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defectivevillain · 10 days ago

Text

run run blood

pairing: Outlaw Midas/Reader

the reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary: “So,” Midas drawls, “do we have a deal?” “…Fine,” you relent, against your better judgment. This is such a bad idea. And the foreboding in your chest only grows when Midas holds out a golden hand for you to shake. You return the gesture. His grip is firm, but not painful. Unfortunately, his grasp is also insistent—he doesn’t seem keen to release your hand any time soon.

You suppose it's inevitable that you meet the legendary outlaw Midas, after your nearly countless heists across the island of Oninoshima.

word count: 5.6k | ao3 version | midas playlist

warnings: canon-typical violence and weaponry, spoilers to Chapter 6 Season 2 of Fortnite; drugging, kidnapping, fainting

author's notes: I’m a relatively new Fortnite player, so I’m pretending Midas is a new Chapter 6 character since I don’t know his lore. This is decently canon compliant for Ch6S2, I think. I will say, I literally forgot that, y’know, everything he touches turns to gold… and I wrote this entire thing before realizing… So… Yeah… 😔 Explain that however you want. I couldn’t think of a creative enough way to make him actually able to touch the reader with the curse. Just pretend he found a way around it or something, idk. (I can’t lie, I didn’t realize he actually had the whole Midas curse… I thought he was a cyborg until I read the wiki, LOL.) Also, I beefed up the Midas/Fletcher vibes to make their past a bit more impactful. I made them exes, pretty much. I took creative liberties. Ah well.

As usual, I couldn’t come up with a title so I took it from a song: Run Run Blood by Phantogram.

After the island of Oninoshima is successfully purged of demon influence, you find yourself… bored. You can only go through the motions so long before you burn yourself out. In hindsight, this lack of activity likely triggered your recent activities. But, it’s too late to contemplate the reasoning behind it. You’ve crossed a line you can’t come back from.

In the absence of an adversary, you meet new friends and soon find a common enemy: Fletcher Kane. He has a tight grip on the entire island, with his mansion overtaking a sprawling section of the island’s map. His brick driveway weaves through the grass, a luxurious eyesore for all to see. He coats practically every surface in gold. He has more wealth than he knows what to do with, yet he still doesn’t seem satisfied. Fletcher is somewhat of a tyrant around here, with his staggeringly high taxes on weapons and imports making daily life nearly unliveable for everyone except him.

So, you don’t feel very guilty robbing him. It certainly doesn’t help that his gold almost seems to regenerate overnight, leaving you with endless opportunities to just steal and steal and steal. And, hey, if he didn’t want you to take his money, maybe he should be guarding it better. His guards are almost incompetent, and they seem to think that appearing in staggered waves is better than using their numbers to their advantage. It’s really all too easy to break into the vaults scattered across Oninoshima, especially as you start getting better weapons and gear.

Your first few heists draw the attention of Cassidy Quinn, a criminal who harbors a similar hatred for Fletcher. Through Cassidy, you meet Keisha, Joss, Valentina, and a host of other personalities who are eager to take Fletcher down. As time passes and you start to hone your craft, you unknowingly draw the attention of a vital piece in the puzzle: Midas.

Midas is… well. You’re not sure how to describe him, based on what you’ve heard. He’s enigmatic and egotistical, apparently. It’s abundantly clear he isn’t in it for the greater good —he just wants Fletcher out of the way. That kind of selfishness isn’t one of your favorite traits, so you decide it’s a better idea to avoid him altogether. But, as your heists evolve to be quicker and faster, you unwittingly draw his attention. (And once Midas’s attention is captured, he is unstoppable.)

One uneventful day, you’re rifling through a chest for a better weapon when the sound of footsteps reaches your ears. You immediately whip around and point your gun at the sudden presence. There’s a dark laugh and the intruder steps out of the shadows.

“I’ve heard about you,” Midas says, a dangerous smirk hinting at his lips. He looks about the same as he’s been described to you: shoulder-length black hair, a scar ripping through his right eye, a vicious grin. Despite the gun pointed at his head, he looks entirely nonchalant—only raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. You swallow an irritated sound and let your gun rest at your side.

“You must be the one who’s been working with Valentina and Cassidy,” Midas analyzes, before enunciating your name carefully. Something lurches in your chest as you realize he knows exactly who you are. Damn it. You had a bad feeling you could only stay under the radar for so long.

“That’s me,” you respond eventually.

“Their work did seem far less sloppy than usual,” Midas notes. He studies you for a minute. “And I suppose you’re also the one riding the motorcycle and creating all that ruckus.”

Oh shit. Oops. “…Yeah,” you respond after a moment, a slightly sheepish smile breaking through your blank expression. Truthfully, you hadn’t quite considered just how loud the motorcycle can be. You’re resisting the urge to laugh now. “Keisha’s teaching me,” you remember to say, when you see his arched brow.

“Teaching you what, exactly?” Midas scrutinizes. “How to draw the attention of everyone on the island… all at once?”

“No,” you say, ignoring the dig. Truthfully, this is a bit funny. He’s almost acting like an annoyed neighbor. “Stunts and stuff,” you remember to answer noncommittally.

“On a motorcycle?” he hums, his brows furrowing for a moment as he contemplates the thought. “Interesting.”

It’s quiet. You don’t decide to break through the silence, instead just staring at Midas and waiting for him to speak. He meets your gaze for a while, before sighing and shaking his head. “We have more important things to discuss,” he declares. You weren’t aware you had anything to discuss with Midas. You don’t even really want to speak to him in the first place. And those sentiments must be obvious, because he smirks knowingly. “I could use your skill,” he then says.

“I’m sure you could,” you acknowledge. “But I’m not joining you.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he answers, to your surprise.

“...Good,” you nod after a moment.

“But I do want you to do something for me,” Midas continues.

Of course he does. “Why should I?” you frown.

“I’ll compensate you, of course,” he answers. “Call it a test.”

A test. You grit your teeth, resisting the urge to point your gun at his head again. That sounds like a waste of your time. But the sum of gold he offers you is too good to pass up, and he knows it.

“So,” Midas drawls, “do we have a deal?”

“…Fine,” you relent, against your better judgment. This is such a bad idea. And the foreboding in your chest only grows when Midas holds out a golden hand for you to shake.

You return the gesture. His grip is firm, but not painful. Unfortunately, his grasp is also insistent—he doesn’t seem keen to release your hand any time soon.

Midas is slippery. Evasive. Dangerous.

A smirk rises on the outlaw’s lips when his hand finally slips away.

…And you immediately regret your decision.

Despite your misgivings about the whole Midas deal, you follow through. Because you may be a lot of things, but you’re not a liar. You gave him your word—that was your mistake to make.

Fortunately, his tasks don’t take as long as you expect them to. You manage to scan for mysterious energy sources on Predator’s Peak and sneak into Daigo’s underground laboratory to take his book on mask-making, per Midas’s requests.

When you return to the Rogue Repairs Black Market, you amble around a bit before heading to the door near the back and swiping your Outlaw Keycard. Midas seems to be getting a bit more detailed with his security measures. You enter the room to find Midas sitting at his desk. Without so much as a greeting, you just toss the Mask-Making Book towards him and let it skitter across the desk. Midas looks up at you and hums, before taking the book in hand and inspecting it.

“You’re quick,” he nods, rifling through the pages before placing the book down. “I wasn’t expecting you for a few more days, at least.” His gaze is heated and unyielding.

Gritting your teeth, you throw him a gold bar and his eyebrows climb up his forehead for a second. “From Fletcher’s personal vaults,” you explain, upon sensing his confusion. Maybe this will convince him to trust you.

He whistles. “Not bad at all,” Midas acquiesces. He taps his fingers against the desk, a hollow rhythm echoing throughout the room. “Kane did seem a bit riled up. I see I have you to thank for that.”

You just nod.

A pause. “You don’t talk much,” Midas observes after a moment. He doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“I don’t have much to say,” you answer eventually. And of one thing, you’re certain: you need to watch your words in front of this guy. He’s volatile.

“Well, I can hardly complain when my benefactor bestows such fortune unto me,” Midas says, making a somewhat grand gesture with his arms before resting them on his desk once more. The intensity of his gaze is unnerving you a little.

“I’m not your benefactor,” you remember to correct him.

“Of course,” he smiles. “Now, onto the real work.” You resist an eye roll, instead keeping quiet and allowing him to monologue about this and that. At some point, he starts actually talking about important things and you tune back in.

“You know what to do,” Midas concludes, finally freeing you from that one-sided conversation. With a slight nod, you’re effectively dismissed. “Feel free to grab some weapons on your way out.” He’s evidently referencing the exotic rifles scattered across the space. You’ve never been quite fond of them. They can do a lot of damage, but they’re a bit… finicky.

“Thanks,” you say somewhat flatly, knowing you won’t take him up on the offer. Midas seems to recognize that too, because he just smiles that damn smile. It never fails to send a shiver down your spine.

“Be careful,” Midas hums. If he were anyone else, the remark would be genuine. But this is Midas.

“Fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, turning your back and walking away.

Midas’s laugh seems to reverberate in your ears long after you leave.

As promised, these new tasks from Midas are a bit more difficult—but ultimately nothing crazy. At some point, you stop asking questions and just keep quiet. If Midas senses this shift, he doesn’t comment on it. The two of you continue your unplanned meetings, with you visiting whenever you finish a task for him. They’re nothing more than business, and neither of you bother with small talk. They’re transactional and nothing more.

Sometimes, though, you have to wonder if Midas doesn’t understand that. It’s strange. You’ve heard so many rumors about him and his sharp tongue. And while you’ve certainly seen and heard evidence of his scathing commentary, he’s never quite lived up to the untouchable and prickly individual everyone thinks him to be.

It’s a small change, but you’re perceptive enough to notice it. Somewhere along the way, Midas almost seems to start anticipating your visits. His gaze will snap up to you the moment he hears your footsteps. He’ll try to keep you there longer, drawing out conversation and asking you questions that he doesn’t seem to even need the answers to. You’re not quite sure what his motivation is.

For a while, you can at least take solace in the fact that he hasn’t visited you outside of the Black Market since you first met. Of course, the universe doesn’t let you have that comfort for long. You’re in the process of breaking into a vault one morning when you hear a far too familiar voice behind you. “Impressive.”

Your soul nearly jumps out of your body when a hand lands on your shoulder. “What the hell—?” you immediately flinch and whip around, backing away.

“Relax,” Midas says flippantly, as if he hadn’t just appeared out of nowhere. He takes a step closer to you, and then another. You pretend not to notice, instead looking at him warily.

“What are you doing here?” you remember to ask, after busying yourself with reloading your gun and looking around for more guards.

“Just checking in on your progress,” he answers, idly nudging the dead guard on the ground with a boot. The guard doesn’t budge and Midas just hums disinterestedly.

“More like distracting me,” you mutter under your breath.

“You think I’m distracting?” he asks, a twisted smile on his face. “I’m flattered.”

“Of course you are,” you mutter again. This guy is relentless. You shake your head in an attempt to clear your thoughts, and study your surroundings. The thermite you placed on the door of the vault is making steady progress. You probably have about half of the time left. More guards will appear soon, you think to yourself.

A burning feeling on your arm captures your attention, and you look down to find a gash on your forearm. Frowning, you turn the corner to grab some bandages.

“Careless,” Midas notes, referencing the wound. He must’ve followed you over here.

“Shut up,” you snap, rolling the bandages around your forearm somewhat awkwardly. You barely manage to get it done in time before guards are emerging from the rooms upstairs. You quickly run up the nearby stairs to eliminate them.

You return to the ground floor to find that Midas… isn’t helping at all. He’s just standing there, his hands shoved in his pockets as he watches the scene unfold. You want to be surprised, but you’re not. He thinks everything is a game.

Two more guards approach and you switch to a pistol. You think Midas is saying something, but his voice is nothing more than warped background noise to you. Once you’ve taken them down, you turn to find Midas looking at you. There’s a strange expression on his face. You have no idea what emotion could be gleaming in his eyes, but it looks to be a relatively profound one.

Before you can contemplate that any longer, there’s the sound of footsteps in front of you. You squint and watch as a guard heads through the door behind Midas. For a moment, you just watch as the guard gets closer—and you wait for Midas to whip around and shoot him. But Midas doesn’t make a move. Has he even noticed? You don’t have much time to wonder, as the guard promptly raises their gun.

That split second almost seems to take a few minutes, as you come to the conclusion that you’ll have to be the one to act. You manage to get close enough to Midas to push him out of the way, not even bothering to be gentle as you practically shove him off to the side. The guard fires a bullet where Midas was standing mere moments ago and you make quick work of defeating him, before turning back to the outlaw.

“Idiot,” you admonish him.

He’s on the ground, staring up at you with a slightly shocked expression on his face. It’s quickly replaced by indifference as he brushes his clothes off and gets to his feet. “Not so rough next time,” Midas says pointedly. And of course he doesn’t thank you for saving his life, or even acknowledge it. Of course.

“There won’t be a next time,” you promise.

“True,” Midas agrees, evidently not catching onto the implications you just made. (Because you won’t save him next time. At least, that’s what you’re telling yourself.) Then the outlaw looks at you pensively. “I was… distracted.” Inexplicably, he’s staring at you as he says that.

“Maybe you should pay better attention, then,” you say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Maybe,” he says flippantly. Midas is still staring at you intently. His gaze turns scrutinizing as he looks you up and down, his eyes quickly landing on your forearm. “Your bandaging skills could use some work.”

“Yeah, well,” you sigh. “It’s hard to do with one hand. Besides, this gets the job done.” You reach down to the tattered bandage, attempting to wrap it around your arm again.

Midas extends a hand, and it lingers in mid-air for a few seconds. There’s a strange tension settling in the air now. It almost looks as if he’s going to reach out to fix your bandaging.

Then the vault door explodes, promptly breaking the moment apart. You’re the first to regain your composure, turning your back and making your way into the vault. Your departure is too quick for you to notice Midas staring after you, an inscrutable expression on his face.

“Midas?” you hum after a moment, peeking your head out and looking up the stairs. He’s lingering awkwardly at the top, seemingly lost in thought. You hold up a gold bar and move it back and forth before his eyes. Still nothing. That’s pretty strange. He must be pretty preoccupied.

“You good?” you ask after you’ve finished looting. The outlaw didn’t even enter the vault. Very weird. You’re not so deluded as to think he trusts you to know what’s valuable down there—he’d want to check himself. So why didn’t he?

Midas blinks, as if thrown from a stupor. “Of course I am,” he responds smoothly. It’s probably not as convincing as he wants it to be, but you can sense he won’t elaborate. You settle for walking out of the building with him, occasionally sneaking glances at the outlaw who’s always been rumored to be emotionless.

In hindsight… maybe you got too confident, sneaking around Fletcher Kane’s mansion for a fifth time.

But in your defense, you weren’t expecting to get jumped. Well and truly jumped —as in, ambushed with a needle to the neck before you could even raise your gun. And besides, you had broken into his mansion four times before—this one shouldn’t have been different. Fletcher’s security has been laughably lax. It seems he was expecting you this time, though.

You come to these thoughts within a few minutes of your return to consciousness. You’re not blindfolded, thankfully—but you are tied to a chair in a nondescript location. After a few moments of thought, you recognize it to be Kappa Kappa Factory at the edge of the island. Dread stews in your chest. It could be a while before you’re found.

You experimentally pull at your bonds, unsurprised to find they’re incredibly tight. All of your weapons are gone—including the dagger you keep in your boot for situations like this, which is really a shame. You’re well and truly captured.

You’re not at all surprised to see Fletcher Kane walk into the room within moments, his cane thudding against the ground. You watch his approach, taking in the luxurious coat around his shoulders and gilded gold detailing on his cane. This is someone who has more than enough money to burn.

“I finally have you,” he says. The remark is ominous enough to send an ugly nausea climbing up your throat. You take a slow breath, struggling to keep your composure.

“Couldn’t even take me in a fair fight?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. Damn it. “I guess you did get your ass kicked last time.”

That gets you a punch in the face. The blow is hard enough to make you see stars, and you have to tilt your head to spit blood out of your mouth. It seems he didn’t appreciate that reminder.

“You’ve been an incredible nuisance,” Fletcher frowns, cracking his knuckles exaggeratedly. You resist an eye roll at the gesture.

“...Thanks?” you say after a moment.

The wolf rolls his eyes. After considering you for a second, he continues. “I’m willing to compromise,” he says. There’s a dramatic pause. “I could give you more gold than you would ever know what to do with.”

“Maybe,” you acquiesce, despite already knowing you’ll deny his offer. It won’t hurt to keep him talking, though. “But what would I have to give you?” you reason.

“Your service,” Fletcher responds. At your perplexed look, he specifies. “Your skill.”

“Um… that’s okay,” you eventually remark, looking around the room to avoid his eyes. Besides, how exactly would you benefit him? What is he even after? You’re still not quite sure.

Fletcher doesn’t exactly seem surprised, but he does seem annoyed. He takes a step closer and your gaze unwittingly snaps back to him. You’ve stared him down before, but that was when you had fully loaded weapons. Right now, you’re uncomfortably vulnerable—with no weapons, no ability to move, and no safety.

“You think you’re safe with him,” Fletcher says. He doesn’t need to specify exactly who he’s talking about—you both know. “But you’re not. Midas will discard you at a moment’s notice. The second you lose your utility, you’ll be dead to him.”

It seems like he’s speaking from experience (and also projecting). You don’t really know what to say, so you just keep quiet. Fletcher doesn’t even seem to notice—he almost looks lost in memories, in betrayal and anger and grief.

At some point, he seems to remember your presence and his eyes narrow. Suddenly, Fletcher crosses the room in a swift movement and yanks your head back, forcing you to look up at him. His nails are almost as sharp as claws, digging into your skin. You choke on a breath as you see the pure fury in his eyes. “You’re nothing .”

He releases his grip with a pronounced shove. Your vision spins at the movement. You’re starting to get the feeling that this really isn’t about you—it’s about Midas. Fletcher just grabbed you to use as bait. But, you have a sneaking suspicion you’re not good enough bait. You wouldn’t be at all surprised if Midas never showed. You’re not that important to him. The outlaw doesn’t do friends, or acquaintances, or whatever the fuck the two of you are.

“He’s not coming.” The remark crawls its way out of your throat before you can stop it. Fletcher’s eyes are back on you.

“Oh, he is,” Fletcher laughs, a gesture entirely devoid of amusement. It sounds empty, bitter, almost defeated. There’s clearly a rich history between the two criminals—one you’re entirely unknowing of. You only know what little Midas has told you: that they’ve known each other for a while, that Fletcher has always been like this. Clearly, there’s a lot more between them than what you previously thought.

“I don’t think so,” you continue. Your voice sounds a bit raspy, which is strange—considering you likely haven’t been here for too long.

“When I first heard,” Fletcher says, entirely uncaring of your objections, “I thought it to be just another rumor. I dismissed it time and time again, each time I heard it.” Is it fair to say you have no idea what he’s talking about? He’s being frustratingly vague. It seems like the wolf is alluding to something between Midas and you. What exactly that something is… you haven’t the faintest idea.

“But I’ve seen it for myself,” Fletcher continues. You blink in disbelief. What exactly has he seen, and how has he seen it? You don’t think the three of you have ever been in a room together. “Midas sees you as an equal. Values you, cares for you. And because of that, he is weak. ” The statement’s punctuated by a harsh thud from his cane.

With that, the air falls quiet once more. You’re not sure how much time passes: it could be minutes, it could be hours. Hell, you could’ve been here for days. In this windowless room, it’s impossible to know for sure. All you know is that Fletcher is quickly turning impatient.

“Midas is taking his time,” Fletcher announces, beginning to pace around the room. He seems restless.

“He’s not coming,” you repeat.

“You seem certain,” Fletcher notes.

“I… am,” you say carefully. A mere moment’s reflection on Midas’s character could tell you that. The two of you aren’t even friends. In your absence, he’ll just move to find another weapon ( benefactor , you remember him saying).

Something changes in his expression. Kane takes a step closer. Your heart thuds against your ribs. “You’re smart,” he says begrudgingly, crossing his arms across his chest. “Why have you remained at his side?”

“I don’t think he lets anyone stand at his side,” you reason. This is Midas you’re talking about, after all. He comes and goes when he pleases. “I just… complete the tasks he gives me.”

“You underestimate yourself,” Fletcher argues, seemingly strangely passionate about the topic. You still can’t shake the feeling that you’re missing a huge piece of this puzzle. There’s something neither of these criminals are telling you. “Or, I suppose, what you’ve uttered is what you do. But he isn’t content with that. He wants more.”

The distance between you is virtually nonexistent now. A claw traces the space under your eye, a hollow reflection of where the scar cuts through Midas’s face. You choke on your next breath. “He’ll take everything from you,” Fletcher continues, dragging his finger down, down, down. “Make you forget who you are, what you’re fighting for. Your purpose.”

You just swallow. Distracted by the movement, Fletcher’s hand flexes and finds your throat. There’s a contemplative expression on his face now. “I could end this,” the wolf muses. “Ensure you never disrespect me again.” His hand tightens for a second, a warning. You are not the one in control.

“He would never forgive me,” Fletcher says. It’s murmured so quietly that you almost don’t even hear it at all. “But I don’t think I need his forgiveness,” he then concludes. “Just his attention.”

Your heart drops to your stomach. He’s going to kill you. He’s going to rip your throat out. His grip on your throat tightens, moving past discomfort and quickly ripping your breath from your chest. You can barely budge in your current position. All you can do is stare up into those empty eyes.

Your vision’s starting to blacken. You’re going to die. Fletcher’s vicious smirk blurs and sharpens before your eyes. His hand digs into your skin with far too much force. You’re going to die, you’re going to—

In a blur of motion, Fletcher reels back, blood spurting from his wrist as a bullet carves a neat path through it. You flinch as blood spatters across your face. What follows eludes your comprehension: blurs of movement, gunshots, blades. You feel dizzy even as you just sit there.

At some point, Midas returns. The only sign of his fight with Fletcher is his slightly labored breathing—otherwise, he looks unscathed. He studies you for a moment before crouching down to untie your bonds in eerie silence. Even when he’s finished, he remains standing before you. Something like annoyance passes over his face and he reaches out to wipe the blood off your face, before finally stepping back and giving you some breathing room.

You get to your feet slowly, your knees protesting the movement. You’re not sure just how long you spent here, but you know whatever you were drugged with is still running through your system. Your balance is a bit unsteady and you almost feel like a baby deer learning to walk.

“Can’t even take a punch?” Midas huffs judgmentally. You’re too dazed to notice the concern hidden behind his remark or the way he steps closer, as if ready to reach out and support you if needed.

“I think he drugged me with something,” you say instead, your tongue feeling thick in your mouth. It was kind of hard to notice before, since you were forced to be stationary. But now that you’ve tried to move, your exhaustion and vertigo are rather persistent. There’s sweat collecting at the back of your neck. You don’t feel right; something doesn’t feel right. “Sorry, I—” you try to say, only for the world to twist around you. It feels like every bone in your body just turns to mush, as you crumple to the ground and surrender to unconsciousness.

You wake up to find yourself settled on a couch, a somewhat scratchy blanket draped over you. Your muscles ache with even the smallest of movements, as you push yourself up to a half-seated position and clear your throat to get rid of the dryness. There are new bandages around your forearms, far less clumsy than your own handiwork.

“You’re awake,” Midas states. You glance to the side and find him sitting in an armchair nearby, leveling you with a scrutinizing gaze.

You nod ever so slightly, not trusting yourself to speak. “...Thanks,” you say. You don’t need to elaborate for him to know what you’re thanking him for. If he hadn’t arrived, you might’ve been dead. And, if Midas really wanted, he could’ve just left you there. He didn’t have to bring you back here—wherever this is—and patch you up.

“I should’ve been there sooner,” Midas responds.

You just shake your head. You don’t blame him, but you sense that speaking on those thoughts will just throw you into an argument. You don’t have the energy, so you instead remain quiet. After a few more minutes spent in awkward silence, you try to push yourself up slowly.

“Don’t push it,” Midas warns you, making you freeze in place. “I found traces of the drugs in your system. Or, I suppose, Joss did. Not exactly her forte, as she was keen to remind me several times.” He rolls his eyes slightly.

“Everyone seemed quite worried for you,” he continues. “You have quite the little family now, whether you wanted one or not.”

He’s speaking a bit too quickly for you to comprehend everything. “Sorry, I’m—” you choke out, bringing a hand to your temple. It’s difficult to process what’s happening, especially in this conversation. You still can’t quite understand the whole interaction with Fletcher, let alone what’s happening right now.

“You apologize far too much,” he notes clinically. “You should work on that.”

You huff, unsurprised by his scrutiny. When you move to push yourself up again, you find the movement a bit easier—and realize Midas has a hand on your back, guiding you up. You murmur a word of gratitude quietly, feeling slightly less winded now that you’re in a seated position.

Midas looks to be contemplating something. “In truth, I’m the one who should be apologizing,” he eventually says. “I got you caught up in this mess.”

You just shake your head. “You couldn’t have known that would happen.”

“I should’ve expected it,” he argues, shaking his head.

“And I should’ve expected the ambush,” you add with a sigh.

Midas’s face darkens at the reminder. “That seemed… unnecessary,” he says. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was frowning. “Even for Kane.”

“He seemed to think I was disrespectful,” you explain, “for all the robberies.”

“I’d venture to guess there was more reason than that,” Midas analyzes, looking at you pointedly. He’s inviting you to explain. This is his way of asking what Fletcher said to you. He’ll never outright say it, but he wants to know.

“He did say…” you trail off hesitantly, tangling your fingers in the blanket thrown over you. “He seemed to think that you would show up, because he had captured me.”

Midas just clasps his hands, before looking at you and waiting for you to continue.

“He, um,” you stammer awkwardly. This is embarrassing, somehow. You’re not the most perceptive when it comes to ambiguity and implication, but Fletcher had really hammered the point home. “He said you want more from me.”

“More,” Midas repeats, evidently seeking elaboration.

“More than just completing tasks,” you continue. “He was… Um.”

Midas looks at you imploringly. “Say it; I can take it.”

That’s… not really what you’re worried about. But it doesn’t seem like you’re going to get out of this one.

“He said,” you eventually manage to say, “that you value me and care about me.” There’s that familiar tension you always seem to feel in his presence, sinking through the air and making you question everything you say. “I told him he was wrong,” you maintain, after giving Midas a moment to process.

“...You did,” he says. “A fierce defender.” There’s a note of some detached emotion in his voice. It sounds unnatural, hollow.

“I mean,” you justify, “It was just instinctual. Because it’s not true.” You search his face.

You’re expecting a hum, a nod, or, hell, no reaction at all. But you aren’t expecting Midas to sigh and bring a hand to his temple, before dragging his eyes up to meet yours. “It’s true,” he admits.

“It is?” you blink.

He nods ever so slightly. “You didn’t show,” Midas then recalls slowly. It looks like each word he utters is taking more energy from him. This is clearly difficult for him. “I was skeptical. You’re usually… quite quick. I gave you the benefit of the doubt, told myself it was an arduous task when it wasn’t.”

“It wasn’t until Keisha visited, that I let myself believe it,” he continues. “That you were missing.”

“I felt strange,” he frowns, his hand twitching. “Sick.”

“I thought my years of good health had finally caught up to me. But I persisted. I thought nothing of it—of how it cleared the moment we locked eyes earlier.”

“It’s true,” Midas concludes. “You are… very important to me.”

“You’re important to me too,” you confess after a few moments.

“As Midas,” he recites, something bitter in his voice. “As an outlaw.”

“What?” you say. “No, I mean… Just—” you take a slow breath. “You’re important… as you. Just you. None of that other stuff.” As far as confessions go, it’s almost pathetic. You barely get the words out, and they sound absolutely nonsensical to your ears.

But Midas seems to understand regardless. His hand finds yours where it’s resting on the bed. It’s a seemingly small gesture, but both of you can sense the meaning behind it. You squeeze his hand in what you hope to be a sign of reassurance. His grip tightens in response.

Midas proceeds to keep you company throughout your entire recovery. He admits, one night when he thinks you’re asleep, that he’s never quite done this before—caring for a person like this. Caring about a person like this.

You’ll admit something similar in the coming days, once you’re fully recovered. You’ll admit you feel as if you don’t deserve to be cared for, that you’ve taken too many lives to feel deserving of anything. And Midas will laugh under his breath quietly, bringing a hand to your cheek. His thumb will glide across your cheekbone.

“Maybe neither of us deserve this,” Midas will admit, “but, we deserve each other.”

And you’ll look at him, meet his eyes, and find yourself unable to hide a smile.

Until then, you drift off to sleep knowing you’ll have his company when you wake.

endnotes: Heeheeheeeee!

Imagining Midas sitting in an armchair across the room but near your bedside…. Imagining him literally never leaving… Imagining him falling asleep there… spending all his time there, because he just wants to be near you… GRAHHHHH!

also WHEW. Midas is difficult to write for. But I think I pulled it off, and I’m pretty proud of it.

I fr almost wrote “deerling” instead of baby deer… and then I looked it up and remembered that Deerling is a Pokémon. Bahahaha.

huge shoutout to my fortnite bestie @connorhasabigtip we’re so tilted at the towers. can’t wait to run ppl over with u again!!! i mean. uh. play the game how it’s supposed to be played. yeah.

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

general taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall @the-ultimate-librarian @gayaristocrat @always-lying-to-you @moss4ev3r @hottskull

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

#defectivevillain #fortnite #x reader #fortnite x reader #midas x reader #midas fortuite x reader #outlaw midas x reader #outlaw midas #gn reader #transmasc reader #male reader #nb reader

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winxanity-ii · 2 months ago

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⌜Catch Me If You Can | Chapter 20 Chapter 20 | EPILOGUE: the thief and the messenger⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Weeks later, you found yourself perched on the slanted roof of your favorite hideout—the very one spot in town where you felt truly invisible. It was also the same place where you had once laid out your bold plan to rob a god.

Now, you sat cross-legged, a freshly swiped apple in hand, watching the sun dip lower in the sky.

The fading light bathed the horizon in hues of gold and crimson, streaks of orange blending into soft purples that hinted at the coming night. Above, the first stars began to twinkle, tiny pinpricks of silver against the deepening blue.

You bit into the apple, the crunch loud in the quiet. The faint scent of smoke and rebuilding filled the air, mingling with the sweet tang of the fruit.

Below, the town bustled faintly—quieter than it once had been, but alive in a way it hadn't been for a long time.

You watched as lanterns began to flicker to life, dotting the streets like fireflies. The people were rebuilding, healing.

It wasn't perfect, but it was better.

Life had returned to normal—or at least as normal as it could be for you. A small smile played at your lips as you thought back to everything that had happened.

You were richer from the experience—not just in the extra gold that mysteriously appeared in your satchel after you parted ways with Hermes, though that certainly helped. It even came with a note written in an elegant, teasing hand: For your trouble. Don't spend it all in one place, little thief.

The tyrant who had taxed your town into despair was gone now, driven out by the unexpected surge of wealth that allowed the people to reclaim what was theirs.

The Sunstone had done its part, not as a stolen artifact, but as the spark that inspired change.

And though you doubted Apollo would ever forgive the theft, he hadn't come back to smite you yet. Small victories.

You glanced up at the stars, their light growing brighter as the sun's warmth faded.

Your fingers brushed against the faint, golden mark on your wrist—the lingering proof of Apollo's judgment. It no longer burned, but it tingled faintly sometimes, a reminder of the divine forces you had crossed. A reminder that you had survived.

Taking another bite of the apple, you let your thoughts wander back to Hermes. You hadn't seen him since that night, but his parting words still echoed in your mind, as did the maddening, fleeting warmth of his kiss. "But if you do... well, you know where to find me."

You shook your head, letting out a soft huff of laughter. Typical Hermes. Always leaving you guessing, never giving you the full story. But even so, you knew you'd see him again. Trouble had a way of finding you, and he was never too far behind it.

For now, though, you allowed yourself to savor the moment—the peace of your town rebuilding, the quiet triumph of surviving a brush with the gods, and the soft glow of the stars above.

Whatever came next, you'd be ready.

For now, your thoughts wandered to the mundane, grounding you in the moment. What should I eat later? you mused, chewing the last bite of your apple. Maybe head to the bar for some stew... or catch the baker's stall before it closes. That honey bread is—

"Awfully quiet, little thief. Miss me already?"

The voice cut through your thoughts like a knife, smooth and teasing, laced with unmistakable amusement. Your heart leapt into your throat, the familiar timbre as jarring as it was strangely comforting.

Slowly, you turned, and there he was—Hermes.

He lounged casually on the edge of the rooftop like he belonged there, his wings faintly visible in the soft light of the evening, shimmering faint gold at the edges. His grin was as maddeningly smug as you remembered, his golden eyes glinting with a mixture of mischief and curiosity; his posture relaxed like he didn't have a care in the world.

Your chest tightened for a moment—a small, fleeting reaction that you quickly shoved down, replacing it with a blank, unbothered expression. "Look what the wind dragged in," you deadpanned, crossing your arms as you leaned back against the roof. "What do you want, Hermes? Last I checked, I haven't stolen from any gods recently."

His grin widened, the kind of grin that made you want to throw something at him. "Oh, I don't doubt that. Not yet, anyway." He leaned closer, balancing effortlessly on the slanted roof as his wings folded neatly behind him. "But who's to say you won't? I thought I'd check in, you know, keep you out of trouble."

"Keep me out of trouble?" You snorted, raising an eyebrow. "Isn't that your specialty, oh mighty god of mischief?"

"Guilty as charged." He placed a hand over his chest as if accepting the title with pride. "But let's not forget—you're my favorite little troublemaker now. Makes me feel responsible." His smirk softened, just a fraction, and for a moment, his gaze lingered on you. "Can't have you running wild without supervision."

You rolled your eyes, but there was no stopping the small twitch at the corner of your lips. "I'm doing just fine, thanks. And for the record, I'm not planning on any heists anytime soon."

"Good," Hermes said, his tone lighter but with a faint undercurrent of something deeper—something you couldn't quite place. "That's a start." Then, as if unable to resist, he added, "Though I have to say, the world's a little duller without you stirring the pot."

Your heart raced again, but you masked it with a huff, tossing the apple core off the roof and watching it disappear into the shadows below. "Well, sorry to disappoint. I'm retired from participating in big jobs."

"Retired?" Hermes laughed, a sound so rich and warm that it almost disarmed you. "Well, that won't do at all."

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. "What won't do?"

Hermes crossed his arms, leaning lazily against his staff. "You. Sitting here. Pretending you're done with all the fun stuff. That's not the little thief I know." His wings shimmered faintly before disappearing once more, leaving only the faintest ripple in the air behind him. "As it happens, I've got something for you. Bigger, shinier, and far more dangerous than the Sunstone. Interested?"

You raised a brow, lips curving into a skeptical smirk. "And what if I don't want to? As you can see, I've got a reputation of simple thievery to maintain here." You gestured down at the bustling town below, the marketplace still lively with traders and customers.

Hermes' smirk widened, and before you could blink, he floated forward, his sandals skimming the edge of the roof. He plopped down in front of you, so close that you had to crane your neck to look up at him. His golden eyes gleamed as he leaned just a little too close for comfort—or maybe too close for your own good.

You hated the way your heart stuttered at something so simple, so deliberate.

"Oh, on the contrary, little thief," he purred, his voice low and smooth, sending a small shiver down your spine. "I apologize if I made it sound like you have a choice. I'm merely here to cash in a deal I'm owed... or did you forget?"

You maintained your snarky look, raising an eyebrow as if unfazed, but inside, you were screaming. Forget? How could you forget? You'd practically replayed the deal on loop every day after you parted ways, trying not to admit—even to yourself—that the silence left behind had felt... lonely.

Finally, you pursed your lips, determined to hide the smile threatening to creep onto your face. "Why are you so insistent on that deal? I know I'm not the only human you've made a deal with. What's in it for you?"

Hermes tilted his head, his grin lazy and entirely too self-assured. "Entertainment, of course," he said with a wink, his tone dripping with charm. "And maybe your charming company."

You rolled your eyes, but the flutter in your chest refused to be ignored. "Charming, huh? Sounds like you're buttering me up for something."

"Always," Hermes said with a playful shrug, standing to his full height and stretching his arms overhead, his grin never faltering. "But come on, little thief. You can't tell me you've been satisfied with the small-time cons down there. Where's the thrill? The excitement? The chaos?"

You opened your mouth to argue, but no words came out. As much as you hated to admit it, he wasn't entirely wrong. Life had returned to normal—or as normal as it could be—but part of you missed the wildness of the journey, the danger, the feeling of being alive.

Hermes must have caught the flicker of hesitation in your eyes because his grin widened, triumphant. "See? You're already considering it."

"I didn't say anything," you shot back quickly, crossing your arms. "You're imagining things."

"Am I?" Hermes' voice dropped slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. "Tell me this, my little thief—when was the last time you felt like you were really living?"

You huffed, turning sharply on your heel. You hated how easily he could read you, but you also couldn't deny the truth in his words. "I don't know," you drawled, keeping your back to him for effect, pretending to mull it over. "Maybe I did. Maybe I didn't. Hard to say."

Behind you, Hermes chuckled, the sound low and teasing. You heard the faint rustle of his sandals against the roof as he moved closer. Too close. The air shifted, and you could feel his presence just behind you—warm, magnetic.

Slowly, you turned, only to find his face mere inches from yours.

His golden eyes lidded slightly, their usual mischief softened into something more dangerous. His lips curled into that infuriating smirk, and the faint breeze ruffled his hair, catching glints of gold in the strands.

He tilted his head, his gaze flickering to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto your eyes.

"Come on~," he murmured, his voice a low, teasing hum that sent shivers down your spine. "Admit it. You missed me."

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you refused to let him win. This time, you leaned forward, closing the gap. Hermes' smirk faltered, his eyes widening slightly as you pressed a teasing kiss to his lips—light, brief, but just enough to leave him stunned.

When you pulled back, it was with a smirk of your own. "Maybe a little."

For the first time, Hermes seemed caught off guard. His eyes blinked rapidly, like he was trying to process what just happened. Then he threw his head back and laughed, the sound bright and full of life, echoing into the night.

"You're going to be the death of me, little thief," he said, his voice still carrying that unmistakable amusement.

You tilted your head, feigning a thoughtful expression as your lips curved into a playful grin. "Well, if you die, who's going to provide me with all that 'entertainment' you promised, huh? Don't go making empty threats, Hermes."

His laughter faltered, the smirk on his lips twisting into something sharper. Before you could blink, his hand shot out, fingers curling around your wrist as he pulled you closer. The sudden movement sent your heart racing, and the teasing retort you'd been crafting evaporated as he tugged you flush against him.

"Empty threats, huh?" he murmured, his voice low and molten, golden eyes locking onto yours with a heat that made your breath hitch. His free hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing against your cheek.

Then, without warning, he leaned in and crashed his lips onto yours.

The kiss was anything but gentle. It was consuming—fierce and unrelenting, his mouth moving against yours like he'd been waiting for this moment far longer than you could've guessed.

His lips were soft, yet the pressure was firm, claiming, stealing your breath as his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer.

His tongue flicked against your lips, coaxing them apart, and before you knew it, he was deepening the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a skill that left you lightheaded.

Your hands instinctively shot up—one gripping the front of his tunic, the other bracing against his chest. The faint hum of his laughter rumbled against your lips as if he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

When he finally pulled back, you were gasping for air, your head spinning. "W-Wow," you breathed out, your voice unsteady. One hand pressed lightly against his chest as if to put some distance between you, though you couldn't bring yourself to push him away completely. Your fingers brushed against the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric, and it was enough to send another jolt through your already frayed nerves.

Hermes' grin returned, cocky and entirely too pleased with himself, though there was a softness in his golden eyes that hadn't been there before. "Sure you're not the one who's going to be the death of me?" you teased, managing a weak smile despite your flushed cheeks and racing heart.

He snorted, the hand on the back of your neck sliding up to cup your cheek. "Nah, I've got it all figured out," he said, his voice warm and rich with amusement. "If you do die, I'll just bring you back to life. I've got a few connections in the Underworld, you know. I can even make a cozy little alcove just for us if you want—eternity's a lot less dull with you around."

You leaned back slightly, still catching your breath as the warmth of his touch lingered on your skin. "Alright, enough flirting," you said, though the teasing edge in your voice didn't quite mask the fluttering in your chest. "What's this little 'job' of yours anyway? If I'm risking my life again, I'd at least like to know what I'm getting into."

Hermes' grin widened, full of mischief as he tilted his head, watching you like you were the most entertaining thing in existence. "Ah, now there's the spirit I love to see. And here I was worried you'd grown boring."

You arched a brow, waiting, as he clapped his hands together and began patting his pockets. "Let me just grab the details..." His voice trailed off as his golden eyes flicked downward, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. "Huh. I could've sworn it was—"

When he looked up, his words faltered, his gaze narrowing as he spotted the slip of parchment pinched between your fingers. You held it up with a sly smile, shrugging innocently. "Sorry. Old habits die hard," you said coyly. "You really should keep a better eye on your stuff."

For a moment, Hermes just stared, and then that infuriating grin spread across his face. "Oh, you little—" He didn't finish. Instead, he reached up, pulling his cap off and plopping it unceremoniously onto your head. It tilted slightly, too big for your head, but it only made his smirk grow wider as he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you flush against him.

"You know," he murmured, his voice low and warm, "I think you're going to be my favorite assistant. Try not to let it go to your head."

Before you could respond—or swipe the cap right back off—he unfurled his wings in one smooth motion, the sudden rush of air making your hair whip wildly. His grip on you tightened as he launched into the sky, the ground vanishing beneath your feet.

You let out a surprised yelp, clutching onto his shoulders instinctively, and Hermes' laughter echoed in your ears.

"Hold on tight, little thief," he called over the wind, the stars stretching out like a glittering blanket above you. "The world's wide open now—ripe for chaos, a little adventure, and who knows? Maybe even a bit more love if you're up for it?"

You couldn't help the grin that spread across your face as you tucked your face into his neck. The night swallowed you both, the endless horizon promising more than you could ever imagine.

With Hermes at your side—or rather, holding you aloft—you were ready for whatever came next.

A/N: AHHHHH, y'all!! it's finally finished! i had a lot of fun with it, and it also taught me that i don't have to go wild and every book i write gotta have 30+ chappies.... i als tried my hand here at a faster-paced romance (which was hard asf because it takes me hella long time to even realize i like someone, let alone wanna kiss them lolol---sighs, life of a demisexual) enough ramling, hope you lovelies enjoyed this! my apollo or telemachus short fic should be dropping soon~ in the mean time, while updating KNE and Godly Things oneshots will be drpping as well ❤️

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animentality · 1 year ago

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If Gortash was always meant to be in the House of Hope, and potentially recruitable after you kill him, then I'm sad that got cut, because that would've been so interesting for him as a character.

To see the tyrant, laid low, no longer the Archduke of Baldur's Gate and ruler of the Sword Coast, but the sniveling little boy who used to cry himself to sleep at night, back in the hell that was his childhood.

Also, I have this theory now, ever since I found out about this, that maybe Gortash didn't just do all this because he had to feel powerful after a childhood of being powerless and helpless.

Maybe Gortash knew that it was only a matter of time before he was forced back to the House of Hope. He knew he would die eventually, and be forced to return to Raphael.

So maybe he turned to Bane and sought as much power as he could attain, so that he could raid the House of Hope and either kill Raphael or at least steal back his contract?

Maybe serving Bane was always secondary to that goal.

But imagine.

Oh fucking imagine...

That he allied himself with Ketheric and the Dark Urge, on behest of his god, and at first, it was just a job for him.

Just something he had to do, because Bane asked him to. But he and the Dark Urge grew close. And maybe he wanted to ask the Dark Urge, after they successfully raided Mephistopheles, if they would help him kill Raphael.

Maybe he was scared to ask before they were close, because it would've revealed a weakness.

A vulnerability, in the Chosen of tyranny.

But then the Dark Urge vanished, so he never got this chance.

And then.

The Dark Urge comes back, a changed person, and he's saddened, but resigned to the fact that he can never ask again.

And then they kill him. Betraying him and the alliance.

And then...he goes back to the House of Hope...and that is his eternity. Being punished by Raphael, taunted for his ability to steal the Crown of Karsus, but unable to reject his fate in the end...

Only for the Dark Urge to knock down the fucking doors, and cut off Raphael's head?

Oh.

Oh, we were robbed, my friends.

The idea of the Dark Urge killing Gortash for the greater good, but inadvertently giving him what he always wanted...

And saving him, whether intentionally or not...

Gortash would smile at his luck. At the kismet. And the dark irony.

But he would be...so glad...that he met the Dark Urge.

They say don't thank me, but he'd say, I have to. I must.

#AND THEN THEYD FUCK #durgetash #enver gortash #dark urge #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #house of hope #raphael bg3

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notablenotions · 20 days ago

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Masks of Noblity Chapter 8

Hans Capon had faced many indignities in his life—bedraggled wenches who didn’t know his name, cold baths, poorly aged wine, lute theft. But none compared to the ongoing siege on his personal joy: Henry of Skalitz’s sudden obsession with embroidery.

It was unnatural. Wrong, even. Henry—a man who once decapitated a bandit in full chainmail—now spent hours stitching tiny birds into linen, under the ever-watchful gaze of Lady Jikta, the tyrant seamstress herself, and, inexplicably, Sir Radzig Kobyla, who had somehow become a permanent fixture in the embroidery circle.

Hans stood outside the solar, seething, flowers in hand—wildflowers picked by Henry, which Hans had commandeered, obviously. The servants had started avoiding him again. His pacing disturbed them. Good. Let them be disturbed.

Katherine, Jikta’s maid, had informed him (gleefully, the serpent) that today’s embroidery theme was ducks. Hans had nearly fainted. Ducks. It was war now.

He flung open the door.

“This activity—while quaint—is robbing me of my guard’s attention!”

Jikta didn’t look up from her work. Radzig raised a brow, thread looping calmly through his fingers. Henry sighed, carefully finishing a duck beak.

Hans flailed—arms everywhere. “Invite your friend, Lady Bartoscha, at once! Let her stitch with you, while I reclaim Henry for more... pressing matters.”

Henry didn’t even look up. “I like embroidery.”

Hans staggered as if struck. “Traitor.”

Jikta blinked slowly. “Hans, leave or sit quietly.”

He stormed to the window, dramatic sighs echoing. No one reacted. Radzig resumed embroidering a duckling with obscene precision. Henry changed thread colors. Hans glared at everyone.

---

Later that day, Hans arrived at Jikta’s chambers, flowers crushed from his grip, wearing his most tragic face—the one he used for funerals and poorly aged cheese.

“Your loneliness is palpable, Lady Capon,” he said, voice thick with melodrama. “It wounds my noble soul. Invite Bartoscha so you may know joy again.”

Jikta didn’t even glance up from her sketches. “You want Henry back.”

Hans sniffed. “Well, yes.”

She finally looked at him. “He’s with Radzig right now. Embroidering geese.”

Hans let out a wounded noise. “They’re escalating.”

---

By the end of the day, Hans was in his chambers, penning a desperate letter to Lady Bartoscha, imploring her to visit Rattay immediately, not for himself (of course not), but for the welfare of his wife—and definitely not to dismantle the embroidery syndicate stealing his Henry.

He signed it with flourishes, sealed it with too much wax, and whispered, “Save me,” to no one in particular.

Henry walked in with a new embroidery hoop, oblivious. Hans swooned.

The war raged on.

#kcd #kingdom come deliverance 2 #hansry #hans capon #henry of skalitz #jikta

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bitethedevil · 1 year ago

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Rambling about Raphael again: I’m getting more and more convinced that stealing from Raphael is an asshole move no matter what.

I just killed Raphael for the first time yesterday. I had gotten the scene where he comes home before but that was way back in my first playthrough and I chickened out back then. The battle itself was awesome, don’t get me wrong but it felt…unsatisfying? Sad even.

I’m obviously not excusing anything he’s done to Hope, but we don’t really know anything about Hope before we have already taken the decision to go to his house.

I found something in the House of Hope that I hadn’t seen before (it’s on the ground in the main area where the fireplace is iirc):

Like yeah, we know that we don’t really need the Orphic Hammer if we’ve played the game before and all that. But does Raphael? It seems like he genuinely thinks it’s a fair trade. Dude lives in the Hells. I’m sure he really does expect the worst from people (especially someone like the Emperor). So he offers us a deal that he really believes is fair, and what do we do? We go robbing his house, fucks/kills his incubus, meddles in his business and essentially spits him in the face. Bonus asshole points if the last thing you ever say to him is that he’s a shit at sex.

Raphael is evil, no doubt, but he hasn’t really done anything to us. If you don’t take the deal, he simply leaves you alone (unless you refuse the Emperor in the end…in which he essentially calls you a dumbass but still helps if I remember correctly) even though that deal is the closest he’s been to the crown in millennia.

Which brings me to his reaction. Obviously, he seems angry right before the fight, but mostly I got the feeling of a man who has been utterly humiliated. His quote that went along the lines of: “Take away their free will and they’ll call you a tyrant. Let them indulge in it and they become tyrants” is kind of stuck with me. I think that Raphael could have potentially treated us a lot worse if he wanted to, but he chose not to (obviously that’s also to get us to trust him, but still). Which is why it stings even more when we fuck him over.

Think about his diary entries. The man has nightmares about us besting him. Imagine how stupid he must feel when that fear turns out to be true and that he shouldn’t have trusted us to keep our word.

#ranting #raphael the cambion #raphael bg3 #bg3 raphael

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2stepadmiral · 6 months ago

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Maybe sort of a hot take? Satine Kryze was a terrible leader and kind of a petty tyrant. Like, look at what she actually did and how she did it and what the consequences were:

She committed effective cultural genocide against her own people by eviscerating a millennia-old culture/creed/tradition/religion, removing the at least 80% of it that she didn’t like and demanded that everyone else adapt it

Those who refused to relinquish their ancestral ways were exiled from their homeworld and even robbed of their cultural identity when she claimed that anyone who still practiced the warrior ways were not true Mandalorians

By enforcing this ‘my way or the highway’ policy, she created the environment where Pre Vizsla could form Death Watch and recruit all the followers he had out of the disillusioned she had branded as outcasts

By enforcing her strict pacifism, she disarmed her people and even her security forces, leaving the planet defenseless against both Death Watch and the Shadow Collective (imagine if the Yuuzhan Vong had invaded during this period)

Publicly belittled and insulted a high profile General in the Grand Army of the Republic/ Master and Council member of the Jedi Order in front of a number of Senators and her courtiers because he dared to point out that the Separatists might not let her remain neutral

Publicly stated that she didn’t want Jedi security present when traveling with a retinue of Republic Senators in the midst of a terrorism crisis that she was the main target of, in front of a number of people who would have been put at risk had she gotten her way

When Obi Wan pointed out that the Senators and likely her courtiers had requested Jedi security due to concerns for their own safety that she had disregarded, rather than acknowledging her thoughtlessness, she again insulted Obi-Wan and provoked an argument that she aggravated into a bickering session while Obi Wan tried and gradually failed at keeping civil

She seceded her world from the Republic rather than allow the slightest impression that she endorsed the Clone War (never mind that Alderaan and Naboo were prominent members of the Senate that opposed war and actively worked to end it peacefully and quickly without seceding), which forfeited the government aid Mandalore needed to survive in its damaged state and led directly to Prime Minister Almec having to use the black market just to keep the people fed

And in the end, all she accomplished was a maybe fifteen-twenty year period of relative peace before civil war broke out again, Maul took charge, the Empire forced fifteen years of relative obedience, and ultimately the planet was bombed and the Mandalorian people were decimated. The role of a good ruler or leader is to do what is best for your people, even if it’s contrary to your own preferences or interests, and Satine consistently made her own beliefs the order of the day, enforced from the top down. Had she moderated her approach, maybe tried to redirect the warrior tendencies into galactic peacekeeping, or advocated for a warrior second, hardworking builder/farmer/pilot/tradesmen helping to rebuild Mandalore first (sort of what Boba Fett did as Mand’a’lor in the EU), despite her personal disdain for violence and warfare, she could have been one of the greatest Mandalorian leaders who affected real change. Instead, she allowed her personal priorities to be the priorities of her regime and the guiding principle of her tyranny.

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tyrantisterror · 4 months ago

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An Incomplete List of Supervillain Archetypes

Ok, so my first attempt to brainstorm some supervillain prompts was derailed in a very perplexing way, but I am undeterred! Let's try this again in a way that's honestly a bit more fitting with my usual process - namely, by looking at the genre in question ans figuring out what archetypes are there, as well as what kind of... well, the words "theme" ad "motif" seemed to confuse people last time, so let's use the word "flavor" here for. So yes, a list of archetypes and flavors.

An incomplete list, as you no doubt noticed from the title here, because 1. while I've consumed a fair amount of superhero media, I'm by no means an expert and 2. I'm purposely leaving out archetypes and motifs that are dependent on a pre-established hero. That means no Mirror Universe counterparts, evil doppelgangers, guys with the same powers as the hero but they're evil, evil living versions of the hero's costume, etc. This is a list to make a rogue's gallery that isn't necessarily based around a particular hero - rogues for the sake of having rogues, rather than to further one good guy's narrative. We're not trying to make Morlun the interdimensional vampire who only eats Spider-Men here.

And since this is an incomplete list, I am officially inviting you, the person reading this, to point out anything big you think I missed! Just don't start listing college majors, ok? I already have another post about supervillain archetypes that's gathering a list of college majors. Inexplicably.

Supervillain Archetypes

Ok, we're gonna start with a list of, like, personality and story roles supervillains tend to come in. The Archetypes, if you will.

The Bank Robber with a Gimmick - the Silver Age classic. You rob banks and do other naughty but not-necessarily lethal crimes, but more than that, you do it with a gimmick, and goddamn are you devoted to committing to the bit. The bit is more important than the crimes - in fact, the crimes are really just a means to make everyone pay attention to your gimmick.

The Evil Genius - you are extremely book smart and are making it everyone's problem. Again, no need to suggest what degree the mad scientist has, I have a whole post where people are inexplicably doing that already!

The Big Monstrous Guy - you're a big guy with some sort of hideous deformity/mutation that makes you look like a monster. It may also make you act like a monster, although it's just as likely you only act that way because everyone treated you as a monster first. You are often reduced to being the dumb muscle in a given scene, but might get moments of pathos that show how hard it is to be a big monster guy.

The Wildcard - you're an agent of chaos who doesn't really have a plan/goal beyond making everything escalate as quickly as possible, and that's why we love you. In-universe, though, almost everybody thinks you're very annoying.

The Copycat - your villainy hinges on imitation. You are adept at stealing other people's identities, disguising yourself as someone else, and/or even taking the super powers of another person outright. Ultimately, the threat you pose isn't inherent to you - it's something your victims brought to the table.

A Normal Businessman - you view all people and things as nothing more than resources to exploit in your pursuit of wealth and power. Love for anyone but yourself is a weakness to be exploited, and all other living beings are only worth whatever labor you can extract from them as quickly and cruelly as possible, and should be discarded ruthlessly and without mercy when they no longer provide you that utility. In the real world you'd be treated like royalty, but since this is a fictional world, you actually face... resistance? Somehow? As if someone wants people like you to actually face consequences. How unnatural.

The Foreign Tyrant - you rule some made-up country, planet, or plane of existence that doesn't exist in the real world and thus can be as comically awful and dystopian as the writer desires. Everything that's wrong with your foreign home is more or less your fault, because you rule it with an iron fist. You tend to be pretty theatrical about it, too.

The Mind Taker - you're a villain whose main scheme involves some form of mind control, brainwashing, or other methods of forcibly recruiting innocent people into serving you. You're often a seductive figure, and always a manipulative one.

The Mind Fucker - you screw with people's perception of reality in order to enact your schemes. Maybe you send their feelings into overdrive, maybe you dazzle their senses with magnificent illusions, but ultimately you make it that anyone who wants to oppose you has to fight their own mind in the process.

The Jekyll and Hyde - you're not a bad guy, really! But, well... sometimes a part of you takes over, something you bury deep inside, something you really want to keep caged inside you. And when that "other guy" comes out, well... they're pretty bad, actually.

The Anything But Retail - you approach super-villainy the way you would any other job. You're not here for the love of the game or because you're theatrical - this is just the only thing that pays the bills that you can see yourself doing.

The All-Time Hater - you are, quite literally, a hateful person, and by gum you are going to make everyone know it! None of your schemes serve any goal except making people you hate suffer - your only ambition is to make life worse for others.

The Super Mafia - you walked straight out of a gangster movie and into a Saturday morning cartoon, and somehow that transition wasn't nearly as difficult as it should have been. Time to make these costumed fucks sleep with the fishes, even if all your goons now carry harmless laser guns instead of actual pistols.

The Planet Eater - you are a villain whose threat is so great that you threaten the very narrative itself with destruction by way of raising the stakes so high that nothing will ever have any meaning ever again. If the writers aren't up to snuff, you will make everything that occurs after you feel like either an anticlimax, or a pathetic attempt to raise the stakes to an even more inconceivably high level. If you threaten to kill the planet, the next bad guy will threaten the universe. If you threaten the universe, then they'll threaten the multiverse. If you threaten that, then by god, I don't know how we'll raise the stakes from there, but a hack writer will definitely try. A good writer can avoid that terrible fate, but unfortunately you're far more popular with bad writers than good ones.

Supervillain Flavors

These are more surface-level ways to categorize supervillains, mostly concerned with, like, their aesthetic - i.e. the theme of their costume, weapons, lair, etc.

Clown (note to self: don't even try it. You'll never escape Harley Quinn's shadow. It's a fool's errand.)

Reptile

Spider

Insect

Shark

Other "scary" animals

Obscure Animal the writer got obsessed with and decided to theme a bad guy around

Cat-themed Cat Burglar (note to self: don't do this one either. We already have a good one with Catwoman and then also a less good one with Black Cat, who's just Catwoman but at Marvel. There

Space alien

Robot

Cyborg

Mutant (radioactive)

Mutant (toxic waste/pollution)

Mutant (genetically engineered)

Mutant (setting specific source of mutation)

A classic Gothic Horror monster but now they wear superhero tights. Werewolves, vampires, ghosts, etc.

Literally Satan

Satan but we're too cowardly to fully embrace that he's Satan so we're gonna, like, try to have plausible deniability and claim our Satan isn't literally Satan (but he's more or less Satan)

Wizard (fake)

Wizard (real)

Knight

Witch

Fantastical Monster (dragon, gorgon, etc.)

Adapted from/inspired by real world mythology

A god in an old world mythology sort of way

A god but in a cool 60's cosmic way

Anthropomorphic Personification of Abstract Concept

A normal businessman

Elemental Powers (Fire, Water, Wind, Earth, Ice, Lightning, etc.)

Shapeshifter

Power Stealer

90's Extreme Radical Wanton Gun Violence

90's Extreme Radical Body Horror

Ninja

Caricature of Obnoxious Media Trend (shock jocks, reality TV, celebrity culture, etc.)

Alright, that's what I've got off the top of my head. What'd I miss?

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