#so it would feel like some sort of universal retribution or like careful what you wish for or smth like that

[brookheimer]

like i think every time rome would start to think ab it he’d be like ‘dad wouldn’t care if i called him a cunt are you kidding me it’s dad i’m me’ and i think logically he’d know how unlikely it is. but knowing something does not always mean feeling it and in this case it’s really hard for me to imagine roman not being haunted by it

#like as long as the possibility exists that’s terrifying. add in the symbolic killing —> literal death touch and like…. #idk. i don’t think it’s a sign of rome considering himself as someone who has agency or enough weight to harm people like logan #like to me it feels like the opposite of agency. like this sort of cosmic karmic punishment #that’s how i think rome would feel ab it — less that he’s capable of killing logan and more that he somehow ushered in death by standing up #to him. i don’t think rome believes in karma or anything like that but he has such a nonexistent sense of sp #personal agency that it feels to me like his belief in logan’s supremacy in own life kind of mirrors that cliche sort of old school catholic #fear and guilt #regarding punishment and all that jazz #so it would feel like some sort of universal retribution or like careful what you wish for or smth like that #which is BULLSHIT he knows it’s bullshit. but also…. he’s never stood up to dad before…. and dad never died before…. #he only died when roman did That Thing. #just bc he knows that any direct causal relationship is stupid and impossible for a variety of rzns doesn’t mean the fear and guilt doesn’t #linger. at least i know it lingers for me #idk if this is making sense it’s 4:11 am i’m tired lmaoo sorrtyyy #just thinking thoughts upon return from the bar #succession #succession spoilers #roman roy #casey shut the fuck up about roman roy

[villainsandvictimsalliance]

The appeal of a villain friend in fiction is more often than not the thought that someone out there would choose you over the entire world.

The members of the League of Villains were anyone's priority. They felt replaceable or even worse, they knew they were replaceable. They weren't pretty enough, strong enough, normal enough, cool enough. They were wrong in the head, were too violent, too weird, too creepy.

All the rage? The hurt? They were told to swallow it because it was making people uncomfortable.

Stain was their inspiration, but he wasn't the one to pick them. He wasn't the one who looked at them and told them "you have a place". That was Giran. The manga tells us that Giran was putting together a sort of friendship group for violent outcasts like them. That he formed the League for them to have company, a reason to fight for, to exist.

There's a sort of catharsis that fictional villain friendships give that you can't find somewhere else. A sort of short-lived relief that comes when someone sees you being mistreated and decides retribution is needed. Wouldn't it be wonderful if revenge had no consequences and the damage it caused was at once lasting and non-existent?

That's what fiction is for. You put all your feelings there and create scenarios where you purge those feelings. No one gets harmed and you come out of it cleaned, renewed, with a clear head.

So when Tomura Shigaraki creates the League of Villains, it is an instant click for people who had been wronged and are seeking catharsis of their negative experiences and feelings.

The League of Villains punishes someone with torture and failure for misgendering and hurting their trans friend. A shonen manga does that, a gender where nonconforming people are a joke by tradition. Do you get what that means to some readers out there?

Tomura claims to hate everything and everyone, but when Toga asks him, he admits that they are his exception. He wouldn't destroy something they loved. His prioritizing their wishes and their likings. There was no one else above them for him and no one was as important to him as they were.

Suddenly, they are someone's number one people and not out of manipulation. They recognize in Tomura a man who really cares.

Tomura was shown to live in total neglect. He had poor hygiene, was isolated almost completely from the outside world, talked with maybe three or four people tops, ate whatever, liver whatever. He didn't care about his living conditions. It was only when the League asked for clothing and food and other stuff that he began to care. For them.

He wants them to live, to succeed, he wants to hurt anyone who hurts them, to protect what is precious to them.

And now we got confirmation that they matter more to him than his own past.

Tomura would destroy the world simply because they asked him to, because they promised to. He would destroy himself trying because he must be their hero. Remember how every time a villain would question him about his motivation or his ideals, he would talk about his hatred or his need to destroy. We've gone past it and at his very core we found that the thing that truly fuels him is the desire to be a hero.

For them.

It's really something to see people wondering why a reader would be fond of Tomura Shigaraki or the LOV in general. Is it that hard to understand?

Again, that's the appeal of a fictional villain's friendship to real life victims:

To be important, to be picked, to be prioritized, to be felt, to be seen, to be understood, to belong to and be considered, to be irreplaceable. To be all those things to the point the weight of it shatters the universe.

So much love outplacement in someone's love— to matter so much to someone —that to see you hurt would make them want to destroy the world.

#bnha #mha #my hero academia #boku no hero academia #league of villains #lov #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #bnha 418 #mha 418 #bnha leaks #mha leaks #shigaraki tomura #tenko shimura

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Prologue)

(Gif credit to @honestsycrets​)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Greek/Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: Like 7k, I’m sorry

Warnings: As usual, mentions and descriptions of blood, death, torture, injury and people being burnt alive. Mentions or allusions to rape. If there’s anything else I didn’t mention, please let me know. Fair warning that the Reader Character may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but please give her a chance.

A/N: So, in this universe, bc fuck Michael Hirst, Sigurd is alive (tho Ivar did throw the axe) but married and away, Bjorn is still somewhere sunny, and Dublin was founded in Saxon land by Hvitty, Ivar and Ubbe, but it is the latter the one in control, prompting Ivar to eventually return to Kattegat and take the throne form Lagertha (she is alive just like in the show, only Bjorn is not here -I like to think he would understand his brothers wanting to avenge Aslaug?- and Floki departed bc he didn’t want to have to choose between supporting the kid he raised and an old friend), leaving him as King, Ubbe as ruler of Dublin, Hvitserk in Kattegat for now like in the show, Bjorn getting a tan in the Mediterranean, and Sigurd alive and happy cause goddammit killing him was a stupid choice. Sorry and btw this isn’t my creation, this is based on some exchanges I saw on reddit and a lil bit of me lol)

The warrior hesitates before letting you enter the tent, but you do so quietly and without a word, like it is expected out of you, and the men discussing war take no notice of you as you slip into a seat and watch them discuss.

Narses, still in the armor of a Byzantine Strategus despite his back having been turned to the Empire for a long time, turns to look at you as you enter. He doesn’t say a word, but in his green eyes there’s a plea for you not to speak, one that you must obey with gritted teeth and bitten tongue.

He understands, and there’s relief in Narses’ eyes.

Your friend. Your confidante.

Your fool.

His lips are pressed into a thin line, his hands supporting most of his weight as he leans on the war table.

“Our numbers are strong enough to hold until support from Strepshire arrives.” The Christian you recognize as Leofric -a bishop? Cleric? You have no idea anymore- speaks, his voice not much unlike the sound of the Byzantine soldiers’ armor plates rustling together as they march down the streets, burning idols and slaying the poor fools that believed the Gods would save them.

“If we retreat, we can-…” Narses argues, but is quickly interrupted.

“You belong to us!” Leofric barks, and you startle at the sudden aggression, “You have made a deal, Greeks. You must honor it.”

“I am aware. I am also aware you Saxons would sacrifice everything for your revenge.” Narses scoffs back, interrupting the Saxon and your train of thought at the same time.

“You want the same, boy. Is it not why you insist on gaining our support?” Stithulf, the leader, states, leaning back on his chair and resting his hands on the back of his head.

His posture screams of arrogance, his young age of a boy with too much power, his scars of a monster eager to fight.

You could use someone like him leading your army. You have seen too many of the so-called soldiers in your home bend the knee to a false Emperor. Maybe you need a monster on your side, someone with the same thirst for blood Greece left you with, someone willing and able to bring the Gods down from the very Olympus for retribution.

And as he leans back he catches sight of you, his expression tightens into a scowl, and you discard the remote possibility.

Not only is he a Christian, the same brand of men that burned your home, your mother, and years later you as well; but he looks upon you like all you are to do is be one of more of virginal maidens for his strange pantheon.

“What is the witch doing here?” He asks out loud, and you swallow down the words you want to say, but still holding his gaze.

“She is to be my wife, I trust her advice.” Narses sentences, sending you a glance that you return with a grateful one of your own.

“I didn’t know you Greeks were ruled over by your women.”

“Greek women are the only ones to birth real men.” You quip before you can stop yourself, reminded with the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia of when your father told you those exact words.

“Is that what your Goddess tells you, Heathen?”

Even the cadence of Leofric’s voice is enough to get you to twist your lip as you turn your gaze to him, but he remains stoic, a quiet sort of anger bubbling behind his eyes. You could swear a small smile tugs at his lips, as if he truly believes a simple word is enough to silence you.

The loud interruption of Narses’ fists colliding with the table stops his mocking, and the man’s eyes shift to his Byzantine ally within a moment.

“Do not call her that.”

“It is not an insu-…” You start, but your friend turns to you once again, begging you in silence to keep quiet. Biting down a sigh, you lean back in your chair and return your eyes to the map.

A long way from home, setting tents alongside Christians, and shutting your mouth because a man told you to. For all the visions and counsel the Gods have sent you through the years, a word of what was to become of your integrity would have been appreciated.

The sound of the curtains of the tent flapping open and closed makes you lift your gaze from the map, and you see Stithulf’s retrieving back.

Narses sighs, not looking at you when he concedes, both to inform you and the rest of the Saxons and Arab mercenaries in the room,

“We will hold.”

A cold hand grips your heart and the names of the Goddesses you seek for guidance and comfort are at the tip of your tongue, shaped by your lips but never spoken.

The Christians leave you two alone, and you walk to the soldier hunched over the war table. Your native Greek feels like a soft song evoking nostalgia as it dances past your lips:

“You cannot…”

“Please, my love.”

Anger bubbles within you, and you stand up straighter as you meet his eyes, “Narses, the Varangians will overpower us, you know we lost too many already, the support from Ivar the Boneless’ incoming army will crush us, you know h-…”

“This is a matter of war, love, let me handle it.” Narses interrupts, to which you frown.

“I know of war Narses! And I know this is a foolish move!”

“Do you know how to lift a sword?” He retorts, a challenge in his voice that does not go unnoticed.

“I…” You clench your teeth, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. “I do not need to fight to…”

He laughs bitterly, interrupting you, “Are you hearing your own words?”

“Are you hearing yours? The Varangian King has a crown made of bones and blood, Narses, don’t be foolish. Athena rejoices when he wages war, his army carries her favor.” You spit out your words, trying to make him understand. Narses remains impassive, though, eyes on the map and jaw clenched tight.

“You cannot argue of battle if you have never-…”

You interrupt him with a scoff, pointing an accusing finger at him even when he doesn’t meet your eyes, “I do not need to know how to kill to know the Varangians will swallow you whole. And you’ll drag our people with you.”

At your last words, his head snaps up, eyes facing yours with ferocity and more than old anger, “What choice do I have, huh? We will freeze or starve come winter, we need to move for Eleusis soon!”

“Our people…” You start, but he interrupts you again.

“Our people chose to follow me, and they will.”

“They followed me, they believe in me,” You correct without hesitation, teeth bared, “You followed me, Narses, and I let you, because you promised me an army.”

For a second he hesitates, takes you in with what seem to be new eyes. He seems to have forgotten there’s more than a meek priestess to the woman he followed from Attica. He seems to forget the bloodied hands and hungry smile that greeted him when you gave him the choice to be at your side.

“And I followed you because I love you, because I believe in you!” He exclaims, making shame and regret churn at your insides. You deviate your eyes from his, gritting your teeth.

“I begged you not to force our people to fight against these Norsemen, and you didn’t listen,” You grit out after a few breaths, anger returning to your voice, “Where was your love, your trust, when you chose to ally with these…Christians?”

He takes one of your hands in his, and the touch feels cold.

“You must trust me with this,” He intreats, warm eyes looking for something in your own you don’t think he can find. “Can you trust me?” A small pause, and you taste your own regrets in your mouth, “Love me?”

You press your lips into a line, and because you cannot say anything else, because the lie has gone on for too long and you might as well offer a truth before you entreat your soul to Hades, you whisper,

“Once, I could have.”

But he shakes his head, fervent and certain as he finds your eyes again,

“I promised you Attica, and it will be yours.”

But his words are empty. You do not care for that kingdom if the people that you love are not alive and prospering in it.

“Pray to the Gods you are killed by the Varangians, old friend. I will sacrifice you to Hades myself if you dare return alive from the place you are condemning my people to die on.” You sentence, unable to keep from showing the curl of disgust in your lip, the ancient pain in your eyes.

Narses walks closer to you, eyes searching yours and hands on your shoulders. You clench your jaw. He is gentle, he always is. Gentle, but so were the men that held you as their brothers in arms dragged your mother out of that temple.

You take a step back, but Narses speaks still, ignoring your discomfort,

“These Christians care not for their God, they just want Ivar the Boneless and his brothers. We give them to Stithulf, and they will march for Eleusis with us.”

You shake your head as you watch him believe his own lies.

“Even if we succeed, you are exchanging one master for another, Narses.” The words are your farewell as you turn your back to him and walk towards the entrance of the tent.

____

You walk into your tent and are greeted with a language these Saxons want to have you killed for speaking. The tongue of savages, of barbarians, of Vikings.

“Did they threaten to burn you yet?” Sieghild asks, and you can hear the smile in her voice even if her back is turned to you as she tends to the fire.

“Narses and Stithulf command us to remain,” You confess instead, voice breaking, “Kattegat’s army will be here in a day’s time to aid Dublin’s, but we will not retreat.”

The gasp she lets out forces you to shut your eyes tight in hope of keeping the tears at bay.

You both remain silent for a few instants, and you let yourself fall to the log she brought as a seat. Taking a seat next to you, she places a motherly hand on your knee, squeezing lightly until you look back up at her.

Blueish ink traces ancient marks on the skin of her face, and she moves a lock of your hair away from your face, the rattling sounds of her bracelets and trinkets reaching your ears and filling you with a sense of nostalgia you have difficulty explaining.

“If we must, we will die. Resisting, like your mother and I taught you.”

“This is not the war I will die fighting on!” You yell back, closing your hands into fists as they start shaking. “I will not see my people die fighting a cause not their own, Sieghild. I can’t.”

She takes your head in her hands gently, and, pressing cold lips to your forehead, she gives you the comfort only a mother can.

“Even if we die tomorrow, the Gods are with us. They have been close to you since your birth. You will understand soon.”

“I will certainly see Hades soon.” You smile bitterly, but Sieghild doesn’t falter.

“Then challenge his throne.” She states, and the feral, hungry, look in her eyes makes you think she is not speaking of your God.

You do not even believe in the same Gods, and yet Sieghild remains at your side, you at hers, since she found a crying child clutching a wooden carving of Persephone.

“They want me to give them up, but I won’t.” You argue stubbornly, as the red-haired woman cleans your face with a warm wet cloth. She smiles.

“Arguing about Gods is a matter for adults, little one,” She silences your next argument with a single finger, inked and painted like her face and arms. “They cannot make you believe in their God.”

“But…Mother’s altar, th-they…”

“Those are merely worldly things. The Christians fight with fire what Logi and Glöð themselves have created.”

“Who?”

She chuckles, fingers going through your hair and places a finger on your chest.

“Your faith, your legacy, remain here.”

And at dawn, when the men sound the horns and ready for a battle they must know will be lost, you whisper a prayer to Athena and Enyo, your heart griped tight by the cruel mistresses of Fate.

Even all the tales travelers and mercenaries told you about the army of Kattegat, the sheer strength, the flawless tactics, the barbarian-like warriors; none of that prepared you for the display of forces, however small considering his actual army, Ivar the Boneless has displayed before you.

You catch a glimpse of Narses and Stithulf approaching the King, you hear faintly of the Viking’s taunts.

“Narses is a fool.” You bite out, anger poisoning your voice even as tears clogging your throat make the words wobble.

“A Byzantine Strategus doesn’t fall without a fight, girl. Do not grant my countrymen their victory just yet.”

Even if you hide it as you lower your face, a surge of pride for the foolish warrior that followed you to the ends of the world makes a small smile blossom in your face.

“Do I hear you admitting us soft citizens stand a chance against your brutes, mother?” You mock with a smile, even as you discuss the imminent danger that the Norse men represent to you and your people. Maybe it’s because of the way Sieghild, with all her harshness and tough lessons, comforts you even facing death itself. Maybe it’s the Gods that have guided you your whole life embracing you as you near your descent to Hades.

She laughs, raspy and warm, as always. “I’m saying your boy may give the sons of Ragnar an entertainment.”

A crow flies overhead, cawing loudly and taking your gaze away from the soldiers ahead and into the sky. Something within you, something primal and asleep seems to follow its path in the skies with more than just your eyes.

“Odin is watching. History will be made today.” Sieghild whispers behind you, but you cannot take your gaze away from the black feathers as you answer.

“Apollo sends us an omen. The Gods do not favor us.”

She laughs quietly, shaking her head as she rests a heavy hand on your shoulder

“Your Goddess surely revels in this, dear. The spilled blood of those who will be to arrive at her kingdom waters her flowers, after all."

Flashes of a life before chaos blossom behind your closed eyes, images of a life under the spring sun, of fertility festivals and your mother’s warm laughter as she honors the Daughter of Nature.

And for a second, with the warmth of nostalgia encompassing you, you want to argue that Persephone looks after life; but when your eyes open and all you see is war and cold, you realize maybe she wasn’t the one captured.

Maybe she was not a stolen maiden, but a bloodthirsty usurper.

“May she rejoice, then, and be merciful when we reach her Kingdom.” You whisper.

The war cries reach your ears before you can even see the warriors attack, but soon chaos follows the chariot, that marches not with the set pace of Apollo’s, but free and leaving chaos and death at its wake.

With a heavy weight on your stomach, you hold your place as the battle begins, the injured and dying falling back to the area you look after with Greek soldiers at your back, granting a safe haven for the fallen, either to give them another chance to fight or a merciful end.

_____

It’s been days and the Saxons still push for victory, despite the losses. And, despite their losses and bloodshed, the Vikings push ruthlessly for death.

The camp of healers you have set by the entrance of the woods is so filled with the stench of blood and death that you fear you will never be able to smell a flower again. The warriors come and go, the drachmas in their eyes or in their hands. Your heart dies a little with every familiar face you send off to Hades.

You are working on pressing down with the poultice of herbs to stop a soldier from bleeding from the wound on his back when you hear, past the yells and death and fighting, your name.

You would know that voice anywhere, and you leave the safety of the healing camp to follow the hoarse call.

Narses’ figure stumbles and crawls as he tries reaching you, and, not caring for battle, you run the space separating you. Your knees dig painfully into the earth as you kneel at his side, but the pain in your heart drowns it all.

“No, no, no,” You sob, shaking fingers tracing his bloodied cheeks as he gasps in pain in your arms. His eyes are focused on you, and you cannot deny him the answer of yours, even if battle still goes on around you. With another broken gasp, you whisper, “You fool, you fool.”

Galla calls your name from somewhere at your side, and you turn blind attention to her, murmuring to have people take him to the healers’ tent. She agrees, and you start to pull away from your childhood friend.

Narses opens his mouth to speak, but only blood pours out. You silence him with trembling fingers against his lips, granting the kiss you cannot. Your heart begs you to do something, anything, to keep him alive, to take away his pain, to…to…

But all you do is remain kneeling on the ground, and you cannot take your eyes off his shield. Splattered with blood and mud, left behind a few feet away from you, on the cold and unrelenting earth.

Your mother’s last words to your father, you remember them as if it were yesterday, as if you could still see the warmth in her gaze, the hardened adoration in his. Her delicate hands offering him the shield with Sparta’s symbol on it as he prepared to storm Macedonia, her words a murmur that meant come back to us, my love even when her sentence was other.

Return home with it, or on it.

With it, or on it. With it, or on it. With it, or on it.

But Narses never returned home, none of you ever did. He never returned home, he didn’t die for your home, he died for…for…

You hear hurried footsteps coming towards you, the feeling of having Varangian eyes on you makes you turn just in time to see the warrior approaching. You grab Narses’ shield from the ground, moving as fast as you can to guard your back and block the Viking’s strike with the metal shield.

It is sheer anger and grief, nothing more than the desire to hurt back, that pushes you to take an arrow from the quiver at your back and drive it through the warrior’s knee with your bloodied hand.

He falters, stumbling away from you, but you don’t let go, holding on tightly to the shaft of the arrow and inflicting as much pain as you can. When he finally hits the ground with his back, you crawl over him, sitting on his stomach and bashing his face with the shield.

With your weight upon him, his axe cannot find a home in your skin and instead meets the shield. Over and over, metal meets metal. With a growl, the Viking lets go of it and grabs your hair, pulling roughly and forcing your blows in his face to stop.

You let go of the shield, and your eyes focus on the skies above for a moment before you find the strength to fight.

A yell leaves your lips, and your hungry teeth find the tender skin at the inside of his arm, forcing him to let go of your hair. Blood fills your mouth and almost makes you gag. You spit the flesh from your mouth and with a snarl you drive another arrow through his eye.

He screams as your whole weight leans on the arrow, making sure the projectile you use as a spear kills fast. Your hands keep slipping from the shaft as the blood you have tried to keep from spilling and the blood you have spilled wets your hands.

When he finally stops moving, you know you should feel nothing but emptiness and dread.

Looking with frantic eyes for Narses and Galla, you find him being carried by two of his soldiers back to the tent. You should follow, but you cannot bring yourself to do so.

You look down at your dress. Red, the color of a bride’s veil, stained with the blood of the man you just killed. Your ears ring, your eyes cloud with tears as you realize what you have done, and you scurry away from the corpse as if your breath cannot get into your chest because of your proximity to him…to it.

You know what you should feel, you know what a Priestess, a woman, ought to feel at the sight of death, you know. But dread and horror are not the only things you feel. A part of you is satiated, like a snake curling satisfied and vindicated after injecting its poison; you taste the blood and feel alive.

When you lift your gaze to the battle again, you catch the eyes of the Varangian King. You know who he is, you have heard the tales and even without the chariot he sits on you would still recognize the eyes of the man that rules over Kattegat.

Ivar the Boneless.

He looks at you for a few moments, and you fear he is to call for his men or kill you himself, but he doesn’t. A slow, cruel, ruthless smile starts curving at his bloodthirsty lips, and when he regards you, you feel he can see through your eyes and into whatever it is that made you kill that man.

He lifts his arm not on the reins, bloodied axe held in his hand and slowly, with the same terrifying grin still on his lips, the King points towards you and grants you a curt bow of his head. If it’s a recognition of your kill, a promise to kill you himself, or something else, you cannot know.

You scurry back to the woods, fearing an axe to your back that never comes.

____

Whatever advantage the Christians were so sure to have quickly dissolves like mist, and within days the Vikings push forward with no regard for the lines your people or your unwanted masters wanted to protect.

There’s three injured men under your care when you hear the warning that a group of enemies is coming your way. A quick glance towards Galla, the childhood friend that followed you from Eleusis into this cold hell lets her know what to do.

Her dark eyes fill with understanding before you can even utter a word.

“Lift them up, we are retreating.” She barks at the other soldiers, bow held tightly in her hand betraying her fear, her pain. The men accompanying her hesitate, looking at you for a second before turning to her.

“I may not be able to fight like a Strategus, but I can distract them enough for you to run.”

“Our people…” One of them starts, but you interrupt with a shake of your head, reaching forward with a courage you do not believe to truly possess and take his sword from its holster.

“Our people live on in you,” You promise, and even as your voice wavers you still try not to show how fear grips at your throat or how unbalanced you are with the new weight in your hands. Galla’s eyes lock with yours, and you give her a nod, “Go.”

I pray you find Sieghild on your way out of this slaughter.

“You better make it out alive.” She threatens in good will, and you find yourself smiling. Just before she is to take off with the others, you call out.

“Galla,” You hesitate, feeling like asking to deploy this would be an acceptance of your death. Still, you take a deep breath and say, “Once the dust settles, send some of your people to Thebes, Constantinople and Sparta.”

“What for?” She asks, but in her tone you can hear she understands your words: she is to protect your people, she is to lead them. Because you will not be alive to do so.

“You’ll need spies. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with them.” You sentence, and after a moment of hesitation you hear the girl’s footsteps fading behind you.

Galla’s hoarse yells in Greek to call your people to retreat become the rhythm at which you let loose arrows to find the Viking warriors. You tell yourself it’s just like hunting deer, you tell yourself it is not men and women you kill. Brothers, sisters, friends, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters.

You tell yourself it is just like hunting, but the tears clogging at your throat and making pain and rage accompany your moves as you let the arrows loose show you that you don’t believe your own lies.

It doesn’t matter how fast you move, how efficient your shots are, there will always be more of them. And you know this, and fear has a cold grip on your heart, even as you continue trying to take out any straggler that chases after the retreating Greeks.

So, the bodies dropping and the injured yells bring the attention to you, and you buy Galla and the others as much time as you have arrows and legs to run on.

Running helps when the Vikings can be distracted by something else, but after you took down some of his countrymen, this warrior seems to only have eyes for you. You scramble to lift the sword you took from your warrior before they took off, and, cornered as you are, you are forced to face the offending Viking.

The Viking strikes first, but you block his attack with the sword. The blunt force of his swing makes it so that the axe stops just shy of the intended blow to your head, opening a deep cut on your forehead as it is slowed by the sword.

Wincing past the pain you hold your ground, facing the hungry gaze of the warrior with your own, although you are forced to close one of your eyes as the blood from the cut in your forehead starts dripping down your face.

The man’s attack has failed, but he smirks, though, before wrenching the weapon from your hands with a twist of his axe.

You can do nothing but stumble back, you Goddess’ name on your lips as you face him with wide eyes.

He mutters something in his own language before discarding your sword and moving to strike again. This time you are defenseless, and can only step back and try and dodge his continuous blows with increasing panic.

Blood, probably his own and his enemy’s, stains his mouth, his face, his hands. He still smiles, and you wonder if bloodthirst becomes more literal than what Sieghild explained in her tales of her people.

His movements stop suddenly, though, and he falls limply to the ground, a small axe protruding from the back of his head.

“I told you you’d need to know how to fight, little one,” Sieghild boasts as she approaches you. The axe leaving the dead man’s skull makes a horrible sound, but she’s not bothered by it, choosing instead to say, “Even you Greeks must see the advantage of fighting like a Viking.”

An arrow in his knee, you feel the iron piercing the muscle, the bone, the tendons. The edge of the shield breaking the bones in his face, the sound it makes. Screams of pain, that you silence with another arrow in the eye.

The King’s hungry smile when he spared you.

You shake your head, returning your thoughts back to the moment, and regard the woman in front of you with a smile.

“Galla told me you chose to stay behind.” She states, and years knowing her let you know of the reprimand shining past the gruff tone. Her hand, bloodied as it is, reaches for the cut in your forehead, inspecting it with the eyes of someone that saw countless wounds and fought in countless wars.

“I wanted to distract the warriors from the path they took.” You offer in explanation.

“For someone so…small you sure take a lot of risks, my child.” She sighs. You’re about to answer when the thrumming of the ground underneath your feet stops you. Sieghild’s movements stop, your breath dies in your lungs.

Bees swarming. You remember an Arab merchant telling you about Varangian armies, and he spoke of chaos and deadliness and bloodthirst. And as you watch the Varangians flank the battlefield, archers at the ready, warriors beating their shields, while the King that crossed the sea to assist his brother commands them to hold with a single gesture; you cannot help but think why didn’t the merchant talk about the grace of it all, the beauty in the blood.

“That boy carries his father’s cleverness with him. And his mother’s favor.” Sieghild mutters in the strange calm that settles as Ivar the Boneless and his brothers taunt Stithulf, dare him to continue the fight and face certain death or retreat.

“You knew that before.”

“So did you. You tried to warn Narses against facing him, little one.” She says, and the name makes a pit of guilt and grief form in your heart.

“Maybe my warnings are the reason he is dead now.” You bite out, voice quivering and eyes burning.

The shieldmaiden turns to you, lips parted and eyes wide. You offer her a nod and a tight-lipped smile, a small sign that it is okay, that…that it is Fate.

You promised Narses you’d kill him yourself for sending your people to die, and grief and pain do not stray you from that resolve. He sentenced your people to die at the hands of these Varangians, it is only right he leads them to the Underworld.

It doesn’t help the pit of pain and absence and fear and cold that forms at your chest, but…but it makes it easier to burden.

Murmured words in Norse startle you out of your thoughts, and you find Sieghild’s eyes still on you, expression still stunned and in a mix of awe and terror.

“When the last of the chains of nostalgia fades away even as she clutches it in her arms.”

“What did you say, mother?” You ask, taking a small step closer and looking into her eyes searching for any answer.

But the shieldmaiden is quick to put on a smile on her face,

“You told me before you had no interest in what Lady Freyja has to tell me, little one.” She mocks, but there’s a shadow in her expression, a strange darkness looming behind her eyes.

A familiar one.

“You are the one that taught me-…”

“I taught you to be your own woman!” The Varangian roars, and for the first time you realize exactly the kind of fire the women from her homeland have, that made them capable and free. “I taught my daughter better than this!”

“What choice do I have? We need the support from Narses’ army, we need someone to lead the men into battle the way I know will grant us victory!”

Two long strides, and the tall and imposing shieldmaiden is standing before you, a mix of reluctant softness and angry stoicism in her inked face.

“You fight. You fight against the notions these men have about you, you fight against that boy that only listens to what you have to say when you promise him love in exchange,” Her green eyes burn into yours, “You fight, little one. That’s what I taught you to do, what you were born to do.”

“Narses is a good man, mother. I will not fight him.” You reply, as calmly as you can even as your chest caves under a strange pressure, as evenly as you can even if the words leaving your lips taste like lies.

“You wouldn’t give your love without a fight though, minn dóttir.” Her hand grasps at your chin, and there’s a strange storm in her gaze, “I won’t lose my daughter to that boy’s whims.”

“I am not lost to any man.”

Her lips curve into a smile, a little savage, a little Viking.

“I know. You are my daughter, after all.”

“He was a good man, mother.” You offer quietly, and even if the binds to Narses, the binds you set on yourself and your mother hated the most, are gone, there’s still the same dark desperation, that same stubbornness you saw in her eyes that day you told her about your choice to marry him.

“Not good enough,” Is all she replies, and her eyes focus somewhere past the two of you, on the center of the battlefield where everything seems to have stopped. Sieghild sighs, “And your Gods and mine know that, little one. Your Mistress may have touched your soul, but Freyja lays claim to your heart.”

With your eyes on the thick of battle, you watch Stithulf and his trusted men lay down their weapons, and slowly retreat. You have been defeated.

____

“I told you only death would follow,” You say, your back against the foot of a table as you sit on the cold ground, your bloodied hands in your lap, motionless. You allow yourself a small laugh, manic and broken as it is, “You fought for so long, sacrificed so much, and you couldn’t even make the Varangian King bleed.”

You followed the Saxons back to their decadent city, and now sit past their walls awaiting the death that will follow. The city may have held for long enough that the Saxons could secure an escape, back when your people were with them and they didn’t have more corpses than soldiers.

But now, now it is just a matter of time before the Varangians return to finish it all.

Stithulf turns to you, cold fury shining past his gaze, but you hold his stare. The man walks over to you, armor rustling and making a sound that rings in the ears that have heard nothing but war for so long now.

He bends down to be at your level, face close to yours and lips set on a snarl.

“You ordered your people to pull back.” He accuses, but you shrug in response.

The pretense of what a good little fucking woman you ought to be to make these fools content with their idea of supremacy is long gone from your mind. You will die without masks, and if it means earning a few deserved hits from these Saxons for not shutting your mouth, then so be it.

“It was never our war, Christian.”

“Where have they gone to!?” He asks, ignoring your words. His fascination with how the Greek forces work shines through his bloodthirst and anger as he regards you. You know the reason why he went to Narses for an allegiance in the first place is because of the tactics, the fighting style, of your people; and you know he longed to make them a part of his own army.

But you will leave your own under the boot of a Christian the day Persephone calls for your soul to become one of her Furies.

“You will never find them.” You promise through a tired and battle-worn smile, morbidly delighting yourself in the way he seems to grow more enraged.

“How are you so certain?”

“The Varangians, Vikings, will find us first. They will kill us all, and you know this.” You sentence, standing up. You cannot help it when your eyes fixate themselves on the drying blood staining your hands.

You wish you could say most of it was Christian, or even Varangian.

But no, the blood of Greeks stains your hands. The blood of thousands, even if only less than eight hundred died today.

“And why are you so certain?”

“If you had retreated before that King came from across the sea-…”

“Narses told us your mother is Viking, how are we certain you did not plan this, plan to betray us?” One of his trusted men speaks out, limping from his place by the war table. You watch the deep and bloodied gash in his thigh, wondering why that old man survives being incapacitated while in battle but Narses is to fall.

You shake your head mutely before offering him a hollow chuckle.

“Me betraying you would imply I ever faked loyalty for you, or pretended to care for your survival.”

“You live, witch. Any sane man would question why.”

“You think…what? That I have helped any of the sons of Ragnar defeat you?” You let out a small laugh. “No, I did not. I will not let you blame me for your own weakness.”

You move to leave the tent, but Stithulf’s hand wraps around your arm. His voice is low when he speaks.

“If you tell your soldiers to fight with us, I can-…”

“I am not Narses, you cannot fool me with empty promises,” You interrupt, wrenching your arm from his grasp. Less than two hundred Greek warriors still remain in this city, and the Saxon wants still for every last drop of their blood. “The Greeks that remain here will not die quietly, but do not fool yourself into thinking you can ever command them.”

He stalks even closer, looming over you with enraged factions, and you cannot help the pang of fear that the murderous intent in his eyes sends through you.

His sword leaving its holster startles the room of men into silence, and you feel their attention set on the two of you. The blade finds a home right under your chin, piercing mildly at the soft skin.

Your breath quickens in fear, and when you swallow past your dry throat you feel the tip of the sword inflicting sharp pain in your neck.

Stithulf smiles darkly, “I could kill you now and leave them leaderless, heathen.”

But you refuse to let him see the fear in your eyes, instead promising, “Make me a martyr and you will not survive the night, Christian. The Greeks will kill and die for me.”

Even as you leave the tent behind, you hear the heavy footsteps of the Saxon behind you. A call of your name, and you stop. Not your title -Anassa, Hiereiai-, not an insult -heathen, pagan-, not your lineage -Daughter of Athens, Daughter of Sparta-. Your name.

“If you wanted to kill me you would have done so in front of your men.” You state without turning around, and the Christian reaches your side with his sword holstered.

“I don’t want to kill you,” He insists, shaking his head, “But I should do it regardless. You are a smart woman, which makes you dangerous.”

Not even a muzzle would keep your next words from leaving your lips, “Dangerous? Is a man dangerous for being knowledgeable?”

“If he has nothing to lose, like you, yes.”

“What are you saying, Stithulf?”

The Saxon sighs, an act of regret and humanity you don’t believe for a moment.

“I’m saying you should know that you have forced my hand, Greek, that I had every intention to have you wage war alongside us, had you chosen to do so.

_____

Hi, I’m kinda amazed you got this far down lol, but thank you so much for reading! This is one of the first projects in a while that I am really loving to write, and I hope you like it!

Please let me know what you think, I am one needy fuck when it comes to feedback :)

#ivar the boneless x reader #ivar the boneless imagine #ivar x reader #vikings imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings #νοσταλγία prologue #νοσταλγία

[anonthenullifier]

How would Wanda and Vision (and Billy) react to Tommy being taken by that mutant experimentation facility that wanted to turn him into a weapon?

When I saw this, the entire story immediately formed in my head and I had to write it. Thank you for the ask, I had a lot of fun doing it! I hope you enjoy :D.  

Warning: story has some strong language 

------

It took an enormous amount of convincing for them (Vision in particular) to agree to leave the boys alone for the weekend. There were many hours of whining and conversations about how they are sixteen now and how they need to be treated as adults. Surprisingly, it was Tommy who flipped the narrative by presenting them thoroughly researched details of their current private island get-away. In the back of his mind, Vision knows he should be more than just mildly worried about what antics they are getting up to and if they are remembering to eat and sleep, except that would mean ignoring the murmur of the ocean and the wistful smirk on his wife’s face and the way her curls sway in the salty breeze and the adorable wrinkles that have formed by her closing her eyes to fully enjoy the soft caress of their freedom. Though he can efficiently consider all of this at once, he would rather take Wanda’s near constant advice to live in the moment. So he does, scooping up her hand and bringing it to his lips. “Would you care for more sangria?” 

Wanda pops open her left eye to look at him. “That depends.” 

“On?” 

“Whether you deliver it in your speedo.”  

Vision contemplates the request, not in a serious manner, but in a theatrical show of potential uncertainty despite both of them being aware there is no physical way for him to resist the insatiability sending scarlet flares across her iris. “At the Maximoff resort,” her eyebrows perk up at the lathering of poshness and the implication of the direction of their evening, “we do pride ourselves on catering,” a shrug of his shoulders dissolves his prior floral shirt and Bermuda shorts into the little teal number from their honeymoon so many years ago, “to our guest’s every need.” 

“That’s good because I,” before he can grab her glass, Wanda fishes out one of the inebriated peaches, sliding it into her mouth with a saucy wink, “have lots of needs.” 

“I will return momen-” the thought hangs limply in the air as he watches Wanda freeze, her back straightening out and hands gripping the armrest of her beach chair as her lust cracks and gives way to a distant stare. Whatever she sees is not on this beach, may not even be in this universe. “Wanda?” Each passing moment crawls up Vision’s spine, prickling his skin and sending his mind into a whirlwind of unease at his ignorance of the issue. After what feels like five minutes but is actually ten seconds, Vision kneels in the sand beside her chair, haltingly bringing his hand to hers, “Wanda what is it?” 

“Tommy.” 

All joy leeches immediately from his mind, replaced only by a frigid shroud of concern. “What’s wrong?” 

To the untrained ear, the whirring and sputter to Vision’s left would be no different from the tropical breeze dancing around them, but Vision’s auditory system is functioning perfectly so he turns expectedly towards the blue portal of their son. “Mom,” Billy rushes through and the fact he’s barefooted and wearing sweatpants with a pajama shirt only unsettles Vision further, “Dad. They took Tommy.” 

Wanda’s head snaps to the side to stare in the general direction of their son, her eyes still miles away despite her voice trembling with rage in the present, “Who?” 

“I don’t, I don’t know.” Nervously he brushes a hand through his hair, “He went out for a run and then I felt,” Billy’s eyes are wild, tinged with blue, much like Wanda’s own get when she struggles with overwhelming emotions, “we were connected, you know, like you say we should be and-” 

Vision has known anger in his own life, whether it is in the way he never hesitates to decimate those who harm Wanda, or in the calculated attacks of logic he uses on politicians and other officials who are being discriminatory and lecherous, or even in the calm, but firm words he uses to discipline the boys, but this feeling now, this dropping of his stomach and the roiling, severe heat that flows through his synthetic veins and the complete and utter single ideation of causing pain to whomever did this...this is new. “Can you track him still?” 

Pinched eyes, a shaky nod, and a prismatic cloud confirms the question. Not wanting to pressure their son more than he, no doubt, is already doing to himself, Vision directs his attention to Wanda, recognizing the same fury in the serious scowl on her face and he does a less than admirable job of remaining calm when he assures her, “We will get him back.” 

 “I think…” Billy’s neck cranes to the right as if he’s trying to peer around a corner, “I found him.” 

The strain in his voice kick starts Wanda out of her seething and into action, “Let me help.” Scarlet twines its way through Billy’s electric blue seeing glass, seeming to clarify the situation even if Vision stands helplessly blind next to them. “Vizh,” he snaps to attention, taking in every piece of information and constructing a mental diagram of the situation, “there’re six armed guards,” Vision’s fingers curl into a tight fist at the number, “two holding him, two flanking those, and two in the back near the door.” The people are added to his schematic. “It’s a small room.” 

“Looks like an operating room.” 

Billy’s addition is helpful and causes Vision’s body to become denser, his feet burying in the sand as his mind churns through the tactical options instead of getting mired in what might befall Tommy if they do not hurry. “Billy, you are going to portal us there. Let your mother and I eradicate the targets.” 

Only the surprised warning in Wanda’s, “Vision” alerts him to his harsh vocabulary. 

“I mean we will subdue and neutralize the targets.”  

Billy doesn’t care about the terminology, still focused on his connection to his twin. “What should I do?” 

It is tempting to tell him to remain here, safe on the beach, but if all Vision feels is a need for retribution, he imagines Billy’s own feelings are similar and being sidelined will only increase his worry. “You get your brother.” With a hand on each of their shoulders, Vision draws them in for a pre-fight huddle. “The most important thing is to get Tommy back safely.” Synchronized nods confirm the obvious goal. “The second most important outcome is that we make these individuals rue the day they decided to target the Maximoff family.” Battle ready smiles meet his words, all of them ready to tear the world apart if that’s what it comes down to. “Let’s get your brother.”

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

 Tommy is pissed. For one thing, mom and dad are never going to trust them alone again and that’s utter crap because it’s not his fault some shady ass organization was apparently creeping on him and waiting for him to be alone. He was even following dad’s stupid running route of highest visibility to cars and he was wearing the even more idiotic reflective vest because he was damned if he ruined their earned freedom. It is going to be so vindicating to inform dad that the vest gave his position away.   

Another point of annoyance is that these assholes used some sort of electrified net to catch him and it hurt like hell and they somehow have restraints that can withstand his powers. This was clearly well planned and that is a little flattering but mainly it’s infuriating. “Do you assholes know who I am?” Of course they do, but clearly they haven’t much thought through what kidnapping him would mean for their own well-being.  

The guard to his right doesn’t directly acknowledge the comment, instead asking her superior, “Can we please gag him?” 

Good, he’s glad his charming banter is annoying them. “You all are so fucked once they get here.” 

The superior also pretends like he’s not talking. “Get him on the table and sedate him.” Great. “He won’t remember anything once we’re done.” Not ominous at all.  

“Do you have to get training for how to be a villain?” He’d really, desperately like to speed away now, but not even vibrating his molecules is working on these shackles, so he needs to take the Stark approved quippy distraction strategy. “Because the delivery of the threat was a bit halfhearted. I’m not even scared.” A lie but they don’t know that (hopefully).  

The two guards gripping his arms drag him to the middle of the room where there’s the stereotypical solitary operating table with leather straps and a blinding fluorescent light above it (does someone make their living doing interior decorating for bad guys? If they do, they suck at it because this is drab and uninspired). Tommy resists as best he can, flopping his body in the opposite direction of their tugging all while sending out a mental SOS. Truthfully he doesn’t really understand Billy or mom’s telepathy, he just knows one of them always shows up eventually when he thinks about wanting company. And he really wants them here right now.  

A taser is rammed into his back and he crumples forward with an irate, “Assholes.”  

Almost giddily they strap him onto the table, the leader grinning down at him through the military grade face shield. “Halfhearted or not, you’re ours now.” 

“What does that even mean?” The man moves away without even the decency to shrug, radioing to someone that the subject is subdued and ready for the procedure which Tommy is most certainly not ready for whatever they plan to do and so he squeezes his eyes shut and sends out a very, he thinks, clear cry for help.  

When he receives an answer in the form of a thought dropped deep into his brain, one that says  We’re almost there , Tommy knows he should play it cool, bemoan the fate he is about to befall and rub the egos of the sadistic bastards around him, but he can’t help himself, turning to the guard tightening the strap across his chest, “You are fucked.” He turns his head towards the other guard, “You’re fucked too.” And then he just channels Oprah herself and spreads it to everyone. “And you’re fucked, and you’re fucked, and you’re fucked.” A shimmering portal opens up on the far wall right next to one of the door guards, to whom he shouts, “And you are most definitely fucked.” Before the promise is fully out the guard is pulled through the portal with a strangled scream, the wall closing up milliseconds before the others in the room turn towards the noise.  

Mr. You’re Ours Now glares at Tommy and then instructs the rest of the room. “Orders are shoot to kill, do you copy?”  

“Affirmative,” answers the guard next to him.  

That’s how this is going to go? Well then a very sarcastic, “Good luck” to them.  

Luck is not on their side because another portal opens and the second door guard is pulled through, dad phasing through the man’s body and solidifying just in time to punch another guard so hard it shatters their visor. Shit.  

The room erupts in chaos, a scarlet mist descending around them, the guards try to shoot but their guns are ripped out of their hands. And then there’s dad’s vibranium gleaming as he phases in and out of mom’s carefully crafted cover, the frantic and pained screams of the guards echoing as they fall, and this, this is how you do drama because if Tommy wasn’t the one being rescued, he’d be praying to whatever god might take mercy on his soul. “You okay?” Billy’s voice cracks with concern which is just really sweet.  

“Took you long enough.” 

And the concern is gone, “I was doing the responsible thing and getting backup.” 

He should be gracious right now because he is actually thankful but, “I don’t think you can call it backup when they’re the ones doing all the work.” 

There’s the steely gaze Billy’s perfected, “Do you want to be rescued or not?” 

“Thomas,” dad hovers beside him now, the transformation of his terrifying rage into fatherly concern contorting his features into a mildly upsetting scowl. “Are you injured?”  

It’s not often he’s the absolute center of attention and if he were to lay it on a bit thick it would be wholly understandable because he was the one who was rudely kidnapped, but he also has never seen his family this worried before so he defers to downplaying the experience. “Just a bit sore,” while also being truthful, “They electrocuted me a few times.” 

Finally, someone removes the straps and then dad breaks the constraints around his ankles, allowing him to blissfully stretch and shake out his muscles. Billy helps him sit up and the sight he’s met with is unexpected. “Why are you in a speedo?” To be fair, mom is in a beach cover and Billy’s in pajamas, but at least they’re clothed.  

“Um,” it seems the choice of clothing skipped dad’s mind, his hands running haltingly over his bare chest, “it was a tactical choice meant to bewilder and divert attention.” 

Scary, rage filled dad is gone and replaced with the normal, dry humored and dorky one, a fact that comforts Tommy far more than he’d ever admit out loud. “Sam’s never taught us about the tactical speedo.” 

Dad’s shoulders rise up a half inch and then fall with grace, “It is an advanced skill meant only for the most stalwart of Avengers.”

Which would be more believable (still not close to it, but marginally more so) if he didn’t instantly morph into his uniform when the door opened and the rest of the Avengers came inside, dressed and ready for battle. 

Mom directs them, “Vision has downloaded the schematics and files and will share them with you.” A chorus of chimes indicates the message has been delivered. “If you don’t mind,” mom wraps her arm around Tommy’s shoulder, easing him off the bed and helping steady him with her powers, “we’re going to leave the rest to you all.” 

Sam’s, “We got it covered,” absolves them of any responsibility in taking down the rest of whatever shady organization this is.

Even though Tommy would love to be part of an actual Avenger’s mission, he’s okay with sitting this one out…for the most part because as they walk towards Billy’s portal, Tommy shimmies free of his family’s helping hands long enough to stare smugly down at the broken nose of the leader of the assholes, “Told you you were fucked.” And then they leave, certain that the message was loudly received: no one messes with the Maximoffs.  

#scarlet vision #wandavision #wanda maximoff #vision #billy kaplan #tommy shepherd #billy maximoff #tommy maximoff #mine #ask anon #To anyone else who has sent me an ask - I promise I am working my way through them! #The maximoffs

[airis-paris14]

Dress Up 8

Summary: She's not his fiancee, but no one else needs to know...

Warnings: None

Masterlist || Chapter 7

“I still do not understand why the wedding had to be moved up to this week!” Kamyra fussed as T’Challa opened the door and helped her back into the car. “Kamyra, let us not do this right now okay. I have enough of a headache already,” the king groaned and ran a hand over his face. “Oh and that’s my fault too? That the tramp went around pretending to like babies, so this lady thinks she can just hand me one and I’m gonna fawn all over him?!”

“Watch your tongue,” the king growled. “Why because you love her?” The princess instigated. “No, because you are the one who put her in the position so you could run away and live some fantasy without having to tell your father that you just want to go to school!”

“You don’t know shit about how I grew up and the hell I endured,” angry tears flooded her eyes.

“Only because you won’t tell me. If you want to go to school, that is all you have to say. I will make it happen! I am not your father. When we first met I wanted to get to know you. In hopes that we could have had a friendship of some sorts. But you came here with all your walls up and blamed me for all of the evil in your life because you couldn’t blame your father.”

Kamyra sank back in her seat,her heart stuck on one thing the king had said. “You would allow me to go to school?”

“Yes,” T’Challa sighed, “Anywhere your heart desires. Gender roles are not as conservative here in Wakanda as they are in your home country. You would know this if you would stop pushing all of us away.”

“I apologize,” Kamyra broke the silence minutes later as the vehicle pulled up to the palace. “I do as well, I should not have raised my voice. However, we need to talk about the wedding this week.” The couple walked in silence through the palace into T’Challa’s office. The king gestured for Kamyra to take a seat before he moved to sit in his window. “Am I correct in assuming that you do not actually want to be married still?”

“That is correct.”

T’Challa nodded, “Then I may have a solution for you. We have a way to annul the contract our forefathers signed. If you are willing to go along with the plan, we will allow you to seek asylum and full Wakandan citizenship if you do not wish to return home.”

“Where will I live?”

“Here, you will stay in a royal estate as a dignitary or we will help you find housing anywhere in the world you choose to live.”

“I do not have to stay here?”

“No you are not a prisoner, depending on how you react to the plan of course,” the king frowned. Kamyra tensed, “What exactly is the plan?”

“We have concrete evidence that your younger brother made an attempt on my life while you were gone. Because you were gone, we assumed your innocence,”

“I am!” Kamyra assures, she stood out of her seat and sighed, “My father would have killed me if I had known about it, had not given you a son, and not made sure you were actually gone. My father is strict about image and traditionally consolidating power. Ephram however is pure ambition. We have another brother, Aton, who is slated to take the throne, so it makes sense that Ephram would grab at any chance to take power for himself.”

“What your brother did not understand is that power is not handed down based on birth right or gender. Even if he had succeeded, Shuri would have just battled for the throne and ruled.”

“Trust me when I say, we are both very glad he did not succeed.”

T’Challa offered a weary smile in response, “An assassination attempt will be enough in the council’s eyes to void the contract at gathering this weekend. Afterwards, we will plan for you to make a transition to life here as a citizen.”

“Is there anything you need me to do?”

“No, not at this time. My priority is keeping you safe. No need for your father or brothers to take their anger out on you.”The king stood from his seat on the windowsill.

“Thank you T’Challa, for being a friend even when I do not deserve it.” the princess offered a slight smile.

“That is what a good and decent person does.” He bowed his head in acknowledgement before starting for the door. “Wait,” Kamyra called, “Will you use this break to pursue a relationship with Sirobie?”

The king paused and turned to the princess, “I have not decided,” he answered cautiously. He may have seen a new side of the princess, but he was not entirely sure he could trust the royal. “Just be careful. My family is a pot of vengeful, fragile, toxic masculinity waiting to boil over. You starting a new relationship after embarrassing them, could be more than enough of a spark to send them after Sirobie. From what I learned about her while I was away, she is a gem. She must be protected.”

“I will keep that in mind,” T’Challa promised before leaving Kamyra with her new found freedom.

“T’Challa Udaku!” Kamyra’s father beamed as he walked into the throne room to great his daughter’s future husband. His two sons trailed in after him looking bored and intrigued all at the same time. “We heard you could not wait to marry my daughter so you moved the wedding up three months!” The king bellowed laughing and going to clap the king on his back. Ramonda squeezed her son’s hand softly before he went to great the king. “Yes sir, you could say that. I must say I am most taken with her aura and her family aspirations,” surprising himself the king glanced at Kamyra to see if he was convincing her father. The princess shrugged and he sighed. “Well that I am very glad to hear. We did our best to raise her to be the perfect wife in spite of her mother’s premature death. I do have a question though. As a father, I must make sure that you are the right man for my daughter.”

“I will do my best to make her happy and treat her right.”

“I know, but I must ask, how do you know my daughter so well if she was missing for more than half of your engagement?”

“Sirobie-“ DaNiyah sat her cup down in disbelief. The college senior crumbled, “You think I’m lying don’t you?” Sirobie wiped the tears that gathered in her eyes. “No, Ro! I can’t believe you didn’t call me!”

DaNiyah joined Sirobie on the other side of the table and pulled her in for a hug. “Girl, let me see the ring!”

Sirobie laughed and pulled the necklace out again. “Girl, it’s like a block of clear ice! And he just bought it for you just because?”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be a memory from our time together.” DaNiyah smiled, “Y’all are so cute!” Sirobie smiled and twirled the ring on its chain. “Yeah, but it’s over now.” The filmmaker tucked the chain back in her shirt. “For now,” DaNiyah corrected, “When you love something, you let it go. He loves you, you are clearly falling for him but you both have unfinished business to handle. He’s in a different stage of life. Ready to settle down and have kids. You need to graduate college and go out and live some more first. Work on film sets. Make movies. Win awards. Then who knows. Maybe in a few years you two can reconnect and see where life takes you.”

Sirobie nodded, “You’re right. Besides I know how he feels and no one can take that from me-“

“Sirobie! How do you feel about King T’Challa’s statement regarding your time in wakanda?”

“Sirobie, are you carrying the king's baby?”

“Sirobie! Picture please!”

“Over Here Sirobie!” Reporters poured into the university quad, banging on the windows of the student center jostling to get photos of Sirobie.

“What are they talking about?” DaNiyah helped Sirobie to pack up their things and hurry away from the front of the building. “I don’t know,” the artist fretted. “Ro! You’re back!” Angela Douglass hurried over to her friend. Pulling Sirobie then DaNiyah in for a hug. “I got back yesterday-“

“You’re all over the news!” Angie handed Sirobie and DaNiyah her phone. The foreign exchange student watched as her love walked into frame at what appeared to be a press conference Kamyra following right behind. Three men entered the frame along with Queen Ramonda. Sirobie’s heart sank. Those could only be Kamyra’s family, that meant this announcement was nothing good.

“My name is T’Challa Udaku, son of King T’Chaka, Sovereign ruler of Wakanda. I am joined today by the Habriedes, the ruling family of Zafa. We are here to make an announcement regarding a foreign exchange student from the United States.”

“Maybe he’s publicly professing his love. Maybe they aren’t getting married anymore?”

Dread filled Sirobie’s stomach, “He wouldn’t do that, without telling me first. It puts all of us in too much danger.”

“Wait so there was something going on between you?” Angie clarified as T’Challa broke Sirobie’s heart. “It has recently come to the attention of the Wakandan people that this student masqueraded as my fiancée, Miss Kamyra Habriedes, for three months. Miss Habriedes does not remember where she was during this period and is in a delicate mindset right now. As of today, the student in question has caused no harm to the people of Wakanda nor the nation of Zafa, therefore we are looking to press no charges. There will be no retribution or punishment brought against her. We simply wish to clear the air about the differences between the actions, mannerisms, and condition of my true fiancée. Myself and the people of Wakanda wish the young woman the best in her endeavors and I hope she finds the love she is searching the world for. Thank you.”

Sirobie’s hand flew to her ring as she stared at the phone in disbelief. It felt like ice was clawing its way through her veins. “Ro? Ro what happened?” Angie tried to catch her friend's attention. “Ro! Look at me,” Angie insisted. DaNiyah wrapped up her ranting just in time to notice the senior start shaking. “Hey, Ro, look at us, you know he’s lying. He proposed to you for god's sake. Just calm down.”

“No, if he gets to tell his side of the story I get to tell mine,” the director stormed off back towards the front of the building. “Ro, woah woah no!” DaNiyah was the first to catch up.

“What?”

“First off, don’t raise your voice at me sis. Sending, he didn’t explicitly accuse you of anything, it’s obvious that the reporters are grabbing threads to get a story. If you go out there you are confirming their suspicions.” DaNiyah argued.

“Wakanda publicized all of us because we were the first foreign exchange students, and I’m the only one who happens to look exactly like his missing fiancee.” Sirobie fumed and paced back and forth.

“Okay, fair point, but Ro, you just got accused of infiltrating the world's most private country and pretending to be their future queen for three months. If you go out there, it’s your word against the king of a fucking country. So let’s just take a moment to think.” Angie talked her down off the edge.

“Let’s just figure out how to get back to the apartment without being followed okay.” DaNiyah ran a hand over her hair as Angie handed her friend a hoodie.

“Cover your hair and that diamond ring. We’ve got a lot to figure out. I don’t see us getting you out of here un-photographed and the last thing we need is to throw fuel on the fire.”

Sirobie nodded and quietly slipped the hoodie over her head as her tears finally made an appearance. “Sirobie,” DaNiyah pulled her roommate into her chest as she broke down in tears. “He told me he loved me,” the painter sobbed as Angie felt her own heart breaking. She’d never seen her friend this broken before. On what should be one of the most exciting weeks of her life, a man she obviously cared for, had potentially ruined any chances she had of a career and possibly her freedom to celebrate the week quietly.

“Okay, no. We’re getting out of here then figuring out how to hit that bastard where it hurts the most. I don’t know what happened, but he does not get to just ruin your life like this. He could’ve dealt with this shit privately. Or at least called you first. We’re graduating and I’ll be damned if he gets to ruin the time we have left together.”

“Agreed,” DaNiyah backed up the third member of their group. “I don’t know, I just want it to go away,” Sirobie sniffled. “It will. I’ll make sure of it.” Angie assured her.

“Okay,” Angie came out of Sirobie's room and leaned against the wall next to the TV. Sirobie groaned as DaNiyah paused Coming to America. After somewhat successfully escaping with the help of campus security, the girls made it to their apartment safely praying that they hadn’t been followed. No one had shown up banging at the door yet, so they seemed to be in the clear. For now at least.

“I called in some classmates and a professor I trust. I know you wanted to keep it small, but I needed some help Ro.”

Sirobie nodded from under her cover, “I know Angie. I just want it to go away and if this is what will help make it happen, I’m all for it.” Angie breathed a sigh of relief and smiled softly, “Okay. I called an emergency meeting with them. I’ll let you know when we have a plan of action.” Angie hugged both Sirobie and DaNiyah before rushing out of their apartment.

“You want a pizza girlie?” DaNiyah pressed play and headed back to the kitchen to grab something to drink. “Noo,” Sirobie sighed.

“Gyros?” DaNiyah plopped back on the couch and handed Sirobie a glass of juice and a bottle of water.

“Ehh…”

“Sirobie, you’ve gotta eat something babe. All you’ve done is cry and mope. Not that you don’t have a good reason to, but you’ve gotta eat and drink something.”

Sirobie took a sip out of her glass and turned back to the TV. “Fine,” DaNiyah stood. “I’m gonna walk to the gyro place and I’ll get your usual order.”

“Your majesty, technically, there is no loophole for attempted assisination, considering you cannot definitively prove that Kamyra’s father was in on the attempt. This contract is between your father and hers, meaning he would have to be the one to break the bounds of morality.” The merchant tribe elder clarified.

“So he is just supposed to marry into a family that attempted to have him murdered?” Ramonda fumed. T’Challa placed his hand over his mother’s to calm her. “We understand that this is not ideal, however there is only one solution.” The Border Tribe elder glanced at Zuri’s protege, Fatima. “You and Lady Kamyra can get married- in a private miniature ceremony, like a Western Elopement. Then we will nullify the marriage at the end of the ceremony. Thereby fulfilling all of the requirements of the contract, while also preventing either you or Lady Kamyra from being legally bound together.”

T’Challa glanced at his mother and nodded, “How soon can we achieve this?”

“As soon as you and lady Kamyra are ready. I can prepare the ceremony at any time.”

“Great, Let’s prepare for tomorrow night then?” T’Challa glanced around the room, “How will we explain this to Kamyra’s family?”

“How will we explain it to the Wakandan people?” Another elder voiced.

“Simple-” T’Challa stood, “We will tell them the truth.”

“You sure you don’t wanna come babe, you’ve been in this apartment for two days. You’ve got security, and no one will recognize you in a dark club.”

“No, I’m not in a party mood, but y’all have a good time. I’ll be here to take care of your drunk asses when you come in later tonight.” Sirobie smiled as DaNiyah sucked her teeth. “Whatever,” Sirobie’s roommate grabbed her purse and began double checking she had everything.

“Seriously, though. I’m probably just gonna finish up my final portfolio project and binge-watch something.”

“As long as you’re good love. I just want you to enjoy this time.”

“I won’t be able to though. Until this is all over. I have more fun here. I’ll wait up and y’all can tell me everything that went down.”

“Fine, call if you need anything, I'm the designated driver so I won’t be having as much fun anyway.”

“I will, and you’ll be fine. Besides, I’ve got my personal bodyguard outside anyway so we’ll be cool.”

“You ever figure out who sent him anyway?”

“He said he’s from the university,” Sirobie shrugged. “I find that hard to believe,” the pre-med student snorted. “I know, maybe they do care about more than our money,” Sirobie joked. DaNiyah’s phone chimed alerting her that her uber was there. “Okay, I’ll see you later. Remember to call if you need me.”

“I will,” Sirobie sighed once her door was shut and went into her room to grab her laptop.

“And it’s official, the shortest marriage I’ve ever officiated for,” Fatima joked as Kamyra finished signing her end of the nullifying contract. “I believe I speak for us both when I say that it was good, it was fast,” Kamyra smiled and placed the cap back on the pen.

“Very much so,” T’Challa nodded and joined his mother on the sidelines. “I am glad to see you this happy again,” Ramonda smiled. “Thank you, me too,” T’Challa grinned. “It was a good idea to use the assassination as leverage to keep Kamyra’s family from retaliating or coming back to Wakanda.” The king praised his mother. The queen smiled, “Your father married me for more than my looks,” she teased.

“I apologize for not asking for help with this whole situation at first. Shuri is your daughter and you should have had a hand in protecting her.”

“I am glad you have realized the error of your ways, but I am your mother as well. I want you protected and happy just as much as I want that for her. We could have saved everyone a lot of headache and heartbreak. Including the one person who you did not let in on this plan-“ Ramonda raised an eyebrow.

“You were the one who told me not to tell her!” The young king insisted. “T’Challa, do not raise your voice at me and do not play dumb. I told you not to tell her when the plan was just to leverage the assassination alone. Had I known you were going to give into Kamyra’s father and blast Sirobie’s character on international television, I would have insisted she be brought in on this. That she was protected and not just thrown to the wolves. She’s a college student for goodness sakes. I’m sure her university isn’t happy with her negative press either.” The mother scolded.

“I sent her a bodyguard once I realized how big everything had blown up.” He sighed. “I think you owe the woman you love more than that, don’t you?”

“Hello,” Sirobie yawned and sat up to look at the clock from the couch. The Nanny hummed in the background as the last voice she ever wanted to hear came through the line. “Sirobie-“

“Goodbye your majesty.” She ended the call and dropped her head into her hands. “Fuck man,” she hissed standing and pacing infront of her couch. Her phone began to vibrate again and she stared. “What your majesty,” she finally answered. “Sirobie please let me explain-“

“You have 30 seconds to explain why you decided to lie and blow up my life.”

“Sirobie-“

“25.” She interrupted. “Sirobie I don’t have enough words to explain how sorry I am, but believe me I am so sorry. I obviously didn’t think ahead in the plan but, I needed Kamyra’s family to have no reason to suspect you for what I was about to do.”

Sirobie’s heart stopped, “What did you do,” she whispered out. “We broke the contract and we knew that if they found out I was gonna use it to get to you-“

“I’m happy for you T’Challa. But this doesn’t change the magnitude of what you did.”

“I know and I’m gonna fix it-“

“How T’Challa. You can’t come back out to the world and say hey I was lying I’m actually in love with this girl can you? No matter what actually happened, you’ll never be able to clear the air. I’ll always be the home wrecker. Some crazy American who pretended to be a foreign princess. I’ll be the one who ruined a Union for the country’s good. It won’t matter that your family loves me. Or that it was your fiancée’s idea to switch places. All that will matter is what you said. And you lied T’Challa.” Sirobie ended the call as she felt tears flood her eyes. She grabbed the nearest pillow and tried to chuckle through her sniffles as Fran Fine continued her pursuit of Maxwell Sheffield.

“Hello,” it seemed like no one wanted to just let Sirobie grieve in peace tonight. “Ohh my baby,” Sirobie’s mother cooed through the phone and the student felt tears flooding her eyes. “Mama,” Sirobie let her tears fall. “Aww baby I know, I know.”

“I wish you were here,” Sirobie sniffled. “We’ll get up and open the door.” Sirobie felt her mother’s smile through her phone. “What,” she popped up slowly and slipped on her house shoes. “Well hurry up, you just gonna leave your mama out here with all these bags?”

For the first time in weeks the filmmaker felt a genuine smile grace her features. She yanked open her apartment door and pulled her mom in for a hug. “When did you get here?”

Sirobie grabbed her mother’s suitcase and led her into the apartment. “About an hour ago. Mother to Mother, the queen thought you might need some additional loving for the next few weeks.”

“What about work?” Sirobie led her mother to her bedroom with suitcases in tow. “Aht Aht, you let me worry about that. Just know that I’m here for you okay baby.” Naomi Johnson sat on her daughter's bed and opened her arms letting her daughter fall into her embrace. The mother hummed softly as the 21 year old sniffled. “I just feel so stupid for believing him.”

“Believing what?”

“That he loved me,” Sirobie sighed and unclasped the engagement necklace from around her neck. Her mother took the ring in shock, “Sirobie Naia Johnson please tell me you did not.”

The Howard student rolled over in her mother’s lap. “No, we didn’t get married. He just proposed and told me he loved me.”

“Even though he was engaged?” Mrs. Johnson raised an eyebrow. “It’s complicated mama.”

“Seems pretty simple to me.”

“Wakanda is a monarchy. It was a marriage of two countries. Not really two people. His fiancée is the one whose idea it was to trade places. She ran off and left me to pick up the pieces.”

“So you were pretending to be a foreign princess?”

“Yes,but the queen asked me to. As a cover up till they could figure out where the real princess had gone.”

“Okay,” Sirobie’s mother nodded, “Considering I was chauffeured to your side by the queen of said country, I believe you. However I don’t understand why the boy lied about you. I mean it was obvious in the first call we had with him how much he adored you.”

“He said it was to keep me safe from the real princess’s family. I can speak from personal experience, not the most friendly family in the world. “

“That sounds reasonable.”

Sirobie sighed, “I know, I just wished he would have come to me first. At Least let me know ahead of time.”

“Well maybe it was a part of the act. If these people are truly dangerous, you couldn’t know the plan. First off, you’re a horrible actor dear, they would’ve seen through you in half a second,” Naomi Johnson teased as her daughter scoffed. “I am a great actress,” Sirobie insisted, letting laughter escape her lips.

“Mhmm,” her mother hummed. “You’re right though, all of it was reasonable, but I just don’t ever see how we could have a relationship. He basically told the whole world I’m a snobby American who got the chance of a lifetime and wasted it pretending to be someone she wasn’t. If we get together I’ll be nothing but a home wrecker.” Sirobie sighed as her mother’s fingers massaged her scalp.

“I see what you mean. Unfortunately it is one of those times that only time will tell what the future holds. You’ve just gotta be patient babycakes. Focus on yourself and your future outside of this king T’Challa. He’s a great catch but you’ve wanted so much for your life and your career. You all are in two different stages in life and that’s okay. While he figures out his, you should figure out yours.”

“Come in,”T’Challa turned from his position at the window of his private office. Eshe held open the door as Lesedi and Kasigo carried in a wrapped package. The women saluted before Eshe shut the door and spoke, “Lady Sirobie asked us to make sure this made it to you once it was delivered from the framers.” Eshe explained the brown paper wrapped package now sitting against the king's wall. “Ah, thank you.” He bowed his head as the women curtsied before turning to leave. “Kumkani wam,” Lesedi turned back to the monarch before shutting the door. She pulled an envelope out of her pocket. “Please do not be upset, but Lady Sirobie, she sent us some graduation tickets. I won’t be able to make it, but you should go in my place.”

T’Challa stared at the envelope as Lesedi set it on his desk. “Thank you,” he nodded as the woman curtsied once more and disappeared. Once he heard the footsteps recede, the king took a deep breath and walked over to what he was sure was the portrait his love painted for him.

He began in wrapping the painting and felt his stomach drop at the image Sirobie had crafted in her mind of him. She’d remembered him as only she’d seen him. Wrapped up in her being, relaxed and at peace. The couple was laying on the couch in what was Sirobie’s room while she was in the palace. Though Sirobie’s face was hidden, her arms were wrapped around T’Challa, her face buried in his neck as the king stared down at her adoringly. The painting was stunning and T’Challa knew a phone call was not enough. He loved this woman and she deserved the world and more.

He needed to see Sirobie, and right his wrongs.

Taglist: @almostpurelysmut @blackbypurpose @tchoking @sisterwifeudaku @wikiwakanda @royallyprincesslilly @90sinspiredgirl @thedelightfulone @autumn242 @purple-apricots @kumkaniudaku @queertrex @kaciidubs @halfrican-heat @skysynclair19 @dramaqueenamby @leahnicole1219 @kreolemami @mzbritt @derangedcupcake @chaneajoyyy @lalapalooza718 @ororowrites @leahnicole1219 @sarcastic-sunshines @sarahboseman @faatassbitch @lady-love-and-glitter-roses @cxnismajcr @tchallasbabymama

#blackpanther #blackpantherimagines #blackpantherinspired #black panther fandom #black panther fanfic #black panther imagine #tchalla fanfic #tchalla x oc #tchalla black panther #tchalla fanfiction #tchalla x reader #t'challa #t'challa x reader #t'challa x black!reader #t'challa x you #t'challa x oc #dressupfic #apbpfics

[eleanorfenyxwrites]

All Dreams Were Worth Keeping

Modern 3Zun Sunshot AU

Part 1

[Masterpost] [Ao3]

-//-

Meng Yao figures that if he were to believe in some sort of great, retributive, punishing force keeping careful track of every single thing that ever went right in his life, he would believe in the sort that would get him back for each happy moment all at once. Meng Yao is an efficient man, after all, so it stands to reason that any great cosmic thing sent to even out his score would be equally as efficient in doling out his punishments.

This, he supposes, is why he finds his entire being - his heart, his mind, the world around him, his place in the universe - grinding to a screeching halt when he really, truly, genuinely can’t afford a distraction. He’s busy, and while yes his job is to do whatever it is Nie Mingjue needs him to do, that doesn’t mean that fitting a sudden personal favor into his schedule is easy, especially not when said personal favor results in this.

He was out in town running a few business errands anyway, yes. He was even on the side of town closest to the airport, yes. He had an hour in which he was theoretically free before he needed to be at the main office for a budget meeting. He’d thought foolishly to snag himself a lunch that he didn’t have to eat as quickly as humanly possible at red lights in his car or in between phone calls at his desk. As it is now, though, the best he’s going to get is the truly enormous iced coffee clutched in one numb hand as he stares at Nie Mingjue’s friend across the crowded baggage claim area in the incoming terminals at the airport.

Nie Mingjue hadn’t specified who this friend he was picking up was or why he was flying in or what he even looked like, really, so unless and until proven otherwise Meng Yao is going to choose to believe that he’s a supermodel visiting from some glamorous trip abroad to Milan or Paris or Rome. Specifically in town to make Meng Yao seriously question his place on this hell of an earth, truly.

He’ll probably be wearing light colors, Nie Mingjue had said a few minutes ago over the phone, sounding too-close to the microphone and thoroughly distracted like he usually did whenever he had the phone squished between one giant shoulder and his ear while he attempted to multitask (it wasn’t his strong-suit). My height, but thinner. Last I heard he’s grown out his hair and if he still has it long then he’ll probably be wearing it partially up. Look - you’ll know him when you see him, alright? If you can’t find him just give me a call.

Meng Yao slowly slides his oversized sunglasses up into his hair with his free hand, narrows his eyes, and takes a long, pointed sip of his too-sugary coffee as he begins plotting precisely how he’s going to pass this cosmic punishment onto Nie Mingjue, who hadn’t given him any fucking warning that this friend of his is devastating in every possible way (though he will allow that he had been spot on with every other detail at least). The crowd has thinned out while he’s been staring and trying not to melt into a puddle so he takes a deep breath in and begins making his way across the space.

“Hello,” he says as pleasantly as he can manage while seething with rage at Nie Mingjue (he will not admit that the simmering heat of the rage actually feels an awful lot like attraction to the man standing in front of him) and he cranes his neck just a bit to look up at the god gracing the brightly-lit airport with his very presence.

A god who does nothing but blink down at him. 

“Nie Mingjue got caught up at the office and asked me to retrieve you on his behalf, my name is Meng Yao,” he tries when the man still says nothing.

Pretty and stupid? He can work with pretty and stupid. They make excellent arm candy and they’re so easy to turn into doting lovers willing to wait on him hand and foot. A few pouts and some delicate verbal nudging at just the right moments and he’s got himself a well-trained puppy-esque boyfriend he can tease to his heart’s content until he’s bored. 

But then the man smiles at him and for the first time that he can ever remember Meng Yao’s mind goes completely blank. 

“That is very kind of you, Meng Yao,” he finally says and oh good god his voice is just as beautiful as the rest of him, low and buttery yet somehow perfectly audible even in the bustle of other travelers around them. “My name is Lan Xichen, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

Oh so he’s that ‘friend’. Well there goes the pretty boyfriend idea.

Meng Yao thankfully retains enough presence of mind to slip his free hand into Lan Xichen’s when he offers it to shake but his brain is stuck in a useless loop of big hands big hands big hands (as well as not mine not mine not mine) until Lan Xichen releases him again. He’s definitely going to have to kill Nie Mingjue over this one, it’s the only way to get his true revenge. Otherwise he’ll never be able to live this down. 

“Do you have any extra luggage to retrieve?” he finally manages to ask and he’s grateful when Lan Xichen shakes his head (with another damn smile - he’s not going to survive) and hikes the strap of his carryon bag a little higher onto his stupidly broad shoulder. 

“No, I had it shipped ahead of my arrival. Thank you for checking though, that’s very thoughtful.”

Meng Yao doesn’t blush. He doesn’t! He was thankfully spared such an unfortunate gene as to make it so easy to see the rare occasions he becomes flustered, and he uses it to his advantage constantly. It’s a very good skill to have. Which is why he staunchly refuses to acknowledge why the back of his neck has gotten hot under the bulky, artfully slouched collar of his sweater as he gestures towards the exits with the coffee in his hand. He says something innocuous that he hopes is a polite, “If you’ll follow me, then,” and not something embarrassing like, I’d give my left arm to get you in my bed, and starts to walk in the direction he had gestured. 

Lan Xichen falls into step easily beside him and they walk in silence by necessity as they navigate the crowded space, Meng Yao slipping easily through small gaps between people who hardly spare him a glance and Lan Xichen saying quiet, ‘excuse me’s and offering smiles that would make anyone weak in the knees.

Nie Mingjue is so dead.

Meng Yao is grateful to drop his sunglasses back over his eyes when they step out into the early afternoon sun and he sips at his coffee again as they walk faster now that they’re out in the world. He doesn’t think about how long Lan Xichen’s legs are when the man lengthens his strides, definitely not. Instead he just guides him to where he had parked and opens the trunk for him to deposit his bag into.

He realizes as soon as he’s situated behind the wheel with his coffee in safe reaching distance that there’s a flaw in this plan. Namely that a car is a confined space. One where they’ll be seated within touching distance for the better part of an hour as Meng Yao drives to the office. Where he will then have to pass this too-beautiful creature off to Nie Mingjue and likely never see him again. Because that’s normal, he reminds himself firmly. And therein lies the unfairness of it all, and he’s back to simultaneously shaking a metaphorical fist at this divine punisher while plotting Nie Mingjue’s murder to appease it. 

He’s a multitasker, so he’s capable of doing both of those things while also driving safely and carefully, and so once Lan Xichen is seated next to him he turns the car on and pulls out of the garage to begin navigating the sprawling roads around the airport with ease.

“Mingjue-xiong has told me quite a bit about his frighteningly competent and impressive assistant,” Lan Xichen begins once they’re out of the airport boundaries and merged safely onto the highway. “I must confess I have looked forward to meeting you in person on this trip. Anyone who can frighten Nie Mingjue must be impressive indeed.”

Meng Yao stops plotting Nie Mingjue’s murder long enough to smile in a way that is clearly self-effacing even behind the shield of his sunglasses and while he refuses to take his eyes off the road to look properly demure under his eyelashes.

“A happy coincidence, then, that he was caught up in an impromptu meeting and unable to get away. Should I refrain from passing on his apologies for the change of plans?”

“Consider them noted but entirely unnecessary,” Lan Xichen replies and his voice is almost unbearably warm. Meng Yao can only be relieved that he’s still looking out at the road as he’s not entirely sure being subjected to another dazzling smile from the man while operating a vehicle could be qualified as anything but ‘hazardous’.

“Am I correct in assuming that you’re the same ‘Xichen’ that he mentions in conversation at least once a day?” he asks instead and it’s a mistake because Lan Xichen’s responding laughter is absolutely hazardous. Apparently he doesn’t have to be looking at him to be in danger.

“Yes, I am afraid so. Should I be concerned about what he has said of me?”

“Nothing but compliments, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“Mm. That is precisely what I have to be concerned about,” Lan Xichen chuckles and Meng Yao would very much appreciate it if something about him could be less than soul-crushingly attractive at the moment. He takes a deep breath in and reaches blindly over to the cupholder to pick up his coffee to take a long, long sip on the straw.

He’s way too tired and gay for this shit - if he has to put up with this he can at least be caffeinated.

----

At the office, Meng Yao leaves Lan Xichen talking happily with Nie Huaisang who would otherwise be pulling his usual post-lunch routine of lounging around and whining about the two non-urgent tasks on his plate while he stalks to Nie Mingjue’s office with a smile painted on his face that makes everyone on the way there avoid him like the plague.

“Oh good, you’re here. Where’s Xichen?” Nie Mingjue asks when he steps into the room and Meng Yao shuts the door behind himself with a quiet click.

“He was accosted by Huaisang, I’ll return to fetch him in a moment.” Something in his tone must alert Nie Mingjue to the danger he’s in because he looks up sharply from the report he’s reading and raises an eyebrow at him.

“A-Yao,” he warns but Meng Yao ignores the warning in favor of stepping forward and around Nie Mingjue’s desk to sit on the edge of it facing the other, the better to fix him with a piercing glare coupled with his best, most dimpled smile.

“A little warning, Mingjue, that’s all I would have asked for,” he says sharply and his nostrils flare slightly as Nie Mingjue snorts.

“If you needed a warning that he’s incredible then you’re the only person who can’t see how much I admire him.”

“Of course I see that, I see everything. What I did not see was any kind of textual warning that he was the friend I was sent to retrieve, nor that your Lan Xichen looks like a goddamn supermodel!”

Nie Mingjue only sighs and rolls his eyes at that as he reaches over to pull a paper out from under his ass. Meng Yao very pointedly doesn’t move to make the process any easier and earns himself another irritated huff.

“Do you have anything else to say besides how frustrated you are that Xichen is attractive? I’ve spent all morning dealing with people whining, I’m really not in the mood for more.”

“My whining is more valid than anyone else’s, as you are well aware,” Meng Yao sniffs as he pointedly hops down off the desk and makes a little show of straightening out his sweater before he leans down to press a kiss to Nie Mingjue’s cheek, one hand resting delicately under his chin to hold him still long enough for him to complete the gesture before he withdraws. “I’ll go fetch Lan Xichen for you. You owe me lunch,” he says archly. He slips away to open the door again, leaving it open behind himself while he returns to where he had last left Lan Xichen. He finds him in precisely the same position, Nie Huaisang still chattering happily away about his birds. And Lan Xichen, damn him, looks genuinely interested in whatever it is he’s saying. Polite motherfucker.

Meng Yao clears his throat delicately just as Nie Huaisang pauses and he offers the pair of them a polite smile that Lan Xichen instantly returns with one of his own.

“Nie Mingjue is in his office, I will take you to him,” he offers with a gesture deeper into the warren of cubicles and desks that separate them from their destination.

“Of course, thank you Meng Yao. Are you joining us for dinner tonight, Huaisang?” Lan Xichen asks and only follows Meng Yao once Nie Huaisang has reassured him that yes, he’ll be there, and flounces off to go continue doing nothing much at all. “I hope I have not interrupted Mingjue’s day too horribly,” he murmurs as they begin walking through the office. Meng Yao wonders if Lan Xichen is so used to being stared after when he walks that he doesn’t notice it anymore. 

“He’s been expecting you, I believe he planned his day accordingly,” Meng Yao comforts, well aware that Nie Mingjue has in fact cleared his schedule for the day as he is now the one responsible for making sure his work gets done instead. They say nothing else as they walk through the office, Lan Xichen seemingly blithely unaware of the effect he creates as he sails through the crowded space looking like that, and Meng Yao doing his best not to seethe with jealousy that Nie Mingjue is the one who gets to appreciate him properly. They reach Nie Mingjue’s office without incident, thankfully, and Meng Yao gestures his companion in ahead of him.

“Is there anything else you need from me, Nie Mingjue?” he asks before the pair can get to their no doubt enthusiastic greetings.

“You’re going to my budget meeting with the Jin family representatives?” Meng Yao nods his affirmative, pointedly ignoring the slight frown Lan Xichen turns in his direction. “And the conference call with the board of directors at three?”

“Yes, Nie Mingjue. Your schedule is clear, I’ve got it under control.”

“I know you do. Nothing else, then. I’ll see you on Monday.” Meng Yao nods again at the dismissal and turns his blandest smile on Lan Xichen.

“Lan Xichen, it was a pleasure to meet you. If you’ll excuse me, I need to stop by my office first on the way to the conference room. Enjoy your weekend.”

He ducks out before anyone can respond and he pulls the door shut with a decisive click, the smile melting off his face as he turns to go get the necessary papers from his desk, shoving away the unsettled feeling in his chest to be examined later.

----

Lan Xichen frowns at the shut door for a few moments - a few moments too long, apparently, as he’s startled by Nie Mingjue suddenly turning him to wrap him up in a tight hug that has him chuckling quietly and bringing his arms around the other man’s waist in return. He tips his head back enough that he can meet Nie Mingjue’s kiss easily, a smile curving up the corners of his mouth even as their lips meet and Nie Mingjue hums softly into it.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come fetch you myself,” he murmurs and Lan Xichen pulls back just enough to shake his head with a fond smile, only to have it kissed away again almost immediately. “Did you get along with Meng Yao alright?”

“Of course, he’s quite easy to get along with.”

“Only for you, Xichen, you get along with everybody,” Nie Mingjue chuckles with a kiss to his cheek. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Hungry?” 

“Mm.” Lan Xichen straightens both of their shirts before he allows Nie Mingjue to lead him back out of the office. They pause long enough for Nie Mingjue to ask one of the people working nearby to arrange for some food to be ordered for Meng Yao to eat after the budget meeting, billed to the company. Lan Xichen frowns again when the man’s perfectly agreeable nod abruptly turns into a roll of his eyes as soon as Nie Mingjue’s back is turned.

“Will Meng Yao be alright?” he asks in an undertone as he falls into step beside Nie Mingjue.

“Of course, why wouldn’t he be? He actually likes budget meetings, I’ve practically given him a present. Don’t worry about him, he’s fine.”

Lan Xichen hums his acknowledgement and allows himself to be led out of the office. They pass a row of conference rooms on their way to the elevators and Lan Xichen glances into the windows of the closest one only to see a member of the Jin family openly sneering at Meng Yao just as the elevator doors slide shut. 

The sight of Meng Yao’s strained, polite smile and submissive posture as he ducks his head to take it in stride sticks with him for the rest of the day and into the evening.

----

Meng Yao sighs heavily as he finally pushes the door to his apartment open and slumps inside. He’d barely managed to catch the final train for the evening and he’s exhausted. At least since it was so late the train had been practically empty and he had been allowed some peace and quiet while he tried to unwind a bit from the day but not to the point where he was in danger of falling asleep (the last thing he needed on a day like this was to miss his stop because he could hardly keep his eyes open). 

But he’s home now, finally, and he kicks his shoes off with perhaps a bit more viciousness than they deserve. He bends down to straighten them into their proper place almost apologetically, empties his pockets onto the rickety table by the door, and only once he has finished patting himself down to make sure he got everything does he walk further into his apartment. He eyes the door to his bedroom longingly but he’s well aware that if he goes to change his clothes now he’ll just crawl right into bed to sleep, which will mean going to bed having eaten nothing since breakfast but that iced coffee for lunch, and while he’s not above such measures his growling stomach is just uncomfortable enough that it could possibly keep him awake - or, a worse offense, wake him up too early in the morning.

So with another long-suffering sigh he retreats to the kitchen instead to find something to eat that takes the absolute least amount of time or effort. A sleeve of stale crackers and a glass of water will have to do - honestly he’s hungry enough that they taste pretty damn good. 

Even as tired as he is he still refuses to break his own rule not to eat in bed so he sits down on the sofa to curl up in the corner of the arm and the cushions. He lays his head down on the back of it as he eats his crackers mechanically, his phone cradled in his other hand to catch up on the texts he’s missed since the last time he’d been able to check it before he’d picked Lan Xichen up that afternoon. He starts with Huaisang’s (22 new messages) thread since it’s bound to be an essay that he’d rather slog through before he loses all of his energy completely.

Huaisang:

Yaoyao!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

u didn’t come 2 dinner :( :( :( :( :( :( :( :( :( :( :(

u left me all alone with da-ge and er-ge 😡😡😡

they’re so disgusting together y didn’t u save me ur so cruel

Yaoyaaaaaaaoooooooooo

u can’t ignore me bitch i kno where u live i’ll come get ur ass��

hey did u see Jin Zixun’s stupid haircut today lol he looks so bad 🤢

not nearly as pretty as er-ge right? 😏😉😉😉

as disgusting as they are together i can’t deny da-ge’s taste in men is ~impeccable~

don’t tell him i said that tho i always criticize his taste in everything bc it’s always horrible

ANYWAY - y didn’t u come to dinner? u always come to friday dinner

OMG R U SICK?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!😨😨

wait no that’s dumb u’d never get sick u’d tell the universe to back tf off

pull a knife on the universe for trying to make u sick lol

tell the universe ur busy so fuck off like u do evry1 else

have you ever actually told some1 to fuck off? like actually used the words ‘fuck off’?

if not i highly recommend and i would also like to request u let me be there to watch

if u have b4 i demand deets

Yaoyao come onnnnnnn it’s almost 12am there’s no way ur still at work stop ignoring meeeeee

fiiiiiiine i’m going out without you and you can bitch at me about it at brunch on sunday

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo hope ur getting laid or smth to make ignoring ur bro worth it

b safe use a condom don’t do anything i wouldn’t do ✨🍆🍆🍆🍑🍑🍑✨

Meng Yao very briefly entertains the idea of replying but he barely had the energy to just read that, he certainly doesn’t have the energy for an actual conversation with a drunk Nie Huaisang. Nor does he really want to explain that yes he actually was at the office until the middle of the night, and yes he had actually been working that whole time. He hadn’t even been invited to dinner anyway, Nie Mingjue had made it clear that afternoon that he didn’t expect to see Meng Yao again until work on Monday. Even if he had been free he still wouldn’t have come over, but that would be useless to explain too. Better to just leave it.

He scrolls through the rest of his notifications just to make sure there’s nothing pressing that needs his attention before he shuts the device off entirely, finding a vicious sort of satisfaction in making himself entirely unavailable. He hardly ever does, but after dealing with the day that he had and topping it off with Nie Huaisang’s babbling about how Lan Xichen is just so perfect and wonderful - for Nie Mingjue - he feels that he’s earned the right to sleep undisturbed.

[NEXT]

#the untamed fanfic #3zun #Nie Mingjue #Lan Xichen #Meng Yao #Nie Huaisang #Modern AU #I have no idea where this is going but the first 4.5 chapters are written and will be posted regularly so we'll see!

[jeeperso]

D&D Quotes Without Context

Ravenloft, Mordent Arc part 2

You jam your daggers right into its eyes, it lets out a hideous squeal as you spike it to the floor and stomp it for good measure, causing it to burst like an overripe pumpkin, splattering green gore on everyone. At this point Peckwood comes across. "Morning all! I hope you had a pleasant nights sleep." "No one wakes me from a sound sleep and creeps me out without retribution." “Inquisitor likes watchin’ fuckin’.” "Self Cleaning Gore. I AM impressed." "In Nomine Custodi Tenebris. Exodus Demonus. Spookitus Scareus. Iaintafraidanoghostus." "Rats, we have to deal with the head again, no fair, I just totally owned it and it doesn't even count. That's cheating." You can see the spectral image of the head near the ceiling while you conduct your ritual. It sticks its tongue out at you and vanishes into the ceiling. "Undoubtedly they fled in the night upon realizing they valued their necks over the treasure of Captain Unimportant." "With the assistance of Ms. Alahazra I was able to secure permission to use the kitchen. However, I will note that we don't have any spoons." He’s gonna be doing an amazing impression of Johnny Storm he doesn’t give it back. "If we held him upside-down and shook him, how big would the pile of stuff that falls out be." “Sorry. Magic theory isn’t my thing. I do it by feel. As long as the universe knows what’s good for it.” "These are very fancy flashy swords..." "They were decorating the walls when we came in." "Well now one is decorating the floor... in little melty bits." "THIS HOUSE IS A PRISON FOR UNCLEAN AND DAMNED SPIRITS. I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO FREE THEM. THEY ARE BEYOND SALVATION." Jonni rolls her eyes. “This ashhole again.” Nyx pulls down her left eyelid and sticks out her tongue. "No one is beyond salvation!" "THIEVES, HARLOTS, CHARLATANS, FOLLOWERS OF FALSE GODS, YOU WILL LEAVE THIS PLACE AND NOT RETURN, OR YOU WILL JOIN THESE UNCLEAN SPIRITS IN THEIR ETERNAL PERDITION." “You want unclean? I will personally taint every room in this house.” "What, thief! I've never stolen from a living person in my life and never from cultures with living beings around who want the artifacts back." "Be careful Mr. Marshal, the Inquisitor is really mean and scary." "So are we." "I don't think I'm that mean, usually. " (very much in-character) "Speaking of, since you aren't using it anymore can we take your stuff. Might make avenging your death easier." "I didn't think things could get more messed up than a house full of bound ghosts, and yet here we are." "Things can always get more 'messed up'. The important thing is to keep your head and work forward with each new piece of information." “I say we grab the kid, burn it down, and let reincarnation sort it out.” "So, you a ghost or just some idiot we have to kill?" He takes off his shirt, showing his body is badly decayed. "Ah, I thought I smelt failure." “Oh, gods, he’s monologuing. I’m gonna get a book.” “Yes, yes, you are the Tiger Force at the center of all things, when men wake screaming it is your name on their tongue. I don’t care. Can I kill him?” "Huh, I didn't think you could get uglier than a rotting corpse but here you are." "Oh ferret pellets. We are going to find a special place for you to suffer for all eternity for this." “Yes. That is what I’m doing. Nerds can handle the nerd stuff, I can handle killing the living dead.” "Et scindite corda et dilacerant. Usque factum est. Rip and tear, until It Is Done." "Oh very well. Can't say I didn't try." "You didn't try very hard." "Back in Lamordia there's two things we do well; higher education, and flesh golems." "You gave me something physical to hit. Oh good I have a lot of pent up rage right now." “Hey, so, this won’t kill you, but I really hope it hurts.“ OOC: So he fails at flesh golems. I bet he was a C student too. He looks down on you and just gives this big smile like "Why yes, I am about to fuck you up." “We shirt biggerin' you.” "I'm...going to have that body of yours, if its the LAST THING I DO." "All products are property of GUnder & Danzi Fundertainments incorporated." OOC: Eldritch blast on the ghostest with the leastest. “I WILL KILL YOU AS MANY TIMES AS I HAVE TO AS LONG AS ONE OF THEM TAKES!” The golem takes a look around, noticing its master is gone, and begins to make panicked noises like a child who lost its parent. OOC: Oh, Primus, we’re gonna have to adopt this one too. "Yes I can't see you. I seem to be trapped inside this golem." “If you can see a light, move towards it.” "Want us to carve you out of there?" "If you'd be so kind." "Wait, did that Mad Scientist ghost go cheap on a flesh golem and simply trap a living person inside a flesh golem-look-a-like?" "Red wire, blue wire.. Green wire.... Puce wire?" "DO NOT TOUCH THE PUCE WIRE." "WHY DO YOU HAVE A PUCE WIRE!?" "WHO IS THE ECTOCOLOGIST HERE?" “Jonni. I burn things.” "You know I just realized something a little off topic. I mean we have more important things to worry about but if luring us here was part of the Number 10's plan, does that mean the whole family fortune bit was a lie?" “Captain underpants talked like it was real.“ “Marsh, send him to the hell of upside down walrus’ on stool softeners." "He does not get such mercy from me." "Well I didn't say that, there's enough non haunted bric-a-brac you can help yourself to, not like I'll bee needing it. I recommend going for the silverware." "Someone beat us to the spoons." “Correction, HALF the spoons.” "Remember Loot, then burn. Also that leaves the knives and forks." “When you burn first you can loot easier cause everyone runs out on fire.” "True but a lot of valuable stuff is flammable." OOC: You killed a ghost with magic force beams and expected me not to make a ghost busters reference?

#dungeons and dragons #dnd 5e #quotes without context #ravenloft

[katsidhe]

Hello as a long time silent lurker with post notifications on, and someone who has been very into the minecraft roleplay for about 9 months, I am oh so incredibly intrigued on your thoughts! I hope you don't mind if I ramble a little. Sam (both minecraft and spn, but in this context the minecraft one) is one of my favourite characters because he's so incredibly complex. The prison story has sparked so much discussion and conflict in this fandom, so I would love to hear your thoughts if you want to share!

oh noooooooooooo don’t enable me. (Jk <3)

I’m putting this under a read more for those of you who don’t want to be inflicted with my minecraft roleplay brain worms. I would apologize but I think we’re well past that.

So, like, full disclosure that I am pretty new to dsmp and am surely missing out on big ol swathes of Essential Character Content, etc etc. But I do know the basics, and I’ve (naturally) watched all the Torture Box Content, because I mean come on, that’s my brand.

k so First of all, THE most essential part of any media: x-coded y girl. Dream is a textbook Cas-coded Sam girl. Sam (Minecraft) is a Cas-coded Dean girl. Quackity is a Dean-coded Sam girl. I’d say Tommy is Dean-Dean. Techno is, hmm, Cas-Cas. Okay, important part done.

Minecraft Sam is very fun! I find it absolutely delightful that he clings to moral high ground while torturing and starving a prisoner. And at least from what I’ve seen, there’s a lot of room for interpretation as to the level of guilt and involvement he actually feels about what’s being done to Dream. He goes back and forth between justifying the treatment as something Dream categorically deserves, and justifying it as a means to an end. Whether that end is the book itself, or whether it’s Quackity’s cooperation/satisfaction, or whether it’s some twisted and bloody sense of justice and duty, seems to vary wildly. On top of that, of course, is the irony that Dream was the one to give him this commission and this job in the first place: in every respect, it’s a duty to Dream (to punish him; to secure him; to uphold his rules) that Sam’s fulfilling. Dream isn’t the only one to suffer from Sam’s inflexibility surrounding the entire concept of Dream: Tommy and Ponk do too.

And yet it’s not the inflexibility that ends up hurting Dream the worst: it’s the gaps in that rigidity. If Sam had kept the prison operating as apparently originally commissioned, it would be inhumane but just about bearable: hardly the level of absurd, over-the-top war crime that it’s reached by now. His choice to begin starving Dream in earnest seems to have been mostly an emotional reaction, after Tommy’s death. (Ironic, too, that Tommy also suffered the result of this choice.) And this is fine, because it’s not active: it’s passive, something that’s happening by inaction. Same with giving Quackity specially made weapons and total carte blanche.

The level of trust that Dream has in Sam’s sense of duty is also fascinating. Even as late as the most recent stream, after the guy’s been permitting him to be tortured for months, Dream appeals to Sam’s need to keep Dream static, in one place as his prisoner, in order to save his life. Incidentally, I do think that convincing Sam to keep Quackity from straight-up murdering him is the only concession Dream was actually hoping to win with that conversation. because like, food and a courtyard visit? after a jail break? Like hell is Sam going to grant that, even before the stunt he and Techno pulled, and Dream knows it. I think that the rest of that conversation was just to deflect, and keep Sam from questioning Dream more sharply about whatever he and Techno have planned. Bringing up Tommy and letting Sam go off on his predictable diatribe about morality and just desserts seemed similarly strategic: Dream knows what Sam thinks about what kind of treatment he deserves. He’s had months to figure it out, and it wasn’t exactly rocket science to begin with.

Anyway, that trust is the same reason Dream appealed (unsuccessfully) to Sam when Quackity first showed up: it devastated him to realize that he’d miscalculated the degree of Sam’s willingness to set aside his duty in this one particular way. Quackity in general represents a HUGE blind spot in Sam’s otherwise completely rigid inflexibility: so huge it’s almost baffling, given what Sam was ready to do to Tommy and Ponk and Ghostbur. But Quackity represents a loophole Sam badly wants. He badly, badly wants some good old-fashioned vengeance, without dressing it up with any pretensions of procedure or justice, but he can’t allow himself to actively act on those impulses—or else he would be Bad, and he can’t have that. He has to believe himself to be Good, and he wants to indulge himself with Dream’s suffering anyway. So he explains that, actually, Dream’s treatment is Dream’s own fault. It’s hilariously deluded.

Which brings me to Quackity, because what makes Quackity fun is that he’s actually NOT hilariously deluded—not about this, at least. Unlike Sam, he’s not laboring under the insane mental acrobatics necessary to convince himself that torture is Good Actually. He knows that what he’s doing is terrible, but he owns it: he’s fine admitting that he enjoys it, that he’s doing this for personal gain and personal vengeance and not for reasons of high-minded civic duty. He’s justifying the torture with brutal simplicity: Dream has hurt him and Dream has something he needs, done and done. He seems to be a firm believer in vengeful and disproportionate retribution, just as with his whole Butcher Army thing. To which I say, neat and fun! I also really really enjoy the power dynamic between him and Dream. Dream is someone who commands respect and fear and power, who could murder Quackity with one hand tied behind his back if they were on equal footing, and who probably barely spared him a thought as a threat. Quackity lives in terror of the thought of Dream escaping and wreaking his vengeance. And Quackity is trying his very best to wrestle that power away from him.

He seems to be pretty unpracticed and ineffective at torture, too—like, yeah, I get this is Minecraft and props are limited, but torturing someone long-term with an ax and a sword is going to be more than a bit unwieldy. and did he even bring in health potions his first day? It’s pretty telling and hilarious that Sam is the one who offers the shears, a far more practical choice of tool. Not to mention that the entire premise of his interrogation gives Dream massive, massive incentive to never give Quackity anything. Quackity straight up admits to Dream that the information he wants is the only reason he’s letting Dream live, which is utterly counterproductive if he wants the book sometime this year. Functionally, he needs to torture Dream not merely into admission, but into suicide. And as the days and weeks and months pass, he’s still got nothing to show for it but growing vindictiveness, paranoia, and frustration. By the time of the latest stream, he’s completely lost the plot—his threats don’t even make sense, his violence is ineffective and unhinged and indiscriminate. He’s lost all leverage and he’s needlessly (re)made a powerful enemy in Technoblade.

So, like, characters like Lucifer are fun because they’re good at torture. Characters like Quackity are fun because they’re bad at torture. But that doesn’t much matter. He doesn’t need to be particularly talented, or strong, or skilled to make Dream’s existence hell: the bare facts of the situation are more than enough for that. What does he learn, over the course of these visits—what skills does he hone, what kinds of violence does he discover that he can stomach? What depths of ruthlessness and creativity and hatred does he discover within himself? What threats does he make that he finds himself following through on before he’s even thought through the implications? It’s a learning curve, for him and Dream both. They’re learning each other, they’re learning the corners of this little hell together. Dream wasn’t expecting him to be capable of this degree of hostility or violence. Quackity is sick of being underestimated.

Which brings me finally to Dream. My general and hastily-gleaned impression of the fandom gives me the distinct impression that there is somehow a school of thought convinced Dream’s earned this treatment? Which baffles me. not only in how its absurd extremity (daily torture in a tiny box for literal months, jesus fucking christ) isn’t something even the most terrible villain could earn, but also in how Dream himself strikes me more as a morally gray fallen/falling antihero type than anything else. I was honestly completely prepared to find him to be a straightforward Bad Guy pre-prison, but that’s not at all my impression. He’s clearly got people and things he cares about and wants to protect, and big picture goals he’ll ruthlessly sacrifice anything to advance (ahem Cas-coded Sam girl). Really, it’s more that roleplays don’t tend to lend themselves easily to those types of narrative classification: nearly every character is a POV character; consuming the content from every perspective is nearly impossible. There aren’t super neat ways to sort antagonists and protagonists in essential terms, only in their relationships to one another. In terms of manipulation, war crimes, power-grabbing, and general destruction, practically everyone on the server is guilty to some degree or another. Dream’s treated Tommy pretty damn terribly, but that hardly makes him unique. What does make Dream unique is that he’s been singled out for near-universally-agreed-upon confinement (which oh so conveniently aligns with him being held as a tool, for information). And that’s neat!

…Look, tldr I just like it when people are in torture boxes. more media should have torture boxes, they are good and fun. 

#not spn #anyway nonny I would LOVE to chat more about this tbh #suicide mention #torture #dsmp for ts

[nahimjustaworm]

BakuDeku Titanic AU

the moon is on fire

Chapter One | balance yourself like a bird on a beam

Author: WorminaWall on AO3

He took a step out of the car, thankful to finally be out of that god awful cramped space. The trip had seemed far too long, and any time he spent stuck with his mother was always a test of his willpower. Though, he supposed that this next week he would yet again be stuck with her without anywhere to run- while having to play nice with the other rich pricks they were traveling with. Dinners, small talk, people trying to get chummy with him. He would’ve had more motivation to be more civil if the end of the trip meant the end of dealing with all these assholes. Instead, this was just the beginning of his misery. A tease of sorts- the preview into the rest of his life.

Without bothering to see if Eijiro was following, he began to walk towards the ship. The excitement buzzing around him sounded like wasps in his ears. All the hustle and bustle just irritated him more and the hulking mass of this supposed “luxury” appeared to him as nothing more than a holding cell. It leered over him, a mere prison here to escort him back to America where he’d play the pawn until he died.

“Sir, wait!” He ignored the call, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. He pulled at the collar of his shirt, wishing that he could just pop off the first couple of buttons. Why did it have to be so tight? “Sir!”

He huffed out a sigh. Ever since he had finished up university he hadn’t gone a single day without someone needing something from him, constantly asking him questions and bothering his peace (or what little peace was afforded to him).

“Make sure the bags make it to the room.” He called behind his shoulder and continued walking on.

“You wouldn’t dare walk away from your mother, would you?” He stopped again upon hearing her voice, fisting his hands at his side. “Or your fiance?”

He inhaled deeply, trying to swallow down a curse. He needed a drink- badly. Not trusting himself to reply civilly, he turned around completely and made his way to the side of the carriage, extending his hand to assist his mother out despite knowing full well she could get out of the damn car by herself.

“Be nice,” she whispered sternly as she made her way down the step, gripping firmly at his arm, “and behave yourself. Go escort her into the ship.”

He clenched his jaw and stood still for a moment before walking to the car behind them, not bothering with a reply. Do this, do that, don’t say this, don’t act like that. Every fucking day. A damn nightmare.

“Himiko,” he said as politely as possible as he opened the door for her, though it was hard to sound polite through gritted teeth. At this point, it was to be expected from him, and she chose to ignore it as she hooked her arm through his. “Eijiro will make sure your belongings are brought to your room.”

“No need,” she said, waving her free hand. “Jin has them.”

Of course. Though he was quite indifferent to Jin, he couldn’t help but hope the poor bastard would be left behind. He was getting sick of nosey people coming up to him and making snide remarks about his fiance’s butler. Honestly, he couldn’t give two shits if she was being “unfaithful” to him- in fact he was thankful that she was distracted half of the time with his company- but constantly hearing about how inappropriate it was or how he shouldn’t allow her to spend so much time with him grated on his nerves. He didn’t give two shits about what she did behind his back.

They boarded the ship with ease, making their way to the stateroom quickly. It was only a matter of time before his mother forced him to go to lunch with the other pompous bastards, and he needed a whiskey.

“You certainly drink a lot,” Himiko said as he began pouring his second glass. He wasn’t enthusiastic about sharing a stateroom with her, though he supposed it was better than sharing with his mother. Either way, he was going to have to figure out how to avoid the both of them as much as possible despite, not having many places to hide on this godforsaken ship.

“Think of it as celebrating,” he said dryly. “When I get back I’ll be the new CEO of the company.”

“And married,” she chirped, grinning at him. He avoided looking at her, and instead gave a short nod, acknowledging her words. He downed the drink in one go, just in time for his mother to walk in.

“Katsuki, put on your jacket. Time for lunch with the Todorokis.”

The Todorokis were a big name family. Not only was the head of the house powerful, but he was intimidating in both stature and influence. Plus, being the chairman of the damn company that owned the ship they were on, they were filthy rich and thus had a gaggle of people sucking up to them.

But he wasn’t the one to watch out for. Despite his power and all his money he was relatively harmless, as long as you stayed in his good graces. It was his son, Touya, who you needed to keep a watchful eye out for. Known in the underground simply as “Dabi”, he was the guy you could never turn your back on. And it was just Katsuki’s luck that he was a close family friend of the Togas. Both him and his slimy “friend” Shigaraki were close with Himiko, which meant Katsuki had spent more time with them than he had ever wanted. As much as he didn’t like being around Jin, those two were worse. Though no one ever complained about Himiko spending time with them (at least out loud, for fear of retribution) they were far more insufferable to try tolerating. Katsuki wasn’t the rosiest of people out there, but Dabi and Tomura were downright sick.

As much as he didn’t care about Himiko, it was unsettling to know the company she surrounded herself with. Not for the first time he wondered if one of these days she was going to slit his throat as he slept. Maybe after they married. For now he was going to have to sit through another meal and act like he cared about what everyone was saying.

“How are you feeling about taking over the family business?”

Katsuki felt an elbow poke into his side. “What?” he hissed at his mother.

“Mr. Hakamata asked you a question.” She smiled tensely and nodded at the man in question.

“My apologies,” he muttered, earning him another subtle jab into his ribcage. “What was that?”

“How do you feel about taking over the family business?” he repeated. Though his tone of voice was genuinely kind and interested, it still rubbed Katsuki the wrong way.

“Fine,” he replied, trying not to lose his temper. After all, Mr. Hakamata was a loyal customer and a friend of the family and Katsuki wasn’t stupid. But how did everyone expect him to feel about prematurely having to take over his father’s job?

He could feel his mother’s gaze boring holes into the side of his head. Clenching his hand into a fist, he continued. “It’ll be nice returning home. I’m looking forward to partnering with Mr. Toga as we expand our company.”

It was a rehearsed reply, one he had said a dozen times before. He only wished it were true.

“I’m very sorry about your father’s passing, he was a dear friend of mine.”

Katsuki nodded numbly.

“Yes, our condolences as well,” Mr. Todoroki said, though he didn’t seem too mournful.

Soon the conversation shifted to the boat itself. Enji Todoroki and his inflated sense of importance to match his big, obnoxious ship. Katsuki couldn’t deny its luxury, but he wasn’t going to blow smoke up his backside. If anyone was worth any praise it would be Mr. Hakamata who designed the damn thing.

Katsuki poured himself another drink.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough for today?” his mother asked, clearly irritated.

“I don’t have to be in the office for another week,” he replied curtly, raising his glass in a mocking way.

Without missing a beat, Mr. Yagi raised his glass as well.

“I’ll drink to that,” he said with a grin. Katsuki could see from the corner of his eye Todoroki giving the older man a distasteful look. Though he was not fondly spoken of by the other people in their circles, Katsuki didn’t mind him. Especially now.

“If you will all excuse me,” he said as he finished his drink and rose from the table. Giving Himiko the briefest of nods and intentionally not looking at his mother (who was no doubt enraged at his rude departure) he exited the room. He needed a moment to breathe. Though the alcohol made it easier to tolerate everyone’s bull, he was starting to feel overwhelmed.

Upon leaving the room, he beelined it to the edge of the deck. Gripping the railing to steady himself, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply from his nose. Exhale. Okay. That was better. No people to bite his tongue for. No woman nagging in his ear, though maybe it was a good idea to take it easy on the drinking for the rest of the day.

He opened his eyes, finally getting a good look at the seemingly endless expanse of the ocean. Home. He was going home. Not out of choice, but out of obligation. Fucking fantastic.

Scanning the lower deck, his eyes caught a flash of green. What he wasn’t expecting was for it to be looking back at him.

He inhaled sharply, a little caught off guard by the intensity of the person’s gaze. Even from this distance he could see the… quizzical look on his face. Almost as if he was asking with his eyes, Are you okay?

Katsuki shivered, discomforted by this stranger but somehow unable to look away. He narrowed his eyes.

“There you are.” He felt a tap on his shoulder and jerked out of his reverie. “Did I scare you?”

“No,” he grumbled his reply, finally able to tear his gaze away from the strange boy with bright green eyes.

“Your mother would like to go over some wedding plans with us before dinner tonight.” Himiko smiled, sharp and threatening, daring him to make an excuse. “Walk with me?”

He stood still for a moment, wanting to look back to see if that boy was still looking at him. With a minute shake of his head, he dismissed the thought, and silently relenting, he extended his arm out to her.

Read more on AO3 >

#bakudeku #katsudeku #bkdk #bkdk au #ktdk #fanfiction #AO3 fanfic

[dalekofchaos]

My hopes for WWE & AEW in 2021 and things I hope changes  for WWE and AEW in 2021

Hopes

WWE

Roman Reigns stays dominant and reigns supreme as the Tribal Chief

Keith Lee wins the Royal Rumble,  joins The Hurt Business and brings the WWE Champion to the Hurt Business

Naomi returns and joins The Hurt Business and dethrones Asuka to take home the gold

The Hurt Business DOMINATES Raw

Bianca Belair wins the Royal Rumble and dethrones Sasha Banks at Wrestlemania

The Riott Squad win the Women’s Tag Team Champions

Unify the men’s Tag Team Championships 

Unveil a new Title and give us WWE’s very first Television Championship. It should be styled similar to the NWA and WCW’s TV belts, but on the sideplates it should include USA and Fox on the plates. Shelton Benjamin or Ricochet should be the TV Championship 

Big E reigns supreme as Intercontinental Champion and finally gets to face Roman for the Universal Championship at Wrestlemania 38

Rhea Ripley gets called up and goes to Smackdown

Mercedes Martinez dethrones Io Shirai and becomes NXT Women’s Champion

Karrion Kross reclaims the NXT Championship

Anyone but Johnny Sameface as NXT North American Champion

Queen Of The Ring. The amount of female talent available on Raw, SmackDown, NXT and NXT UK is quite something. It's clear that this is the richest women's division in WWE history. They really should do something with all those workers. The 'Mae Young Classic' tourneys have been fine, but people would trip over themselves to see a fully-fledged 'Queen Of The Ring' epic staged across multiple nights. If booked correctly, this tournament could help establish a new contender for top titles. If she isn't Champion by then(though she should be) the perfect person to become Queen Of The Ring would be Bianca Belair! Bianca Belair would have unparalleled credibility for her 'StrongEST, FastEST, ToughEST' mantra if she whipped a bevy of skilled workers to become the first 'Queen'. WWE could also get creative by linking the event in with Charlotte Flair's nickname and spinning off into a feud between her and the winner afterwards.

Form Full-Time Female Tag-Teams and keep them around. The Women’s Tag Team DIvision is a mess. Keep creating makeshift Tag Teams and breaking up established tag teams and your tag team division is dead. The current champs and their predecessors haven't even been "proper" full-time duos - Nia Jax and Shayna Baszler were shoved together awkwardly in the summer, and they've since been replaced by the unlikely Asuka and Charlotte Flair combo. This cannot be allowed to continue. It's damning that WWE don't have more fully-formed pairings ready to go. The Riott Squad are perhaps the only actual twosome who are presented as a tight-knit collective weekly. Other than that, who is there? Considering the belts have been around for a few years now, that's unacceptable. The IIconics split, so did Sasha Banks and Bayley, and the scene is littered by 'odd couple' tandems like Mandy Rose and Dana Brooke, Lacey Evans and Peyton Royce, and Billie Kay teaming with the likes of Natalya or Tamina when it suits.

Ensure NXT is treated like a proper third brand rather than a quasi-development league for Raw and SmackDown. NXT has been on USA Network for over a year now, but it's still very much behind both Raw and SmackDown as a priority. Need proof? Look at the way Keith Lee was handled when he was "called up" after SummerSlam 2020. The former NXT Champ had to start all over again, and he's had several teething problems on Monday nights. It'd be nice to see WWE move away from positioning NXT as a 'feeder' for the other two shows. Changing someone's gimmick when they leave makes the brand look less-than, and there's simply no need for that anymore; NXT should be an equal to Raw and SmackDown, not a development league. Sadly, it still comes across as that. Lee's stop/start plight and the (mis)fortunes of others like Aleister Black and Ricochet should be a lesson to WWE. Some workers are better off rocking the black and yellow, not the red or blue.

AEW

Darby Allin becomes AEW World Heavyweight Champion

Adam Page costs Kenny the title and Page gets revenge and DESTROYS Kenny

MJF destroys the inner circle from within and when Jericho realizes what just happened, that’s when MJF and Wardlow destroys Jericho

Which is when we get a Sammy Guevara babyface turn and we get MJF vs Sammy

Arn Anderson turns on Cody

AEW’s Four Horsemen is formed. MJF, Shawn Spears and FTR with Tully and Arn managing as the JJ DIllon mouthpieces

Darby Allin and MJF feud for the title

The Women’s Division is improved. The girls get more time to shine on Dynamite. Your champion actually appears(shocking, I know) and build feuds and stories for your women’s division. There’s still some time to do what’s right for your women’s division, but the only thing that remains to be seen, does the powers that be of AEW even care?

Get a new title design for the Women’s Championship. It looks like a toy for a child. It’s plastic, not gold.  It should be as big and beautifully designed as the men’s titles. It should be as big as the NWA’s title or even the WWE’s title. The title is symbolic as to how AEW treats it’s own women’s division and that needs to change with a fresh new design.

Sign Thunder Rosa. It may not fix everything with the women’s division, but it gives you your needed star power. Tony Khan should be begging on his hands and knees to sign Thunder Rosa in 2021 after her time with the NWA is up, his women’s division is getting their asses kicked by what his EVP refers to as a “developmental brand”

If you can’t sign Thunder Rosa. My solution is Push Anna Jay and  Britt Baker as the top face and heel of the women’s division and either of them dethrone Shida.

Changes

WWE

Leave whatever that monstrosity of a creative team they have for RAW is. Let the Wrestlers dictate what they want their characters to be. Ditch the scripted promos. Let promos feel organic and real. Let the wrestlers be characters who feel real and genuine. Get rid of a “Creative” that isn't creative and let the wrestlers be creative and let them be free of terrible creative.

Get rid of the Gimmick PPV. WWE has ruined gimmick matches by turning them into themed PPVs. none of these matches are organic or special anymore. The matches themselves are great but are booked to fit a theme of a pay-per-view, when they should be used organically at the height of feuds. no one cares about the name of PPVs, so i don’t understand why WWE does this. the only one that actually works is MITB, because it makes sense as storylines reset after Mania.

Scrap the Brand Warfare/Brand Supremacy. WWE should scrap the tired brand warfare format at Survivor Series and move away from Raw vs. SmackDown completely. Booking around a calendar has become company law in WWE over the past decade or so. Perhaps McMahon always formatted things this way really, but it's more glaring now that gimmick bouts like Elimination Chamber, Hell In A Cell and Money In The Bank have their own pay-per-views. Survivor Series, with it's played out Raw vs. SmackDown vibes, also needs a rethink. "Brand warfare" is boring now, and it has been for several years. Although 2020's event was fun, it's nonetheless true that the month-long build to Survivors feels like a repetitive slog fans are forced to sit through every November. Hopefully, 2021 will change that. It is possible to book traditional elimination bouts without some sort of false show loyalty - WWE did this almost every single year until the first brand split in 2002. Their over-reliance on Raw vs. SmackDown is plain lazy. Survivor Series should be revolved around great rivalries between stables/factions. It’s really not that hard. Or at the very least if there IS a Smackdown vs Raw themed Survivor Series, at least add a damn reward. Give the brand a head start in the Rumble,, give the winners of the match number one contenders for their brand’s respective titles or ANYTHING better than just “brand supremacy lol”

Get rid of the 24/7 title. It has run it’s course. R-Truth is funny, but even he can’t make it work anymore.

Stop. Breaking. Up. Tag Teams. Stop killing your Tag Team Division. For the love of god just stop!

Cut Akira Tozawa’s ninja bullshit. It’s not funny, it’s annoying

Kill Retribution. It’s complete garbage. It has been consistently terrible ever since Retribution began. Mustafa Ali cannot save Retribution, he’s trying but no one can save it. 

Stop the 50/50 booking

Stop rewarding Nia Jax, the living botch machine for injuring her fellow wrestlers

Stop pushing Lars Sullivan. Absolutely no one wants him. 

They should cut raw to 2 hours because 3 hours is unbearable

Stop the overreliance of part time wrestlers. I don’t want to see Goldberg being pushed at the expense of today’s talent and I don’t want to see Goldberg period. I don’t want to see Brock Lesnar return at the expense of today’s talent. I don’t want to see Legends return. Push your current fucking wrestlers and make stars. You idiots!

Do not rush Becky Lynch back to the ring, she just had a baby. I read the reports that Vince wants Becky back by Wrestlemania. That is a terrible decision

Stop killing pushes because Vince changed his mind

Enough with “creative has nothing for you” if your “creative” has nothing for a certain wrestler, then they are not creative. Either let the wrestlers appear on the show or release them if you don’t want them anymore, it’s simple as that.

Do. Not. Put. The. Title. On. Goldberg. Goldberg should not have beaten Bray Wyatt's 'Fiend' for the Universal Title at Super ShowDown in February - that was a huge mistake, one that set Bray back and felt totally unnecessary. In 2021, WWE should outright avoid any temptation to repeat the trick and give ol' Billy another go-around with one of the top titles. If anything, Goldberg's only purpose should be to play victim for a quick Roman Reigns squash. Get through that elusive match then turn Bill into a company ambassador. He doesn't need to pretend it's still 1998 all these years on.

AEW

Leave the overabundance of spots just for the sake of spots and enough with the false finishes. Jim Ross was right, like it or not, the spots for the sake of spots and the false finishes need to end. This is my major problem with AEW and why I can’t stand The Elite in general. Everyone just needs to  get their shit in. Everything looks fake. No one can look strong or credible and we have to see garbage Indy wrestlers and the spot monkeys make everything look fake and phony. The champions never look credible and everyone is on the level of job guys. This needs to change

Stop leaving your Women’s Champion off the show. It is downright insulting how dirty they are doing Hikaru Shida. She deserves as much time to shine as the other champions deserve.

Stop putting the NWA Women’s Champion as more of a priority than your own Women’s Champion

Enough with Brandi. Why is the women’s division given absolutely 0 screentime and barely anytime to develop their stories, but Brandi is ALWAYS THERE! Everything has to be about her. When a feud between Cody and Shaq was close to happening, of course it had to be about her. She’s turned heel/face as much time as the Big Show. I’ve grown tired of Brandi Rhodes. Stop shoving that attention whore down our throats. WE GET IT! You wanna be Stephanie so bad!

Enough with Cody’s big dramatic midlife crisis entrances. We get it, you wanna be Triple H SO BAD!

Stop the petty bullshit shots at WWE. It was fun at first, but it’s getting annoying. This is Eric Bischoff giving away the results and “That’ll put butts in the seats” level of petty bullshit. AEW had the fucking nerve to tweet a fan’s post saying they did a better tribute for Brodie Lee than WWE. HE JUST DIED! AND YOU ARE MAKING IT ABOUT YOUR FUCKING RIVALRY? GROW THE FUCK UP!

#WWE #AEW #Roman Reigns #Bianca Belair #Keith Lee #Naomi #Ruby Riott #Liv Morgan #Shelton Benjamin #Ricochet #Big E #Rhea Ripley #Mercedes Martinez #Karrion Kross #Darby Allin #MJF #Chris Jericho #Sammy Guevara #Wardlow #Shawn Spears #FTR #Dax Harwood #Cash Wheeler #Hikaru Shida #Thunder Rosa #Anna Jay #Britt Baker

[silentauroriamthereal]

So, a question about Mary inspired by your recent post. I know you hate her (I think she is horrible too), but is she a character that you love to hate? Do you think she is an interesting character? Does she fit a role she is written to play? There are many characters who are terrible people, but are still great characters in all their hateful glory (I think Moriarty was like that until he got turned into a caricature). Is Mary one of those for you or not?

Interesting question. I would have to say no, though. For me, what makes me appreciate a character in any respect is a combination of things, such as how interesting I find them, whether or not their motivations feel clear and well-founded, consistency, continuity in writing/characterization. Sometimes other factors, like how sympathetic I find them, or how likeable or admirable I find them in spite of agreeing wholeheartedly that the character is a terrible person from every moral standpoint. Some of these things are more subjective than others. From where I’m standing, the BBC version of Mary Morstan is severely lacking in a lot of these areas, but most sorely in having well-founded motivations and consistency/continuity. I don’t find her to be a well-written character, at all. Let me break this down a bit.

1. Do I find the character likeable in spite of moral flaws (and is this important)? No, to both. There are definitely villains that I do find likeable in spite of obvious moral failings. The obvious comparison in the BBC Sherlock world would be Moriarty. He’s obvious a terrible human being - a literal terrorist - but he’s so damned charming about it that you almost can’t help but root for him, in a way. Loki in the MCU universe is rather like that. Other villains, like Benedict’s Khan, are sympathetic not because they’re charming, but they’re intelligent and have genuinely understandable motivations (the safeguarding of his crew, for instance). Does a villain have to be likeable to be a well-written villain? Absolutely not. To use two other examples in the BBC Sherlock universe, I would cite both Magnussen and Culverton Smith. Horrible men. Good consistency of writing. Not charming or sympathetic in any way, but solidly written characters. Do I love them/love to hate them? No. I just dislike them, full stop. 

2. Do I find her motivations well-founded or sympathetic? No, neither. Mary is a character who, canonically (aka this bit is not subjective to my personal opinion): 

lied about her name, background, personal history, all of it, to the man she claims to love, never apologized for it or demonstrated any manner of remorse

is canonically someone who kills people and destabilizes governments (at the very least) for personal gain, never faced any consequences in terms of criminal justice or retribution for these crimes or indicated any manner of remorse for them 

attacked her own maid of honour - a person whom she befriended for the sole reason of gaining access to her boss’s office - and left her bleeding on the floor, never demonstrated any manner of remorse for this, either

her motivations are weirdly unfounded. The best example of this is her choice to shoot Sherlock rather than Magnussen that night. Her initial motivation was to ensure Magnussen’s silence so that John wouldn’t find out who she really was/so that she wouldn’t be forced to face justice for her criminal history. Shooting Sherlock did nothing to ensure Magnussen’s silence. If she intended Sherlock to die, it would have ensured HIS silence, but not Magnussen’s. If she didn’t intend Sherlock to die, then I’m not sure what it accomplished, since the very first thing he did once he was physically able was to tell John - exactly what she didn’t want. And it still did nothing to ensure Magnussen’s silence. She just left that wide open and instead made the extremely overboard choice to shoot the best man at her own wedding (not hugely worse than attacking the maid of honour, but still). She could have tried appealing for his help, using compassion for John as a persuading factor. She could have tried threatening HIM at gunpoint to guarantee his ongoing silence. Instead she went straight for the heart, quite literally. Unfounded and ineffective - a really irritating combination! 

3. Do I find the character consistently written with solid continuity? NO. This is probably my biggest beef with the character. The worst, I find, is being sold a crock of horseshit about Mary having had some sort of redemption “arc”. An arc, by definition, is a shape that has a beginning, a peak, and an end. There was no lead-up to this “peak” moment of Mary suddenly discovering remorse for having shot Sherlock - that, and nothing else. There was nothing in the writing or in her characterization to support such an out-of-left-field move. There was no gradual shift in her motivations, which were consistently to that point nothing more than self-preservation, protecting her own interests: keep John in the dark so that he couldn’t make an informed decision for himself, tell any lie to keep what she wants (John, albeit an ignorant version of him), run away/protect herself. She deserted her AGRA teammates, leaving literally half of them behind to suffer torture and/or death without even confirming that they were beyond rescue, then repeated her pattern, attacking Sherlock (AGAIN) and running off to leave John and her own child behind. Her lack of remorse for any of this was consistent as well - she clearly felt wholly justified in all of these actions, that she had nothing to apologize for. That JOHN was the one in the wrong by not speaking to her for “months of silence” after she shot his best friend in the heart, that she had every right to dictate what John could or could not do, that he had no right to have a say in naming their child, that she somehow “had” to shoot Sherlock, that John and Sherlock were so much less intelligent than she was that she couldn’t have them “hanging off her gun arm” - when in fact, it was John who outsmarted her by planting the tracking device in the USB key that he already knew she would attack Sherlock over and steal. 

4. Do I find the character admirable, if not likeable? No. Mary is a coward, interested in nothing beyond what she wants. She has no noble, greater motivations than personal gain. She doesn’t care about what consequences her actions have, least of all on the man she supposedly “loves”, or on her own infant that she left behind. She commits crimes for money, not out of some need to defend the innocent, patriotic reasons (which I personally don’t subscribe to anyway, but others do), self-defense, even - just money. I find that so completely gross. Money =/= an admirable motivation, especially not when it’s gained through literal murder. I admire honesty, courage, self-sacrifice, real love, which puts the needs and wants and health of the beloved above one’s own. Mary demonstrates absolutely none of these things. She wants for herself and no one else, and I have never once swallowed this notion that she’s somehow smarter than Sherlock, Mycroft, and John combined. Not only did John himself outwit her with ease, but it felt like transparent pandering to Amanda Abbington as recompense for them writing her out of the show. And then they doubled down on it with creating some ghost version of Mary that John needs some SERIOUS therapy to deal with that actually bore no resemblance to Mary as she actually was, then gave her that gross voiceover that reasonlessly granted her credit for having created one of the greatest friendships in English literary history. That, at least, is consistent with the writers having had Mary set herself up as the broker of John and Sherlock’s friendship in TEH, which I also never bought. They didn’t need her help; John just needed time to cool down and come to understand - he couldn’t even last 24 hours without going to find Sherlock of his own accord. They didn’t need her “help” and she certainly didn’t “create” them. 

So yeah, no: I hate the character, hate the inconsistency even more, wish they had followed through with the solid villain arc they actually wrote. I don’t think that Mary is “strong” or “interesting” just because she uses violence for personal gain. I don’t think she’s a good role model or an interesting character - I just see selfishness, greed, and cowardice. 

#sherlock #that wife #not tagging the character because I'd rather not bring the stans down on me! #john watson #moftiss #northernstardust

[gayregis]

oh dandelion is such a weird case tbh. like all the sleazy shit he does is entirely unnecessary imo but people have latched onto the womanizing and all as such a huge important part of is character that no one seems to really question it? and in part due to mistranslations its treated by fans as a whole as way less harmful than it is? idk but honestly its part of why i just think hes gay now bc his canon sexuality is a mess nd basically every non-platonic interaction he has with a woman is gross

(this is part 2 ig? sorry shdjs) for example idk how it looks in the translations but in the original like. one of the very first things dandelion talks about is how he groped one of nenneke's students, and the bit with the brothel in eternal flame is. really awful when you look at it esp with the (horribly constructed but still) race dynamics in-universe, when he talks about "being able to afford a half-elf or maybe even a full-blooded elf" like idk its just. Bad and i think ppl gloss over it

(okay i started writing this part of the response before i got part 2): yes, it seems to me like a lot of him is based on this trope of the slovenly womanizer bastard-sort, but sapkowski does nothing to invert that part of the trope, lol. he disproved being a coward, because he was brave to follow geralt into brokilon/stand up for geralt’s life in dol blathanna/etc. he disproved being an idiot, because he makes intelligent observations sometimes. he disproves being selfish, because he is very caring for geralt and others. but he does nothing to disprove womanizing/misogyny, perhaps except for how he treats essi as his little sister, and for how he is appropriate with shani and also good to ciri. also i suppose in something ends, something begins he has female friends who he does not act disgusting to.

(this is considering part 2 as well): YES. there are so many little stupid fucking moments that drive me insane. such as that one, i already mentioned the rape joke to yennefer in limits of the possible/bounds of reason, the comment he made about she-elves in eternal flame was disgusting, all of his stupidity when he first met milva (commenting on her body, and also making a comment about how zerikkanian women cut off one of their breasts to shoot better, even though this is refuted by milva). how he says in lady of the lake that women don’t need money, since they don’t drink or gamble (in the presence of milva, who has drunken in his presence, and angouleme, for whom gambling is part of her backstory). also commenting on how he finds philippa scary and that he categorizes women into “fuckable” and “nonfuckable” basically. i think his comments towards yennefer in a little sacrifice are maybe the least horrible (just saying that she is old and isn’t a ‘normal woman’ because she is artifically young due to being a sorceress) but is still annoying.

i feel like the concept of brothel-going in general is supposedly “of the setting/time” and is normalized in their society but is taboo and mildly alarming to at least some in a modern audience,

i think it is also partially due to sapkowski normalizing the brothel-culture in-universe, and also (on the translators ends, too?) to be keen i guess to use terms like “whore”, like i think he calls toruviel in edge of the world something like “stupid whore,” which, if it came out of a man’s mouth today, hopefully he would be strangled.

the thing that is annoying is that he is a “good character,” he is literally the best friend of the main character, and is meant to represent that best-friend role. so his actions and sayings aren’t intended to villify him, but to be amusing, so it is assumed that the audience would find all of this amusing, which it’s not.

i think he can have this part of his personality (not misogyny, lol, but the “womanizing” as it relates to “being a dumbass”) without being so horrible, for example when vespula kicks him out of the house in eternal flame, i find this funny because he is obviously in the wrong, and he is experiencing punishment for it. additionally, things like repeating urban legends that zerrikanian women cut off their right breast in order to shoot better, to which milva ridicules him. or when he in his ballad sung that yennefer had a heart like a diamond that was unfeeling, and yennefer addresses this with him, and he shuts up and tries to steer the conversation elsewhere because it is obvious that he is terrified of her wrath...  it demonstrates that he is foolish and stupid, and is in the wrong, and can be made fun of. he did or said something (largely inconsequential, not violent or horrific) which was stupid, and is being ridiculed for it both in- and -out- of universe.

when he is in a position of power over the women however, saying derogatory things that men reading might agree with, that aren’t ever contested in-universe, then we have a problem. saying things like referring to women as whores, or trying to get a ‘full blooded she-elf’ at a brothel, or saying that he divides women into the fuckable and non-fuckable: these are never contested, he is never shamed for them, no one ever recieve retribution for them, and additionally, they are of a more violent and disgusting nature.

i feel like i treat geralt, yennefer, and dandelion all the same way overall. they each do and say some pretty messed-up things (geralt has sex with two barely 18-year old girls, yennefer smugly threatens to basically sexually assault geralt and was intending to mind-control a man into sex at belletyn (magic equivalent of a roofie; rape; what triss did to geralt), and dandelion espouses all of the misogynistic bullshit above). i like their characters but i simply cut this stuff out when i think about them because it adds nothing to them, only discomfort and disgust. it’s not intended to show “grey morality,” rather personal fallibility, and they are already fallible outside of such grossness. whether this affects if i headcanon dandelion as gay or bi i don’t know; i feel like it would be nice to rewrite some of his relationships with women to be more equal and less shitty (like how anna henrietta had an abusive husband beforehand and dandelion is not a violent man so ig it is nice to think she had some emotional love life with him around), but i also totally understand your perspective of just “there’s a lot to unpack here, but let’s just throw away the whole suitcase” haha. either way i think his [romantic] relationships with women are not very interesting at all, and i would rather focus on his platonic friendships with women, like milva, and/or mentorship/siblingship with essi. 

#dandelion #the witcher #misogyny m / #anon #ask

[ask-the-riders]

Making Things Right

Pestilence, being his usual goofy, gremlin self, prepared a prank for (probably) Death or Famine, but instead, Retribution was the one caught in it, and there were consequences.

Who knew a harmless, fun little prank could be so devastatingly triggering?

Damnit.

Damnit.

Damnit all.

Retribution growled loudly in agitation, looking at the broken table that now sat beside his chair. He knew Famine could easily fix it, and if that wasn't doable for whatever reason, it could be replaced. He slowly lifted his gaze, his cyan eye lights panning aroung his dimly lit room.

His desk chair had a large crack running down it's backing, all of the books on his shelf were strewn across the floor, some of his blankets and his curtains were torn, and his wardrobe had been thrown open, everything but the Orb of Darkness now scattered across the room. There was a crack on one of his windows and a decent sized hole in the wall, and he absentmindedly flexed his hand, trying to ignore the stinging, aching pain he felt.

Nearly breaking the clasp on his cloak, he pushed it off of himself, letting it pool on the floor before stepping away from it, pressing his hands over his head and grumbling to himself, "Shut up, shut up, I don't care anymore. Leave me be already!" The voice of a child echoed in his mind; it was laughter, followed by, "Wow, look at him! He's crying already! I didn't think he was even capable of FEELING anything in the first place!"

Retribution lowered himself to his bedroom floor, kneeling as he squeezed his sockets shut, "What part of 'leave me be' don't you understand?!" With his eyes now closed, he could picture everything clearly; a warm breeze, causing a soft fluttering of the leaves on the branch of the tree above him. The bark of its trunk dug into his back through his shirt, and he trembled, his sockets wide as he stared in shock and horror at the book that laid on the grass before him. The pages were viciously shredded and torn apart, the remains scattered and some of the pages already blown away by the wind.

His chest was tight, and he was almost gasping for air. He heard children laughing, shrinking back as one approached him and proudly stated, "Geez, no wonder nobody likes you. You're such a freak, Nightmare. Even if you were half as good as Dream, no one would like you!" There was a crack and he cried out, his hands flying up to touch his cheekbone.

The kid who'd approached him shamelessly held up a rock, a malicious grin on their face, "Y'know... the bible talks about bad people being stoned to death. And you're bad. You're evil, actually. Maybe you deserve to be stoned to death." Purple tears began dripping down his cheekbones and he trembled, his voice weak, "Please leave me alone... I won't tell anyone what happened, just go away already."

He was struck a second time, screaming as he pressed his hands over his damaged eye socket, his eye light having vanished and leaving the space empty. He sobbed harder in pain, all while the children continued to make a spectacle of him, and he hated it.

He hated it so very much.

When he killed the townspeople, he felt no remorse, only believing that they finally got what they deserved.

Opening his eyes as he felt a slight squeezing sensation around himself, he tensed. His ghostly tendrils had manifested, and they'd each coiled around him, as if mimicking a hug. Knowing what they were doing, his eyes began to sting and he cursed under his breath. As the first cyan tinted tear rolled down his face, a single tentacle released him, lifting itself to wipe away the tear.

This unusually soft action broke him, and he began to silently sob, attempting to cover his face with his hands and muffle his voice. Death and Famine were out for the day, and Conquest was off tending to her son. That only left Pestilence and War for him to deal with, and while he desperately hoped they wouldn't hear him, he tried to lie to himself, telling himself that even if they heard him, they wouldn't be foolish enough to come into his room without knocking.

They wouldn't come check on him when they were much more content making out in whatever room they pleased. As long as they were together, they didn't care about anyone else.

They wouldn't come check on him when they didn't care.

The rider, through his tears and flickering vision, turned his head, directing his attention to the flag that hung above his fireplace, and he sniffled, frowning deeply; oh, what he wouldn't give to have his dear brother back. Dream knew how to fix everything, and Dream made everything ok. Retribution's soul ached and he couldn't help the faint whimper that escaped him; he wanted Dream right now. Not some reincarnation of him. Not Conquest. Dream. He wanted Dream.

He felt the orb in his wardobe give off a pulse of magic and he drew in a shaky breath, feeling someone's phantom touch ghost along his cheek, followed by the softest of kisses on his forehead. God, he missed Lenore too.

Damnit all.

Damnit all to hell.

His entire body shook as he saw one of the children from his horrid memories before him, pointing and laughing as he sobbed, "You're supposed to be a guardian? That's funny! As if the universe would want a crybaby like you looking after anything!" They began approaching him, he scooted backward, crying softly as he felt his back press against some hard surface, likely a wall or the side of his bed. Maybe his desk or bookshelf, even. He wasn't paying attention.

As the child continued stalking toward him radiating dangerous intent, Retribution sobbed, holding his hands up to shield himself as he pleaded, "Stop it! Please don't hurt me again! Please, I'm begging you, it hurts!" He squeezed his sockets shut again out of fear, visibly trembling as he felt his tendrils fully recoil and vanish, leaving him more vulnerable than before. He felt someone's arms encircle him, one of their hands gently stroking the top of his skull in a comforting manner, and he flinched at the unexpected contact.

He hesitantly cracked his eyes open, a wave of embarrassment and shame washing over him when he saw the familiar black and white fabric of War's scarf, still wrapped loosely around her neck. She gently shushed him, continuing to stroke his head, and he very slowly raised a shaky hand to grip her sleeve. She paused, and he could feel the deep concern and sadness radiating from her. She was actually... genuinely worried about him.

She murmured a soft apology and began to withdraw, but he shook his head, not meeting her gaze as he brokenly begged, "No, please... You can't leave me alone, too..." He hated every moment of this; begging wasn't something he liked doing. If he had to pick a word to describe how he felt about having to beg, he'd say he absolutely despised it.

War let out a soft sigh, her arms once again wrapping around him. He continued to tremble, his fingers twitching as he clung to her, still feeling ashamed of himself. The female rider began to send pulses of soothing magic to him and he drew in a shaky breath, quietly asking why she'd come into his room.

Her voice was soft as she mumbled, gently resting her head atop his, "You called for me, Boss... No matter where we are, I'll be there to follow your calling." Retribution let out a deep sigh, "You don't have to keep calling me that, you know. I'm not your boss. Just call me by my name." Her answer was a few seconds delayed, and Ret blinked as he felt her confusion and uncertainty. Pulling back away from her, he cupped her face, tilting her head down so he could see her eyes, and she furrowed her brow bones, her confusion painfully evident in her voice, "Night...mare?..."

Sure enough, his mark was activated, glowing brightly over top of her normally solid white right eye light. Hearing her say his old name, he flinched, his sockets momentarily widening as he felt his anxiety spike. Attepting to speak past it, he cleared his throat, his voice strained, "No... Not Nightmare. Retribution. Retribution is my name. You know this, War. What's going on with you all of a sudden?"

The female rider blinked and tilted her head, still appearing dazed and confused. He waved her off, now more preoccupied with trying to pull himself back together as he felt a lump in his throat again. There was a soft squeak, and Retribution's cyan eye lights were quick to locate its source; seeing a rather large brown rat peeking at him from beneath his bed, he couldn't help but stare.

He wasn't sure how to feel all of a sudden. Rats were filthy creatures that only served to spread disease, and he wasn't fond of them in the slightest. The one he was currently looking at was easily as big as a typical house cat, and that sent another pang of anxiety straight to his soul. It took a few slow steps closer, squeaking at him again at peering at him through its dark, beady eyes.

The worry that the creature gave off was almost reassuring though; in a way, that meant it wasn't here to cause trouble, at the very least. It padded even closer, stopping only a foot or so away. Retribution took a deep breath, very reluctantly offering the animal a hand to sniff. As it registered his scent and fully recognized him, it pressed its head into his hand and proceeded to lay down, its tail curling around its body.

And then its ever-delightful owner (of sorts) appeared in his doorway, pushing the door open without even a single knock. He lacked the decency, so his intrusion wasn't all that surprising. He wore a look of clear confusion, calling out to the oversized rodent, "Rem... Remy, what are you doing in here? I thought I told you to..."

He trailed off, falling silent as he spotted Retribution sitting on his floor while War clung to him. One of his arms was around her, clutching her shirt, while his other was down by his side, his hand frozen in mid stroke as he pet Remy. Strolling further into the room and catching a glimpse of Ret's tear stained face and immediately noticing how tense he seemed, Pestilence sighed softly and tilted his head, his tone just as light hearted as ever, "Alright, edgelord. What's going on now?"

Retribution scoffed and narrowed his sockets, "Do you actually care, or are you just sticking your nose where it doesn't belong again?" Pestilence seemed taken aback, arching a brow bone at the other's tone, "Uhh... Maybe because I actually care? I know I'm not always the most pleasant person, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of being concerned about you, Ret."

Retribution huffed, and as he tried to pull his hand away from the animal at his side, Remy squeaked in protest, his small, almost hand-like front paws reaching out to grab onto one of Ret's fingers. That gesture, paired with the verbal confirmation that Pest cared about him to some degree, and the way War was nearly petting him seemed to break something inside him.

Full of shame and self loathing, he sniffled, glaring weakly up at Pestilence as he began to cry again, "You should know what the problem is! You shouldn't have ever set up that stupid gag! If you just left me alone like I asked, we wouldn't be here right now!" Pestilence was silent for a moment, before a look of realization crossed his face and he winced, his brow bones knit as he frowned, "Oh, that. Shit, sorry Ret. I didn't think it'd do this to you."

The former prince trembled, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed, "That's your problem... You never fucking stop and think about things, do you? The only things that ever occupy your mind would be your disgusting rats, and when the next time you'll get to put your hands on War might be."

Pestilence sucked in a deep breath, trying to stay as relaxed as possible despite Retribution's aura very gradually becoming heavier. As he responded, he spoke slowly, careful of his wording, "Maybe that's what it seems like, and I can't blame you for being under that impression. It's not true though, I swear. There's a lot going on in my head, that you don't know about. A lot of stuff that I don't say anything about because it hurts me when I think about it too much."

The shorter of the two guys chuckled, the sound almost bitter and mocking. He rolled his eye lights, "Oh, like what? The fact that all those years ago, you failed as a doctor and hurt more people than you helped? Or could it be the fact that your perfect soulmate here is the one who aided in the destruction of your AU, leading to the death of your brother?"

Pestilence shifted his gaze to War, who was very slowly beginning to come out of the mental haze that she'd been in. He sighed and looked back to Retribution, "If you think I don't know she was involved in that, you're mistaken. I'm well aware that it was her, Ret. She was younger, in a bad place, and while yeah, it hurts to know that she didn't tell Error off and just walk away, I love her. She's my everything now, so I forgave her. Her past actions do not determine the sort of person she'll become later on."

He paused, offering the other a small smile, "That's what you're supposed to do, when you love someone. You forgive them. You don't have to forget, but you can forgive." Retribution stared at him for a moment, clearly unsure what to say. As Pest began to approach him, the former prince's sockets narrowed in distrust. He watched as the other momentarily paused, removing his sash and placing it on his bed, and soon after, his syringe gun joined it.

Pestilence was entirely disarmed now, which was meant to help Retribution relax a bit. Ret was assuming that much, at least. He wasn't sure what Pest's game was, but he wasn't buying into it for a single second. As War's head finally cleared enough for her to start acting like her normal self again, she realized the position she was in, quickly piecing together what could've happened.

She met Pest's gaze with a questioning one of her her, and he merely shrugged in response before gesturing for her to move closer to him. As she moved, Retribution kept his sockets narrowed, still watching both of them closely. The pair of soulmates lowly mumbled to each other for a moment, before War nodded, smiling softly up at Pestilence. He delicately cupped her face, leaning closer to press his teeth to hers. Her cheekbones dusted a soft shade of blue and she reciprocated, almost appearing disappointed once he pulled away from the exchange.

Of course, Retribution could feel her disappointment. He could also feel her worry, paired with hope. What she was hoping for was beyond him, though. Approaching Retribution again, War knelt, gently scooping up the large rat who'd remained at his side. Standing up again, she cradled the creature in her arms, almost amused as it made a series of sounds at her. She opened a portal back to her room and stepped through with Remy, both of them disappearing.

Almost as soon as the portal closed behind them, Ret's soul was captured by Pest's magic, and he growled in annoyance, "Pestilence, what is the MEANING of this?! Let me go right now, or so help me-" Pestilence calmly tilted his head, sighing softly and cutting him off, "You'll what? Kick my ass? Kill me, maybe?"

The former prince scowled at him, a momentary look of surprise on his face as the other's magic lifted him to his feet. Pest seemed completely at ease, a lot closer now than he was before. Retribution stared up at him, radiating nothing short of hatred, and Pest's brow bones became knit in... was that... regret that Retribution was sensing?

Pestilence took a deep breath, "Listen, Ret... I haven't been too nice to you. On occasion, maybe, but I haven't treated you with the respect that you deserve. And... I'm realizing how uncool that was. Especially today, with how that prank backfired and triggered you." Retribution stared at him, clearly skeptical; where was the punchline? This had to be some sort of cruel joke and nothing more.

.....Right?

Seeing the look on the former prince's face, Pest offered him the smallest of smiles, the grin itself holding a hint of remorse, "Buddy, hear me out. Please. I know you don't trust me, and you likely don't believe a single word I'm saying. You hate me, I get it. After all, I hate me too."

Retribution scoffed, averting his gaze and begrudgingly mumbling just barely loud enough to be heard, "You never apologize for anything. I don't understand why you suddenly felt the need to say sorry." Pestilence rubbed the back of his skull, appearing a bit awkward and much less cocky than normal, "I'm apologizing because I could tell how badly that prank... went wrong. I never meant for it to hurt ya like that, honest to god. If I knew that'd happen, I wouldn't have done it. I was given the run down on your story by Death a while ago, but I was never told the full extent of things, and I didn't think that prank would be something that'd set you off."

He paused, letting out a deep sigh, "From the looks of it... Things were hell for you, back where you came from. I dunno the details, but that's gotta suck, and I'm sorry I haven't been kinder." Retribution, upon hearing the other's words and beginning to make sense of them, frowned, his brow bones knit as his hands curled into fists down by his sides, "...Yeah... That's one way to put it, I guess..."

Pest tilted his head, also frowning at the look the other rider was wearing. Without a hint of mockery anywhere in sight, he spoke, "Do you... maybe wanna talk about it? It might help to get it off your chest, y'know. I'm all ears, in a uh... matter of speaking." Ret rolled his eye lights, "Oh, please. I know you, Pest. You'd just use whatever I say as material to pick on me with in the future." The taller of the two was silent for a moment, before his soul suddenly manifested, floating just outside his chest as he carefully cradled it in his hands.

Ret made a face, confused again, "What are you doing now?" Pest's magic suddenly released him, and he blinked as Pestilence offered the other his soul, "Here. If you don't trust me and think I'm just bs'ing you again, you can look at my soul for confirmation. Souls don't lie, so there's no way I'd be able to pull a fast one on you."

The former prince regarded him with clear suspicion, very cautiously taking his soul into his hands and looking at it for a moment. When it became obvious that Ret had no idea what to say, Pestilence reached out to gently place a hand on his shoulder, "Hey... It's ok, I promise. If you wanna get anything off your chest, I'm here for you. If you'd rather not, that's fine too. No matter what is said or done, I won't go around telling people about it. I wouldn't be a jerk and talk shit or anything about you either, I swear on my life."

The shorter watched Pest's soul, and when there were no telltale signs of deceit, he glanced at the other's hand on his shoulder, his gaze slowly falling to the floor as he mumbled, "I... It was awful. The only reasons I even bothered trying to be good were because I knew Dream would like that, and because I wanted everyone to see that they were wrong about me. That I'm not bad or evil, that I'm not some kind of freak... I'm not any of those things. I was demonized... simply for existing."

His shoulders sank, and he paused, attempting to keep his emotions in check, "They... hurt me really bad. Repeatedly. They said horrible things to me, and if they wanted entertainment, they would come after me, destroying the few things I had and then beating me. Because of them, I was blind in one eye for a while. It gradually healed, but they only used my injury as fuel, saying that I was hideous and deformed, and that it'd be impossible for anyone to even consider liking me while I looked like that. I never did anything to them, so I don't understand why they decided I was the one who had to be singled out like that."

Pestilence unconsciously curled his own hands into fists, beginning to hurt for Retribution. The former prince looked up at him, his eyes wide and holding a desperation that Pest had never seen even the barest hints of before, "It was hell, Pest. Why do you think I do better on my own? Why do you think I try so hard to avoid others? To stay away from them and interact as little as possible? EVERY interaction I can ever remember with anyone aside from Dream and Lenore led to some sort of pain or humiliation. I cannot deal with that anymore. It's shameful and it hurts to have to say it out loud, but interaction with others has caused me so much pain that I hide from it as much as I can."

Pest's frown deepened as a cyan tear rolled down Ret's face and he whispered, "I loved everyone, but everyone hated me... They made me believe I had no hope of ever being loved, and that I wasn't worth it. I don't... I still don't know what I did to deserve such horrid treatment." As more cyan tears began to drip down Retribution's face, Pest's frown shifted into a scowl and he growled softly in irritation, "....That's such bullshit. Complete, utter bullshit. I'm sorry for this sudden change in my demeanour, but I'm mad. I'm pissed. How could anyone let that happen? You were just a kid, you should've been running around, playing games and laughing. You should've been happy and cared for, Ret. You absolutely did not deserve any of that, I swear to god. Don't ever think you did something wrong to deserve that, because you didn't. You didn't do a damn thing to them. They were assholes, plain and simple as that."

Retribution pushed Pest's soul back toward him, returning it to its proper place before he began to tremble, choking back his sobs and trying to hide his face. Pest let out a deep sigh, issuing the other a warning, "Buddy, hey. I know you hate me and all that, but I'm gonna hug you, whether you want me to or not." Ret made a soft sound in weak protest, and Pestilence rolled his eye lights, yanking the other closer and pulling him into a tight hug. Despite the warning, the former prince's eyes widened, and as soon as Pest began using soothing pulses of his magic to try to offer a bit of comfort, Retribution finally cracked.

Tightly hugging Pestilence back, he began to sob much harder, his entire body visibly shaking. Pest stayed quiet, patiently waiting for the other to rid himself of as much of his pain as he could, and Retribution appreciated the silence. For once, he wasn't wishing Pest would leave. As he thought about everything harder and connected the pieces, he murmured, more to himself than the other, "...It's ok now... I finally understand. It's not that you can't deal with interaction and other people. It's that no one took the time to deal with you. At least... not in the way they should've."

As the former prince's sobbing began to die down, Pestilence mumbled softly, not wanting to startle him, "Would you like me to get Fam or Connie?... I know you're a lot closer to them than you are to me, so..." Retribution shook his head, also speaking softly, "No, don't bother them. They're working, and I don't want them to get in trouble." Pestilence nodded in understanding; even if Ret just said no, Pest would most definitely be sending one of them a text or calling them soon.

Pest was silent another moment, before humming, "Actually... I think their shifts are almost over, now that I think about it." The former prince seemed to perk up a small bit and the taller of the two lightly patted his back, before beginning to pull away from the hug to glance around the room, "Only drawback though. While Fam probably wouldn't care, Connie might ask about your room and why it looks like someone let loose a pack of wolves in here. Unless you wanna go through all that pain and yuck again, you might wanna clean it up a little. At the very least, hide the mess somewhere she won't see until you feel more like taking care of it. I'm not much into cleaning, but I'll even help you, if you want."

Retribution made a face, letting out a shaky breath, "Yeah... you're probably right. Where do we even start though? It's a mess." Pest offered him a reassuring smile and winked, "Don't worry so much, first of all. If you wanna get the torn curtains and blankets put away, I can try to find some new curtains so we can hide that busted window, just til we can get you a new one. From there, I can help you with the scattered clothes and books."

Ret made a soft sound of uncertainty and frowned, "That's gonna take a while though... I don't want either of them to see any of this!" Pestilence casually shushed him, placing a finger over the other's teeth to stop him. A rat poked it's head out of his hoodie and he playfully arched a brow bone, tilting his head, "I think you're forgetting that I can provide you with however many tiny helpers you need."

Making another face, Retribution lightly pushed his hand away and sighed, the sound becoming dangerously close to a yawn. The poor guy must've really exhausted himself. Pest's expression softened as he watched the other rider, speaking up again after a few seconds passed, "On second thought, how about you take a nap? If you want any help with cleaning once you're a bit more rested up, let me know." Retribution scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, "I don't need sleep, I'm fine. I can do it now, don't worry about me."

Groaning, Pest's magic flared up, and he hummed, "Welp. Looks like we're doing this the hard way then." Before Ret was given the chance to ask what he was doing, he was lifted up off the floor and moved over to his bed. He was dropped on the mattress and Pest began to whistle a tune, gathering up his sash and syringe gun as more of his magic moved to throw the covers over Ret. He watched as Retribution popped his head out from under the blankets and glared weakly, "How dare you! I could've walked just fine on my own!"

The taller chuckled softly, "Yeah, you could've. You didn't though, so therefore, you basically left the job open for me to handle." Ret grumbled to himself, pulling his blankets up and tugging them over his shoulders, attempting to make himself more comfortable. Pestilence said his soft goodbyes and "seeya later", all before using a shortcut and vanishing into thin air. Retribution was left alone, lying in bed and silently wondering what just happened with him and Pest.

Had... Had they just become friends? Did Pest really apologize for being a jerk? Retribution rubbed his achy sockets; whatever this absolute madness was, he'd deal with it later, after his afternoon nap.

#writing #four horsemen of the apocalypse #riders of the apocalypse #undertale #undertale au #pestilence.exe #retribution.exe #war.exe #i was being a total weeb #try to find the reference i made to an anime #hint: it's somewhere in pests dialogue #its not exactly the same as in the show #but it's pretty close #also #nupe #the prank was not the destruction of rets room #he did that on his own

[jtem]

Better Call Saul Season-6 Predictions

#1.  Lalo dies

The buzz online is that Lalo survives Better Call Saul and is still running around, unseen, in the Breaking Bad world.

Don’t believe it.

Most of this buzz seems to be emanating from the same source. I’ve watched more than one Youtube video speculating about Season-6, for example, which pretty much mirrored each other. We’re talking little or no difference in content from supposedly unrelated people! So that’s not a Buzz, that’s the studio setting expectations.

Anyhow, the buzz points back to an Episode in Breaking Bad, Season-2, where Walt & Jesse kidnap Saul in an attempt to pressure/scare him into not making any deals with the DEA no matter how beneficial they would be for his client. Anyhow, they succeed in scaring Saul, he thinks they’re drug cartel henchmen, and pleads for his life insisting “it wasn’t me” and “it was Ignacio.”

Ignacio is the Nacho character’s real name in Better Call Saul.

So the Buzz is claiming that the scene in Breaking Bad, WHICH TAKES PLACE AFTER SEASON-6 OF BETTER CALL SAUL, means that Lalo is still alive & walking around, and none of this makes sense.

“Family is everything.”

That’s a Salamanca family creed, heard in Breaking Bad & Better Call Saul both.

There were at least four Salamancas alive in the Breaking Bad universe at the time Saul Goodman was pleading for his life and none of those Salamancas were Lalo.

Hector. Not very active, post stroke, but not dead.

Hector’s two nephews (the psycho twins), later done in by Hank Schrader, but still very much alive at this point.

Hector’s son, who is eventually killed by Jesse in Season-4.

So we don’t need Lalo alive for Saul to fear retribution, we’ve got Salamancas enough for that,  and... And... AND...

Lalo doesn’t kill Saul. If Lalo was alive and had reason to murder Saul, Saul would be dead. 

But, again, Lalo isn’t in Breaking Bad. The last of the Salamancas dies in Season-4 of Breaking Bad and none of them are Lalo. Gus visits Hector in the nursing home, after poisoning the cartel’s leadership, taunting him with the fact that they’re all dead and the Salamanca name dies with him (Hector).

We watched all the Salamancas die. None of them were Lalo.

#2.  Kim Wexler

Ever notice that Kim’s enemies are all men? She hates Howard. She hates Kevin at Messe Verde. The victims of her little play con games were men. She’s a loner, she doesn’t seem to have any friends except for Jimmy, and Jimmy appears less a man in her life than a surrogate mom. Which doesn’t make sense because she didn’t seem to get along with her mom too well. But we don’t really know much of that story so maybe Jimmy/Saul is that loving relationship she never had with her mom, maybe Jimmy/Saul is a place holder for the dad we never saw... 

Kim’s mom was unreliable and pretty shady it seems. That implies Jimmy but who knows? Still I have to make a prediction so I’m saying that Jimmy is Kim’s way of trying to have an emotional relationship with her mom.

I don’t think we’ve seen “The Real Kim” in Season-5. 

“Opposites Attract.” Kim is far more similar to Howard and Kevin than she is to Jimmy, which may explain her negative feelings towards them. She’s beating on herself? By beating on them she’s beating on herself?

Anyway, I think the journey for Kim comes full circle, and the Jimmy Experiment ends. I don’t think she dies, I think she walks. That, the love and attention from whatever parent she never got growing up she now gets from Jimmy has served it’s purpose. It fulfilled her needs.  And, she realizes this. She doesn’t hate Jimmy, it’s an experience she had always wanted, and Jimmy is never going to stop loving her but their paths diverge in Season-6.

Would be a hoot if she winds up with Howard... Probably what I would have done with the story.

#3.  Jimmy/Saul

At some point Jimmy fully transforms into the Saul Goodman character of Breaking Bad, and I’m guessing it’s the departure of Kim Wexler from his life that makes it happen.

Supposedly “Slipping Jimmy” had been trying to recast himself, and rebrand himself, from the beginning of the series, and he drew most if not all the inspiration from Kim Wexler. It was her rise from humble mailroom beginning to Power Attorney that prompted Jimmy to try the same. It was Kim, or Jimmy’s emotions for Kim, that drew him away from the path of Slipping Jimmy and towards that of Kim’s... and his brother’s. 

Anyway, I see Kim as Jimmy’s anchor. He’s a moth drawn inexorably towards her flame. The moment that flame is gone there is nothing to oppose Slipping Jimmy, no reason to fight it, no incentive to try much less actually change.

So that’s how I see it:  Kim walks and Saul Goodman snaps back hard into the Slipping Jimmy traits. He becomes the Saul Goodman of Breaking Bad.

#4. Nacho/Ignacio

I suspect that he dies. If I was writing for the show I would certainly write that in, his death, see if it stuck. I mean, he clearly has no future in the Better Call Saul universe as he doesn’t appear as Nacho/Ignacio. 

Could he just run? Of course. That’s what he wants to do. He wants out of the drug cartel, he wants out of his life of crime, he wants to run and he could certainly do that. He could run. And that could be why the character is not in Breaking Bad. It could be. It could happen that way. Or he can die. I’m going to say he dies.

#5.  Francesca

I don’t know. I really honestly don’t. She was an employee of Jimmy’s and Kim’s, they loved her, she was a great worker and then in Breaking Bad she seems like a mostly angry and corrupted person. On Breaking Bad she often comes across as somebody who is compromised and doesn’t like it, but she clearly is not lifting a finger to stop being compromised...

So I don’t get it.

Francesca returns to Saul Goodman sometime between Season-6 of Better Call Saul and Season-2 of Breaking Bad. I’m assuming we see her in Season-6. So, um, I guess that’s my prediction? We see Francesca again?

#6.  They overlap

Better Call Saul is a prequel to Breaking Bad. It happens first. Right?

Not necessarily.

The two shows could run concurrently.

Saul Goodman doesn’t make his first appearance in Breaking Bad until Season-2, Episode-8. So that leaves the entire first year and just over half the second for a Better Call Saul/Breaking Bad crossover.

We’ll definitely see more Breaking Bad characters pop up in Season-6. The money is on Walter White making an appearance.

#10.  The Breaking Bad Movie

So Breaking Bad ends and Walter White is dead, right? No. Wrong. All we saw was him collapse, presumably unconscious. But he could have been alive. People survive gunshot wounds all the time. So Walt is alive, in prison and the first act of the film is Walt’s stupendous breakout! We’re talking Mission Impossible & MacGyver all rolled into one! Walt engineers the most brilliant escape EVER, and then goes hunting for his $80 million that the Neo Nazis stole from him. He doesn’t know where it is but unlike everyone else on the planet he knows that it exists.

What do you think? Ground penetrating RADAR? Maybe inferred to search out changes in surface temperature, revealing hidden doors or tunnels?

AND THEN he needs to go after Gretchen & Elliot. Walt hated them, yes, but if you recall he dropped all of his money on them with instructions to gift it to his son, Walt Junior. Gretchen and Elliot agreed, of course, but after Walt’s capture they turn it all over to law enforcement, double crossing Walt. So Walt needs revenge on them, but he also needs a flight out of the country because he’s sick of trying to hide his cash, and he doesn’t want to go underground. No, Walt wants to retire someplace where he can live out his life as a free man, spend his money without care and Gretchen & Elliot just happen to own a private jet!

See how that works out?

Now, is Jesse involved in any of this? Jesse now knows that everything he was thinking about Walt was wrong, that Walt never double crossed him but he had double crossed Walt.

Jesse’s turning point -- against Walt -- when he was waiting to “The Vacuum Cleaner Repair Man” to help him to disappear, start a new life. Jesse seems to believe that he was being set up but in El Camino he spots the exact same mini van parked at the vacuum cleaner’s shop, so he knows that Walt was legitimately trying to help.

So, maybe now Jesse wants to help Walt. Or maybe law enforcement caught up to him and he just wants to escape and start a new life somewhere else, like Walt.

Is Saul Goodman in prison? How does Season-6 end? We know that in Season-5 he got made by a cab driver who seems intent on some sort of “Reward” i.e. blackmail. Maybe he puts Saul in prison. Or someone else recognizes him. Anything. So by the end of Season-6 Saul may be behind bars with Walt or even Walt & Jesse.

I think I’d rather see Walt reunited with his family on Gretchen & Elliot’s plane, instead of Saul. And the movie might need a sequel anyway, and Saul is as good a reason to have one as any,  so there’s that...

#Better Call Saul #Breaking Bad #Predictions #TV Series #Fandom #Binge watching #Kim Wexler #Slipping Jimmy #Walter White #text post #Txt Post

[unaccomplishedwriter]

- s a v i o r -

. Nicholas Scratch x Reader .

Prologue

{PART ONE}

“No.”

A furious hiss rang out, making the red backdrop of this particular confrontation all the more intimidating. A figure cowered in the corner, ignored for the time being by the malevolent being contorting his face in deep, malicious hatred before (y/n).

She almost found herself afraid, but then she felt the faint but unmistakable presence of the soul pulsing deep within the body in front of her.  

“I am the Dark Lord! I am Satan, the DEVIL, your kind shall have NO control over me!” spat the man.  

She closed her eyes for a moment, reminding herself of who she was and why she was here. The very existence of the aforementioned soul was why she was sent here, meant to commune with the Dark Lord himself. As a celestial, it should have normally been impossible for the Fates to grasp his tangible soul, yet here he was. Assigned to her, a rookie in every sense of the word. Could Fate be so cruel to assign one of its daughters the monumental task of curbing a literal universe-implicant apocalypse in her freshly assigned star domain?

Well, certainly it could.

“You are the Devil,” (y/n) stated calmly, “but where has the Devil found himself? Trapped in mortal flesh. The cosmos are imbalanced, and frankly I need an explanation before the Fates decide to wipe out this domain completely.”

As curses were rained down upon her by this literal god-forsaken man, (y/n) reflected on how she’d found herself here in the first place. Unlucky star domains were assigned at random, even this process being left to Fate. Not every stela has the responsibility of managing an Unlucky star domain, but, bright eyed and bushy tailed, she chose the longer option of waiting it out for one as her very own. The appearance of an unlucky fated star in a domain usually heralded an impending apocalypse, which was not uncommon for her kind to see and mitigate. But when she received her star and its respective domain, the Fates themselves were horrified at the sheer scope of catastrophe this domain had the potential to cause. Not just one, but several sects and gods were implicated as the haze over this domain was lifted for the first time. Being the dwelling ground of various sects of power, Greendale had never fallen into normal confines of Fate as these powers masked its existence to the stela. With the removal of the Dark Lord from Hell, his soul was binded to a mortal’s, his celestial existence ceasing, in a sense, while he was confined to the flesh acheron. Now with a tangible soul, the Dark Lord became subject to Fate, and in its attempts at bringing this domain back under its control he received an official fated star. The downtrodden celestial bore the the brightest unlucky star seen in millenia, only to appear just as (y/n) was receiving an assignment of her own. With the balance of power now out of whack, the haze that surrounded the domain that encompassed Greendale’s living was now visible in the star chart for the first time ever. As she felt the strings of fate tie her to the souls and fated stars of those of Greendale, she felt true fear for once in her life. Greendale was home to a bed of unending changes and terrors, certainly too much for the young stela to handle alone. Notifying the Fates was her first plan of action, but they couldn’t go back in Time, and the most they could do was allow the help of others when needed. (Y/n) knew she was being watched closely, and could very well be responsible for a catastrophe if she wasn’t careful.

And as she looked at the raging, childish man in front of her, she couldn’t help but to blame him.

“Shut up.” She inflected, voice thick with irritation. Ignoring the deeply offended and murderous look that fixed upon the man’s face, she cut off any attempt at retribution by raising her palm, cutting him off.

“If you want things to go back to normal, we need to work together. Whatever you are, you’re under my domain now. That means you help me, I help you. If you don’t,” she shrugged, “you and this entire world will probably be destroyed. Doesn’t mean much more than a demotion for me, but for you...”

Honestly, (y/n) was definitely underexaggerating the ramifications for herself should she fail at her assignment. But she was 100% correct in saying that the Dark Lord didn’t really have a choice in complying with her if he wanted things to go back to how they were. The man seemed aware of that, because he immediately began pacing, his voice a thunderous growl.

“Those bitches! They betrayed me! They all did. I’ll kill them all!”  he screeched, violently waving his hands.

It took quite some persuasion for (y/n) to calm him down enough to extract the full story, and if she were being honest with herself she was pretty impressed with the witches’ sense of self-preservation.  

“That explains the appearance of your star. Your soul must be entangled with the mortal you’re trapped with. His star...” (y/n) trailed off, eyebrows furrowing. In her star chart, alongside the Dark Lord’s fated star was a dim, dying one. The star was obviously feeding off the energy of the weaker one, dimming it’s owner’s connection to their fate.

What this meant for them, she didn’t know.

Upon this thought, her eyes immediately flashed to the figure hunched in the corner. Studying it carefully, she observed a boy in his late teens, early twenties, hands over his head and mumbling to himself. The boy did not seem well, and it wasn’t until she saw the same odd split in his soul she observed previously that she remembered who he was trapped here with did (y/n) finally get the full picture of what happened here.

The Dark Lord’s soul was also split, meant to represent his celestial self and the break unto mortal flesh. But this boy’s soul had been split and essentially shared with the Dark Lord, rendering him incomplete.

It the most unfortunate soul she’d ever seen.  

(Y/n)’s wasn’t the only attention spotlighted onto the boy, the Dark Lord immediately turning his ire to the one who’s body held him captive. Not willing to see the poor figure being tortured, she made a sigil, and with a flash the gloomy red scenery turned white.

Now they were alone.

It seemed as if the boy didn’t notice the change in scenery, because he didn’t even flinch as he rocked back and forth, mumbled jargon pouring listlessly from his mouth.

It wasn’t until (y/n) drew closer and rested her hands upon his face, palms glowing silver as she calmed his mind best she could that she received a reaction from him, his hands shooting up and gripping her own.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she cooed, her eyes searching for his. (Y/e/c) eyes met brown eyes, anguish and torture reflecting in muddy pools that stared dazedly back at her. As a sort of celestial being herself, (y/n) was able to send small, gentle waves of her presence washing over his body until his mind cleared a bit more. She couldn’t undo what the Dark Lord had done to him, but she was confident that her presence at the moment was at least relieving some of the burden.

“Who are you?”

he croaked, eyes flooding with tears. This was the first time he’d felt relief in what felt like an eternity, and all he could focus on was the figure in front of him. His grip tightened around her wrists, but she didn’t mind. Threading a hand in his hair, (y/n) settled herself between the boy’s knees, getting as close as she possibly could.

“I’m here to help you. It’s okay,” she repeated.

“Wh-where did he go? The..the Dark Lord,” he squeezed out, muscles tensing up at the mere mention of the alias. (Y/n) felt her heart go out to him, her own eyes becoming misty as well.

“I sent him to...sleep. He will be back, but not for a while at least.”

Of course she couldn’t separate them completely, they were still in Hell of course. Her powers weren’t nearly as strong here, and she could only offer temporary reprieve.  But it was something, she thought, and that’s what matters.

“What’s your name?” she questioned, intending to keep his mind present and away from dark, straying thoughts. He stayed silent for a while, attempting to anchor himself to the present as he focused on the healing effect washing over his mind.

“...it’s Nick,” he eventually responded, his breathing deeper and less erratic. They sat there in silence for a long while, her presence giving him comfort and his warmth making her feel inexplicable.  

Eventually, (y/n) felt her form starting to fade as her stolen time in Hell, aided by the Fates, approached its limit. He must have felt it too, because he grabbed her hand once again and used the other to caress her face,

“Will you come back?”  

Begging eyes met hers once again, and (y/n) felt her heart clinch. Visiting Hell for as long as she has took not only her power but the power of the Fates as well. If she came here alone again, it wouldn’t be for nearly as long, and would exhaust a huge chunk of her power every time she did so. But as she faced the boy in front of her, she couldn’t find it in herself to say no.

With whispered promises and broken sobs, (y/n) eventually found herself amongst her people once again, with a lot of explaining to do.

But even as the Fates shook her down for information, why could her mind only muster up images of the boy steeped in tragedy?

Author’s note: once again, I apologize for formatting!

#nick scratch x reader #nick scratch #nicholas scratch #nicholas scratch x reader #chilling adventures of sabrina #sabrina #ambrose #fanfiction #fanfic #xreader #x reader

[pricklerick]

so, i’m such a slut for the “presumed dead” trope

Because I am all about that emotional rollercoaster drama bs. Anyhoo, here’s a fic idea that I will never write.

So, remember Prince Nebulon of the Zigerions? He was just a prince, right? Who is Queen of the Zigerions? Let’s call her Queen Z. Queen Z is pissed off that Rick blew her kiddo to smithereens, and she’s out for vengeance. It takes her a while to find Rick, though, because... well, they never did get that concentrated dark matter recipe, did they?

Alright, so Rick and Morty off on some planet, right? Where totally doesn’t matter, because I’m too lazy to create any legit plot for this. But wherever they are, Morty’s got this bad gut feeling, and Rick is sort of half exasperated/half affectionately blowing him off. Because Morty is always a little drama queen, and half the multiverse is pissed off at Rick for some reason or other. Jeezus, Morty, calm your tits.

Maybe they get separated for a bit. Maybe Morty storms off in a huff. But for whatever reason, Morty is gonna find some evidence of a huge Zigerion conspiracy against Rick. Maybe he overhears part of the plot, or sees some files laying around, or whatever. Again, it doesn’t matter. Morty is horrified at what he discovers, and now he’s doing his absolute damnedest to find Rick and warn him.

Queen Z’s plan is to kill Morty and capture Rick. She’s done her research, okay. She doesn’t care about the concentrated dark matter recipe anymore, she just wants Rick to suffer the way she suffered. She knows that Rick’s got one weakness - well, one weakness aside from crippling ETOH withdrawals.

Morty.

The Zigerions stage it so that Morty is on some platform somewhere, or a ship, or a balcony. Somewhere elevated. Morty is there, and Rick knows that he’s there, and hell, maybe Rick at this point is actively looking for Morty, or maybe he’s starting to have some misgivings himself. Either way, this platform, this elevated place... it just fucking explodes. Like huge massive cataclysm, ash and viscera littering the atmosphere, no survivors kind of explosion.

And Morty was on this platform.

(except, duh, he wasn’t. he was busy trying to get to rick)

But Rick’s gonna go nuts, right? He’s just watched Morty die, and fuck, somebody is gonna pay dearly. Many somebodies. No holds barred, teeth bared, sword flashing, blood and bits repayment. Rick is like a thing possessed, kicking ass and taking no names and absolutely wrecking shit... until he’s darted in the neck by an assassin with a tranq gun.

Meanwhile, Morty is terrified, cowering beneath or behind something, watching all of this happen.

Rick’s body is dragged away, and Morty is lost, right? Let’s cut Morty a break and say they took the ship to get here, but still... these guys have Rick. We know that Morty has the ship, but Rick has the portal gun. Rick has everything.

What is Morty without Rick?

And man, here’s another trope that I just go nuts for - anxious, codependent, terrified Morty trying to hack it in a world without Rick. We’ve seen Morty grow a lot throughout the show, but what if we stranded him with limited resources on an alien planet? Like, long term. We know he’s a little badass (it’s my personal headcanon that Morty really isn’t all that stupid, either). He’s got a quarter of Rick’s DNA, none of Rick’s chemical dependancies, and a guilt complex the size of Seattle. Morty is exactly the kind of fucked up that would assume that he owes Rick enough to devote his entire life to rescuing him.

(also, morty just watched rick go ape-shit in response to his ‘death.’ that kind of visceral, emotional reaction from rick would probably awaken something fierce in morty)

I want this to go to dark places. I want Morty to have to learn the hard way how to survive in a universe that has very little regard for a half-grown human. I want him hurting and hungry and hunted. I want him forced to compromise his morals, but never his drive. I want to see what reality spits out when it chews up Morty. Most of all, I want to see how Morty is the same, but also how he is fundamentally different from Rick. Not just a difference in innocence and experiences like the show suggests, but in the substance of their souls. Where does Morty draw the line? Where won’t he?

Also, hot damn, I want to see Morty modify or improve on some of Rick’s gadgets. Maybe he’s not the innovative genius that Rick Sanchez is, but he’s no moron, and he’s helped Rick through enough shit that he can pick things apart and cobble them back together. Trial and error (mostly error) is a good teacher.

Meanwhile, Rick is held hostage on the Zigerion home world, or maybe on a station that orbits it. I don’t know and I don’t care. Basically, Rick’s stuck in suspended animation - a simulation within a simulation.  Queen Z is forcing Rick to relive the day he lost Morty, over and over and over again. It’s like this nasty, really fucked up groundhog day experience. No matter what Rick does, he fights with Morty that morning. And no matter what Rick does, he ends up losing Morty in the most horrific ways. Every fucking time.

This goes on for years, okay? Maybe even a decade. Long enough that Morty can hardly even remember the sound of Rick’s voice or the smell of the booze on his breath, he just knows that his whole purpose in life is to rescue Rick.

And he manages it one day, finally. Morty dispatches the guards, waltzes into the high security chamber, and sure as shit, there’s Rick, lying there as if he’s just sleeping. Time hasn’t touched him. He hasn’t aged a day. After Morty has sacrificed his whole life to get to this point, it sure seems anticlimactic.

He wakes Rick up, disconnects him from the machines, but it’s not an instant thing, right? Think Han Solo recovering from carbonite. Rick’s not used to a physical body anymore, even though the suspended animation has left him intact. Morty is like massaging his arms and legs and talking to him in this low voice.

And for Rick, shit, that’s disorienting. Like, say Zigerions don’t really have a sense of smell or something, like they can’t replicate it perfectly or whatever. So imagine Rick waking up slowly from this awful nightmare and suddenly being bombarded with senses that he hasn’t experienced in a decade. Is this real? What is real?

And, naturally, once his brain boots back online, Rick’s not gonna recognize Morty.

Now, Rick’s smart. He knows he’s been captured and trapped in a simulation, but he’s not sure for how long. The last real memory he has (and you better sure as shit believe that Rick has held on to that last memory) is of Morty going up in a ball of flame and the carnage that occurred afterward. Rick got jabbed in the jugular with a huge needle while in the middle of a full blown cognitive meltdown, and now he wakes up to some fuckwad running his callused stinking hands all down his thighs.

Rick’s pissed. He’s gonna come up swinging.

So I want this blood-rage fueled fight between disoriented!Rick and badass mofo!Morty, in which Rick thinks he’s fighting for his life, and Morty is just trying his best not to die (and also, not to kill Rick). And man, it’s awkward. Morty has mad skills, but he’s handicapped in that he is also trying to protect his opponent. And Rick is all adrenaline and cybernetic modification, but blinded by bright lights and bitterness, and held back by this shaky, shitty, wrung out body. It’s gritty and intense, and also, there’s this looming threat of they are still in the belly of the enemy’s ship.

I don’t know how Morty is going to get through to Rick that he’s being rescued, that it’s been ten years, that ‘hey, remember me, i’m you’re dweeb grandson.’ Honestly, I think Morty is just gonna have to incapacitate Rick, sling him over his back, and hope for the best.

They get out, Morty hauls Rick back to whatever bolt hole he’s crawled out of, and then... then the real work starts.

Convincing Rick is probably gonna be hard in itself. This man has lived in a simulation for ten years. But never in his wildest dreams (or darkest nightmares) would Morty have survived and thrived... without him.

There’s a reckoning here for Rick. Learning to trust this stranger, this capable stranger who says he’s Morty all grown up but acts like the survivor of a nuclear apocalypse... it’s an insane sort of cognitive dissonance. Rick is going to be forced to recognize Morty for who he is, to know him by the substance of his soul, and that realization (though obviously not in those words) is huge for Rick. Morty has changed, but really, not all that much. There are some physical similarities - under all the scars and facial hair, Rick recognizes the set and shade of Morty’s eyes, maybe the expression he makes when he’s annoyed or thinking hard. But it’s more than that. Physically, there are infinite Morties. Somewhere along the way, Rick comes to recognize his Morty.

And with this is gonna come a truckload of self-loathing and resentment. Morty is independent now. He grew up. He doesn’t need Rick anymore. The dynamic of their relationship has shifted irrevocably. That’s gonna leave Rick reeling.

And Morty? Fuck, Morty is gutted. This man that he’s devoted his entire life to, the object of all of his pain and sacrifice and hero-worship... is really just an embittered, drunken asswipe. There’s really nothing holding them together anymore... Well, nothing but just one thing.

Rick and Morty both need vengeance on Queen Z.

Finding her, taking her down, it becomes Morty’s new ambition. Morty is the kind of man who always needs a higher purpose, and he finds his in retribution. Rick is just petty enough not to take this shit lying down. Not by a long shot.

Working together is hard. Rick is eaten up with guilt (he’s watched this kid, this stuttering, useless, ridiculous kid that he - gag - loved, die over and over again). Morty would do anything for Rick, would have always done anything for Rick, and Rick still can’t manage to make things right between them. Morty has to accept the fact that really, he’s more disappointed in himself than he is in Rick anyway. He’d idolized this man for all of the wrong reasons.

But fuck, I want these two to reinvent themselves. This is a relationship of equals now, or damn near it. Halves that complement a whole. I want Rick to map all of Morty’s scars, scars that Morty earned for him. I want Rick to nitpick the modifications Morty made to his portal gun, and to (secretly) be a little impressed. I want Morty saving Rick’s ass, over and over again, and Rick (finally) getting a chance to get even and ribbing on Morty for it. I want drunken confessions and knife fights and sloppy emotions. I want these two to find common ground again as strangers, as comrades, and then,fucking finally, I want them to reconcile their past with the present. Rick has always needed Morty, has always cared for Morty, and Morty has always, always, always been completely and unquestionably devoted to Rick. Time and distance could never annihilate the bond that started this whole mess to begin with - Rick and Morty, forever and ever, for a hundred years.

That’s all, folks. That’s all I want.

Oh, and I also want a fuck-ton of smut.

#pricklerick original #vapor morty #rick and morty #rick sanchez #morty smith #rickorty #tw incest