#who put the glad in gladiator

[felsicveins]

@mutantninjamidlifecrisis I haven't stopped thinking about him. /Normal

[campbyler]

can you tell Mike that I love Hercules. We had it on DVD and I would watch it every weekend, so much that the DVD won't play anymore 😭

i told him and he used his dad's credit card to send you the biggest juiciest edible arrangement. it is on its way to your house rn along with a new copy of the 1997 animated film hercules on dvd.

[maenads-of-argos]

@stubborngods

"I'm going. Are you coming with me or not?" (hebe to heracles)

"Of course I'm coming. I'll go wherever you go."

[goesthedistance]

tag dump!

[astraerystarr]

Optimus Prime x Megatron fic recs!!

HII AGAIN, I had to delete my old account @numbraerys so I'm reuploading this rec list, sorry about the mess but I'll make the rec a little prettier this time ^^

Homesick For A Memory by Eisengrave, Maelikki [M, 9k w., Bay Movies]

Even Primes can lose their faith. But sometimes, their failed Protectors make good on their word given long ago.(weird little fixit for AoE because we stan a protective Megatron and an Optimus who is finally tired of his human hamsters. Also, homecoming.)

~ugly crying, screaming on my pillow, rolling around on the floor

The Silver Lining by GeminiWishes [Teen and up, 38k w., Transformers Animated 2007]:

After Optimus was expelled from the Autobot Academy, he had no sense of what to do or where to go. Desperate for purpose, he ends up on a mining crew that travels the galaxy. But when their ship is attacked, Optimus' life will change forever.

Whether or not he'll be able to handle those changes is yet to be determined.

~I ran around my room on all fours reading this

Some Kind Of Forever by auri_mynonys (FAVE) [E, 8625 w., TFP]:

A chance meeting in a bar near the Pits brings Orion Pax and Megatronus together.

~I freaking love this fic, I'm so glad it was one of the first I ever read

Adeste Fideles by Legitconcrusher (FAVE) [Teen and up, TFP, 57,632+ w, ongoing]:

“Oh, indulge me, Optimus. How many times have you answered your desire’s calls to walk among these pitiful creatures…in the flesh?”

In which Optimus shares with his greatest foe, and former friend - Megatron, the one time a year he allows himself to feel amid the throes of their War within a Christmas market.

The angsty slow burn Christmas AU no one asked for.

~absolutely wonderful to read and incredible writing♡♡♡♡

Gaining Perspective by Dragonlingdar [Teen and up, BayVerse, 105,732 w., Ongoing]:

Megatron and Optimus are turned into humans by a prototype weapon Starscream uses against them. In order for Megatron to get his revenge and Optimus to free himself of Megatron, they must reclaim their original bodies. However, will they still be Optimus Prime and Megatron by the time they do?

~I hyperfixated on this fic for a whole month after finishing it

Contact by auri_mynonys (FAVE) [E, 98,747 w., TFP]:

Orion Pax knows there's a word for what Megatronus means to him. He just can't quite put his finger on what it is.

Which is probably how he missed the moment where he asked Megatronus to marry him.

~Slow Burn♡♡♡♡♡

Plus One by auri_mynonys [E, 64,631 w., TFP]:

Megatronus has a party to attend. A high-caste date will lend him status in the eyes of his fellow gladiators, and Orion Pax is all too happy to play the part…

~this fic was infuriating to read, I loved every second of it

Songs Of Metal And Sparks by EbonyAura [Teen and up, 58,741 w., Rock n' Roll AU, TFP]:

Imagine the Transformers Prime universe where war is nonexistent, and instead of the Autobot and Decepticon factions, it's the Autobot and Decepticon rock bands.

Imagine that both bands are nearly world famous, yet have no idea the other exists.

Imagine that Cybertron's festival of music is approaching, and with it, the chance for a lucky upcoming band to go on a world tour.

Imagine that both bands, ecstatic for the chance to finally reach world fame, are going to the festival.

~this cured my teenage heart that didn't get to read nice cute stuff like this

Optimus Prime Is Destined To Die!! by Chuzilllaa (FAVE) [G, 169k+ w, ongoing]:

Orion Pax is your typical archivist from a functionalist free universe and lives a peaceful life, but after dying tragically in a transport incident he’s reincarnated as Optimus Prime of the hit action novel Songs of the Spark, the beautiful but aloof eldest prince of the Prime lineage…who is a pathetic side character doomed to die a tragic death at the hands of the tyrannical Duke Megatron.

Of course his darling little brother Rodimus Prime is the precious hero and puts an end to Megatron’s reign, but Orion has no intention of dying a pathetic death! No! Not again! He wants to live damnit! So begins the attempts of a pax-turned-prime turning over a new leaf in the hope of living another day. Little does he know there’s a bit more to Optimus than a pathetic side character…

~I love this fic so. damn. much.

Lunch Date by Chuzilllaa [Teen and up, 6,000+ w, Earthspark, crack]:

With a new cafe opening at G.H.O.S.T headquarters, Optimus invites Megatron to try something new.

~fluffy and funny♡♡♡

At First Sight by Lyricality (FAVE) [M, 27,000+ w.]:

Optimus is the last of the Primes; Megatron is the greatest of Kaon's gladiatorial warriors. Their shared destiny - Optimus is certain - just needs a push in the correct direction.

~help I got obsessed with this fic and I can't get out

To give (in) by 0 (only_elsewhere) (FAVE) [M, 10,000+ w, Earthspark]:

After the war, Optimus confesses.

~aaashhksdkkklkosljdhjh

Victory Condition by astolat [E, 37,000+ w, TF Gen1]

“Do you want me to tell you a story?” Megatron said mockingly. “You won’t like it, Prime. It’s not a very nice one.”

~cave in fic with poetry and the heart wrenching story of Megatron's origins - my beloved

Cooking Off by zuzeca [E, 2000 w., IDW G1]:

Megatron and Optimus find themselves in an awkward position and learn some extremely personal information about each other.

~ Good reading ;3

[youngerfrankenstein]

So! User HornetsaysSHAW on Reddit seems to have found some more image files for characters who haven’t been revealed for the game. Without further ado:

WHO PUT THE GLAD IN GLADIATOR! (Yeah that’s Heracles, like there’s no question)

Likely Eris, especially given the apple on her belt.

Sheepskins and a missing eye means probably Polyphemus. Guess we’re doing more Odyssey characters! (Also is that an evil eye charm? Lol)

And given we’re getting Odyssey characters, the most common suggestion I saw, and one that makes sense, is Scylla.

Icarus was what the original poster suggested and it makes sense.

The original poster suggested this is a redesign for Chaos, and it could be! The head certainly looks right. Someone else suggested the Fates, one oooooold, one newborn and one adult. Which is also a neat idea, and the ARE wearing the Cthonic symbol from the games, not to mention it looks like they’re holding threads, though it’s hard to tell as the art seems a bit unfinished. My random ass suggestion is that it miiiiiiiiight be Gaia.

And that is 100% their Chronos design. Holy hell I LOVE it. Kinda reminds me more of Egyptian god designs though? Is that gonna be a twist in the game??? He’s gonna be Thoth or something now?

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

When The World Is Crashing Down [Chapter 7: Keep Quiet, Nothing Comes As Easy As You]

A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading and loving this fic. 🥰 We are now officially halfway done with WTWICD, can you believe it?! I hope you enjoy Chapter 7. 💜

Series summary: Your family is House Celtigar, one of Rhaenyra’s wealthiest allies. In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, Aemond unknowingly conscripts you to save his brother’s life. Now you are in the liar of the enemy, but your loyalties are quickly shifting…

Chapter warnings: Language, warfare, violence, the smallfolk having a bad time everywhere you look, Aemond being a menace, serious injury, alcoholism/addiction, references to sexual content (18+), discussions of pregnancy/babies, dragons, murder, some new perspectives! 🥰

Series title is a lyric from: “7 Minutes In Heaven” by Fall Out Boy.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “Nobody Puts Baby In The Corner” by Fall Out Boy.

Word count: 6k.

Link to chapter list: HERE.

Taglist (more in comments): @tinykryptonitewerewolf @lauraneedstochill @not-a-glad-gladiator @daenysx @babyblue711 @arcielee @at-a-rax-ia @bhanclegane @jvpit3rs @padfooteyes @marvelescvpe @travelingmypassion @darkenchantress @yeahright0h @poohxlove @trifoliumviridi @bloodyflowerrr @fan-goddess @devynsficrecs @flowerpotmage @thelittleswanao3 @seabasscevans @hiraethrhapsody @libroparaiso @echos-muses @st-eve-barnes @chattylurker @lm-txles @vagharnaur @moonlightfoxx @storiumemporium @insabecs @heliosscribbles @beautifulsweetschaos @namelesslosers @partnerincrime0 @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @yawneneytiri @marbles-posts @imsolence @maidmerrymint @backyardfolklore @nimaharchive @anxiousdaemon @under-the-aspen-tree @amiraisgoingthruit @dd122004dd @randomdragonfires @jetblack4real @joliettes

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

In the Eyrie, Rhaena is praying for one of the three dragon eggs in her keeping to hatch. In the shadowy ruins of Harrenhal, Daemon and Nettles are bathing in rooms thick with steam, while outside by the lakeshore Baela brings plump goats to Moondancer. In King’s Landing, Rhaenyra’s Master of Coin Bartimos Celtigar is levying heavy taxes on the smallfolk: taxes on wine, taxes on ale, taxes on inn beds and shop goods, even taxes on the bittersweet parody of love purchased in brothels, taxes on every possible distraction from the ceaseless bloodletting that has infected the world like plague. In the North, Cregan Stark is following the Kingsroad towards Moat Cailin and imagining what you will say to him when you are rescued from the clutches of the Usurper: Oh my love, my champion, my savior, my lord. But south in the Reach, Daeron is flying.

Tessarion’s scales are a blue sheen like light on the ocean; the flapping of her wings is a deafening, roaring wind. She is nimble in the air, lethally quick, banking seamlessly when Daeron asks her to turn towards the Hogs Head, an inn from which torrents of men and women run shrieking. They do not run fast enough. Tessarion’s flames are an electrifying cobalt blue like lightning. Flesh melts away, bones are charred black, screams evaporate as lungs are singed, consumed, destroyed. Daeron’s own lungs work perfectly fine; he is cackling, almost loud enough to hear over the wings and inferno of his dragon. After the inn, Tessarion burns the sept, the marketplace, the castle that is the seat of the disloyal House Caswell. There is a stone bridge, after which the town is named, traversing the Mander River. People are fleeing across it. There are children on the bridge, but this does not stop Daeron. Maelor was a child when these traitors ripped him apart with their bare hands. Jaehaerys was a child, and so is Jaehaera, who may be alive in Storm’s End or may be dead but in any case has suffered the decimation of her family, her brothers and her mother and her grandsire. Daeron is burning Bitterbridge for the Greens, yes. But he is also doing it for himself. And in the wake of Tessarion’s fire, Lord Ormund Hightower’s forces pour into the rubble of the town to seize whatever treasures it has left.

In the Riverlands, Aemond and Vhagar are setting fields of wheat ablaze and incinerating cattle, pigs, sheep, forests that can no longer be used by the Blacks and their supporters for timber. In the Citadel, white ravens are being sent out to the great houses of Westeros to proclaim the end of summer. And on Dragonstone, the Beggar King heals.

He spars with guards that Larys found, is tended by maesters that Larys recruited from the turncoat houses of the Crownlands, rules over a microcosm kingdom that Larys built for him. Aegon tires quickly, sleeps often, aches and collapses and bleeds, gets sunburned when he is outside too long on those rare clear days. But he always rises again. “Perpetual Resurrection,” he says, grinning through the pain when you caution him to be patient, to be careful. “I’m not dying. I’m becoming brand new.”

You hunt for softshell crabs together on the rocky shoreline, fill a basket with them, bring them to the cooks to serve the skeleton crew of the castle for supper. You walk through the gardens, a pine-smelling woodland of towering coniferous trees, thorny rose bushes, blood-red cranberries, indelicate creatures that can thrive in the thin, inhospitable earth here. You study the books of the castle library—an impossibly vast, ancient collection, safeguarding texts from Old Valyria—while Aegon swims in the ocean with Sunfyre, laughing and diving as the dragon glides around him in large, lazy circles. Sunfyre can fly, but only a very short distance at a time; he is ungainly when he walks on land with his improperly-healed right wing. But in the water, he and Aegon are both unbroken again. Soon they will be ready for battle. Soon they will have to leave this island, this mist-and-smoke haven, to rejoin the war effort; soon they will have to leave you.

You crave Aegon like some people need wine, rum, gin, gold, power, violence, milk of the poppy. He is ecstasy, he is consolation, he is a spell. He is your home; and any place you’ve ever mistaken for home was only an echo of the truth that you would one day find him. Even on that very first night, as the storm raged outside, you whispered to Aegon when you both woke long before sunrise: “I want you again.”

“You’ll be sore,” he warned, a warm murmur against your forehead. “We can wait. I can wait.” But already his hands were moving, and your thighs were opening, and he followed your body and your words when they told him yes, now, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the next day too.

You smile when Aegon calls you insatiable, but you know that’s not quite it.

You are acutely aware that nothing lasts forever, not even him, not even you.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Are the days getting shorter?” you ask, your bare feet ankle-deep in wet sand. Sunfyre is out in the waves eating dolphins; a slippery-looking grey tail hangs from his snaggletoothed jaw.

“I think you just want the nights to be longer.” Aegon winks up at you. His head is in your lap, his arms linked around your waist. You are weaving his little braid for him. His hair is just above shoulder-length and as choppy as ever. He periodically takes his dagger to it and hacks away haphazardly, determined to never look like Aemond, Daeron, Daemon, his father. He burrows into the softness of your belly and shuts his eyes. “Perhaps winter is coming.”

In more ways than one, you think bleakly, picturing Cregan Stark on the Kingsroad with snow in his long dark hair and dirt on his hands. “We should ask Lord Larys if he’s heard anything.” As the Citadel—and most of the rest of Westeros—believes Dragonstone to be unoccupied, they would not have sent a white raven here. But several times each week Larys receives visitors from Eagle Harbor, and they bring him rumors in exchange for gold coins and promises that when Aegon once again sits the Iron Throne, their faithfulness will be generously rewarded.

Aegon hums agreeably; he is dozing. After a moment he says: “I keep dreaming of her.”

“Who?”

“Helaena,” Aegon says, his voice lethargic and eyes still closed. “She brings me things. Butterflies, crabs, snakes. Things that are reborn. She puts them in my hands or in my bed and won’t take them away when I ask her to. She keeps telling me: Don’t fall, don’t fall.”

You finish Aegon’s braid and comb his unruly hair back with your fingers, soothing him, listening to him. You try not to think of the way Helaena died, crushed and hemorrhaging on golden sandstone. Instead, you picture her living: strange yet gentle, tragic but kind. You see her children as well, white-haired and beautiful and doted on not by their parents but by Alicent and Otto and you…and Aemond. You remember Aemond’s quiet resentment, his simmering and dangerous envy. You recall Aegon’s half-flippant accusation: You’re always developing attachments to things that are mine. Targaryens have wed brothers to sisters since long before the Conquest, but that doesn’t mean they always got the combination quite right. “Aegon, was Aemond…was he in love with Helaena? Did he desire her?”

“No. Not like that. He cared for her, but I don’t believe he had any lust for Helaena. He just thought he would have been a better husband to her than I was. That he would have caused her less misery. That he was more worthy of carrying on the bloodline, of being the children’s father. And he was right, of course.”

“What happened to Helaena is not your fault,” you say. “And neither is what happened to Jaehaerys or Maelor.”

“I’m glad Daeron burned them all,” Aegon says quietly, meaning the people of Bitterbridge, a tale ferried to Larys from one of his numerous, nameless informants.

“I know you are, Aegon.” You can’t bring yourself to agree with him. Does one dead child bring back another? Does each swatch of flesh burned away from a supporter of Rhaenyra replace one that was sheared off the bones of a Green? No, of course not, but the wheel goes around and around and around.

In the sky, another sort of wheel: a sun that burns cool and muted behind a thicket of iron-colored clouds. High above where you and Aegon are entwined on the beach, something crosses in front of the shrouded sun, casting an impossibly large shadow. You gasp; at the sound, Aegon bolts upright onto his palms and knees and follows your gaze. There is a profound, archaic rumbling, something old and intractable like thunder, earthquakes, floodwaters rising.

A dragon, you know immediately. You try frantically to determine whether you recognize its voice. Too large to be Tessarion or Syrax, too deep a roar to be Caraxes. Sheepstealer?? Vermithor?? But no, you have heard this beast before after all, it’s—

“Vhagar!” Aegon shouts, and scrambles to his feet. As the massive swamp-green dragon disappears behind the castle, soaring rather sluggishly, Aegon sprints as fast as he can up the stone steps towards the entranceway. You follow Aegon into Dragonstone and there the visitor meets you both, sailing down a staircase with eerie lightness, his boots hardly making a sound, his long silver hair secured in a single thick braid. Larys arrives as well and stands in the dreary, torchlit chamber, appearing as he always does: face servile and tactfully intrigued, hands laced together overtop the handle of his cane, back stooped as if to make himself smaller, less threatening, more invisible.

“I got to thinking you might be here,” Aemond tells Aegon. He sounds pleasantly surprised. “You look better.” Then he notices you. “Oh. Perhaps that accounts for some of it.”

“Where’s Criston?” Aegon asks. Meanderingly, so it is sufficiently subtle, he takes several steps until he has placed himself between you and Aemond.

“Somewhere near Saltpans.”

“You left him?” Aegon is incredulous, furious.

“Temporarily,” Aemond says. “It is not the first time. Between battles Vhagar and I raze the farms and villages of the Riverlands. Criston and his men are more than capable of fending for themselves. I’ll be back in a day.”

“You’re supposed to stay with Criston,” Aegon insists, speaking slowly and deliberately as if to a child who might have difficulty understanding. “You promised that you would. The war is on the battlefield, not on goddamn farms.”

“And what feeds Rhaenyra’s forces? Is it not grain and cattle? And so if I destroy their food supply—while our own soldiers are still receiving regular shipments from the Westerlands and the Reach—am I not inflicting catastrophic damage to the Blacks?”

“You’re burning…civilian property?” you say to Aemond. “You’re killing women and children and old people? You’re laying waste their homesteads?”

“It’s total war.” Aemond stares at you defiantly; there is no suggestion of self-doubt in his face. “It is a well-documented strategy employed across continents and centuries. We kill soldiers on the battlefield. We endanger their families back home. Many men will desert to return to their imperiled wives and children. Others will starve. All are broken. All are rendered ineffectual to our enemy’s cause. And thus we will triumph.”

You and Aegon gape at him, not knowing what to say, not knowing what is right or wrong in a world where children are slaughtered and grown men murder with impunity. When will this war be over? How can we end it? Will any of our souls survive the choices we’ve made with our backs to the wall?

“My prince, you chose an excellent time to pay us a visit,” Larys offers diplomatically. “I have just received news that may be of interest to you. And you can bring it back to Sir Criston and his men when you return to the Riverlands tomorrow.”

“What news?” Aegon asks.

“Wait,” Aemond says; and he smiles, dark and hungry like a wolf, like a dragon. “I want to see the place where my ancestors made their war plans. I want to sit in Rhaenyra’s chair.”

On the top floor of the Stone Drum, the main keep of Dragonstone that booms and growls during storms, servants light the candles beneath the Painted Table and bring wine, ale, bread, cheese, honeycomb, jam, candied walnuts, red cherries and violet grapes. The map of Westeros, older than the Conquest, is striped with snakes of fiery luminance like lava. Aegon twists the gold dragon ring on his finger, its jade eyes sparkling. You gave it back to him the day after you arrived on Dragonstone; he says that when he wins the war, he will have a matching piece made for you, but with a crab in place of a dragon.

Larys cautions before he begins: “I cannot tell you the perfect truth. I can only tell you what I’ve heard from the whispers that make their way to me.”

“And what have you heard?” Aemond says. Aegon glances petulantly at him, as if debating whether to remind his brother that a prince regent is not quite a king.

“The Dragonseeds known as Hugh Hammer and Ulf the White—and with them, Vermithor and Silverwing—have officially declared for the Greens.”

“Yes!” Aegon beams and raises his wine cup. He refuses milk of the poppy, even on his worst days; he does not want to be senseless, he does not want to leave you unprotected. But he drinks red wine often and grows ill if he is without it for long. Aemond is laughing victoriously. The brothers are momentarily united.

“There was a battle at Tumbleton in the Reach,” Larys continues. “Lord Ormund Hightower was slain by Roddy the Ruin who, allegedly, managed the feat after one of his arms was severed clean from his body. These Northmen are formidable beasts, to be sure.”

Aegon looks at you, a fleeting, fearful look.

“The people of Tumbleton believed the battle to be over, but then Vermithor and Silverwing joined Tessarion in torching the city. All the Blacks’ commanders were killed, along with most of their soldiers. And the city was sacked. There are reports of looting and…well, all manner of indecencies being committed against the civilians of Tumbleton, mostly women and children. Even septas and silent sisters.”

Now an awkward silence settles over the Painted Table. Ruin, heartbreak, agony, death; but somebody else’s. It could have been yours instead. Perhaps tomorrow it will be. Perhaps there is no end to suffering, only a reallocation of it to people who you do not know, do not love. Perhaps the debt can never be satisfied but only passed to another.

Larys goes on: “The people of King’s Landing are petrified that the Greens and their dragons will descend upon them and subject the capital to the same atrocities that Tumbleton experienced. Rhaenyra had to order the gold cloaks to seal the city gates to keep her supposedly loyal subjects inside.”

“The smallfolk’s support for her continues to weaken?” Aemond says.

“It does more than weaken. Many people there detest her. Bartimos Celtigar has imposed heavy taxes upon the city. The smallfolk fear that Daemon has abandoned Rhaenyra, and therefore that they cannot expect protection from Caraxes and Sheepstealer. And…” Larys peers around the Painted Table apologetically.

“…And?” Aegon presses.

“Rhaenyra’s youngest son…Viserys…” Larys sighs, an anemic, perfunctory breed of sympathy. “He is dead. Of illness, it seems. The luckless lad.”

“He was always sickly,” you say, remembering his unwaveringly watery eyes and dripping nose. And you almost say Poor Rhaenyra, but then you remember how the Blacks celebrated Maelor’s death with cheers and rare, bloody boar meat.

“Yes,” Larys concurs. “That is what the people believe, that he perished due to natural causes.”

Aemond is watching the Master of Whisperers closely. “What does Rhaenyra think caused it?”

“She suspects poison,” Larys tells him. “She is convinced of poison, I should say. She raved and she threatened and she spewed accusations. She executed a dozen people, none of whom could be connected to the death of the boy with any certainty. The smallfolk feel she has gone mad. And there is one more crime the people have branded her with.” Larys turns to you.

Your heard pounds wildly, hot blood thuds in your ears. “Has something happened to Everett—?”

“Not him. The Celtigars themselves are safe from her wrath. Bartimos is too near to the throne, and Rhaenyra trusts him. But the servant girl—Autumn, you called her—she went into labor a month early and was delivered of a boy.” Now Larys’ eyes flick to Aegon, whose face goes pale and panicked. “A boy with blue eyes and silver hair.”

Aemond rocks back in his chair and shakes his head.

“Oh,” Aegon moans. “Oh.” He clutches his chest with one hand and looks to you. He says weakly: “I’m so sorry, Angel. It didn’t mean anything. The child…it…it will never really be mine—”

“It won’t be anyone’s,” Larys says. “Rhaenyra had him run through with a sword.”

“What?!” Aemond exclaims. “A baby? An infant? In her own castle, in the Red Keep?”

You are horrified. “Did Autumn witness this?”

“I’m not certain, my lady,” Larys replies. “What I have heard is that Rhaenyra proclaimed it vengeance for agents of the Greens murdering her youngest son. She declared all bastards of the Usurper to be enemies of the realm and thus sentenced to death. She has offered rewards for anyone who brings a white-haired child to her for execution. And the smallfolk are absolutely, viciously appalled by her. The Street of Silk in particular is rife with people plotting the so-called queen’s downfall. She is surrounded by enemies. And she has only two male heirs left.”

“Two more than Aegon,” Aemond mutters.

“Is Autumn alright?” you ask Larys. “Did Rhaenyra harm her?”

“Your brother Everett attempted to advocate for Autumn and the child. He was ignored; your father and eldest brother were vehemently in support of the murder. Shortly after the baby was killed, Autumn disappeared from King’s Landing. I’m sure Everett facilitated this escape. No one knows her present whereabouts.”

“She’s just gone? No signs whatsoever?”

“Nobody ever knows anything.” Aemond waves at Aegon. “They think he’s in Dorne.”

“Seven hells,” Aegon whispers, rubbing his face with his hands.

“Rhaenyra is destroying herself,” you say. “She is doing the work for us. If you try to take King’s Landing with dragonfire raining down on Green supporters who are effectively held captive, there will be ill-will against you in the capital that will last for generations. But if they overthrow Rhaenyra on their own, you can reclaim the city bloodlessly.”

Larys taps his fingers meditatively against the Painted Table. “I do wonder if Daemon would intervene to support her. His present motivations are…somewhat nebulous. To Blacks and Greens alike. But he controls their most powerful assets.”

“You haven’t crossed paths with Caraxes and Sheepstealer in Riverlands, I assume?” Aegon asks Aemond.

“No. We are locked in a dance of sorts. I’m not certain that Vhagar can win against two dragons of that size; they must know that it is almost certain that at least one of them would be killed in the struggle even if they defeated me. This Nettles girl’s dragon riding skills are unclear. Perhaps Daemon is training her, perhaps he is now sufficiently attached that he does not want her in combat. So we avoid each other. But when the girl is gone—when Daemon tires of her, or when Rhaenyra sends assassins to murder her, or when she is removed from the board by some other means—I will meet Daemon in battle and end him.”

“Your priority is protecting Criston,” Aegon orders; but there is trepidation in his large, ocean-blue eyes, there is defenseless worry there. “Wherever Criston goes, you go with him. I’ll be ready to fight again soon. I’ll be able to help you.”

“Daemon is mine. I want to face him alone.”

“I am the king!” Aegon thunders, and you can see the strength leaving him like birds taking flight from cold, bare winter trees. “You will not behave recklessly. You will not abandon Criston. We are winning in the Reach, and we are winning in King’s Landing without even being there, and we will win in the Riverlands too if you don’t sabotage us with your relentless fucking pride.”

You and Larys study Aemond. He examines the flame-colored light of the Painted Table, tracing the etchings of rivers and mountains with his fingertips. “Fine,” he concedes, very quietly.

“And one more thing,” Aegon tells his brother.

With great reluctance, Aemond meets his gaze. “Yes?”

“If you have the opportunity to burn Cregan Stark, take it.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When Aegon collapses into the bed you share, you curl up against his scarred chest, listen to his heartbeat, breathe in heat and rose oil and the salt of the ocean. He does not ask you what is wrong. He does not speak of Autumn or her child, his child, no matter how indifferent or remorseful he might have been. He holds you knowing that there is nothing he can say to make the world whole again. He can only rest until he is well enough to fly into battle, where he might be further maimed or taken captive or murdered. And what then? What was this all for?

“Somewhere there are people just living,” you marvel. “They’re reading books, they’re having supper, they’re getting married, they’re tending to their crops and their animals. And none of them are thinking about war or massacres or dragonfire.”

“Yes,” Aegon says simply, pulling you in closer, one palm pressed to the small of your back and the other brushing your hair away from your face so he can kiss you, soft and slow. “But they’re not us.”

When Aegon is on the edge of sleep, you tell him that you love him, as you do each day. He has not heard it enough in his life; you are trying to remedy that now. And as always, Aegon does not say it back. Instead, he murmurs something in High Valyrian that you cannot understand. Now you commit it to memory, repeating it silently to yourself again and again until Aegon is sleeping deeply and you can rise from the bed without disturbing him. You go to your writing desk and scribble it down on a small piece of parchment: the way this word sounds in the letters of the Common Tongue. You have no way to translate it. There are books written in High Valyrian in the castle library, but you do not know the alphabet of the language, and you have yet to find a text that can teach it to you. When you ask Aegon for lessons, he demurs and says that he doesn’t know High Valyrian well enough to teach you. You think he just wants a way to say things you won’t be able to comprehend. You squirrel the parchment away in the pocket of your gown and slip out of the bedchamber you share with Aegon.

It is far too early for your mind to stop racing, only sunset. You wander down halls of shifting shadows and iron dragons, fantastically high ceilings and narrow slits of windows. Questions fill your skull like rushing blood in the chambers of a heart: Where is Autumn? Is she alright? Is she safe? Is Everett, is Jaehaera, is Alicent? Are Criston and Daeron? Are any of us?

When you cross through the doorway and onto a balcony that overlooks the ocean, Aemond is to your left. He is nursing a cup of wine and leaning over the stone wall that separates you from a long, treacherous fall onto black rocks that jut out of the sea like the hilts of daggers from a corpse’s back. You whirl away from him and towards the craggy staircase that leads down to the beach.

“Now you’re going to pretend you didn’t see me?” Aemond calls out.

You halt mid-step, consider it, then return to him. “You’re just so undistinguished in appearance. So easy to miss.”

He gives you one of his enigmatic, teasing smirks. His hair blows in the breeze that tastes like salt and sulfur and mist. He wears a dark, lush green. Then he peers avoidantly down into his wine. “I…I don’t think I ever adequately apologized for what transpired regarding the brothel. The Pink Pearl.”

“You didn’t.”

“It is a place…” Aemond pauses. He chooses his words cautiously, like handling something that could easily break, a glass goblet, an egg, a butterfly in an open palm. “It is a place that I associate with great unpleasantness. I made assumptions about where your loyalties lied. I felt that you had hurt me, that you had caused me to suffer. And I wanted you to suffer in return.”

“It was a horrific thing to do,” you say pitilessly. “It was cruel. It was evil.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that now. That’s why I’m apologizing.”

“Then do it properly.”

“I’m sorry,” Aemond says. It takes some effort. “I was wrong.”

“You were.”

“And I’m glad Aegon was able to haul himself out of bed to rescue you. It’s not often that he gets to be the noble brother, the gallant one.”

“It happens more often than you’d think.”

Aemond raises his eyebrow. Beneath his eyepatch, you know, is a winter-cold sapphire in a bed of mangled flesh, a treasure steeped in corruption. “How long have you been here?”

“Two months.” No, more than that. “Two and a half, or thereabouts.”

“And I assume there has been no shortage of…horizontal activities with my brother.”

“Not exclusively horizontal,” you snap, to make him regret being so forward, to make him uncomfortable. “We are more inventive than that.”

It works; Aemond flushes a gory mottled pink. Still he manages: “And you have not yet conceived?”

You glare at him, ice and fire at once. “No.”

“Why do you think that is?”

You shrug, exasperated, dismissive. “Aegon has been through so much physical trauma, perhaps he is no longer capable of having children. Perhaps I never was. Perhaps it will happen in a month or six months or a year. Perhaps it is not meant for us. Only the gods know.”

“You aren’t at all concerned?”

In truth, no; you are so consumed by whether Aegon will survive the war with any vestige of humanity intact that anything beyond this seems hopelessly distant, a constellation, a shadow on the moon, the silvery gleam of a comet. “It’s not something I spend much time thinking about.”

“It should be,” Aemond insists. “If the Greens expect men to go to war for us, for women to give up their husbands and sons to us, we should have a stable succession to offer them in return. Jaehaerys and Maelor are gone. Jaehaera is a girl and cannot inherit even if she is alive and well in Storm’s End. Aegon needs an heir.”

“Aren’t you next in line for the throne, Aemond?” you say cuttingly. “And isn’t that the role you believe yourself best suited for? Being king? Proving how worthy you were all along?”

He is uneasy, perhaps ashamed, evading your eyes. “Regrettably, I cannot begin trying for my own sons until the war is over and I marry Borros Baratheon’s daughter, as I pledged to in return for his support for our side. Daeron will not be able to marry for several years. In the meantime, there is this…disquieting lack of certainty. To complicate matters, Aegon has bastards in King’s Landing, I’m sure. The red-haired girl was far from the first whore to lie with him. If he does not have a trueborn son, claimants will appear to challenge mine or Daeron’s for the throne.”

You search yourself—unspoken longing and ancient cobwebbed fears—for any desire for a child of your own. You cannot find it. You are fond of children, you find fulfillment in caring for them, but the need to carry and deliver one yourself? It is not something you can remember ever yearning for. It always felt like yet another way in which your body would be used to further some man’s legacy, to give him pleasure at your expense. “Can you tell me what this means?” you ask, handing Aemond the folded piece of parchment that you’d tucked into the pocket of your gown. He takes it with one long, lithe hand. “I’ve probably spelled it wrong. I’ve never seen it written, only heard it spoken aloud.”

Aemond opens the parchment. His river-blue eye narrows; thoughtful creases appear in his brow. “Aegon has said this? To you?”

“More than once.”

“What prompted it?”

“Does your translation depend upon the context?”

“Hm.” Aemond skates his thumbprint over the dried black ink. Then he looks at you. “It means: To your misfortune.”

The alarm must show on your face.

“Not like a threat,” Aemond clarifies. “It is a common expression. It suggests that someone has entrusted something of value to the undeserving. It implies naivety. Unwise benevolence. But it is certainly not malicious. It is usually said fondly, like a backhanded compliment.” He returns the parchment to you. You rip it over and over again until it is only scraps that vanish in the wind, Aegon’s voice speaking to you: I ruin causes. I ruin people.

“Why did you kill Luke?” you ask Aemond, not accusingly but with hushed, weary wonder. “There was very little strategic advantage in it. There was great peril as a result. Rhaenyra will never surrender, never negotiate. You will forever be known as a kinslayer. You could have taken him captive. You could have humiliated him, you could have shown the world how weak he was. Why did you have to kill him?”

Aemond says nothing for a long time. He stares out over the ocean where the sun is setting, dolphin fins cut in swift arcs through the surf, Sunfyre dozes on wet sand, the sky glows dream-lavender and blood orange. He sips his wine and contemplates things that are mysteries to you. Aemond keeps his thoughts like untrustworthy animals: in cages, in darkness, turning fierce and feral, snapping jaws and rattling chains. At last he says: “They’re all dead anyway. They were from the moment Aegon was born and my father refused to name him the heir. It’s all of them or all of us. You think there is any scenario in which Aegon reigns as king while Rhaenyra’s children survive? No, no. Someone will always be willing to fight and die for them. Just like Green loyalists would have been willing to fight for Jaehaerys and Maelor.” Something shifts in his face like the breaking of a wave, and for a second you can glimpse the deep well of dark, helpless misery inside him, filling up drop by drop since he was a boy. Then Aemond is steely again. “Luke had to die. So did Jace and Rhaenys and that eternally sniffling toddler Viserys. And all the other Blacks will follow. Unless you care to see Aegon’s blood spilled. And mine, and Daeron’s.”

“No,” you say softly, an agonized little whisper that understands, that surrenders. “No, that cannot happen.”

Aemond takes another swallow of his wine and drums his fingertips restlessly against the cup. “Any heir our side puts forth must have undisputed parentage and Valyrian features. Aegon’s wife is dead. He can marry you. You are a Celtigar, you share our blood, you carry the memories of silver hair and rare magic in the marrow of your bones. These attributes are dormant in you, yet could be passed on to a child. A son of yours could secure the succession and one day inherit the Iron Throne. But the father has to be a Targaryen.”

You turn to Aemond, perplexed and wary. His wording is strange. “Well, it has to be Aegon.”

Aemond is impatient, irritated. You have not been keeping up. He says, his eye on the darkening horizon: “There are other Targaryens.”

You stare at him. You don’t understand, you don’t understand, and then suddenly you do. “What?”

This is not the reaction Aemond had hoped for. He gulps down the last of his wine, leaves the cup on the stone wall, storms down the staircase to reunite with Vhagar and resume burning the noncombatants of the Riverlands to ash.

~~~~~~~~~~

He finds her at the shore of the Gods Eye, rippling blue like a vast mirror. The Isle of Faces—forbidden, undiscoverable—is a faint mirage in the distance. Moondancer is circling overhead. Baela is perched on a large rock by the water’s edge and fishing; she is intrigued by tales of the strange creatures that dwell here, the hungry currents, the way this corner of the world has only a translucent, threadbare veil between our world and the realm of spirits, ghosts, demons. She has always been curious and bold by nature. She has always been his most beloved child.

“You found your way out of Nettles’ bed,” Baela pitches, a jest but not a judgment. She is already developing an appetite of her own that renders monogamy woefully lacking. She mourns Jace, but not the woman she would have had to pretend to be for him. “I’m shocked.”

Daemon smirks, tilting his head to the side like a wolf does as it’s listening. “You know how sheets have a way of getting tangled. Around ankles, around wrists…sometimes it is difficult to free oneself.”

“You were fighting hard, I’m sure.”

“Yes, all morning.”

Baela chuckles, reels in her fishing line, recasts it. She cares deeply for Rhaenyra and is loyal to her still, but Baela shares her father’s pathological aversion to weakness. She feels that Rhaenyra has driven Daemon away with her moodiness, her melancholy, her unmooring from the fearless, ardent woman she once was. Daemon says that being with Nettles is like being with a young Rhaenyra again. It would not be just to condemn him for seeking out what Rhaenyra took from him and has no intention of returning.

Daemon says: “I want you to go to Dragonstone.”

Baela is aghast, betrayed. “You are getting rid of me?”

“I am entrusting you with a vital enterprise.”

Now she is intrigued. Now she is considering it.

“Moondancer is too small to fight Vhagar, Tessarion, Vermithor, or Silverwing,” Daemon says. “If Caraxes and Sheepstealer meet Vhagar in battle, you cannot go with us. Nor should we leave you here unprotected. And I know you have been impatient for an opportunity to play a more…consequential role in the war.”

“I long to be useful,” Baela agrees. “More than anything.”

“Go to Dragonstone,” Daemon says. “It is vacant, it is safe. But it must remain under the Blacks’ control. Patrol it and ensure the Greens do not try to take the island and find riders for Grey Ghost or the Cannibal. Rhaenyra will return to Dragonstone if she is ever forced out of King’s Landing. I have tasked you with making it ready for her.”

“And I have permission to execute any traitors who might appear there?”

“Yes. You may swing the sword yourself. Or feed them to Moondancer, whichever you prefer.”

Baela smiles, a slow, toothy grin that spreads across her face like plague, like fire. “When can I leave?”

[dezmolad]

Transformers One: Decepticons and Autobots

Yesterday I went to see TFOne and while it was overall a fun experience I think it would be also fun to decompose the way this movie portrays soon-to-be 'cons and 'bots.

Beware of the spoilers!

So the society and worldbuilding of Transformers One is clearly inspired by both Alligned continuity (Transformers Prime and such) and IDW2005 G1 continuity (MTMTE, RiD and such) tales about how the world looked like before the war. Of course it was only a inspiration, the liberties has been taken but some specific changes seem... well, as if they feared their source matherial to me.

Making the society divided to classes, the existence of miners is a clear inspiration from the continuities I mentioned. BUT. Making the miners exclusively (from what i observed and checked on tf wiki), besides D-16, future autobots, when in the inspirations the decepticons basically rised up from the mines is something else.

It might be G1 cartoon inspiration, where we learn in one episode that Quintessons constructed autobots as working class (TFOne: miners) and decepticons as warrior class (TFOne: High Guard). But here, melted with IDW and Alligned inspirations it feels as if the creators wanted to kinda make autobots less morally grey that their inspirations intended. The fact that the only "bully" from higher class than miners we ever see being actually piece of shit with a name is Darkwing, who we know as a decepticon also is pretty telling.

Overall I feel like the creators of this movie really wanted to take inspirations from IDW and Alligned continuity but also felt stangely uncomfortable with the implications of those continuities. Of decepticons having a point, of autobots being morally complicated, to put it lightly. It's understandable as it's a mainstream, singular movie that can't be too complicated, but still it feels kinda disappointing to me.

Giving Orion Pax the role we saw Megatron in in inspirations (a poet and an activist in IDW, a politican and a gladiator in Alligned), in the scene where he gives the speech to the miners really hammers it down. We can literally imagine Megatron doing that in universes that gave inspirations to this movie!

If someone knows more about how the creative process around this part of the movie worked I'd be glad to know!

[hmshermitcraft]

Xisuma is a rich man, living on a server with a wealth of resources, but it’s lonely at the top.

So he starts taking in the worst of the poor, the injured. An avian who was kept in a gladiator like fighting ring who he taught that not every touch will hurt him. (Wels)

A zombie who was forcefully turned undead, and supplied her with more food than she could ever ask for.

A demon and an angel who were casted aside by their gods and only left with each other, who learned they no longer needed to follow religiously,

And so many others who would kill for this man.

They’ll pay it back to him, showering him with love until he’s as red as his velvet carpets. God does he love them as much as they adore him.

It's a strange realisation that, for all his wealth, none of it made him feel like this. Yet without it, this would have been so much harder. He's glad that he didn't follow his family's example and continue hoarding his riches. They're put to so much better use by helping others.

Xisuma could be the poorest person in the world, and he'd still be happy surrounded by so much love.

[ladyredmoon13]

DCXDP prompt

The Meta Games

What originally started as a group of local teens challenging each other to see who would pay for milkshakes. Changed and grew into one of the largest sporting events the world had ever known.

The Meta Games, in the beginning, was nothing more than a town full of bored adolescents coming up with their own source of entertainment. In a place like Amity Park could you blame them?

The teens would come up with fun challenges and even obstacle courses to prove who was the best. The Games weren't even closed off to non-metas. So if you were willing to play, you could. Just don't go complaining if you got hurt.

Hell, Danny Fenton and Valerie Grey regularly take turns in the winning spot from time to time. If they could try and succeed, why not everyone else?

As the years passed the event got bigger and bigger. Blowing up into a sensation when an out-of-towner stumbled upon the event and thought it was the coolest thing he'd ever seen.

Soon they had sponsors, funding, and celebrity guests. Of course, then they had to make an actual rule book on how to play just to make the games official/legit. But seeing how the rules were what they were in the beginning(plus some red tape) and very easy to follow. Nobody minded.

Things were fine. That is until The Meta Games caught the Justice Leagues' attention. Contestants, both Meta and non, have gone missing at the games. No one knows where they are going and as they look deeper into the events hosted city's a worrying pattern emerged.

They were always participants but never the winners. Most had extraordinary abilities but others had athletic prowess. Add in the fact that the games were hosted in the same town every year and said town was known for its 'ghost attacks'. Then it wasn’t exactly looking good.

Even so, more information was needed. Whether they liked it or not they needed to go undercover.

_____________________

Danny looked down at the flyer in his hand and scowled. The Meta Games were in a week and he couldn't even be happy about it. To focused on the fact that one of his friends was missing.

He had told Wolf a month ago about how excited he was about participating in the last MG he could before going off to college. He had been intrigued and after Danny explained that the event was open to 'anyone' and 'everyone'.

He eagerly left to go sign up himself. That was weeks ago and there was still no sign of him. He had talked to witnesses who put him at the sign-up booth and Tucker was able to pull up footage of him entering but never leaving.

Something was wrong, and it had something to do with the games themselves. Sure they might have started out innocently enough, but now he's thinking something else saw an opportunity and corrupted them, so to speak.

Either way, he was investigating this. He's just glad that not only did he already have a cover story and his friends in the stands to have his back, but that Ember was the host for this year. Win-win, really.

Not to mention this year's thyme is pretty good. The Justice League, sounds like if would be interesting.

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

Roulette looked down at all the applications on her desk and smiled. Just a few more fighters and she'll be ready to open her new brawls up in the underground. This time, bigger, better, and bloodier then they ever were.

Looking at one application in particular she smiled. One of the original contestants had signed up, a veteran if you will. One that had ended up on top more then the others. Oh Mr. Fenton, what a beautiful opportunity you are.

~So basically Roulette takes over what was a legit competition for fun and prizes and uses it to supply fighters for her illegal fights in her underground gladiator fights behind the scenes.

The League who don't know what is up with this kid and wondering just what he's up to while simultaneously trying to make sure he's not the next target.(No, Batman you can not adopt him.)

Both Danny and the League know something isn't right and investigate. Danny with the help of his friends and other ghosts(who want Wolf back safe and sound. Yes, they are worried).

[serpentinesketches]

More for my GO Gladiator AU! I started thinking up what I wanted their first meeting to look like, and this scene popped into my head. I imagine the vibes here are much like the drunk "Dolphins!" conversation in S1 canon (you know the one). Very silly and good bonding time for these two :D

I'm not fully done writing it, but here's a snippit of their first meeting scene under the cut to accompany this art:

---

The woman drags Aziraphale by the hand off into one of the side-rooms, pushes him down onto a small chair, and puts a knee up on the large, circular bed that is the main centerpiece of the room. She fixes him with the same amused look as before as she fiddles with the serpent clasp on her left shoulder, “So, tell me, what is it you really want? You have something specific in mind, I can tell.”

Aziraphale clears his throat, suddenly realizing they were very much not on the same page, “Ah, apologies my dear, I believe you’ve misread my apprehension earlier. I actually, um… Don’t? Want to sleep with you, that is.”

“… Eh?” The woman had seemed ready to accept most feasible answers to her question. This answer was not on the list.

“It’s just…” Aziraphale sighs, a fullbody thing, “It’s dreadfully boring, mingling around, talking about conquests and the like. And I’d much rather curl up with a good book. But I’m not allowed to just leave, there’d be… consequences.” Aziraphale shudders, involuntary, “That lot does not just send rude notes.”

Aziraphale shakes himself and blazes on, “I’ll compensate you handily though! Enough you shouldn’t have to work again tonight,” he pulls out his wallet, “assuming I remember the going rates for these things well enough…” he mumbles the last bit, more to himself.

He extends his hand with the money, offering it up, “All I ask is you stay in this room with me for a couple hours, and if anyone asks, we had a lovely time.”

“… Uh-huh.”

“I’m sure you could use the break, either way.” Aziraphale continues, to fill the silence, “I’ve never met someone of your profession who is not dreadfully overworked.”

Taking the money, she seems to catch up to reality and cracks a smile, “Well, yeah - you won’t hear me complaining!” She flops down on the plush circular mattress, melting into it. He hadn’t realized how precisely she had been holding herself until she finally actually relaxed.

“It’s kinda funny, I thought you’d have no interest in sleeping around when I first saw you. Good to know my instincts aren’t waning on me.” She winks at him - seems flirting is just a default for her, no matter the circumstances.

“Yes well.” Aziraphale wrings his hands, “I know it’s odd of me, but I simply have no interest in sleeping with people I hardly know”

“Certainly unusual, but not bad.” Her head tilts side-to-side as she considers this. She looks down, pauses for a beat.

“Well. Let’s get to know each other then – the name’s Crowley,” she leans up, extending a hand.

“That’s an odd name for a—Wait, no, you don’t have to-“ Aziraphale stutters, several thoughts getting caught in his throat while he attempts to voice them all at once.

Crowley laughs, but not a cruel laugh, more endeared than anything by Aziraphale’s stumbling. “I know, I know, I’m not trying to get in your pants. I just don’t want to wait here in silence, and you seem interesting.”

“Ah, well then,” Aziraphale takes her hand in his, ever so gentle. “It’s a pleasure. I’m Aziraphale.”

“Oh wow, really?” Aziraphale nods, sheepish. “Huh! Never figured I’d get to fake-bed someone of your renown – that’ll be a feather in my cap for sure.” Crowley continues, undeterred.

“Mmm, glad my ‘renown’ will be helpful to one of us” Aziraphale snarks, annoyance seeping through his normally reserved exterior. Crowley looks taken aback at his admission, but not wholly surprised.

There’s a moment of quiet, and Aziraphale remembers his other train of thought, “Oh! If I may, I don’t mean to be rude, but your name - it’s not usually a name for a lady…”

“Ah, clever man!” Crowley waggles his finger at him, “that’d be because I’m not one.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, I should’ve asked- I just assumed-“

“Don’t worry about it, seriously.” Crowley interrupts before Aziraphale can apologize himself into a tizzy, “people assume, and I play into it intentionally.”

“Plus, I mean, it’s all made up anyway, the way I see it. Woman, man, whatever else, who cares. We’re all just human at the end of the day.”

---

If you've read to this point I appreciate you very much, I hope you liked my nonsense! Have a virtual cookie! <3 🍪

[tiachristiner]

Who put the glad in gladiator? Hercules! 🏺

[phoenixyfriend]

Entry of the Gladiators 4

Chapter 4: Family Matters

Time for Crime

---------

Anakin is only a few years younger than his mom. His mom is younger than Obi-Wan.

That’s… weird.

“You should probably call me by name,” she says, voice low. Her eyes are fixed on Anakin’s younger self, who is all of three years old, maybe, and more than a little entertained by the simple act of putting on a helmet that’s far too big for him and wandering around the galley.

He has bumped into at least three pieces of furniture. Thankfully, Rex’s helmet protected mini-Anakin.

Bit weird to think that’s him.

“It’ll take some getting used to,” Anakin mutters, wrenching his focus back to the conversation with his—with Shmi. “But I’ll do my best.”

She smiles and leans forward, puts a hand over his. “I know you will.”

His heart twists and stutters, and he thinks of the Tuskens and—

Stuffs. That. Thought. Back. Down.

“Ani?”

He shakes himself. Not now. “Sorry. Just… still surprised you believe me.”

“You’re my Anakin,” she says, simple as anything. “I’d know you anywhere.”

(Obi-Wan had suggested that Shmi was a touch Force Sensitive herself. Anakin doesn’t know what to do with that, and so he tucks it away until it’s relevant, which is hopefully going to be never.)

“So, um… what do we tell people?” he asks. “I mean, it won’t matter with most people, except mini-me is too young to know the truth…”

She shrugs. “I would not be the first slave to name her child after a family member, one she’d been separated from and later heard was dead. We can say you’re my younger brother, or a cousin. It’ll help explain the similarities as little Ani starts to grow older and looks more like you. Family resemblance to a maternal uncle. Any strangeness in how we interact can be ascribed to not having seen each other in a few years.”

Anakin nods, eyes dropping to their hands atop his knee. He turns his over to grab his moth—his sister’s, and squeezes.

“Anakin?”

He closes his eyes and tries to tighten and drown the little tremor that’s building in his chest. He can’t cry. Not here and now. She’s alive and with him, that’s a good thing.

She squeezes back. “Ani?”

“You died,” he says, ignoring the screaming that wasn’t there. “I held—I’m just. I’m just really glad to have you here. Alive.”

She leans in closer, hugs him, and it’s—

He has his mom back. That’s a good thing. That’s everything.

(If he ignores the memories.)

[major-sesquipedalian]

CHEWED THROUGH????????

i only now was able to get caught up on burrows end so i know im late to the game but???? HELLO????

how long were the first stoats planning that whole thing???? how did they have the forethought to CHEW. THROUGH. THE. COMMUNICATIONS. CABLE. the fact that we now know there was INTENT behind the reactor charlie situation???? i need to know EVERYTHING about the first stoats how did they come to be what was their deal how did they have partial skin and most importantly WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON

AND ANOTHER THING - IF THE FIRST STOATS HATED THE HUMANS ENOUGH TO CAUSE A NUCLEAR D I S A S T E R WHY OH WHY HAD THEY ADOPTED SO MANY HUMAN CUSTOMS/CHARACTERISTICS??????

and i think it’s so important to note that wenabockers last words mentioned how SNEAKY the first stoats were…i don’t know if im just reading into things at this point (highly likely) but that seems kinda odd that those would be his last words y’know…? i don’t remember who brought it up but i know someone suggested that maybe the first stoats were being experimented on…could the “sneaky” comment imply that maybe the first stoats were completely aware and plotting while putting on a front for the experiments? like they might’ve been sneaking around the facility while not being observed?? but how would that be the case when wenabocker didn’t even know they were stoats/must not have recognized them…? plus in a facility like that i would assume there would be very strict surveillance. but then again the first stoats had the wherewithal to cut off communication and strand anyone remaining???? so it’s not so crazy to think they might’ve figured out how to mess with cameras???? oh boy i am just talking myself in circles

OH YEAH AND NOT TO MENTION THE FACT THAT TULA???? DIED???? but not in the same way ava died???? what does this mean?? why tula?? is this in anyway way similar to the first stoats’ apparent “immortality” ??????????

also i don’t think we ever found out the purpose for the arena…? it was stoat-sized, so were they making stoats fight other stoats like gladiators?? for what purpose????

im at least glad to know that bennett remains cool as hell love them

my mind is reeling i am so completely enamored by this story and am awestruck by everyone who had a hand in creating it

[xiv-wolfram]

WolfBahn Ship Summary - Part 1

Prequel

I realized the comics are... a lot. So I decided to make a short summary of my Wolfram x Raubahn ship. As I started to write I realized it was also... a lot. So clearly WolfBahn is simply... a lot. Eh, this is still way less to read than the comics, enjoy.

Warnings - imperfect neurodivergent protagonist, voidsent, domestic argument that turned a teeny tiny bit physical

Ul'dah

Wolfram Vought and Raubahn Aldynn met 15 years before A Realm Reborn at ages 25/29 in Thanalan. Wolfram (A recently reformed bandit, Gyr Abanian refugee, and the future Warrior of Light) wanted gladiator training as he was accustomed to a rapier. Raubahn, a gladiator (for the guild, not a prisoner), just thought he was trying to pick him up after a tourney. They ended up talking and hit it off almost instantly, bonding over being from the same country, shared interests, and good ol' fashioned Garlean hatred. After hours of walking around Ul'dah conversing, Rau had given up on his assumption that Wolf was interested in him romantically but was happy to have a new friend. Demisexual Wolfram just needed a bit of time to get to know him and surprised Raubahn with a kiss after they had talked all night. Wolfram decided to stay in Ul'dah, but not as a gladiator. He became a cook at the Quicksand.

They fell in love unnaturally quickly and lived together happily for 2 years. Raubahn appreciated Wolf's sincerity, sense of humor, and being non-judgemental and supportive. He even enjoyed his empathic abilities. Wolfram loved how the gladiator could keep him grounded, admired his heroic nature, that he helped him calm down during panic attacks, and generally made him feel safe (the dude has trauma™). They were great friends as well as partners. Wolfram taught Raubahn how to cook. Raubahn taught Wolfram more fighting techniques. They enjoyed sparring and fighting monsters. Exploring together. They’d a whole future planned out. Wolfram was going to propose they be eternally bonded, but couldn't in good conscience until he told Raubahn about his past. One night, after a horrible nightmare, he confessed. 

6 years prior, the Decurio who led the small group of Garleans occupying his village requested Wolfram’s young sister’s hand in marriage in exchange for going easier on the family’s inn. He overheard his parents considering the offer. Wolf had been secretly studying his grandmother’s tomes on void magic and in his anger summoned a hellhound. Something went wrong and the voidsent that arrived was far more powerful than he could control. It possessed him and forced him to watch as it transformed, using his body to not only kill the Garleans but his whole village, including his family. His Mhachi grandmother did a ritual to bind it before her death, saying it was still within him and he would have to control his emotions to keep it imprisoned. (He didn't mention to Rau that the voidsent often talked to him.) Wolf then fled to The Black Shroud and became a bandit while adjusting to his new reality.

Raubahn was shocked but kept his poker face and asked for some details. Wolf admitted to killing several other bandits who he thought were a threat but insisted he only robbed rich travelers. After a few years, he had gotten control over the hellhound and wanted a more stable life, so he moved to Ul’dah. He said he was so glad when he met Raubahn because the gladiator was able to calm him down when the voidsent was causing him to panic and so clearly a good person that maybe he could help Wolf become good too.

Raubahn was horrified at his partner's actions and the fact that he'd lied and put him in danger for the entirety of their relationship, but even more so that Wolfram refused to accept responsibility for his own decisions and insisted on blaming the Garleans. As if all that wasn’t bad enough, he had robbed and murdered people he didn’t need to. Rau questioned if Wolf actually cared for him or if it was a selfish love born from wanting to be taught ‘goodness’. Wolfram seemed to have changed now - but could Raubahn ever be sure? Could he ever trust the man who would do those things and refuse to accept the guilt for them? The conversation got away from them both. Wolfram was defensive, panicked, and pushy. Raubahn was angry at Wolf’s insistence on his innocence, downplaying what he did. The gladiator tried to walk out, Wolf tried to stop him, Rau shoved him away then left, telling him if he ever saw him again he’d have him arrested. Raubahn quickly calmed down and returned to apologize but Wolf had already gone. They wouldn't speak for many years.

The Shroud

Wolfram traveled back to the Black Shroud and quickly acknowledged to himself that Raubahn had been right about everything. He would have immediately apologized and accepted the guilt, but he was terrified of going to jail if Rau made good on his threat. In part, because it didn’t sound like a pleasant experience, but also because he could be made to fight in the Bloodsands and was worried about what would happen if he lost control of the hellhound in a crowded coliseum in the middle of a large city. After a month-long bender (in which he realized alcohol would quiet the voidsent’s voice) Wolfram decided to join the Conjurer's Guild to learn to heal and become a better person on his own. Raubahn was right about that too - it had been selfish to expect the love of someone to fix him. Besides, white magic would become useful for something he had to take care of if he ever made it back to Gyr Abania.

Red Magic

After 6 years Wolfram heard that Raubahn had bought the Coliseum, joined the Syndicate, and reformed the Immortal Flames. The conjurer gathered the courage to head to Thanalan to offer his services to the Flames - hopefully winning Raubahn's forgiveness. On the way, he ran into a fellow Gyr Abanian named X'Rhun Tia. The miqo'te had a unique fighting style that combined magic with a rapier. They got along well and X’Rhun offered to train Wolfram in red magic. Wolf couldn't pass up the opportunity, deciding he'd been a fool to believe he could return to Ul'dah anyway.

Calamity

For the next 3 years, Wolfram trained with X’Rhun, quickly mastering Red Magic and helping his friend find more apprentices to teach. Then came the 7th Umbral Calamity. Wolfram was away in Kugane at the time but once word reached that the Eorzean Alliance would be fighting Garleans at Carteneu he teleported himself to the South Shroud and rushed to make it to the battle in time. He was almost there when the moon cracked open. Wolf couldn’t help but watch as fire rained from the sky. Once it was over, he saw from afar that Raubahn had survived. He couldn’t bring himself to approach the General, but knowing he was safe was enough. Wolfram quickly started aiding the injured soldiers. He healed many before the Echo visions of the dying overwhelmed him.

The next 5 years were spent in well-masked anxiety - assuming that the voidsent had gained the ability to show Wolfram nightmares while he was awake. Something he didn’t tell a soul. Helping victims of the calamity as a member of the Adventurer’s Guild was a nice distraction. He didn’t make much gil but it was enough to buy a small apartment in Limsa Lominsa. In all that time Wolf kept tabs on Raubahn (easily, he was famous after all). Wolfram's love never faded, but he learned to live with the pain and focus on helping others as a way to make amends for his past. He was so resolved to not even date that it often worried his best friend and roommate Rhun. 

Raubahn had been busy in those 13 years, but everyone knows his story. He adopted his son Pipin. He became a wealthy politician and military commander. He did *try* dating, but didn't find anyone he could see a future with. As his political power rose so did the rumors. Simply dancing with his friend Merlwyb at an event had sparked gossip and accusations of collusion. He gave up on public relationships completely after joining the Syndicate for fear of what the Monetarists would do to any partner of his. The General did have a few casual lovers who respected his need for discretion but his focus was on leading the city he’d come to truly call home. Raubahn often found himself wondering if Wolfram was still alive but couldn't track the former bandit down due to his penchant for using an alias.

Part 2 - A Realm Reborn

[twilightmalachite]

Kanna Natsu Mini Talk - Audition VS GLADIATOR -Fourth piece-

Translator: Mika Enstars

"Although there are various methods of input, such as using a PC, smartphone, or voice input... Handwriting is absolutely necessary."

How to Fill Out a Form

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Season: Spring

Location: ES Building Lounge

Kanna: Anzu-san, perfect timing.

I'm currently working on filling out the necessary information on a profile sheet for the audition.

Does this really have to be handwritten?

💬 I guess they'd like it to be handwritten

Kanna: Seems to be the case. Although there are various methods of input, such as using a PC, smartphone, or voice input... Handwriting is absolutely necessary.

...It's so viewers can get a sense of an idol's personality from their handwriting?

I see it now, it's what they call fan psychology. I've learned something.

💬 Would you prefer to use a PC?

Kanna: Yes, that is correct. It doesn't have to be a PC, a smartphone would suffice. ...Anything is fine as long as I can utilize inputs.

Writing by hand can result in mistakes, which would cause for everything to have to be rewritten on a spare form.

And those sorts of things are a hassle. So if possible, I'd like to utilize the tools of civilization.

Kanna: Now then, I've verified it must be handwritten, so I suppose I should fill out the content.

Receiving reminders to be sure not to submit things late is a hassle, so I think I will complete it early and get it out of the way.

...Speaking of, where will I be submitting this once I have completed it?

💬 If you're affiliated with an agency, then...

Kanna: So then the agency will compile the information and forward them to the audition management...

This is a problem. I am not affiliated with any agency, meaning I have nobody to compile this for me.

...You'll look into it for me, Anzu-san? Is that so, thank you very much.

💬 To the audition management, I guess

Kanna: Well, I'd figured that was my only option, as it was the management that asked me to fill it out...

Still, I didn't expect to have to send it over individually. I'd appreciate it if it could at least be compiled within ES.

But because I do not believe there are any other idols in my position... Could you look into this for me, Anzu-san?

Kanna: Phew. I've successfully finished filling out the form.

How I felt filling it out...? I don't know how to answer that. I answered each of the questions honestly, I don't particularly have any thoughts.

If anything, I would like to hear yours. Is the content here sufficient?

💬 Would you let me see?

Kanna: This is something that will be seen by many people. I didn't write anything that would cause me trouble if anyone saw it.

Although there was a section where I couldn't think of anything, so I wrote down "nothing in particular"...

Well, that also what you could consider my personality. Please do give it a look.

💬 Let's see...

Kanna: You like how the "my hashtag" section brings out my personality...?

Your positive evaluation puts me at ease. If you had said it was no good, I had felt that worst case scenario, I would have to rethink everything.

Now then, this is the content I'll be submitting. I am glad it went well.

[ ☆ ]

Here is The Arena

[Read on my blog for the best viewing experience with Oi~ssu ♪]

Season: Spring

Location: The Arena's Corridor

Kanna: Exploration of the facility is complete. A rough understanding of the judging system within The Arena has also been acquired.

In order to verify uncertain elements, it will be necessary to observe and survey the other participants, but...

I too am one of these "gladiators" summoned to this venue. I must ready myself for battle.

💬 Hello

Kanna: Yes, hello... Oh, it's Anzu-san?

I was wondering who would talk to me so casually despite being a participant, but it makes sense that it is you.

Are you patrolling as a judge of the audition? Thank you for all your hard work.

💬 Are preparations going well?

Kanna: I had not expected to meet you in a place like this, Anzu-san... No, you do have the role of a judge, don't you?

And so in accordance, you are in the midst of touring The Arena, aren't you?

Right, I will also answer the questions you had asked. In regard to preparations, I'm now in the process of procuring equipment.

Kanna: I do not know what it is like at the other venues, but this corridor in The Arena is a tad dim.

Well, I think equipping a venue where gladiators gather with fluorescent lighting would only ruin the atmosphere.

...Ah, there is a ledge there. Please watch your step.

💬 Thank you

Kanna: No, it wasn't meant to be a courtesy. I had calculated that if you had tripped there, you would have fallen towards me, Anzu-san.

And if you had, I would lack the physical strength to be able to catch you...

The best way to avoid danger is through precaution. Do be mindful of the props and such placed around

💬 You really have to watch where you walk, huh

Kanna: Indeed. There are ledges, chains sprawled across the floor, props placed all over...

And additionally, there is the dim lighting. It's in your best interest to remain somewhat attentive as you walk around.

I am care not to trip over anything as I explore around the venue. I cannot afford to trip and get hurt.

Kanna: ...Ah, excuse me. I was out of topics so I stopped talking.

Silence doesn't particularly bother me, but I'll be happy to answer any questions if you have them.

You may ask whatever questions you'd like, but I ask you to not expect interesting answers.

💬 I'd like to hear some enthusiasm

Kanna: I only am participating because I had been told my safety would be ensured, so I feel con-fuddled when asked what I am enthusiastic about.

But I do suspect there are mechanisms within The Arena I can utilize my brain for.

I hope I can unearth my own way of strategy and fighting. ...Is this the answer you were seeking?

💬 What did you do before going to bed last night?

Kanna: Hm. I anticipated a question about the audition, so this question was outside of my expectations.

I do not know how knowing what I did last night will benefit you, Anzu-san, but... I'll answer your question.

Last night, I went to bed early in preparation for the audition. As such, nothing in particular was done.

[ ☆ ]