therapists accept murderers as clients? Or are there special heavy-duty therapists for people like me?"

Dunno. You can go and find out.

"...eh. I'd rather not."

...

"..."

...you avoid stuff a lot, y'know.

"Whatever could that mean?"

Like... it still feels like you made Neutron so you could avoid confronting all the shit you did. So you could just be some guy. Not some murderer.

"...I suppose that was a reason. I did want a fresh start..."

Yeah. And speaking of avoiding shit...

"...no."

You are literally going to have to tell her sooner or later. Best to do it sooner 'cause your relationship's already strained and time is probably not going to help it. So just get it over with. Tell her what you did.

"I have no clue what you're talking about."

Yes you fucking do. Last I heard, you were Mamba, not Neutron. You know what I'm talking about. That stupid "iunno what you mean" excuse doesn't work here.

"...they didn't know that they would be her. If I knew that my roommate would be... them, I never would have let them take that shit up."

But you did. Funny how fate works.

Groan. "I wish I never locked that dumpster."

Oh, I know. I can hear each and every single one of your thoughts. You think about that memory so much that even I can remember it clear as day. Wouldn't have made it better, though, if you didn't lock it. 'Cause you still-

"Shut up. Don't say it. I don't... I don't want to hear it."

...fine. But you'll still have to face it soon.

"...I'll get to that eventually."

Suuure. How many times do you think that poor proton rebirthed in there? You ate a chunk of their head 'n arm 'n leg. You think they get phantom pains there sometimes? I know a proton who gets phantom pains there.

"Fun. Here comes the haunting."

I know how many times they rebirthed in there. Saw it all myself. Tally marks scratched on the dumpster walls - one side was for days passed, the other side for times rebirthed. There were so many tally marks there. So many. So fucking many.

"I wasn't in the right mind-"

How do you think they rebirthed? Starvation? Dehydration? Sickness? Asphyxiation, maybe? Heat stroke? Generally feeling hopeless? Panicking? Probably all of those. Maybe worse ones, too.

"This is really making me not want to te-"

But you'll have to. You'll have to and you'll have to face everything that happened to them. Everything. Actually- I should be using her right pronouns! What am I thinking?

"Stop. Shut up. This conversation is over. We're not talking about her anymore."

It's only over when you take your meds, lizard bitch.

"Great. Where are our fucking pills..."

[plushiecemetery]

i wrote a little thingy to keep in mind certain aspects of Dionysus and youll be my witness:

((UPG will be in italics))

🍇 Who is Dionysus?

Lord Dionysus is best known as the god of wine and festivity, yet that is not the full story. With his status as the god of rebirth, madness, fertility, theater and many more He is a vastly more interesting God than He tends to be seen as. He is a kind yet erratic God, loving and caring for those who worship Him and that which He values, but as the most human God of the Olympus (as He is the son of Zeus and a mortal, Semele), He can be seen as vengeful, even if that is disputable.

being born twice (as when Hera found of Her husbands infidelity, She tricked Semele into making Zeus reveal Himself to her, causing her to die, with Dionysus only surviving due to Zeus stitching Him onto His thigh until Dionysus was born again) He represents duality, being both mortal and deity born, both young and old, from here and there, masculine and feminine, He is the link between us mortals and our Gods, and in my eyes a key piece for understanding hellenic religion, being paradoxical, nonsensical, brute, wise, mad, He is the God of wine, as wine is a great and ecstatic moment but take it too far and youll be lost.

He is very much a hunter, and in a lot of art of Him, He can be seen very prominently fighting the the Titans, with His sacred animals fighting by His side, even more than other more war centric Deities, as he is kind yet brutal when needed, He was and is seen as a protector for those who need Him.

🍇 Domains:

Dionysus is the nature God of rebirth, wine, frenzy, fertility, queerness, theater/drama/tragedy, fluidity of self, madness (divine or not), paradoxes, art, inclusivity, festivity, ecstasy, , prophesies, androgyny, transness, the moon, (volatile) emotions, winemaking, mental health

🍇 Associations:

💜 colours:

purple, moss green, black, gold, burgundy

💜 crystals:

grape agate, amethyst, tiger's eye, moss agate, amber, moon stone, serpentine, smoky quartz, malachite

💜 fauna:

panthers, leopards and tigers, crows, bulls, goats and sheep, snakes, rats, calico or orange cats

💜 flora:

grapevine and grapes, ivy, pine trees, bindweed, calamus, fruits in general, green apples, fennel, thistle

💜 consumables:

grape flavoured fizzy drinks, grapes, wine, spicy soup, fruits, chicken, cinnamon, honey, olive oil,

💜 tarot cards:

hanged man, death, fool, three of cups, moon, two of cups

[tarnishedinquirer]

Beneath Stormveil

Here the damage seemed the worst. In places, the walls were red and raw, almost as if they were bleeding. I continued down and reached a room with a very interesting painting.

It was Stormhill, before Stormveil Castle was ever built. The world looked so much wilder and more vibrant back then. The colors were deep blacks and rich greens, not the washed-out greys and pale greens of current Limgrave. The place that would once become the Chapel of Anticipation was part of the mainland, separated by a waterfall rather than a chasm. There's no trace of the black stone pillars that underlay the entire land. The Stormfoot Catacombs are open, with no door. And, while something was gleaming gold, it sure didn't look like the Erdtree.

Yet the Divine Tower and bridge were already there, and already so ancient the bridge had started to crumble. Curious.

After examining the painting as much as I could, I unlocked the door back to the Site of Grace and continued downward.

This was by far the oldest and most neglected portion of the castle. It's unlikely it would get any light except at high noon. The only creatures down here were vermin. Giant bats and rats, the scavengers and dwellers in the dark.

Now that I was down here, it became clear that this was a dumping ground for the castle above. Specifically, it seemed that all the statues removed in the various ideological purges were just shoved into the abyss.

There's the expected statues of women holding ewers or missing their hands, but there's a few statues that stand out to me. They're almost completely buried, so possibly the oldest statues ever dumped down here, and depict hooded figures either holding a book or holding a dagger. Unfortunately, I don't have any context to interpret them. Maybe I'll find some more later.

A scarab almost misses my notice, were it not for the sound they make. I track it down and it's carrying an unusual Sorcery called Rancorcall.

I say it's unusual because using it would require almost as much faith as intellect. That unnerved me a little. Sorcery is supposed to be the result of consistent, observable phenomenon. Concrete things that may be more difficult to observe and comprehend, but are ultimately just as real as a sword. To apply your intellect to the task of how best to surrender it to a higher power seemed perverse to me.

The voice said:

Sorcery of the servants of Death. Summons vengeful spirits that chase down foes. Once though lost, this ancient death hex was rediscovered by the necromancer Garris.

Going on my theory that scarabs only appear where abilities like ashes of war, sorceries, or incantations are used, and somehow they gather up some invisible residue to make their spheres, I would suspect that Garris must've been here at some point. Perhaps this is where he even developed his techniques? I doubt he's still here.

To draw a connection, I found the Rancor Pot recipe in the Tombsward Catacombs. It has a similar effect of summoning vengeful spirits, though different methods. Am I to assume Garris might also have been there? That might explain how Deathroot got inside...

Now I came to a cliff overlooking a root-choked and damp chamber below. Bones littered the floor. Some were stacked up in drifts, but there were also complete skeletons resting in what looked like old, rotted canoes. Perhaps a vestige of some water burial in the past? At one time, they might have sent the dead over the waterfall that once ran through here. Once that dried up, they instead just buried the dead in their canoes.

But what interested me most was the grand baldachin, now rotted and torn, draped across the chamber beyond. Something important must be there.

Before I could approach, a terrible creature burst out of the ground. I'd seen its ilk once before, in the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. An Ulcerated Tree Spirit, a great writhing snake-root, like a serpentine mandrake. Even as I knew its movements, it was still so erratic that it was hard to predict at times. As it slammed me against the walls, I knew now where the drifts of bones had come from.

Once I had slain the beast. I was free to recover its treasures, both here and in the chamber beyond. Much like the last, it dropped a Golden Seed.

As for the chamber... I can scarcely describe it. I'll try to sketch it but I don't think I can do justice to the sheer presence of this thing. Despite looking like a stone carving, I knew on an instinctual level that it was alive.

It was a face, or approximation thereof. Yet it could not have been more inhuman. It at once looked floral, fungal, and animal. The lower half of the face was like an oyster mushroom, and from there emerged thick tendrils like thorny vines. The upper half had a disturbingly human nose but two oddly angled eyes, or at least eye sockets. The lids themselves were empty.

The whole thing burst through the stone wall on a thick body like a salamander, though if it had arms, they had not emerged from the wall. And its was very clearly a violent entry, with rubble piled up around it. Nearby, there was a bloodstain, and a corpse holding an item in its hands.

Oh hell. The bloodstain was Rogier. If he can't see Grace anymore, then can he even come back? Is he just dead for real now? I couldn't even see what got him but it looked bad. It lifted him up and seemed to impale him from multiple angles. I hope he's okay. I actually kinda like the guy. It was rare to talk to someone both intellectual and down to earth like that.

The corpse had a... Prince of Death's Pustule?!

A fetid pustule taken from facial flesh. It is said that this pustule came from the visage of the Prince of Death, he who used to be called Godwyn. As First Dead of the demigods, it's said he's buried deep under the capital, at the Erdtree's roots.

It is said, it is said, it is said. I hate it when the Voice uses weasel words. Who says?

If Godwyn was the first to die, then it is his death that created the Deathroot. Deathroot sprouts similar faces to the one on this pustule. The same milky white eyes, the same thorny tendrils... There was a couple things that puzzled me. I noted fish fins on the Deathroot growing in various catacombs and Summonwater Village. Despite its aquatic appearance, this face held no trace of such details, resembling an amphibian more than a fish. Second, while the Deathroot and Pustule share the milky white eyes, this visage does not. Instead, its sockets are empty.

Third, if we take the voice at face value and say that Godwyn actually is buried under the capital... why did this face burst out of the southeast wall? The capital is to the northeast. I can buy the Greattree roots spreading throughout the Lands Between, but I'd still expect such a creature to burrow through from the correct direction. The only things off that direction are the Stormfoot Catacombs and the Fringefolk Hero's Grave. And since the painting confirms that at least one of those was here before the castle, I find myself doubting if this is even Godwyn at all, or some other, forgotten Prince of Death.

I'll review my notes about those places and see if I can gain any insight, but arbitrary skepticism doesn't do any good. I have to assume that this is Godwyn, or at least an aspect of him, until strong evidence presents itself otherwise.

Still, to quote the only cleric I ever got on with, "Doubting is what I do."

With my investigation concluded, the only way to go was up. Thankfully there was a conveniently placed, if alarmingly tall, rope ladder. I began what was sure to be a very long ascent.

I had at last gotten answers on the rot infecting Stormveil, but they only left me with more questions.

Who are the dagger and book statues? Why were they purged?

If Godfrey built the earliest Stormveil, who built the tower and bridge?

Is that face Godwyn? If not, who could it possibly be?

If it is Godwyn, why would it come from the wrong direction?

Why does this face look so different from the other faces? Why is it missing its eyes?

Who is Garris? What was he doing beneath Stormveil?

What happened to Rogier?

Why was he looking for this?

[heiayen]

two witches walk into a prison cell... - lyney&gn!reader

summary: after a series of unfortunate accidents, including you and lyney, you get accused of... being witches and thrown into jail. there has to be a way of getting out, right?

tags: can be read both as romantic and platonic for the relationship between [name] and lyney, depending on how you choose to read this! it's crack, comedy, whatever you want. unspecified medieval au? headcanons, not proof read. there is a mention

notes: passes out. im still on a tumblr break but hello!! this is my entry for @ecrin-de-litterature prison escape event yippeee sorry lyney for throwing you into jail... happens. this is so silly save me

How… unfortunate. The townspeople have decided, with pitchforks and burning torches, rocks breaking the windows– you and Lyney, your dearest companion of years, are… witches. Dabbling in witchcraft, causing mischief and apparently hurting chickens that your very grumpy neighbor raises in her garden. You wouldn’t even get near her fence, let alone her godsdamn chickens! And while… the chickens were in fact getting sick more often than supposed, you were sure it was because of your neighbor’s poor animal raising skills, not because of whatever you and Lyney did.

You were a role citizen, one could say. Never caused too many problems for the royal guards and other folk living here, you had a nice, little shop with medical herbs, all hand-picked with the utmost care, always the best quality– because who would you be, if you didn’t care about selling your clients only the best goods? Lyney, on the other hand, was the town’s bard, often performing on the streets with his dear sister and he was quite good at it, you had to admit. Charming people with his performances and charisma, all the girls in town swooning over him… Sometimes you wondered if it was only a matter of time until the king himself took interest in Lyney’s and his sister’s shows. Or until something else happened…

That something happened now. The elders of the town decided that everything bad happening to the town was your fault and that you deserved to be burne– oh, well, arrested. Locked in a cell, awaiting what next people would decide with your hands tied. Metaphorically and literally sadly, because the folks believed you’d pose a danger with your hands free. In a way they were right, you really wanted to punch that guard standing next to the cell–

Right. That guard was guarding you and Lyney all the time. As much as you… well, understood that prisoners should be guarded to not escape, especially those accused of witchcraft, it still pissed you off greatly. You really wished you could throw a rat at him or something. Maybe a bucket of stinky water, the one you used to clean the floors with. You had many ideas of potential revenge but alas, you couldn’t do anything.

Or so you thought. Lyney didn’t share your pessimist thinking (and neither the many revenge plots you shared with him) and soon, the man got into the action of freeing you from this terrible, cold, and smelly cell. He called the guard and you only looked at him with raised eyebrows. In no way the guard would let you out! He surely had a family to raise and feed and the guardian pay was small already, how would he manage if it was cut for letting the prisoners go? 

It turned out that Lyney… had a plan. A plan you thought wouldn’t succeed because, oh, surely that guard was smarter than that! And yet how wrong you were. When the guard entered the cell, the key to it hanging from his belt on his hip, you threw away your pride for a moment and simply begged the guard to let you two go. Lyney had a sister and a brother after all, and to deprive them of a loving, older brother over some dumb rumors would… truly be tragic. A heartbreaking tale of a family broken down by a vengeful crowd, over things they didn’t even commit. And if he couldn’t let both of you go, then he should at least let Lyney go. He deserved that, to meet with his siblings for the last time until he would be forced to run away.

And so go on. You pulled out your best pleading eyes, even tears– all while Lyney was working from behind. You almost broke your act seeing him untie his hands, as if he couldn’t do so already! You would cover him, he would untie his hands and yours too and… well, while it wouldn’t help you run away, it surely would make the planning more comfortable! But with his hands free, Lyney quietly, stealthy, behind that guard’s back, took the hanging keys from his belt. For his luck, the keys were more on guard’s back than his front, because in no way he would succeed otherwise…

But that left another problem, didn’t it? Although Lyney had the key, the guard was still here, throwing literal daggers with his gaze at you, completely unmoved by your pleading. You needed him out of the room. Or maybe not, you needed him locked in here for ages, so that he could atone for his mistakes of locking you here– Well. Grand revenge could wait.

Suddenly, in the middle of your pleading, you widened your eyes and looked somewhere behind him, gasped as if you saw your ancestor’s ghosts and yelled. That provided enough distraction for the guard to turn around, scared what was that you saw only to be greet with a smiling and waving Lyney… and a hard kick into the back of his knee, of course by yours truly. He hit the floor and before he could ever get up from it, you and Lyney already stood outside the now locked again cell, you smiling brightly at the annoyed guard. And before he could really realize what happened, you two already started running away.

Running away from other guards was a surprisingly easy task, simply having to hide and quietly walk right under their noses– which with Lyney leading wasn’t hard and… oh, you two were out of jail! Finally breathing the fresh air, seeing the beautiful sky after exactly one day of being jailed, it all caused warmth to bloom in your chest. You were happy and free.

…for now at least because you and Lyney knew that the townsfolk would not leave it like that. Frankly, you really didn’t want to see pitchforks outside your house again, no. But, oh well, it was bound to happen again and it really was a matter of time.

Well. What happened has happened, and there was no turning time back and now you, Lyney and, by extension, his siblings, had to create a plan of dealing with the entire village wanting to hunt you down. But that was a different story…

(And a different story was the fact that the village was, in fact, right about you and Lyney but… oh! A little bit of witchcraft never hurt anyone! Okay, maybe these herbs you gave your lovely chicken-raising neighbor were meant to give her the worst headaches known to mankind for whole three days because she pissed you off so badly, but… she was a special case. And this was the only thing you ever did to her despite having many urges to show her real powers of witchcraft! You’d never hurt poor chickens. You really had to get back at her one day…) 

[ghostofnuggetspast]

Red Hat Man

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I will eventually post a recording, but for now, here are the lyrics to "Red Hat Man", a St. Stephen's Day parody of "Red Right Hand" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. In this story, our St Nick was traumatized by the death of his best friend Stephen. A wren is the yearly target of his rage, representing the wren who sang to wake the guards when Stephen tried to escape. Sherlock and John are intrigued by the mystery of this serial killer and have been set on the case by the Irregulars.

Originally inspired by @totallysilvergirl 's The Holly and the Ivy: December Drabbles Chapter - 26: Boxing Day. I'd link it, but A03 is down. :(

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*Begin urban jungle groove of a beat walker* *Goth Matchgirl match flicks alight*

*smokey voice begins*

Take a little walk in London Town and go across the Thames. Where the viaduct looms where a bird met doom The water shifts and bends. No secrets hide from his scraping eyes. Our Sherlock hunts his prize, But Nick, he knows he’s gonna get away, Past the roofs, past the wharf, past the banks, past the rats. On a stretcher white lies the Bloody Wren! Watching from afar is the Red Hat Man.

*Jingle bells of quiet horror*

He does his job, checks his list, tells you if you’ve been a Good boy. He’ll hide his vengeful dreams, rekindled rancor from a lifetime Or ten before. His Stephen’s brutal faint, face dripping like red paint! He became a saint, But that won’t ever kill Nick’s memory. He’s an elf, he’s a ghost, he’s the Judge, he’s a huntsman. Sherlock’s on his trail through this godforsaken land! John writes whispers up of the Red Hat Man.

*Jingle bells of quiet horror* *Oscillator of spookification*

You don’t have no clothes? He’ll drop you some. You don’t have respect? He’ll get you a gun. You need a way to get your little girl a pink tea set, Well, don’t you worry buddy, 'cause here he comes. Through the homes and the flats and the corners and the slums. He gives what’s needed, and sometimes what’s needed can Bring the heat down upon the Red Hat Man.

*Jingle bells of quiet horror* *Gothic guitar of guilt* *Organ of avian anxiety*

You see him in your movies; you see him in your dreams. He always looks so jolly and fat, but he ain't what he seems. You'll see him in your tales on the TV screen, And hey buddy, you had better not tick him off! He’s an elf, he’s a ghost, he’s the Judge, he’s a huntsman. Strike out the possible to understand his plan, The impossible killer called the Red Hat Man.

*Outro of previous creepy Christmas cheer and distant Hunt hounds baying*

@friday411 @helloliriels @totallysilvergirl @chriscalledmesweetie @naefelldaurk @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @iwantthatbelstaffanditsoccupant @eardefenders

[adobealmanac]

El Tecolote (The Owl)

From the Nahuatl Tecolotl. In New Mexico, there is a story to be found about the owl. A magnificent creature it is, but as magnificent it is equally feared. You must know the right generation to hear this tale, and I hope to document it here.

Firstly, you must understand the culture of spirituality in New Mexico. Witchcraft is unspoken. Brujos are unwanted, until you need them. Witches are believed to be solely evil here. They are closer akin to flesh pedestrians than they are to the modern witch, atleast in folklore. That is.. until you seek one out. Then, they are simply a means to an end.

Here is one of those tales: Isabella once visited her friend Ramira. Isabella did not know Ramira was a witch. Both went to bed late in the evening, after spreading the chisme (gossip). They retired to the bedroom, and shared the same bed. Around midnight (the best time to practice mischief and execute revenge, as the old folks say) Isabella saw Ramira get out of bed, and light a candle. She pulled out her eyes (leaving only her witches eye in place), and sat them in her filigree silver box. She began to shrivel up, becoming the size of a rat. She flew out of the chimney, riding inside of a dried chile pod. Evidently, Isabella could no longer stay in the house. She quickly dressed, and ran to her home as fast as she could. As she was running, she saw a large owl perched atop the old cottonwood. El Tecolote was a fearsome sight in New Mexico, as it was the sign of a nearly-advanced witch. The stages of witchcraft in NM would follow a simple path of: - The Dove, or apprentice - The Owl, or practitioner - The Dog, or old hag -The Fox, or a backstabber or vengeful spirit It is understandable now why owls were often feared, as many believed them to be witches in their prime. Owls were thought to be their preferred form. Their hoots are bad omens, telling of misfortune and loss. If they were seen standing for prolonged periods of time it was a sure sign of evil nearby. While owls are certainly not witches in disguise (although I would love to transform into an owl; it would make traffic easier to navigate) it may be worth noting this story if you plan on traveling through NM at night. If you see an owl during your travels through our region, do beware, and maybe skip that sketchy motel on the side of the road, as it may not be as convenient as you first thought.

[the-cash-cache]

The Goblin Market: the weirdest and most colorful cast of merchants you’ll ever meet!

Picture it: Sicily, 1922 my desk, 2023. I have just gotten back from a raucous day on the town, and am relaxing with my emotional support water bottle while browsing the internet in a sleep-deprived reverie. My mind wanders the dimly flashing streets of neural pathways, before being struck by the Truck of Realization that I have been derelict in my duty of talking about amazing ttrpg stuff!

I’ve talked about the Certified TERF Hated collection of NPCs The Goblin Market by my good friend @europaprisonmoon before here, and I believe it’s worth talking about again!

I’ll start off with this description from the itch.io page itself which perfectly encapsulates the colorful array of characters your party can meet:

The Goblin Market is a system agnostic collection of over fifty merchants, monsters and even stranger things which can be dropped into your campaign to add weirdness and magic for your players: retired river gods, escaped nightmares, tea merchants, wicker basket mechs, predatory graves, vengeful dragons seeking to raise an army to defeat tyrannical princesses, off-duty demons, magical roboticists, mystery cults, accidentally immortal witches, and many more. 

This supplement is a treat to read, with Tryphosa Tucker Thimbling capturing my heart and mind from the moment I met her! A milliner with “fur like the finest humus” and piebald donkey ears adorned with beautiful golden bells, Tryphosa loves tea - of the drink and gossip varieties. Have you ever felt your PC was missing something? Some critical aspect leaving them sorely lacking? It is obviously that they need a hat from Tryphosa! Turn heads with a cap made of fantastical materials; you’ll never have to worry again about entering a bar/saloon/communal watering hole and facing someone with the same hat as you.

If for whatever reason Tryphosa doesn’t strike your fancy, why not a quartet of large albino rats joined at the tails? The Quartet (or was it once The Quintet?) sells uncandles, a perfect gift for the brooding rogue in your party! Fashioned from shadows and darkness, the uncandles will bring a comfortable gloom to any room.

Best of all, The Goblin Market is on sale for just under $8 until July 13th! That’s less than 16 cents per NPC. The NPCs are connected to each other, so you can throw as many or as few into your game, and you’ll never be at a loss for people your players can talk to!

[rosesnink]

The Way to Rome, Prologue: Turning Tide

Author's Notes

During my first ILW playthrough, I thought to myself, 'what if I had a Lucasmancer OC and their story played outside ILW?' and thus Faye was born. I want to thank Instagram friend _departer for listening to my ramblings and my Discord friends too for helping me shape her and their story. I hope you guys like what I have to offer!

English isn't my first language, so please forgive any typos/grammatical mistakes

My OC's Choices sprite's been made by @peonyblossom all credits to them!

If you'd like to be tagged in this series, comment or reblog here, go to my taglist or send me an ask/DM!

Summary: Homecoming ends up being a disaster, and Faye deals with the consequences on her own once again.

Word Count: 1.1k

Category: Angst

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Lucas Thomas x F!OC (Yun Faye) (Eventually) mentions of Stacy Green x F!MC (Tallulah Hunter)

CW: Major character death, grief, trauma, strong language

Book: It Lives Anthology

Silence.

As the first specs of dawn begin to lighten Mr. Red’s—Jane’s fort, the seven friends get up one by one, their fancy clothes torn to shreds. After checking each other out, Dan is the one to address the elephant in the room.

“Guys… where’s Tallulah?”

“And Faye—,” Andy is not capable of finishing the sentence, for a soul-wrenching scream ripples through the woods.

All suddenly going into fight or flight mode for Faye, they all march into the keep again, to where the screams are the loudest.

“LULA!!” Faye keeps crying out. “Wake up, Lula! Don’t do this to me, please!!” She begs.

Andy’s the first one to get to it, and he immediately freezes. Lucas grimaces in pain and looks away, and Ava holds rageful tears. Lily quietly sobs at the image, Dan closes his eyes in defeat and pain, and Stacy drops to her knees, her hand on her mouth.

The scene before them is Faye, trying to get a dead Tallulah to move. She’s crying out her name “I know you’re there, Lula, wake up!” She sobs “Please! I take it back! I take it all back, just wake up!”

Lucas tries to get Faye away from her dead body “Faye, she’s gone—,”

“SHUT UP, LUCAS!” She bellows. Lucas grimaces. The sweet girl who was telling him the sweetest things was gone. Now, a raging and pained seventeen-year-old girl was there, cradling her childhood best friend’s dead body.

Stacy tentatively approaches the scene, and tenderly grabs Tallulah’s hand. She presses her two fingers on her wrist, and declares with a pained tone “She’s dead, guys. Noah killed him.”

She regrets it, for Faye perks up “That ungrateful little rat—where is he?! I demand an eye for an eye!”

She is vengeful. She is angry. She’s hurt, and alone. Terribly alone.

“Faye—,”

Andy, despite his broken leg, is capable of taking a hold from Faye “Do not stoop to his level, Faye. Vengeance creates more vengeance.” He takes a deep breath “Lula’s gone, Faye. She saved us, somehow. Let’s make her death not be in vain, hm?”

Faye stands there, with her frilly pink dress, before she drops to her knees and starts sobbing uncontrollably. This is the worst day for her. The guy she’s been in love with since they were seven doesn’t like her back, her best friend’s dead and her group will fall apart once again due to Jane. She had a way of ruining things even before her death. It all came back to her in the end. Jane, and her childish desire to play with danger. Jane, and her unwanted leadership of the group. Jane, and her obvious favouritism for Tallulah. Jane. Jane, Jane, Jane. Could one resent someone who had been dead for ten years?

The sounds of police sirens and concerned parents brought everyone back to reality. Lily gently took Faye outside. The morning sun blinded her. Her dress was covered in blood, and had fallen in a sepulchral silence.

One by one, everyone’s parents rushed towards their children. Faye’s mother tried talking to her, but she couldn’t say a word. She was numb, feeling like this was all a bad nightmare.

Only the cries of horror and pain of Mrs. Hunter brought her to reality. Faye had lost a friend, but kind Mrs. Hunter had lost a child. Her only child. As the images of the night flooded Faye’s mind, she felt her knees giving in and falling into exhaustion and grief.

The only thing she remembers is her father calling out her name, his footsteps running towards her.

A year later

Faye had done her best to dress for the memorial. She had a black dress that Lula once said that was cute and would love to see her in. She did her best to put on some concealer, blush and a nude lipstick.

Everyone would be there. Including Lucas. Whom she definitely saw making out with Tallulah in the office of Britney’s father. After Lula figured out that Faye had been in love with him.

Shaking off said thought, she walked to the memorial, and many had shown up to the memorial. All the seats were taken, except one… beside Lucas. Not wanting to break down, she silently sat down beside him and started fussing with her hands, like she did when she had many emotions that she couldn’t control.

She saw Connor Green, who’d speak for her. She had e-mailed him her speech for him to read. She would’ve read it at prom, but of course, Jane ruined everything even from the grave. Giving her a nod, after his opening of remembering those who had died, he started.

“I want to begin by saying that this speech is not mine, and I am only a messenger. Today was supposed to be the best day of our lives. What would’ve been the beginning of a journey together ended up in blood, and there isn’t a day where I don’t think about what could’ve been had we been more careful with what we do in the dark. I always pictured all of us, side-by-side, welcoming our eighteenth birthdays, cheering and laughing. But it cannot be, for the one who held us together is sadly in heaven. There are many things left unsaid, and so many things I could do if I could see you again: hug you, cry, yell at you for being a hero, and hug you all over again. Together, we went through so much. There was nobody who knew me more deeply than you, and despite our differences, I always stood loyal to you. And when I thought I could have my sister back, you were taken from me. And, if I could go back, I’d offer myself in a minute. Because if someone deserved to graduate and be celebrated, it was you, Lula. You earned it. But it was taken from you. And you were taken from me, and the people who loved you like life itself. But I won’t waste my words with these things. Let me tell you three things: I love. I’m sorry. I take it all back.”

They all stood in respectful silence, fully knowing that those were Faye’s words. As the video of Lula and Stacy played out, Lucas asked “I… caused the rift between you and Lula, didn’t I?”

She didn’t say anything. Instead, she stood up and ran. She ran, and ran, and ran until she found Lula’s house. The garden where they’d play. Where she found out she liked Lucas. And where she last saw Lula alive. She dropped to her knees, the past and present weighing on her, and promised herself “Your death won’t be meaningless. I will live for both of us the life we used to fantasise about here. I promise, Lula.”

[honourablejester]

A random collection of my favourite PF2e (legacy and remastered) ancestry feats:

Collapse (Skeleton). As a reaction of suffering a crit, you can make like a cartoon xylophone skeleton and collapse into a pile of bones instead, taking normal damage and being unable to act except to reform into a standing skeleton again. This is such a cartoon move, and I love it.

Kneecap (Goblin). This may be the short person spite over here, but I just love little guys kneecapping bigger guys to slow them down. Everybody’s shorter than you when they’re on the floor!

Innocuous, Easily Dismissed (Halfling). You know that thing in Assassin’s Creed where you ‘blend into a crowd’ and despite the fact that you’re still a white-clad hooded assassin in broad daylight, the guards suddenly don’t see you? Halflings are good at that. They good at looking innocent and they’re good at blending into the background, and I love that about them.

Forlorn (Elf). “Watching your friends age and die fills you with moroseness that protects you against harmful emotions.” Comparative mortality makes some elves so emo that they’re resistant to artificial influences on their emotions. Which. You do you, guys!

Right Hand Blood (Gnoll). Borrowing from the myths of your people, you can use blood from your right side to aid medicine checks, but blood from your left side causes them to auto-fail. I just. I love the mythology of this. The sense of a living, embodied folklore.

Plague Sniffer (Ratfolk). If you’re a long-nosed rat, you can smell disease. No notes, I just love this. A lot of the ratfolk feats, are they useful, maybe not, but they really do fulfil the fantasy of playing a rat.

Gaping Flesh (Fleshwarp). If you came to the Fleshwarp for body horror, this is the feat for you! If someone hits you, the sight of your wound yawning open appalls and sickens them. It’s a great little vengeful ‘honey I have seen so much worse’ sort of vibe. Although all the Fleshwarp feats are so fun and lovecraftian. I adore them so much.

Crystal Luminescence (Kashrishi). First thing to know about me, I like shiny things. The little psychic crystal unicorn people (best. ancestry. ever) can make their crystal horns go glowy, and it’s everything my tiny childhood unicorn-loving self could want.

In a similar vein, Halo (Nephilim). Exactly what it says on the tin! You get a halo that sheds light. I want it. This is why I love Crown of Stars in 5e. I just want shiny things on my head!

Then, to finish up, if I’m picking a favourite dwarven feat … I am tempted by Echoes in Stone (tremorsense) and Defy the Darkness (you think you can make the darkness magical and have it beat me? I’m a dwarf, sugarplum. Try again), but I think the award for most dwarfy dwarven feat has to go to Dwarven Doughtiness. Yes, the magic of stone and all that, but at the base of everything, dwarves are just too stubborn to stay scared, and I love that about them.