#exit dream legacy

[thecreativityofnostalgia]

EXIT DREAM LEGACY

About Us:

Exit Dream Legacy is home to many independent video game creators dedicated to sharing creative ideas and trying new things to change the face of gaming forever. Founded in the early 2000’s by a group of six friends, [P̶̣̼̝̖̳͉͖̮̫̑̐͑̈́͌̓̌͘͜͝a̵̡̦̹͛̍́̈́̆͜͜r̸̢͉̬̃k̸̦̇̽̐̈́͑͘͝é̷͉͕̣̿̅͐r̵̰̰͔̠̝̓̓̀͆̒̕ ̵̛̗̤̹̭̀̈́̄͆͗̊̾̂̉̄J̶̦̺̟̟̼̘̱̘̪͔̞̯̌̉̂͐̐͠o̴̢̨̯̖̗̲̯̫̣̞̊̑́̅͋͗͜ń̵̨͚͈̹̜̱̗͕̓̇͛̓̈͘̕͜e̵͓̝͈̬̽̀̒͆̅̀̀̚s̴̛͚̈́̌̎̀̍̒͛̊̀̕͠,̴̧̡̛̰̘͔̖̈́̓̈͝ ̷̛̖̖̟̦͙̖̐̎̔̽͂Ŗ̶̨͉͇̦̩͓̳͓̖͙̃́́͋̓̚͝ͅe̶̛̟̪̤̻̗̜͚̲̻̞͖̿̊̃͐̓̀̆̕ͅb̷͎̓ͅē̸̢̡̬̜̳̟̺̣̥̑̍̆͑̒͝ͅc̶͙̲̬̹͕̗̭̫͔̘̃̌͛̏̐͐c̵͖̭̯͇̲̥̜͚̠͕̈̈́̈́̄̂̇͜͝a̴̧̞͚͈͉͉͙̋̄ ̸̛̩̘͋͐̒̏̀́̎͘̚͝S̵͓̀̍̔̾͝u̶̢̨͙̞̘͖͂̐̅̓̾͒̀͜ş̶̛̹̺̯͓̣̤͔͆̎̂̒͐̏̽͜͝ǎ̵̧̤̼̮͈̰͓͉̗̼͚̈̓̃̈́͜͠͝͝n̸͙̰̠̈́̍͂̈́̄͝,̷͚̞̜̭̥̀̑̏̉̃̀̅̓͘͝ ̷̭̪̼͍̱̖͓̻̒͜J̴̛̳̟̰̗̲̘͙͊̅̓͠ͅṍ̴̫͚͍̟̺͕̙̻̮͓̖͕͌͊͂̎̀͒r̴̝̬̻̟̅̓̄̈́͊̔̿d̵̡̗̫̘͚́̿ä̴̪̥̱̝͍̫́͜n̸̖͔̫̤͓̯̳͍͌͋̀̒̎̑́́̐͠͝ͅͅ ̷̧̧̡̢̛̤̙̗̮̯̣̦̞̀̄́́̆͠͝͝͝͝S̸͎̲̻͐̿̍̀̂̔͘͝ͅm̴̨̻̟̱̼̤̦̠͈̒͒̈́͑͘į̶̱̻̮͇̈́͊̅͌̓̃̃t̷̨͎͓̻̩̱̫̙̑̌h̴̨̡̧̠̰̺̮̣̄̐,̵̱͔̰͊ ̷̨̛̬̹̦͈̗̣̫̳̬̲͍̅̅̾͌̃̔̉̕͠͝͝Z̵̳̟͕̬̤̐̒͐͜͜e̴̛̖̠̪̮̝̦͈̅̌͗̓͊̀̈́̂͛̕͜͠l̷̨͈̥̤̻̤̖̍̄͑̊̑̅͑͘͝d̷̡̪̰̭̪̬̀̑͌͒̿̋̎̉͗̚͝͝a̸̰̘͊ ̷̉͂̌̒͆̊̈��̨̧̰̻͔̠̘̠̹F̷͇̘͖̫͔̝̩̝͈̜̆̄̉͂̍̔̅͜ͅr̴̰̮̀̀́̏̑͊̚͠͝ȩ̴̠͈̼̖̣͕͎͓̤͒̆͊̒̓͘͘͝e̶̥͍̬̦̋͒̌ṃ̶̡̝̥̠͆̃̅͐̌͊͜͝a̷̢̼̼̜̦̩̺͎̭̜̝͕͂̿̆̏̑͘͝͝͝n̸̫̼̺̝͓͉̝̱̈́̃́͠͝͝ͅ,̶̖͙̬̮͓̼̟̝͕̰̰̙̍͌̇̓̄̒̈͘ ̵̼̈́͛̈́́̃̒K̴̡͕̳̙̔̈́̾̆͋̅͑̚͜ḙ̷͓̜͖̘̭̔̃́ṽ̶̳̤͎̺͓͍̣̕͝ͅï̶̧͖͈̯͍̞̲̩̩͍̺̋͌̉̊̄̑͆͛̃̏͘n̷̻̊ ̸̡̫̝͍̥̱̠̝͖̈́̽̌͊̈́͂̄̇̀͘A̸̢̻͖͔͖̻̯̤͉̍̑͌͆̒͝ņ̸͙̜̜̹̞̤̤̰̙̮̓̂̔̓̓̐͂̓͊̇̕͠ţ̸̰͈͈̙͕͙̗̳̩͈̋͛̌̏̇͛́̍͗͛ǫ̴̡̧͉̠̦͙͙̫͐͊̈͑ͅñ̸̢͓̦͔͍̥̙̼̕į̶͙̪̌͊̀͆͑o̴̡̨͇̗͎͂͑́̋͋͗̐͝,̷̡̤̻̪͙͎̙͙̏ ̵͓͇̤͕̤͔̞̖̹̎͆́̓̏̓͂́̐͘͜͝a̶̘̟̥̤̱̰̙͐n̴͈̞̜͎̫̬̖̱̦̽̂͂͜d̸͕̭̟͉̎̍̄̀ ̴̢͓͔̼̠̰͓͎̭͍̣̻́̓̅̿̒̉͐͐̔̕G̸̬͖̬̘͔̊͆ṛ̶̔͝a̶̡̫͖̼̦̖̽̒̈́̆̈́̀́̈́͋c̵̛̯̬̩̈́͂̐̅̀̌͑͝͠ȇ̶̻̺́ ̵̲̖̖̞̖̬̝͌͜R̵̩͖̙̮̒̈͌̐o̸̝̰͚̺̓̎́̉̂̌̂̏̄̊̃̈́s̶̤̙͚̞̎̂͑̒̈́̒̐͑e̶̬͋́̊̈́.̸̦̙̼͇̜̑͌͊] what started as a small business soon involved into massive success.

We at the team have taken a certain risk when it comes to experimenting and creating something that would engage audiences alike. We like to stay somewhere in the middle of PG or PG-13 rated games. It's always best to avoid making games that are too offensive or gruesome to the player's eye, especially when it comes to our humor. unlike when we made a mistake making "Rocky's Bad Wool Day."

When it comes to good games, we always do a little playtest to be sure that it's playable. When we think it's ready, we go to the next step when it comes to making a story. We like to surprise players with what we come up with, and when it comes to horror games, we like to sprinkle little hints of "LORE" into the mix, as a little secret story hidden in the backgrounds.

We made many partnerships with a few small businesses to help promote some of the projects we are currently working on. And with some of the cash we received with the acceptance of merch, most of it will go to charity, while the rest goes straight into the works of other stuff, so we can do more big and fun things in the future.

As we continue to evolve and remain as an independent family business, we look forward to making something special that'll help to inspire others.

Let us find an exit to a world of imagination!

Games we made:

— Little Runmo (2002)

— Battle Gods (2005)

— Bongo-Chewy (2007-2008)

— Rocky’s Bad Wool Day (2012)

— Silvereye 427 (2014)

— The Amazing Digital Circus (2017) [Purchased the right from C&A after canceling and putting the game on sale.]

— Ragatha’s Manor (2019) [Spin-off to The Amazing Digital Circus]

— Perfect Heart (2022)

— Jax-Ware (2023) [Spin-off to The Amazing Digital Circus]

— Monster Planet (2024)

Game Publisher:

— Gammon Inc.

What happened to the original founders?

After finishing their last game, “The Amazing Digital Circus”, they tragically passed away due to an unknown disease. We were all really heartbroken knowing that the founders had gone away too soon. We would’ve shut down and disbanded the team, but luckily for us, the head founder of “Exit Dream Legacy” asked to write a written statement as a final request before they go. And this is what she has to say:

“While our demise was sudden and unexpected, we enjoyed being the developers of The Amazing Digital Circus along with the other games we created. Randle was our biggest inspiration for the games we’ve created and we wouldn’t want our legacy to end on a tragic note. This is why we’re passing this company down to him. From the day Ŗ̴̨͇̼͓̲̩̺͈̤͌̋e̸̢͖̞͙̪͗̐̾̊̈̈́̀͝b̴̨̥̩͍̙̫̝͚̼̳͑͋͛͋̉̒̈̚͠ē̴̙̯̟̱̮͉̘̯̣̩c̷̖͍̥̈́̄̋͗c̵̨̮̝͇͙̥͋̑a̴̬͑̔̑̓́͘̕ and I adopted him, we knew he would be someone very special. As for the rest of the team, we’re forever grateful for making Exit Dream Legacy possible. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”

- P.J

It’s truly sad to see them go. The head founder was truly like a mother figure we all wish we had. She’d listen whenever we were going through hard times, she helped when someone was in need, and she knew what to say when we all struggled. She’s truly someone we should all aspire to be. Let your legacy live on while the company grows strong.

Who’s the new owner?

Randle Jones, the founder of the company, also requested the team to guide her son and show him how things work. It was a struggle at first after the passing, but he’s starting to manage a little.

[No matter the struggle and hardships, Exit Dream Legacy will live on for generations to come.]

—EDL

[the-oracleof-delphi]

PAC: Messages From the Universe

Pile One - slice of cake on a plate

:: Right off the bat, your self-esteem needs a boost. If you operate with the belief that you are lacking in someway, or you are not good enough, or you do not deserve the good that you have achieved till now - then my dear Pile Ones I am afraid you will continue attracting people who will diminish your worth and reinforce the negative beliefs that you have within yourself.

:: It seems like you have been looking for validation in the wrong places. You have put certain people on a pedestal when they don't deserve to be. You are not seeing the full picture, or it is being intentionally hidden from you. Whatever it is, your message in this reading is to give yourself the validation that you are craving from the external world or a specific person.

:: The world is but a mirror, whatever you project it will reflect. If you see yourself as worthy, you will find people who see your worth and those who cannot tolerate your light will exit your life. Hence, love yourself and you will find people who love you.

Pile Two - a flower wreath

:: Dear Pile Two, you are looking for stability, you are looking to build a legacy - a family perhaps? But it seems like the universe is blocking your attempts to create that stability. Your offers are being rejected, your paths blocked. You feel dejected, in general.

:: But just know, there are bigger things happening behind the scenes. Something more grander than you can ever imagine. Things that are better suited for you. People hate to hear this, but all you have to do right now is to be a bit more patient. Another thing coming to my mind is, if you think that people who have wronged you have gone scot-free, you are wrong - justice is being served behind closed doors and they are getting their karma, even if you cannot see it.

:: Lastly, you may be spending too much of your time thinking. Do not stress too much. Let your mind rest. Do not let your thoughts take control of you - stay grounded in reality. If possible, engage in physical exercise or some form of sport.

Pile Three - a single slice of cheesecake

:: You are ready. Pile Three, it seems like you were working very hard for something. Everything you did till now would somehow culminate into this. And now that you have almost completed it, you are faltering for some reason. Why is that, you are ready. It’s just the nerves before the big achievement.

:: The thing can be career-related but also something that you are emotionally invested in. If it is career, then perhaps it is a career that was also your childhood dream. You are on the verge of fulfilling it - I'm getting completing a degree, clearing an exam, just something you have worked very hard for - but now you are having doubts. Do not have any doubts, Pile Three! You are perfectly capable and deserving of whatever is coming to you. And believe me when I say it, what lies ahead is going to be very fulfilling for you.

:: You will gain stability, money, respect - just don't second guess yourself. Good luck, Pile Three! Everything is alright. Also, if you have a specific love interest in mind, know the feelings are reciprocated - what happens next is upto you. :)

Credits: Icons - @/saizun @/buriedteen divider - @/strangergraphics

[majinael]

"Not my style."

★Michael Kaiser x GN Reader (Angst(?) into fluff)

★TW: mentions of abuse

★937 words

★ can be perceived as OOC, but I believe he would act entirely different towards his childhood friends if he had any

I had known Michael since we were kids. I often found him at the park, playing football like it was the only thing in his world. And maybe it was. His clothes were perpetually worn and dirty, his pale skin marred by small cuts and bruises. When I asked, he’d always brush it off, saying he simply liked that outfit or that the bruises came from playing with his ball and helping his dad at home. I believed him, young and naive as I was. I’d share my snacks with him, and in return, he’d teach me how to play football, his passion shining through every kick and pass.

As the years passed, my parents pulled me into their bakery, one of the most renowned in town. Our paths diverged, but I never forgot him. Sometimes, I’d walk by the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. But one day, when I did, tears streamed uncontrollably down my face, crashing onto the cold pavement. In my trembling hand was a newspaper announcing his arrest for robbery. Everything clicked then—his shabby clothes, his bruises, the hollow look in his eyes. He wasn’t just a boy who loved football. He was a poor, hungry kid trapped in a home with an abusive father. Football had been his only escape, and I... I had done nothing to help.

I told myself I was too young to understand, too innocent to see the truth. But the guilt clung to me, a heavy shadow that wouldn’t fade.

That night, I dragged myself home, collapsing onto the couch where my dad was watching TV. The world spun around me until a shout broke through my haze.

"GOAL!!"

My eyes shifted to the screen, and for a moment, I could almost see Michael chasing the ball with that same fiery determination. A bittersweet smile crept onto my lips. That’s when I fell in love with football—not just the game, but what it represented. It was Michael’s legacy, the one thing he’d left with me. I started playing in my free time, replaying his words in my mind, letting the sport bridge the distance between us.

Years passed, and I inherited the bakery. Football became my solace, every match rekindling memories of our friendship. Then, one day, my television turned into a magic mirror, revealing the answer to a question I hadn’t dared to ask. What could he be doing ?

Michael was there. On my screen. Playing for Bastard München.

And oh, how he played. Every movement was precise, intense, beautiful. His tall, muscular frame, his cold, striking features, his blond hair tipped with blue—it was as if he had stepped out of a dream, wrapped in the elegance of a blue rose garden. My cheeks ached from smiling, my heart swelling with pride and something deeper I couldn’t name.

When the match ended, I knew one thing: I had to see him.

I wasn’t wealthy, but I scraped together enough to buy a ticket, luck granting me a seat near the front. The stadium’s atmosphere was electric, the roar of the crowd reverberating in my chest. But my eyes were only on him. Michael. That cocky smile of his stirred something in me I hadn’t felt before. And when his gaze briefly met mine, I was overcome—not just with admiration, but with pride.

The match ended far too soon. If you asked me what happened, I couldn’t tell you a thing beyond Michael’s every move. I was captivated, lost in the way he commanded the field.

As the stadium emptied, I lingered, unable to move, clutching a small blue bracelet I’d made for him—a simple token of waxed cords and a metallic rose pendant. I didn’t even notice the signing session at the exit. Even if I had, would I have gone? Fear gripped me. What if he didn’t recognize me? Or worse, what if he did and resented me for my inaction all those years ago?

A presence behind me shattered my thoughts.

“It’s been a while, (Y/N).”

His voice was unmistakable, and my breath hitched. Tears threatened to fall as I turned, finding him standing there, his expression softer than I ever remembered.

Without thinking, I threw my arms around him. For a moment, he froze, but then his arms enveloped me, holding me as if he’d never let go.

“I don’t even know where to start, Micha...” My voice trembled as tears spilled freely.

He pulled back slightly, his cold features melting into an uncharacteristic gentleness. “Let’s not talk about the past,” he said quietly. “Give me your number before I have to leave.”

I handed him my phone, heart racing as he typed in his digits.

“I missed you,” I blurted, unable to stop myself.

His lips curled into a faint smile—a rare, genuine expression of happiness.

“I have something for you,” I said, hesitating before placing the bracelet in his hand. He chuckled softly, inspecting it.

“That’s... adorably not my style,” he teased, “but I’ll keep it.”

My smile faltered. “You don’t have to if you don’t like it—”

“I said I’ll keep it,” he interrupted, his tone firm yet amused. “I’ll find a use for it.”

Before I could say more, he stepped away. “I have to go.”

“Take care, Michael,” I whispered, my voice barely audible.

That night, a text lit up my phone: “Care about yourself. Don’t worry about me.” I chuckled, knowing it was impossible.

The next time I saw him on TV, he was wearing the bracelet. My heart swelled as I sent him a message: “Not your style, huh?”

His reply was immediate: “Don’t read into it.”

But I did. And I always would.

[b14augrana]

The Death Of You

The pursuit to being the greatest of all time comes above everything, including your health

Barça Femení x reader

masterlist

Warnings: slight overshadowing of injury

A/N: edited this author’s note way too many times buttttttt im not making a pt 2 of this because its just a silly little blurb that’s been rotting in my drafts and thats i wanna say okay thanks enjooooyyyyy

“When you think of passion, you think of someone that does anything for their club, and that’s (Y/N). The blaugrana is everything to her, and it is a part of her. She puts the badge before herself, and all she emits, all they admire of her, everything she represents, is Barça.

(Y/N) is Barça, Barça is (Y/N)” — Mapi León.

For Barça, you would give your life. You have put your body on the line and taken the hits until your skin turns the colours of the jersey you truly believe you’ll die in.

It’s what your mother says will eventually kill you. Going down with the jersey, for the jersey, your love for the greatest club in the world coming before all. It’s proof, almost, that Barcelona is so great, it’s worth dying for.

But, the funny thing is, you hadn’t loved living in Barcelona growing up. In fact, you hated everything about it. It felt like an asylum or some sort of confinement where the only things left to stare at are the four walls you’re enclosed by, except, those four walls were littered with posters of men you constantly watched play at the stadium of your dreams, and the only thing that made staring at those four walls so much of a punishment is the fact you were a girl and there was no such thing as a woman footballer.

You had shitty friends to remind you of that every single time they caught you stopping in the street (though you don’t even stop, your foot just drags along the ground a bit slower than usual) just to take a closer look at a mural of some Barça legend.

You hated living in Barcelona because you had nobody on your side that believed there was a place for you or any other woman behind the huge, towering walls of Camp Nou.

Barcelona went from being an asylum to a garden that was nurtured with every match played and goal scored, a title or medal sprouting from the buds of every stem and bush.

You would die for Barcelona. Hell was worth living through, for Barcelona, just to feel whatever emotion devoured you when you step out to a full stadium in the famous blue and garnet.

You want to be the best. That comes above everything — there is no point in devoting your life to something if you’re not going to be the best at it, and you had given more than what was required for Barça.

What you also want is to create a legacy not only for yourself, but the club as well, one title at a time. A legacy associated with winning, and being the greatest of all time. The last thing you need to implement this reputation? The Champions League.

You take in the stadium, the raindrop-covered grass, the noise. That headache inducing noise, caused by the record attendance in the stadium. The headache inducing noise that, when you focus on it, begins to become coherent and recognisable as the Barcelona anthem. With every step closer to the pitch, you find it harder to pay attention to anything around you, and the anxiety in your stomach is more apparent than ever before.

You kill the period of time between exiting the tunnel and finding your place on the field by warming up (or in other words, doing whatever you can to shake the nerves). You step out onto the pitch and feel the pinch of the cold wind which, for some reason, elicits an epiphany; the only thing separating you and that trophy is these 90 minutes.

Those 90 minutes drag on. Pass after pass, unsuccessful dribble after unsuccessful dribble, you’re not getting any closer to the goal but you can’t feel disheartened or unmotivated because all you have is 90 minutes. Everything can change in 90 minutes.

Everything does change. You don’t know how it happened, or who passed you the ball, or whether you even called for it, but you had it and you were moving quickly with it. Managing to glide past Renard, leaving her behind you to grapple at your jersey hopelessly, you find yourself up against Endler on your own.

Although there are 20 other players on the pitch, discarded behind you, it feels like it’s just you and Endler in an empty stadium. The goal looks bigger than it should be as your foot swings down onto the ball, and the raucous noise of the stadium can only intensify when the ball just misses the tip of Endler’s glove and meets the back of the net.

It is hard to ignore the unfamiliar discomfort in your knee, but you do it anyways. You run off to celebrate and don’t pay it another thought. You don’t mention it to anyone amidst the celebrations because how could you possibly ruin this moment, and it’s basically gone by the time you return to the midfield.

For a moment, there's hope. Your goal sparks new light into the eyes of your teammates. One golden boot shines brighter than a golden glove and there's a connection between your foot and the ball that just makes sense, and it's put away in the back of the net.

But when the ball starts rolling again and it meets the feet of Van de Donk, you realise 1 goal isn't enough.

No, it's like hanging off the edge of a cliff, fingers clawing for whatever jagged edge of a rock they can reach, clinging onto the little thing you have keeping you up. But with every minute, every intercepted pass, missed or deflected shots, the cliffside is crumbling.

Lyon is an exceptional team. That's why they manage to put one past Sandra, and you're back to square one. Your mind, drunk on pride, pushes you to do more, to give more. Your body feels like it can't possibly give anything more, yet you still run up and down the pitch without slowing down once and you throw yourself at the ball every time you find the opportunity.

It’s what your mother says will eventually kill you.

So it does, internally. When the final whistle pierces your ears and the minority of Lyon fans in the crowd burst into cheers, it kills you, because you would die for this club and it hurts to come so close but fall short.

The winning legacy you were so close to completing, was now tainted by your failure to actually win.

Your knee also hurts. A lot.

You lie down on the pitch, its soggy and uneven surface being the only comfort you have in this place where everywhere you look, there are reminders that you’re not good enough. The more you think about all the sacrifices and things you put on the line for this title, you wonder, ‘When’s it gonna be my turn?’

Disappointed fans filing out of the exits, your teammates surrounding you trying to hold in their tears, the dancing and celebrating from Lyon.

The sound of sniffles can be heard from beside you, and you roll over to see Mapi, her eyes bloodshot and her cheeks dusted with patches of red.

As you line up to receive your medal, you don’t even want to wear it. Silver will never be better than gold, there’s nothing good about being second to best, being outperformed is nothing to be proud of. But you still keep the medal on.

You hang your head and look away from the winner’s stage, because your heart is too sore to take in the fact that would’ve, could’ve, should’ve been you.

‘When’s it gonna be my turn?’

[wherescody]

lost at wrestlemania and post wrestlemania

WrestleMania 41 was supposed to be the pinnacle. The climax of Cody Rhodes’ hard-fought journey, the victory lap for a champion who had defied the odds, stitched together his legacy, and carried the weight of history with grace. He walked into the stadium as WWE Champion and the heartbeat of an entire generation of fans.

But fate had one more twist.

John Cena. A legend. A name etched into every corner of wrestling history. And tonight, he wasn’t just a challenger he was a man chasing immortality.

The bell rang. The match started. And for nearly 40 minutes, they battled like gods at war — trading strikes, counters, finishers, and near-falls that made the sold-out stadium shake. It was epic, gritty, and emotional.

And then, somehow, Cena landed the final blow.

The ref’s hand came down.

One. Two. Three.

The moment it happened, the world erupted — history made, a 17-time World Champion crowned. Cena fell to his knees in disbelief, tears on his face, basking in the roar of the crowd.

But behind the celebration, on the canvas, Cody Rhodes lay motionless.

Not because of the physical toll — though he was bloodied and bruised but because of what he’d lost. Not just the title, but the dream. The story he’d fought so hard to finish now had a painful new chapter. And it wasn’t the one he had written in his heart.

Backstage, Y/N watched everything unfold with her chest tight and her fingers trembling. Her heart had cracked the moment the bell rang. Watching Cody lose watching him lose the title that had cost him so much to win was gutting. Because she knew.

She knew this wasn’t just a loss.

This would haunt him.

When Cody came through the curtain after the match, he didn’t speak. The usual swarm of producers and staff parted around him like he was a ghost. Trainers tried to offer him water, a towel, to escort him to medical. He waved them off. Silently. Emotionless.

But when his eyes met Y/N’s, the facade cracked — even if only for a second.

Without a word, she walked to him and gently wrapped her arms around his waist. His body leaned into hers. Heavy. Drained. Defeated.

“You okay?” she whispered, even though she already knew the answer.

He didn’t say anything just shook his head slightly, his eyes glassy but dry.

They didn’t linger.

No post-show interviews. No press. No words for the cameras. Cody walked right past all of it, Y/N’s hand clasped in his, guiding him through the halls like a lifeline. They exited the stadium quietly, slipping into the chill of the night, away from the lights and the roar of history being made.

The tour bus was waiting.

Cody climbed the steps first, head still low. Y/N followed, the door shutting behind them with a soft hiss. Silence wrapped around them instantly.

The bus felt too still, too quiet. The kind of quiet that made every emotion feel ten times louder.

Cody stood in the center of the main lounge for a moment, unmoving, staring at nothing. His hands were at his sides, still taped up. His championship jacket hung untouched on the hook near the door. The championship his championship wasn’t with him anymore.

He finally sat down on the edge of the built-in couch, elbows on his knees, his head bowed low.

And then… he broke.

Not with screams or rage. Not with slammed fists or shattered glass. But with a single breath long, deep, and trembling. His shoulders began to shake.

Y/N rushed to his side, dropping to her knees in front of him. She reached up to touch his face bloodied and bruised from the match and he leaned into her palm like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

“I failed,” he said, barely audible.

“No,” she whispered.

“I failed everyone,” he repeated. “The fans. The boys in the back. The ones who believed in me. You.”

Her heart cracked in two.

“Don’t you dare say that,” she said, her voice shaking but fierce. “You did not fail me. You did not fail anyone.”

Cody finally looked up at her, tears in his eyes, red and tired. “I couldn’t hold onto it, Y/N. I said I would carry it, for them. For him. For my dad. And I dropped it. Just like that.”

She crawled up onto the couch beside him and pulled him into her arms, holding him tightly, his face buried in her neck as he cried. Not loud, but deep, guttural sobs. The kind that came from months years of weight he had never put down.

“You gave everything,” she whispered. “Everything. You fought like hell. You gave us moments we’ll never forget. That title didn’t define your worth. You do.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist tightly, like he was afraid to let go.

“I didn’t think it would hurt this much,” he admitted. “But seeing him holding that title the one I swore I’d defend with everything I had it felt like losing a piece of myself.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But you haven’t lost me. And you haven’t lost the story. This isn’t the end.

His voice cracked again. “I just wanted to make my dad proud.”

Y/N gently placed a hand over the word tattooed on his chest: Dream.

“You already have. Every time you stepped into that ring. Every time you stood up after being knocked down. He’s proud of you. I’m proud of you. You don’t have to win every match to be worthy, Cody.”

They stayed curled up on the tour bus couch, the engine humming softly beneath them, the outside world still spinning

Inside, it was just them. No cameras. No fans. No title.

Just a man hurting, and the woman who refused to let him face it alone.

⸻

Later that night, Cody would fall asleep on that same couch, wrapped in a blanket, his head in Y/N’s lap. She stayed awake for a while, fingers gently stroking his hair, staring out the window of the tour bus.

She didn’t know what came next. Redemption? A break? Maybe even reinvention.

But what she did know was this:

They’d keep going.

Together.

Because even in heartbreak, even in loss Cody Rhodes still had fight left in him.

And he still had love. Unshakable, unwavering love.

—————————

The sun rose on the Monday after WrestleMania 41, but it didn’t feel like a new day. Not for Cody Rhodes.

He had barely slept. Even on the tour bus, surrounded by silence, comfort, and the warmth of Y/N’s arms, sleep had come in fragments. Every time his eyes closed, he saw that final pinfall. The referee’s hand hitting the mat. The crowd exploding for Cena. And the championship slipping from his grasp again.

It played on a loop in his mind like some cruel joke his subconscious refused to stop telling.

He sat on the narrow bench across from the kitchenette, still in the same hoodie and sweatpants from the night before. His coffee had gone cold in his hands. He hadn’t taken a sip. He just sat there, staring through the tinted windows at the parking lot, numb.

Y/N moved quietly through the bus, giving him space but never straying far. She knew he needed stillness. And when he was ready he’d come to her.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She glanced at the screen: Bruce from WWE.

She hesitated, then answered softly, stepping toward the back of the bus.

“Hey. Yeah, I’m with him… No, he hasn’t said much. He didn’t sleep… No. I don’t think he’s in the right place to talk tonight, Bruce. I’m sorry.

She listened for a while, her face softening as she nodded. Then, she peeked around the corner of the bus, watching Cody.

“Let me ask,” she said, and approached him gently. “Hey, baby?”

He didn’t respond at first. His gaze didn’t shift from the window.

She crouched next to him, brushing his knee softly. “Raw wants to know if you’ll come in tonight. Just to talk to the fans. Not wrestle. Just… speak.”

He blinked slowly, then let out a bitter, joyless laugh.

“They want me to go out there? Now?” His voice was flat, wounded. “They want me to walk into that arena, look those people in the eyes, and act like I’m okay?”

Y/N didn’t answer right away.

“I can’t do that,” he muttered. “I can’t stand in that ring and pretend to be proud of losing everything I worked for.”

She reached for his hand. “No one’s asking you to pretend. But… they love you, Cody. They still do.”

He looked at her then, eyes rimmed with fatigue and grief. “But what if I don’t love me right now?”

The words hit the air like ice water.

Y/N sat beside him, pulling his hand into her lap, holding it tight. “Then I’ll love you enough for both of us. And when you’re ready to face them, they’ll still be there.”

Cody swallowed hard, his jaw clenching.

“I said I would finish the story,” he whispered. “I told them it would end with me still standing. I made them believe. And I couldn’t do it. What does that say about me?”

Y/N’s voice was soft but certain. “It says you’re human. It says you gave everything you had and still stood tall even when the world took the ground out from under you. That’s what they believed in not just the title, you.”

He leaned forward, pressing his elbows to his knees, his hands now tangled in his hair. “If I go out there tonight, they’ll see it. How broken I am.”

She brushed her fingers down his back, grounding him. “Then let them. Because even broken, you’re still worth loving. Still worth cheering for. And someday, you’ll stand in that ring and finish that story for real.”

Cody shook his head slowly. “I can’t today.”

Y/N didn’t push. She simply nodded and leaned against him.

“That’s okay. Then we take today for us. Just us.”

⸻

Later That Afternoon

Cody hadn’t moved much. He dozed off briefly, his head in Y/N’s lap as she scrolled through her phone. The world was already reacting Cena’s 17th title reign was plastered on every sports page. Headlines. Tweets. Debates. Commentators calling it the greatest moment in Mania history.

But her feed was also full of Cody.

“Thank you, Cody.”

“Still our champion.”

“The American Nightmare forever.”

Y/N didn’t show him the posts, not yet. But she saved them. Every single one.

He woke up slowly, eyes squinting against the filtered sunlight streaming in through the curtains.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Hey.”

He sat up, groaning a little as his muscles protested. For a while, he just stared at the carpet, then looked over at her.

“You didn’t go to Raw either?”

“Nope,” she said softly. “Wherever you are is where I’m supposed to be.”

Cody gave a weak smile. “You’re too good for me.”

“Maybe. But lucky for you, I’m stubborn.”

He chuckled a real one this time. It was faint, but it was there. A crack in the grief. A sign of life.

She stood and offered him her hand. “C’mon.”

“Where?”

“Nowhere big. Just outside. Fresh air. Walk a bit. We can avoid the crowd.”

He took it.

⸻

Evening

They sat on a quiet bench in a grassy corner behind the venue lot, where most people wouldn’t think to look. The hum of Raw happening inside the arena was distant. Just sound and vibration. Not pain. Not pressure.

Cody sat beside Y/N in silence, watching the sun set behind a nearby building. The sky turned orange and pink peaceful, like a painting.

“Do you think they’ll forget about me?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she said without hesitation. “You left a mark. One match won’t erase that.”

He nodded slowly. “Part of me feels like I have to disappear for a while. Just… go off the map.”

She turned to face him fully. “If that’s what you need, we’ll go. Anywhere you want. I’ll follow you to the ends of the earth.”

He looked at her, tears rising again.

“I don’t deserve that kind of love.”

“You do,” she whispered. “And I’m going to keep reminding you until you believe it.”

He broke again. Softer this time. No sobs. Just tears sliding down his cheeks as he nodded and leaned into her shoulder.

And she held him, just like she had the night before. Not trying to fix him. Not trying to rush the healing. Just being there, unwavering.

⸻

That night, they didn’t watch Raw. They stayed on the bus, cooked a simple dinner, and curled up under a blanket. Y/N read him some of the fan tweets. The kind messages. The photos. The ones that said, “We believe in you.”

And for the first time in 24 hours… Cody smiled without sadness.

The loss still hurt. The title was still gone. The story was unfinished.

But maybe it wasn’t over.

Not yet.

And when it was time when he could breathe again he’d rise.

And this time, he wouldn’t be alone.

[luv-nikki]

A night to remember♡

Dominik Mysterio x f! Reader

About: WrestleMania 41, a grand arena filled with thousands of fans, the atmosphere electric with excitement. The main event just concluded, and the spotlight is on Dominik Mysterio, who has just won the Intercontinental Championship.

⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿

As the final bell rang and the referee handed Dominik the Intercontinental Championship belt, the arena erupted into thunderous applause. The moment was surreal, a culmination of years of hard work, dedication, and the legacy of his father, Rey Mysterio. Dominik stood in the center of the ring, the championship belt glistening under the bright lights, a proud smile etched across his face.

In the audience, you cheered louder than anyone, your heart racing with pride. You had been by Dominik's side through every match, every training session, and every moment of doubt. The two of you had formed a bond that transcended friendship, a connection that felt electric and undeniable.

Once the match ended, Dominik made his way to the edge of the ring to soak in the adoration of the fans. As he looked out into the crowd, his eyes locked onto yours. In that instant, the world outside faded away, and it was just the two of you. You raised your hands in celebration, and he responded with a confident grin that made your heart skip a beat.

After the show, backstage was a whirlwind of activity. Dominik was being congratulated by fellow wrestlers, media personnel, and staff. Yet, amidst the chaos, he managed to find you, his eyes lighting up as he approached.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I did it! I really did it!"

You laughed, feeling the warmth of his excitement. "Of course you did! I knew you would. You were amazing out there!"

Pulling back slightly, he looked into your eyes, and for a moment, the cheers and voices around you faded. “I couldn’t have done it without your support,” he said, sincerity radiating from his voice. “You’ve always been there for me.”

You felt your cheeks flush, knowing just how much his words meant. “You earned it, Dominik. You’re a champion!”

As the adrenaline began to wear off, Dominik’s expression softened. “Can we get out of here? I want to celebrate, just the two of us.”

Your heart raced at the thought of spending a private moment with him after such a monumental night. “Absolutely. Where to?”

“Follow me,” he said, taking your hand in his. You both slipped through the chaos of the backstage area, finally exiting into the cool night air.

Dominik led you to a quiet rooftop terrace overlooking the stadium, the glow of the lights illuminating the sky. The crowd’s cheers still echoed in the distance, but here, it was just you and him, the stars above twinkling like diamonds.

He turned to face you, holding the championship belt proudly over his shoulder. “This moment feels perfect,” he said, taking a step closer. “But it would be even better if I shared it with you.”

Your heart fluttered as he leaned in, and without thinking, you reached up to cup his face. “You’ve worked so hard for this. I’m so proud of you, Dominik.”

In that moment, he leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. It was a kiss filled with all the emotions of the night—joy, relief, and a hint of something deeper. When he pulled away, his eyes sparkled with mischief. “So, what do you say? Champion and his biggest fan?”

You laughed, feeling lighter than air. “I’d say that sounds like a perfect team.”

As the night unfolded, you both shared stories of the journey that brought you to this moment, dreams for the future, and laughter that echoed into the night. With each passing second, the bond between you deepened, solidifying that this night would be one you would cherish forever.

And as Dominik held you close, the championship belt glinting under the stars, you knew that this was just the beginning of a remarkable journey together, filled with dreams, victories, and a love that would only grow stronger.

⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿⊰⊱✿

Authors note:

Heyyy guys please if you guys have any requests please don’t be afraid to leave them

[ceesimz]

I Did It All.

"Alexia Putellas, what do you have to say about leaving the pitch for the final time?"

Twenty years done, not enough. Twenty years more, too much. A discrepancy far more complex than it needs to be.

Days spent treading the same grass that legends of the past had once done, winding and weaving fluidly through near faultless defences, roars of awe following as stars returned back to their rightful place in the sky with each jump of celebration.

Nights spent in clubs and restaurants, surrounded by people high on glory with medals around their necks, a privilege some may argue wasn't warranted. Though, when stadiums filled to their capacities chanted just one name over and over as if it was the holiest sacrament of Catalunya, fighting against that was as close to blasmephy as one could get.

To now slip off into the unknown, leaving behind only a name that no longer gave way to the presence of a figure the fields didn't deserve. The future would never know her, only her name, only her stats, only her achievements. Perhaps it was best to keep it that way.

Decades of critics speaking in such a way it was almost sacrilegious, months of shame in the media for purely being a human in the worst era of her life, weeks of slander and insults for fighting for rights in a system built to spite her, twisting her kindness into a weakness. But always, the rightful figure rises, pulling the sword from the stone and raising it to the skies in triumph. The crown could get heavy, but not once did it falter. Not once did it fall.

With the final few imprints of her boot studs as she stepped off of the turf, she simply relinquished the responsibility and handed the legacy over to the next generation, trusting them indefinitely to carry the honour in the same way she did. It wasn't just the handing over of a torch; it was the exchange of a rite of passage, a way of life, and a promise to uphold the standards of excellence and righteousness she had engraved into the sport she gave her life to. This passing of the baton wasn't solely focused on the end of something though, no, it was the beginning of something far more important than people could understand. It was time for the up-and-coming stars of the sport to take the pen and write their own chapters into the history books, encompassing the opportunity to build something even more empowering than those before them.

Allowing the armband she had worn with great pride to slip off her arm, she shed the weight of a thousand battles, all of the lessons she had learnt from each victory and each defeat now etched into every fibre of her being. The world watched as she exited the field for the last time, an understanding wordlessly divulged between millions at the recognition that this was a landmark moment.

Kaleidoscopes of nostalgia flitted past her eyes as if it were an old film roll, freeze-frames of time portraying unimaginably euphoric moments. Only for them to never be experienced again. Though every cheer, every chant, and every image of a shirt worn with her legacy stitched into the fabric of it, flooded through her veins, and would for evermore.

The high regard her peers held her to, whether she had come across them on the pitch time after time or never met them at all, was a testament to the irremovable mark she had left on the beautiful game. Other countless memorable figures that were desperate to meet her, brands desperate to work with her, all these examples of her undeniable impact.

Alexia Putellas never cared about being immortalised in her sport. She was just a girl from the outskirts of Barcelona, chasing a dream with her loved ones holding her hand along the journey. Some of those hands had slipped away as time went on, but that meant she only gained more guardian angels to watch over her. With a family as tight-knit as hers, each member past and present a constant reminder of her purpose, she never lost faith. Sure, there were moments where it faltered a little, but no matter how much people tried to make a mockery of her failures, she would step back up; each comeback better than the last.

Her longevity was unrivalled, performing to the highest standards near enough all the time, even when others didn't deserve to witness it. Still, she gave away every part of herself to a sport that tried to silence her and failed to give equity until the latest moment possible. Always undervalued and unappreciated in her place of work, but did that stop her? Dampen her spirits? No, of course it didn't. And she had ample evidence to prove it; awards, trophies, medals, and most importantly to her, an easier path paved for those following in her footsteps.

The final chapter was about to finish though, the book of a near flawless career soon to slam shut.

Football would feel the loss of her absence, but like the story of Ozymandias, the dust will blow over and erase her stature, the nature of the sport will run its course and she'll be a figment of the past. Her time had come, and she had done everything and more of what she needed to do.

She moved from an ever-present figure to just a silhouette with a few steps.

Here, now, at the crescendo of a note-worthy career run, there was only one way to answer such a question.

"I did it all."

[novaursa]

Legacy (across the dream)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be aware of unspecified time jumps.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (short adult scene)

- Previous part: tomorrow

- Next part: the silence

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

The war room of Casterly Rock was heavy with the scent of wax and parchment, the weight of war pressing down upon those who stood within it. The torches burned low, casting specters across the grand table where maps of Westeros were spread, marked with ink and sigils.

Tywin Lannister stood at the head of the table, his expression as steady as a drawn blade. The air in the chamber was thick with unease, the lords and officers gathered around waiting in silence as the scout before them took a steadying breath.

"My lord," the scout began, bowing his head. "We found them three leagues east of here, scattered across the rocks and frozen ground. Dead ravens. At least a dozen."

Tywin’s gaze darkened. "And the messages?"

"Untouched," the scout replied, handing over a bundle of scrolls wrapped in black ribbon. "Still sealed. As if they fell from the sky all at once."

A murmur spread through the gathered men, a fear flickering in their eyes.

Tywin untied the ribbon and unrolled one of the messages, his sharp eyes scanning the contents. His fingers tightened around the parchment as he read.

"The last message sent from the capital," he said, voice level but heavy with meaning. "Dated weeks ago."

Another scroll was unfurled, this one bearing the sigil of House Stark.

"Winterfell," he muttered, recognizing the seal. The message was faded but legible. A warning.

Tywin turned to Kevan, who stood beside him, his expression grim. "If these ravens were never delivered, then our communications have been severed for longer than we anticipated."

Kevan nodded. "A troubling sign, brother. The ravens should not have fallen mid-flight unless something unnatural caused it."

The silence in the room deepened. It was Beric Dondarrion who finally spoke, his voice edged with the wisdom of too many deaths and resurrections.

"Magic," he said simply. "Something is at work here, something old. This is no natural occurrence."

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his mind already racing through possibilities.

"You mean to tell me," he said coldly, "that the enemy is interfering with our very means of communication?"

Beric met his gaze with an unwavering expression. "Would it surprise you?"

Tywin did not answer.

You, who had been standing at his side, finally stepped forward. Your gaze lingered on the black-feathered bundle in the scout’s hands before shifting back to Tywin.

"This has only just begun," you said softly. "They are cutting us off, isolating us."

Tywin exhaled sharply, the muscle in his jaw flexing. He looked at you, the unreadable expression in his green eyes betraying nothing of the storm raging in his mind.

"Then we must be prepared," he said at last, handing the scrolls to a waiting scribe. "Every settlement, every outpost under our protection must be warned—send word through trusted riders, not ravens. If our messages cannot fly, then they will ride."

Kevan nodded in agreement. "A sound plan. But if the dead are already moving, we must be ready for an attack."

Tywin turned to his assembled officers, his voice steel. "Fortify the defenses. Increase patrols along every border, especially along the eastern front. If they seek to weaken us, we will show them that Casterly Rock is not so easily shaken."

The men nodded, murmuring their assent, but you could see the unease that lingered in their eyes.

"Burn the bodies of the ravens," Beric added. "And salt the ground where they fell."

A ripple of discomfort passed through the room.

Tywin arched a brow but gave a curt nod. "See it done."

The scout bowed deeply before stepping back, the doors swinging open as he exited.

The chamber remained still for a long moment, the weight of the news pressing down upon those present.

You felt Tywin’s gaze settle on you once more, his voice quieter when he spoke.

"If they are trying to silence us," he murmured, "then we must ensure we are not caught unaware."

You met his eyes, nodding solemnly. "We must be ready for what comes."

Tywin exhaled again, his mind already working through the next steps, but you could see it—the slight crease in his brow, the glint of calculation in his gaze. He knew, as well as you did, that this was only the beginning.

And the silence left in the wake of dead wings was a warning neither of you would ignore.

The icy wind howled through the battlements of Casterly Rock, sending a bitter chill through the stone fortress. The realm had been trapped in endless night for years, and yet the lions of the West still stood, defiant against the coming darkness.

Tywin Lannister walked the ramparts, his fur-lined cloak billowing behind him as he observed the defenses with keen, calculating eyes. The walls had been reinforced, the battlements lined with seasoned archers. Below, soldiers drilled relentlessly, their swords ringing through the cold air as they practiced for battles yet to come.

His mind was a storm of calculations, weighing provisions, manpower, and strategy. The dead were on the move—Beric’s reports had confirmed it. And now the very skies seemed against them. The realm was growing silent, cut off by unseen forces.

A sound of boots on stone made him turn slightly, though his hands remained clasped behind his back. Thoros of Myr approached, his red priest’s robes looking almost black in the dim torchlight. His eyes, usually filled with a flickering mirth, were grave.

"My lord," Thoros greeted, dipping his head slightly.

Tywin’s gaze returned to the men below. "What is it?"

Thoros hesitated for a moment before stepping closer. "I have heard whispers among your men," he said, his voice steady. "About what lies beneath us."

Tywin’s expression did not change. "You will have to be more specific, Myrman."

Thoros let out a quiet breath, his fingers brushing the pommel of his sword. "The mines," he said at last. "The place where the dragons have nested. They say there is Dragonglass down there."

Tywin’s eyes flickered briefly toward the Red Priest before looking back to the training soldiers below. "There is," he admitted, voice calm and measured. "Rich veins of it, deeper than even the gold we once extracted from these hills."

Thoros nodded slowly, as if confirming a long-held suspicion. "Then I must ask, my lord… why has it not been put to use?"

Tywin turned fully now, his green eyes cold. "We are not smiths of Valyria, nor do I have the luxury of wasting resources on superstition."

Thoros’s lips curled slightly in amusement, despite the grimness of their conversation. "And yet," he mused, "you have two dragons sleeping beneath your feet. You married a woman of dragon’s blood. Your own son, half a lion and half a dragon, was burned by fire and yet still lives."

Tywin’s jaw tightened. "Get to the point."

Thoros’s expression sobered. "The Night is here, Lord Tywin. This is no longer war as you have known it. Swords of steel and shields of gold will not hold against the dead. You need weapons of Dragonglass. You need men who know how to forge them. And you need them now."

Tywin remained silent for a long moment. The torchlight cast deep shadows on his face, making the angles of his features look carved from ice and stone.

"Have you ever worked Dragonglass before, priest?"

Thoros shifted, shaking his head. "No. But I have seen it wielded against the dead. I have seen it work. And there are blacksmiths among your men who could learn, if given the right materials."

Tywin tapped his fingers against the edge of the stone wall, thinking.

"You propose that I divert resources to mining Dragonglass instead of food and steel?"

"I propose that you do both," Thoros countered. "If the dead come for us, and our blades do nothing… then it will not matter how many soldiers you have. They will be butchered in the dark."

Silence hung between them. The weight of the decision was clear.

Finally, Tywin turned away from the wall, his mind made up.

"You will take a dozen men," he ordered. "Go into the mines, gather what you can. Find a blacksmith with enough sense to shape it into something useful."

Thoros dipped his head. "A wise choice, my lord."

Tywin narrowed his eyes. "It is a necessary one. We do not indulge in superstition here, but we will use every resource at our disposal to ensure the survival of this house and this kingdom."

Thoros smirked. "A man who does not believe in the Lord of Light… yet wages war like one blessed by fire."

Tywin’s lip curled in distaste. "I do not need the favor of your god to win wars, Myrman. I need strategy and steel."

"And Dragonglass," Thoros reminded him.

Tywin said nothing, merely turning on his heel and walking away, leaving Thoros standing alone beneath the flickering torchlight.

The priest sighed, looking up at the darkened sky.

"May your fire burn bright, Lord Tywin," he murmured to the night. "You’re going to need it."

The winds still howled against the stone walls of Casterly Rock one moon later, carrying whispers of death and ice from the North. The sky remained black, swallowed by the endless night, and the air carried a stillness that felt unnatural. Yet inside the fortress, preparations did not cease.

Damon Lannister stood beneath the great archway of the castle courtyard, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The boy no longer wore bandages, though the fresh scars across his left side were still red and raw, the skin stretched taut. A deep burn ran along his jaw, tugging his lips into an almost permanent sneer, and part of his left cheek bore the mark of dragonfire. His silver-gold hair had darkened near the scorched flesh, giving him an uneven appearance—half lion, half something else.

His gaze was fixed on the courtyard, where Lord Tywin Lannister stood overseeing his men. The old lion was draped in his crimson-and-gold cloak, his breastplate gleaming in the torchlight. He moved between his commanders with the effortless precision of a man who had spent a lifetime preparing for war.

Beside Damon, Ser Barristan Selmy stood, his expression unreadable as he too watched the Lord of Casterly Rock. The old knight had his arms crossed, his weathered face cast in thought.

"They say my father never loses," Damon murmured, his voice quiet but steady.

Barristan glanced at him. "Your father is one of the finest commanders the realm has ever seen."

Damon’s scarred lips pressed together. "Then why does he look worried?"

Barristan hesitated before answering. "Because war is not won by reputation alone, my lord. It is won by men. By steel and fire. And even the greatest of men can bleed."

Damon frowned, watching as Tywin turned to one of his bannermen, his expression hard and severe. His father rarely showed emotion—everything he did was deliberate, calculated. And yet there was something in the way he moved today that unsettled Damon.

"Do you think we'll win?" Damon asked.

Barristan exhaled through his nose. "I think your father will do whatever it takes to ensure his house survives."

That wasn’t an answer. Damon turned to the knight, his young face serious. "And what do you think?"

Barristan studied him for a long moment. "I think war changes men. Even the ones we believe unshakable."

Damon’s small hands clenched tighter. He did not like the sound of that.

His eyes returned to Tywin. His father was speaking with Kevan, the two brothers standing close in quiet discussion. Nearby, a group of Lannister knights fastened armor, their expressions grim. The war horns had not sounded, but everyone felt it.

"Can I fight?" Damon suddenly asked.

Barristan sighed. "You are too young for battle, my lord."

Damon scowled, fingers twitching. "I could ride Arraxes—"

"No." Barristan’s voice was firm, and for the first time, Damon turned to see the full weight of the old knight’s gaze upon him. "You nearly died trying to claim him."

Damon’s face burned, but not from the scars.

"I failed," he whispered.

"You are alive," Barristan corrected. "And that means you have another chance."

Damon swallowed. His throat felt tight. "Another chance for what?"

Barristan knelt before him, placing a steady hand on the boy’s unscarred shoulder.

"To grow. To learn. To be better than those who came before you."

Damon didn’t answer. He only looked past Barristan, watching his father command the army with unwavering certainty.

For the first time, he wondered if that certainty could break.

The castle halls of Casterly Rock were eerily quiet, the stone cold beneath your fingers as you traced the intricate carvings along the wall. The flames of the torches flickered in the stagnant air.

Varys stood at the window, his robes pooling around him like liquid silk, his ever-watchful gaze set upon the dark horizon beyond the sea. It had been a week since Tyrion had departed with the Unsullied. A week of silence.

"Do you think he'll make it back to Dragonstone in time?" you asked, breaking the hush between you. "Or will he return at all?"

Varys turned his head slightly, offering you a knowing smile, though it did little to comfort you.

"If there is one thing I have learned, my lady," he mused, "it is that your husband is not the only Lannister who does not simply roll over and die."

You exhaled through your nose, your arms crossing over your chest. "Tyrion is clever, but Daenerys… she is not patient."

"That is an understatement," Varys said dryly. "And yet, she waits. Because she has no other choice."

Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your sleeves.

"I feel helpless, Varys." The words tumbled from your lips before you could stop them. You turned toward him fully, frustration clear in your voice. "Tywin keeps me caged within these walls, refusing to let me act. He will not let me fly north. Not even to Winterfell."

Varys did not speak, only listening as you continued.

"Jon could be hurt—again," you murmured, voice softer now. "And I cannot even see him. I raised him, Varys. He was mine in all the ways that mattered. And yet, I am to sit here, warm and safe, while he fights for his life in the cold."

You pressed your lips together, swallowing the lump forming in your throat.

Varys sighed, tilting his head as he regarded you.

"You are a queen in all but name," he said gently. "And queens are often prisoners of their own power."

You let out a hollow laugh. "That is something Tywin would say."

Varys hummed. "Yes, well, your husband is not entirely wrong. He keeps you here because he fears losing you. The same way he fears losing Damon and Maelor. He is not a man who gives himself freely, and yet you…" He gestured to you with a tilt of his head. "You are an exception."

You looked away, your heart twisting.

"He knows as well as I do that there is only so much time before the winter swallows us whole," you whispered. "And still, he waits."

Varys stepped closer, his voice low.

"He waits because he is not ready to surrender his belief that he can control what is coming," he said. "And because, despite everything, he still does not fully believe."

You turned back to him, meeting his unreadable gaze.

"But you do, don't you?" you asked.

Varys did not answer immediately.

"I have seen enough to know," he finally said, "that we have already waited too long."

A chill ran down your spine, despite the warmth of the castle.

Beyond the windows, the night stretched on, endless and unyielding.

Tywin stood near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed into the crackling fire. The flames danced over his stern features, accentuating the hard lines of his face, his golden hair kissed with streaks of silver. You watched him from where you stood, near the edge of the large bed, your fingers ghosting over the embroidered patterns of the Lannister sigil on the bedding.

He finally spoke, his voice calm but weighted.

"All of the Westerlands will gather here," he stated. "We will make our stand at Casterly Rock." He turned toward you, his gaze steady. "I suspect the rest of the realm is preparing to do the same, holding to their strongholds and fortresses, waiting for what comes."

You exhaled slowly, nodding. "There is no safety anywhere else," you murmured. "Not in the open. Not anymore."

He took a measured step toward you, his expression unreadable. "The strength of the Rock will hold," he said, though there was an edge to his voice—one that you recognized as restrained concern.

You searched his face, your heart heavy. "And if it does not?"

He did not answer immediately. Instead, he reached out, cupping your jaw in his hand, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. "Then we make sure they pay the highest price for it."

A small, humorless chuckle escaped your lips. "That sounds like you."

He smirked, just barely. "It is me."

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of his palm against your skin. When you opened them again, he was watching you, his green eyes searching.

"Stay close to me," he murmured.

You reached up, placing your hand over his. "Always."

He studied you for a long moment before his fingers slid into your hair, and then his lips were on yours—firm, assured, but not demanding. You melted into him, the tension of the world outside momentarily forgotten as his hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you closer.

The kiss deepened, slow yet unyielding, as his other hand skimmed down your spine, fingers tracing the silken fabric of your gown. Your hands found the front of his tunic, slipping beneath the thick fabric to touch the warmth of his skin.

A low sound escaped him as he lifted you slightly, walking you back toward the bed. His lips never left yours, even as his fingers worked at the ties of your dress, loosening the laces with practiced ease. The heavy material slipped from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, leaving you bared to the cool air of the chamber.

Tywin’s eyes darkened as he took in the sight of you, his hands firm against your waist as he guided you onto the bed. He followed after you, shedding his tunic with slow deliberation, the firelight casting shadows over the defined lines of his body.

"You are mine," he murmured, voice low and certain, as he leaned over you, his lips tracing a slow path down the column of your throat.

You arched into him, your fingers tangling in his hair. "And you are mine."

His answer was a deep, lingering kiss as he settled between your thighs, and the night stretched on, wrapped in warmth and fire—while the endless dark loomed beyond the walls.

Damon lay on his back, staring at the ceiling of their shared chamber. The warmth of the castle, kept by the dragons beneath, was ever-present, but the cold outside seeped into the very bones of the Rock.

Beside him, Maelor was curled up under thick furs, his small frame barely making a dent in the massive bed. But he was not asleep. Damon could feel his little brother's eyes on him, even through the dark.

A moment passed before Maelor’s quiet voice broke the silence. "Damon?"

Damon blinked, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling. "Hmm?"

There was a pause, hesitant, before Maelor whispered, "Do you think we’ll see the sun again?"

The words made something tighten in Damon's chest. He turned his head slightly, looking at his younger brother. Maelor’s wide eyes reflected the candlelight, his face a mixture of curiosity and quiet fear.

Damon exhaled slowly, shifting onto his side. "I don’t know," he admitted. "Maybe."

Maelor frowned. "But the maester said it’s been more then three years since it went away." His small fingers clutched the edge of his blanket. "And if the sun doesn’t come back… will the world stay like this forever?"

Damon hesitated. He wanted to tell Maelor that everything would be fine, that one day they would wake up, and the sun would be there, bright and golden in the sky. That things would go back to how they were in the stories their mother told them.

But he had learned enough to know that promises made in blind hope meant nothing.

Instead, he sighed and reached over, ruffling Maelor’s pale hair. "I don’t know, Maelor. But if the sun doesn’t come back, we’ll make do. We always do."

Maelor wrinkled his nose. "That’s what Father always says."

Damon smirked slightly. "Because it’s true."

Maelor was quiet for a moment, then mumbled, "I miss the sun."

Damon shifted closer, draping an arm protectively over his little brother. "Me too," he admitted.

The candle flickered, casting another wave of shadows against the walls. Outside, the wind howled through the cliffs of the Rock, a sound like distant wailing.

Maelor yawned and nuzzled closer into the warmth of his brother’s embrace. "Do you think Mother will make the sun come back?"

Damon stared at the ceiling again, his voice softer this time. "If anyone can, it’s her."

Maelor sighed, his breath warm against Damon’s shoulder. Slowly, his small body relaxed, his breathing evening out as sleep began to claim him.

Damon remained awake, however, listening to the wind and watching the dying light of the candle.

Damon allowed himself to wonder—what if the sun never returns?

Damon lay still in his bed, furs drawn high against the chill that seeped even into the warmest chambers of Casterly Rock. Maelor, curled up beside him, had long since drifted into peaceful slumber, his soft breathing barely audible beneath the constant howling of the wind outside.

But for Damon, sleep was not so kind.

It started with whispers.

At first, they were distant, like voices carried by the wind. He couldn't make out the words, only the hushed urgency behind them. Then, they grew closer, forming echoes in the dark—a conversation happening just beyond his reach.

Then he recognized them.

His mother’s voice.

“We should have had more time.”

A shadow of pain, an ache woven into her words.

Then his father’s voice, rough and unfamiliar with weakness, as though every word was a struggle.

“We did.” A pause. A breath that sounded almost like a swallowed cry. “We deserved more.”

The air around Damon thickened. He felt his heart pound against his ribs, a rising panic he couldn’t explain. The voices blurred, and suddenly the warmth of his furs was gone. The stone walls of his chamber faded, dissolving into a cold vastness that stretched beyond sight.

Snow fell, thick and heavy, swallowing sound and light alike. He stood in a frozen wasteland, his boots sinking into ice that cracked beneath his weight. The sky was black, the stars veiled by swirling frost.

Then he felt it.

The weight of a presence.

Damon turned, and his breath hitched.

The Other stood before him.

It was taller than any man he had ever seen, clad in armor made of something more ancient than steel, its surface shimmering with the cold glow of the frozen night. Its skin was a corpse’s pale blue, its features sharp and inhuman. And its eyes…

Blazing. Piercing. Blue as death itself.

They watched him.

Not with anger. Not with hunger.

With something worse.

With recognition.

Damon could not move. Could not breathe. His entire body had turned to ice.

The Other raised a hand. Long, pale fingers extended toward him, a slow, deliberate motion. Its mouth did not move, but Damon heard it speak.

A voice that was not a voice.

A whisper that scraped like a dagger of ice against bone.

“You know us.”

Damon’s breath came in shudders, his mind screaming at him to run, to move, to do something.

The Other took a step forward.

Damon felt the cold sink into his skin, past his flesh, into his bones.

The whispers rose in a deafening crescendo.

His father’s voice—"We deserved more."

His mother’s voice—"We should have had more time."

The Other's voice—"We will have time."

Damon screamed.

The world shattered.

He bolted upright in bed, his chest heaving, his throat raw.

The chamber was no longer silent. The wind roared outside, and somewhere deep beneath the castle, Viserion shrieked.

Maelor stirred beside him, startled awake.

"Damon?" his little brother mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "What's wrong?"

Damon gasped for breath, his body drenched in sweat despite the cold. He turned toward Maelor, his hands trembling.

For a moment, he thought he still saw them—those eyes. Watching. Waiting.

"Damon?" Maelor repeated, sitting up now, concern in his young face.

Damon clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe.

“It’s nothing,” he lied.

But the cold had followed him from the dream.

And he knew—it was not nothing.

[you-me-we-04]

Before I start let me be clear I am an MCR5 truther until I die. However I've had this feeling/thought in the back of my mind since The Foundations of Decay dropped that the song and everything around it reads like an exit note.

A true comprehensive ending for the band. Not a short breakup paragraph posted to the band website or a letter posted by a frontman without a band saying goodbye to said band or solo material that may be about the band.

But rather Foundations is the band back together looking back on their past, their impact, their legacy and being at peace with it all. Hell the first line of the song is "See the man who stands upon the hill/He dreams of all the battles won." it's about looking back on the past on their past as a band. The song itself covers at lot of ground that MCR have covered in the past from 9/11 to gender to religion to everything in between. Almost like a final statement from the band on those issues or I'm just reading into it.

The song ends with "Yes, it comforts me much more/To lay in the foundations of decay" To me it read as acknowledgement that there is comfort in the past, in nostalgia, in the band you loved at 15. But we can't live in that nostalgic haze forever the final line being "Get up, coward!" looking back is fun but at some point we have to face the future. The thing about nostalgia is the further we get from it from the original thing whatever that may be the more it decays becoming a parody of itself. We have to move on from this band, this time of our lives before to totally decays or we run the risk of it become a parody of what it once represented, like so many bands before them not naming names.

Hell musically the song itself beautifully transition into Romance the first song from their first album creating in a sense a perfect loop of their discography from beginning to end. A loop that would be broken if the band drops another song.

Let me clear again I say this as someone who would kill for more MCR anything but also as we come ever closers to the last performance dates currently announced with it unclear what comes next for the band I would not be upset if this time their break-up post was/is The Foundations of Decay, as if it was a warning that we didn't listen to.

[rottenpumpkin13]

Hello dear! I absolutley live your Soldier sgort stories, they are hillarious!

I dont know if you are at all interested in any more AGSZC prompts, but how do you think they would all react to be taken on a space tour with Cid in the Shinra rocket?

Sephiroth: Truly a dream come true for him. Staring out into space, eyes glued to the scenery, realizing that no matter how lost he feels in existence, he's merely a speck in the vast universe. Sephiroth is in awe of how much remains to be discovered, so of course he's going to be spitting out space facts left and right.

Genesis: Wow…isn't this beautiful? Sephiroth: Objects in space travel at speeds over 25,000 km/hr, making any collision potentially catastrophic. Even the smallest piece of debris can puncture a spacecraft at incredible speeds, causing catastrophic failure and rapid decompression. Genesis: Sephiroth: But you should not fear such phenomenon. Just as you shouldn't fear your blood, your bile, and eyeballs boiling furiously should you exit the aircraft. Genesis:

Angeal: He'd absolutely love it. It would be a reverent experience for him. He’d be pressed against the window, reflecting on the vastness of the universe and how small they are in comparison, contemplating their humble existence in the face of such grandeur, he'd marvel at the importance of honor and legacy amidst the infinite—

*Sephiroth informs him of Shinra's concerning track record when it comes to space and aeronautics as well as the time Palmer drunkenly confessed to him in a men's bathroom at a Shinra function that his degree is fake*

Angeal, banging on the window: "LET ME OUT!"

Zack: The minute Cid realized Zack isn't the type who can't sit still and asks a million questions, he's given a pair of binoculars and told to "watch out for aliens." Hours of entertainment and Cid can fly at peace.

Zack, with binoculars: I don't see any aliens. *Zack turns around and points the binoculars at Sephiroth* Zack: Oh! I found a huge one! Sephiroth:

Cloud: He "looked trustworthy," so Cid decides to teach him how to pilot the spaceship. The problem is that Cid's method of teaching involves shouting instructions, while Cloud’s method of learning is half-listening and figuring things out on his own. There's a lot of yelling.

Genesis: Wants everyone back on Gaia to know that he's been in outer space, so he brings his camera and takes photos to be able to brag about it later. He takes so many of them; a photo of Angeal passing out in the spaceship; a photo of Zack by the window doing a thumbs up, but Genesis has photoshopped an alien in the background to freak him out later; a photo of Cloud piloting the aircraft into mortal peril while Cid yells at him. It's the little things.

[avatarloverfrfr]

Dreamwalker Siblings

Chapter I: Cryo-sleep Masterlist Summary: Y/n and Jake Sully. Siblings, shipped off into the depths of space to explore the mysterious world of Pandora. Warnings: Mentions of death, reader is NOT excited at all, Constant reminder of deceased loved one. Word count: 3,6k

"You cannot ask this of us! Tommy is the scientist not us. He wanted to be shot light years into space, not us. We cannot do it." I shrieked, pleading with my brother for validation, but my cries were met with oppressive silence. His gaze fixed onto our fallen sibling, Tommy, robbed of life right before he went off to do the only thing that put a smile to his face. All sacrificed for the contents of his wallet.

"Your brother represented a significant investment, we'd urge you to accept taking over his contract." The man besides Jake had said, completely disregarding all that I had said. "I'm sure he would hate to have all his hard work go to waste, knowing someone so close to him would be able to continue his legacy." The second man, besides me, added with a curt nod.

Outrage boils within me at the audacity of these men, exploiting the loss of one of us, former triplets, as leverage against us. How dare they use Jake and I with their clear motives of greed, revealing to us that our worth to them is nothing but a budget they refuse to abandon.

"It'll be a fresh start, on a new world. And the pays good, very good." they said staring at Jake and I. Before I could even say something in retaliation. Jake had spoken for the first time that night. "We'll do it." Disbelief swept over me as I locked eyes with him. How could he agree so easily? How could he not see that these men were just using us— he probably could, yet chose to turn a bind eye.

"Perfect, Y/n we will get your Avatar ready, they will mature on the trip there." the men said walking out, leaving me in there with Jake.

"How could you just accept like that Jake. You caved! Just like that? You know they are just playing us, and you still went along with it! Don't you see–" I started, but he interrupted me. "Maybe you don't see it, but I do. We are dirt poor Y/n! Struggling... This cash could change everything. We could finally be able to live." he pleaded, desperate for understanding. "I could afford to use my legs again." he confessed.

While I was sitting there, next to my brother, a big whole blown right in the middle of our lives, I started having these dreams. Dreams that whispered secrets of possibility and untold wonders. Sooner or later though, you always have to wake up.

As I wake up, I glance around and it hits me, I'm in some sort of cryo pod. Flashbacks flood my mind, reminding me of the time before my life had got frozen, five years of my life, gone. The memories of Tommy's death, as if it was yesterday. 'We had to do it, so we could live." I think to myself, trying to find comfort in all of this.

"Rise and shine sleepy head." a doctor had greeted me as I exit the cryo pod I had spent the last five years of my life in. "We're here."

"Exo-packs on! Let's go! Exo packs on! Remember people, you lose that mask, you're unconscious in 20 seconds, and dead in four minutes–" I stopped listening to what the sergeant had to say. Looking around my eyes landing on Jake. We should not be here, this is not our home. But what's the point in dwelling now, there's no turning back. I think to myself while putting on my exo pack, adjusting it so oxygen could freely flow through.

"When that ramp comes down, go directly into the base. Do not stop! Go straight inside wait for my mark!" the sergeant yelled. Standing up I walk over to Jake who was still seated waiting for everyone in front of him to leave the air craft so that he was able to freely able to deploy his wheelchair.

"Let's go special case! Do not make me wait for you Sully's!" he barks. Not bothering to acknowledge him Jake and I walk off the ramp and onto Pandora, our "fresh start." Taking a long look around I spot soldiers, back on earth these guys were heroes, marines fighting for freedom. But out here they were all just a bunch of hired guns, serving the RDA until their last breath.

"You're not in Kansas anymore, you're on Pandora ladies and gentlemen–" the man, Quartrich, continued. Tommy was meant to be listening to this, not Jake and I.

"Excuse me. Excuse me. Jake!" a lanky man rushes up to us after the "safety brief." "You're Jake right? Tom's brother." he asked looking down at him to meet his eyes. I just stare at him, does he just not see me here?

"You look just like him." he says eyes finally landing on me. "Sorry– I forgot he had mentioned he had two siblings, Y/n. I'm Norm. Spellman. Went through Avatar training with him." he says leading us into some sort of bio-lab.

As Norm continues briefing us on the bio-lab procedures, my attention drifts, drawn to avatars in three separate cry-chambers. I approach them, circling until I stop at a particular one.

"Looks like him." Jake and I simultaneously say, not once taking our eyes off what our brother could have been.

"No, looks like you. This is your avatar now Jake." Norm reassures him placing a hand on Jakes shoulder before moving to the last tube in the bio-lab.

"And this is your avatar Y/n. She had to get to the lab as soon as possible, since you know–" Norm starts, but I cut in, "–I wasn't meant to be here. Yeah, I'm aware." I finish, stepping closer to my avatar.

She looks so much like me, except for the obvious differences. Blue skin, a queue, and her sheer size. "She's beautiful." I whisper, touching the glass, feeling a soft heartbeat pass between us.

"The idea is that every driver is matched to their own Avatar, so their nervous systems are in tune... Or something. That's why they offered us the gig. It's insanely expensive... Is this right? Do we just say whatever to the video log?" Jake questions turning to Norm and Max.

"And do we have to share the exact same camera to film these things?" I interject, trying to nudge Jake out of the screens view.

"Yeah, you both need to document everything you see, what you feel. Plus, you're twins, who knows if you both are able to feel the same emotions or not. It's all apart of the science." Norm explains, retuning to his work.

"Plus it'll keep you sane for the next six years," Norm adds chuckling.

"Not if I have to sit next to Mr. Jarhead it's not." I remark, rolling my eyes but smiling slightly.

"Look who's talking Miss. 'I might not be a marine, but I sure can beat your ass,' " Jake adds, playfully pushing me.

This was one the first times I had smiled since arriving to Pandora. Usually keeping a stoic face, only smiling around my brother. My only family, the only thing from my past life.

Entering the link room behind Norm and Max, we're greeted by a voice. "Who's got my goddamn cigarette?" a redheaded woman demands, emerging from one of the link pods.

"Grace Augustine is a legend. She's the head of the Avatar Program. She wrote the book, I mean literally write the book on Pandora botany." Norm gushes. "Well that's because she likes plants more than people." Max adds teasingly.

"Well, there she is, Cinderella back from the ball. Grace, I'd like you to meet Norm Spellman, and Jake and Y/n Sully." Max says pointing at each of us in turn.

"Norm, I've heard good things about you. How's your Na'vi?" she asks, completely ignoring my brother and me, then begins to speak in a language I can only assume is Na'vi.

"Uh- Grace, this is Jake and Y/n Sully," Max interjects, trying to redirect her attention.

"Yeah, yeah. I know who you are, and I don't need you. I need your brother. You know. the PhD who trained for years for this mission? Yeah him." she snaps.

"He's dead. We know it's a big inconvenience for everyone, including me." I reply bluntly. There's no need to sugar coat anything that's already happened.

"How much lab training have you had?" she asks, looking between Jake and I.

"We dissected a frog once." Jake simply states.

"You see? I mean, they're just pissing on us without even the courtesy of calling it rain. I mean hell, the girl isn't even supposed to be here! I'm going to Selfridge, this is such bullshit." she rants, storming off but not before putting out her cigar.

"Well she's kind." I remark dryly.

As Jake and I arrive precisely at the time Max had instructed us to the day before, 0800, Jake and I hasten to catch up with Grace and Norm, who are already stationed at the link pods.

"You're late Sully's. You're in there, you're here." Grace remarks, gesturing towards two pods for Jake and I, and we obediently follow her directions.

"How much have you both logged?" she inquires, turning to the screen besides Jakes link pod.

"Zip, but I read a manual." Jake replies with a nonchalant shrug, as he wheels over to his pod.

"I listened to him read it out loud, if that counts." I confess making my way to my own pod.

"Tell me you're joking." Grace says incredulously, as she abandons her work on Jakes screen to approach mine.

"So you just decided to venture out here, to the most hostile environment known to man with no training whatsoever and see how it went? What was going on through your head?" she questions, setting up both mine and Jakes link screens for launch.

"Maybe I was tired of doctors telling what I couldn't do." Jake retorts, lying down in this link pod. I look at him wondering if that is why he spared no chance in me saying anything back when those men asked us to take the place of Tommy, because he was tired of the life he had.

"Keep you arms in, heads down." Grace instructs, pushing me into my link bed before I had the chance to ask Jake what he had truly meant.

"Just relax and let your mind go blank." are the last words I hear Grace utter before she seals my link pod.

Off to the side, Max examines scans of Jake and my brain. Studying the intently, he remarks. "Jakes brain is gorgeous, with nice activity. However we're detecting some resistance in Y/n's brain. She's unconsciously pushing back against the transfer, if this continues it could potentially harm the link." he informs, turning to Grace for guidance.

"Once the link is established, it cannot be interrupted. It will only worsen the issue," Grace states matter-of-factly, keeping an eye on my Avatar. Stubborn and resistant to change- that's Grace's initial assessment of Y/n, even after less than 48 hrs of meeting her.

As my eyes flutter open, I'm greeted by a blinding light that pierces my eyes. A sharp ache throbs in my head, intensifying until two figures materialize before me- doctors, no doubt.

"She's awake. Y/n, can you hear me? Are you feeling alright?" the female doctor inquires, checking my expression for any sign of discomfort.

"Yeah, I'm fine." I reply, opting not to mention the pounding headache. Slowly, I sit up, only to find my hands adorned with five blue fingers.

"I made it." I murmur to myself in disbelief. Glancing around, I notice Jake already on his feet, a grin stretching across his face. He's standing, a sight I never thought I'd witness again, his legs finally functioning.

"Y/n you've got to see this. When's the last time you saw your brother standing tall, huh?" he exclaims, turning to face me while his tail knocks over everything in it's path.

Finally on my feet, I chuckle, "Bro, we're giants." The realisation hits me as I gaze at Jake and then towards the exit to find that he was already smiling at me– we're thinking the same thing. Tri– Twin telepathy perhaps?

Without a word Jake and I bolt, dodging Avatars engaged in a game of basketball, evading Norm and the two doctors running after us. We hurdle obstacles until a humanoid robot comes into view.

"Sorry! we both exclaim breathlessly, narrowly avoiding a collision as we skid to a stop near some flora. Catching our breath, we're approached by an avatar bearing striking resemblance to Grace.

"Hey, Sully's!" she calls out, closing in on us.

"Grace?" Jake questions, eyeing her up and down.

"Who else were you expecting numbnuts?" she retorts with a grin, with me laughing at the nickname Grace gave him.

As Jake and Grace catch up, I slip away into the area where Avatars are housed, searching for a change of attire. Opting for a top similar to Graces but in a deep shade of blue, that are about a shade darker than my current skin tone, pairing it with green cargo shorts. Hoping to blend in slightly to the flora and fauna of the forest.

Gazing up at the darkening sky, I realize it's nearly nightfall, meaning I had to delink for the night. "Alright, everyone, settle down! Lights out." Grace commands, ushering the remaining humans away.

"See you at dinner kiddos," she adds, flicking the lights off.

Lying back, I can still feel the remnants of the headache, but I decided to let sleep wash it away. Closing my eyes, I drift off into a peaceful slumber.

next II

Tag list: @pinkvrydag @neytirismissingtoe @youskawng @tsuteyssyulang @lylalaminated

[thecreativityofnostalgia]

The Amazing Digital Circus: A New Digital Life! [UPDATE 2.0]

(For those who are new to the AU, allow us to give you a little recap on what it’s about.)

"It has been nearly years ever since [?̴̧̲͌̿?̴̻̝̑?̷͔́͝?̸̭̋̆?̷̟̖̲͠͝͝?̷͔̽ ̵̰͚̩͌͑͝?̴̼̼͛̚͠?̴̩̫̊͌̈?̵̪͇́̕?̴̗̏̉̉]/Pomni and five other humans escaped the cursed game that is "The Amazing Digital Circus!" To be sure this game never make it to the public, they had no choice but to steal some of the computer equipment and a few backup cartridges before laying low for a while, waiting for the heat to die down. A few later they were let off the hook, and to celebrate their freedom they decided to stop by somewhere so that they can formally get to know each other better. As years go by, they decided to become friends and start their own independent company "Exit Dream Legacy." things seem like they were going smooth till their demise came earlier than expected. With the purchased rights to "The Amazing Digital Circus" from "C&A" and some of the stolen computer equipment they kept for a while, they all managed to make a full reimagining of the game and released it to the public while they kept the beta for themselves. after some final requests were made to the team, they were ready to test it. after putting the headsets on, they were transferred into the digital world leaving their bodies to die and live on their legacy inside the system.

Character Poster

(Updated designs based and inspired by TADC OVA by @lueduar-doodles)

Warning:

This AU is Rated PG-13, for which may include:

— Mild sexual implications

— Mild swearing

— References to Hell

— References to suicide

— Cartoon violence

— Mild regular violence

— Corpse imagery

— Use of firearms

— Mile use of drugs/achohol

— Dark themes

— And Jax

Viewer discretion is advised.

(Based off of a show created and produced by @gooseworx and Glitch Productions.)

[heartfullofleeches]

Yan Royalty + Executioner Reader Intro

Warning: mention of injury, death

The Executioner.

A faceless blight on the nation's population. With their presence came death, and the instillment of fear in all who witnessed the of their axe. Veiled in darkness, only shadows of the very same knew the Executioner true face - welcoming them home with open arms after each slaughter. Null could pinpoint their whereabouts following the culling of those who opposed their charge, but it was rumored they dwelled in the same catacombs were prisoners were kept, and branched throughout the entire land and its walls. Servants, even hardened soldiers were quick to abandon their posts upon hearing the faintest scratches from within the stone halls.

Regardless of their locality, the Executioner always appeared when wardened to reap calamity as the phantom so many claimed.

Chaos breaks within the castle walls. A spy sent from a neighboring kindom hours away from execution had escaped, set out to finish their final mission given by their lord. Years ago, they'd been tasked with the assassination of the young heir shortly after their birth. The child was saved thanks to the watchful eye of it's protectors, but the sky's attempts would not be punishment lightly.

For the next two decades they sat in their cell, wasting away and only fed enough scraps to keep them from the brink of death - living proof of the weakness of the enemy ready for the slaughter. A proud warrior then as a sheet and stripped of any marker of the fighter they once were. Perhaps they lost that title the day they chose to take an innocent's life. Months went 0by - welding their fellow captives rotting bones into tools to pick their locks. They saved the sharpest two for the eye of the next person who entered their cell - and the future ruler of the rival kingdom.

Strengthless as they may have been, the hier was no match for their attacker's former legacy and the element of surprise. Tangled in their sheets, the heir fought and clawed to no avail much room the spy's glee. The attack was more personal than it had been in the past and they wanted the royal to suffer a fraction of the torture they endured.

Guards pounded on the doors. The royal's vision fade in and out as hands came up to their neck. Reality spiraling, their mind slipped as did their sense of the world. The walls cried, shadows melting from their purchase and crept soundlessly behind their tormentor. An eye, unblinking, watched down at them - tears of crimson following from its twin. Pulling the slender bone lodged in their socket, the shadow returned the makeshift blade to the throat of its sender.

The spy rasped, clawing at their neck and the darkness as they're dragged off the bed. The shadow steps over their body and into the moonlight - revealing a human form. Bloodied apron, thin scars and bites from victims with more fight than others, a vacant stare. The Executioner's face was as expressionless as the mask they wore except for the large hole in their ey. The royal was petrified - terror gripping their very soul. If not the spy, then surely -

"Cover your eyes."

The Executioner kneels, silent - say for the faintest breath of their lips. The royal swallows as the Executioner sweeps their thumb over their cheek - clearing it of blood.

"Y-your eye..."

"I do not need my mask within in the catacombs. I let them get away. Everything, after is my error."

"No!...no.. You... - saved me."

"Forgive me, it was not my intention. I am the axe your family welds. Nothing more. Someday soon it will be your order I follow."

The royal's heart flutters. The reaper of legend theirs to command. A fairer fantasy than they've ever dreamed. The rugged figure was as alluring as they were menacing - an angel of death soon to be in their grasp. The Executioner stood on their feet and dragged the lifeless body of the spy back to the bookshelf they exited - pressing a finger to their lips as the door breaks down and they disappear behind the wooden shelf.

"Your highness! Are you alright?!

"....Send every available medic to the catacombs - now."

[allsouls-emma]

heyy bestie!! i noticed you’re also an f1 fan (as am i) i was wondering if you could write an f1 driver reader! x leon marchand! preferably a ferrari driver (forza ferrari always)🤞

✧Scarlett Red in a Ferrari ✧

─ Léon Marchand x OC, Léon Marchand x Reader, f1 driver reader! x leon marchand!

OMG OMG @scottstr3et, I AM SO EXCITED. I adore F1 (Mclaren Girlie at heart) this was so much fun!! i really hope you love this as much as i did!.

Warnings: f1 driver reader! x leon marchand!, Strangers to lovers, silverstone, F1 and swimming crossover, Fluff!

The roar of the Ferrari engine was a symphony Y/N had dreamt about for years. Every twist and turn of the Maranello track felt surreal, as if they were floating on a cloud made of horsepower and adrenaline. This was their first official day as a Ferrari driver—a dream so vivid it felt almost tangible, like the very wheel they were gripping.

"Y/N, how’s the car feeling?" the engineer's voice crackled through the radio, breaking their reverie.

Y/N's heart pounded in sync with the engine. "It’s responsive, stable... feels perfect. Ready to push it."

"Copy that. Let's get you warmed up with a few laps."

Y/N pressed down on the accelerator, feeling the immense power surge through the car as they exited the pit lane. The sensation was overwhelming—an intoxicating blend of fear, excitement, and sheer determination. The car danced through the corners, gripping the asphalt with ease. Every vibration through the steering wheel communicated the car's every nuance, and Y/N responded instinctively, as if the car was an extension of their body.

But with the thrill came pressure. Driving for Ferrari wasn't just about skill; it was about legacy, and Y/N knew the weight of that responsibility. The team was expecting results. The Tifosi—Ferrari's passionate fanbase—were expecting miracles.

As Y/N completed the first few laps, the rhythm started to set in, nerves slowly morphing into confidence. It was during the cool-down lap that the thought crept in—could they really do this? Compete at the highest level, under the brightest spotlight?

"Good job, Y/N. Bring it back to the pits," the engineer's voice instructed, breaking through their thoughts.

Y/N eased off the throttle, guiding the car back into the pit lane. After parking and stepping out, the intense heat from the car mixed with the cool Maranello air, creating a strange but comforting sensation. The team was gathered around, checking data, and analyzing every second of the run.

Y/N took off their helmet, running a hand through sweat-dampened hair. The sight of the Ferrari crew bustling about with purpose made their heart swell with pride. They were really here.

"Solid run out there," the team principal said, clapping Y/N on the shoulder. "We’ll go over the data, but things are looking promising."

"Thanks," Y/N replied, trying to keep their voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through them.

As they walked away from the car, the reality of their new life started to settle in. This was just the beginning of a grueling season—one that would test them mentally, physically, and emotionally. But Y/N was ready to face it head-on. After all, this was their dream.

The season opener in Bahrain was fast approaching, and Y/N was putting in extra hours at the simulator, fine-tuning their understanding of the car. The Ferrari hospitality suite buzzed with activity as preparations were in full swing, but Y/N's focus was singular.

"You're going to wear yourself out before the race even starts," a familiar voice teased.

Y/N turned around to find Charles Leclerc leaning casually against the doorway, a small smirk playing on his lips. The Monegasque driver had been with Ferrari for a few seasons now, and his presence in the team was both comforting and challenging—a benchmark to measure oneself against.

"Just making sure I’m as prepared as possible," Y/N replied with a smile. "Can’t leave anything to chance."

Charles chuckled. "Smart, but don’t forget to live a little. The season is long, and you need to find balance."

Y/N nodded, appreciating the advice. "What about you? How do you find that balance?"

Charles shrugged. "I go home, spend time with family, or just do something completely unrelated to racing. It helps keep the mind fresh. You should try it."

Y/N knew he was right. The pressure of being a Ferrari driver was immense, and they needed to find a way to manage it without burning out.

"Actually," Charles continued, "there’s a swimming event this weekend in Monaco. I know you're new to the team, but you should come. A lot of the drivers are going, and it could be a good way to unwind before the chaos starts."

Y/N hesitated. Swimming events weren’t really their scene, but the idea of taking a break and bonding with other drivers was appealing. Plus, Charles had a point—getting out of the racing mindset, even briefly, could be beneficial.

"Alright, I’m in," Y/N finally agreed.

"Great. It’ll be fun, I promise," Charles said with a grin. "And who knows, you might meet some interesting people."

---

That weekend, Y/N found themselves in Monaco, surrounded by a different kind of athlete. The energy was more relaxed, yet still competitive. The event was packed, with the audience buzzing as swimmers took to the pool. Y/N was impressed by the sheer physicality of the sport, the way the swimmers cut through the water with such grace and power.

Charles had been right—this was exactly the kind of break they needed.

"Hey, you made it!" Charles said, walking up to Y/N with a drink in hand.

"Yeah, you were right. This is a nice change of pace," Y/N replied, watching as the next race started.

As they were talking, a swimmer emerged from the pool, his dark hair slicked back and water dripping off his muscular frame. He pulled off his cap and goggles, revealing a strikingly handsome face, his intense blue eyes scanning the crowd. There was something magnetic about him, a confidence in the way he carried himself that caught Y/N's attention.

"That’s Leon Marchand," Charles said, noticing Y/N's gaze. "He’s one of the top swimmers in the world right now. Won a bunch of medals already."

Y/N nodded, trying to appear nonchalant. "He looks like he was born for this."

"He probably was," Charles replied with a chuckle. "Come on, I’ll introduce you."

They made their way over to where Leon was toweling off, the crowd around them buzzing with excitement. When Charles approached, Leon looked up, a friendly smile breaking through his focused expression.

"Hey, Charles! Good to see you," Leon said, his voice warm despite the exhaustion of the race.

"Leon, this is Y/N. They’re new to Ferrari this year," Charles introduced them with a casual wave.

Y/N extended a hand, trying to ignore the sudden flutter of nerves. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Leon replied, his handshake firm but not overpowering. His eyes lingered on Y/N's for a moment, and there was a spark of recognition, like he was trying to place them.

"You did great out there," Y/N said, trying to fill the silence.

"Thanks. I’ve been putting in a lot of work lately. You’re with Ferrari, right? That must be intense."

Y/N nodded, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious under Leon's gaze. "Yeah, it’s been a lot, but I’m ready for the challenge."

"I’m sure you are," Leon replied, his smile widening slightly. "It’s not every day you meet someone who drives at 300 kilometers an hour for a living."

"Well, it’s not every day you meet someone who swims like a dolphin," Y/N shot back, surprising themselves with their quick wit.

Leon laughed, a genuine sound that made Y/N's heart skip a beat. "Touché."

As the conversation continued, Y/N found themselves drawn to Leon’s easygoing nature and the way he seemed genuinely interested in their world. They talked about the pressures of their respective sports, the rigorous training schedules, and the sacrifices they had to make to stay on top. There was an understanding between them that transcended words—a shared recognition of what it meant to be the best in your field.

When the evening wound down and the crowd began to disperse, Leon turned to Y/N, his expression softening. "I’m glad we met today. Maybe we could hang out sometime, when we’re not both in the middle of our crazy schedules?"

Y/N felt a warmth spread through them at the invitation. "I’d like that."

As they exchanged numbers and said their goodbyes, Y/N couldn’t help but feel like something significant had just begun. Maybe Charles was right—finding balance didn’t mean stepping away from the competition; it meant finding someone who understood it just as much as you did.

The weeks following their encounter with Leon were a whirlwind. The F1 season kicked off with a bang, and Y/N was thrust into the chaos of race weekends, media commitments, and constant travel. Yet, amidst the frenzy, there was a constant thought that kept them grounded—Leon.

They’d texted sporadically at first, brief conversations about their respective sports and the occasional joke. But as the races piled up and the pressures mounted, those texts became a lifeline for Y/N. Leon had a way of making them laugh, even on the toughest days, and his encouragement was a steady source of support.

It wasn’t long before they found themselves looking forward to hearing from him, their conversations becoming more frequent and personal. They’d talk late into the night, sharing stories about their childhoods, their dreams, and their fears. The connection between them grew stronger with each passing day, even though they hadn’t seen each other in person since that day in Monaco.

One evening, after a particularly grueling race in Spain where Y/N finished just off the podium, they found themselves alone in their hotel room, scrolling through messages when Leon’s name popped up on the screen.

**Leon:** Tough race today. You did well, though. P4 is still a great result. You should be proud.

Y/N smiled at the message, the frustration of missing out on the podium slightly easing as they typed back a reply.

**Y/N:** Thanks, Leon. It’s tough to come so close, but yeah, I’ll take it. How’s training going for you?

**Leon:** Intense as always, but I’m getting there. Actually, I’ve got a bit of a break coming up next weekend. What’s your next race?

**Y/N:** Silverstone. Big one. The British fans are something else.

**Leon:** Sounds amazing. Would you mind some company?

Y/N’s heart skipped a beat. The thought of having Leon at Silverstone, cheering them on, filled them with a warmth they hadn’t felt in a long time.

**Y/N:** I’d love that. It’ll be chaotic, but having you there would be awesome.

**Leon:** It’s a date, then. I’ll be your personal cheerleader.

Y/N grinned at the message, their mind already racing ahead to what it would be like to have Leon there. The idea of him being in the crowd, supporting them, made the upcoming race feel even more significant.

---

Silverstone was electric. The air buzzed with excitement as the fans poured into the stands, draped in the Union Jack, chanting for their favorite drivers. For Y/N, this race felt different. The pressure was there, of course, but it was accompanied by a sense of anticipation they hadn’t felt before.

Leon arrived on Saturday, just in time for qualifying. Y/N met him in the Ferrari hospitality suite, and as soon as they saw him, they couldn’t help but smile. He looked relaxed, dressed casually in a polo shirt and jeans, but his presence had an immediate calming effect on Y/N.

"Hey, you made it!" Y/N said, pulling him into a quick, but warm hug.

"Wouldn’t miss it for the world," Leon replied, his smile just as bright as Y/N’s. "This place is insane. I’ve never seen anything like it."

"It’s definitely a different kind of crazy," Y/N laughed. "Come on, let me show you around."

They spent the next hour exploring the paddock, with Y/N introducing Leon to various team members and fellow drivers. Leon was a hit—his easygoing nature and genuine interest in the sport winning everyone over. Y/N could tell he was fascinated by the intricacies of F1, asking questions about the car setups, race strategies, and what it felt like to drive at such high speeds.

When it was time for qualifying, Leon took his seat in the Ferrari suite, watching intently as Y/N climbed into the car. The qualifying session was intense, with Y/N pushing the car to its limits around Silverstone’s fast, flowing corners. The roar of the crowd was deafening as Y/N crossed the line, securing P2 for the race.

Afterward, Y/N found Leon waiting for them, a proud smile on his face. "P2! You were incredible out there!"

"Thanks, but it’s only half the job," Y/N replied, still buzzing from the session. "Tomorrow’s the real test."

"You’ve got this," Leon said, his confidence in Y/N unwavering. "I’ll be cheering you on the whole way."

Y/N felt a surge of emotion at his words. Leon’s belief in them was like a shot of adrenaline, fueling their determination to deliver on race day.

---

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear, the perfect day for racing. The atmosphere at Silverstone was electric, with over a hundred thousand fans packed into the grandstands, their cheers echoing around the historic circuit.

Y/N felt a mixture of nerves and excitement as they prepared for the race. They could feel the energy in the air, the sense that something special was about to happen. And knowing Leon was there, watching, only intensified those feelings.

As the race began, Y/N got off to a strong start, maintaining their position in the top three. The battle for the lead was fierce, with every lap pushing the drivers to their limits. The corners flew by in a blur, the roar of the engine drowning out everything else.

Leon watched from the suite, his heart pounding as Y/N fought for every inch on the track. He’d never experienced anything like this before—the sheer speed, the danger, the skill it took to control such a powerful machine. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

As the race entered its final stages, Y/N found themselves in a tight battle for the lead. The car ahead was fast, but Y/N was faster, and with a few laps to go, they made their move, diving down the inside at Stowe corner to take the lead.

The crowd erupted as Y/N crossed the line in first place, the checkered flag waving them home. It was a moment of pure elation, a victory that meant the world to them.

After parking the car and jumping out, Y/N was greeted by their team, hugs and cheers all around. But it was Leon they sought out first, their eyes scanning the crowd until they found him making his way through the throng of people.

As soon as their eyes met, Y/N broke into a run, their heart pounding with joy. Leon caught them as they reached him, pulling them into a tight embrace. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in that moment of pure happiness.

"You did it!" Leon exclaimed, his voice full of pride and emotion.

"I couldn’t have done it without you," Y/N replied, their voice thick with emotion. The adrenaline of the race was still coursing through them, but it was mixed with something else—a deep, overwhelming feeling for the man standing in front of them.

Without thinking, Y/N leaned in, capturing Leon’s lips in a kiss. It was spontaneous, driven by the rush of victory and the connection they’d been building over the past few weeks. The kiss was brief but intense, a moment of pure passion that took them both by surprise.

When they pulled back, Y/N saw the surprise in Leon’s eyes, but also something else—something that mirrored the emotions they were feeling.

"Wow," Leon whispered, a smile slowly spreading across his face. "That was... unexpected."

Y/N laughed, their heart swelling with affection. "Sorry, I just... I couldn’t help it."

"Don’t apologize," Leon said, his hand cupping Y/N’s cheek. "I’m glad you did."

Before they could say anything more, the team was calling for Y/N to head to the podium. Y/N looked back at Leon, their eyes locking once more.

"Stay close, okay? I want you to be there when I get off the podium."

"I’ll be right here," Leon promised, his smile warm and reassuring.

With one last squeeze of Leon’s hand, Y/N turned and headed toward the podium, the cheers of the crowd ringing in their ears. As they stepped onto the top step, the weight of the moment hit them—the culmination of all their hard work, their dreams, and the support of the people who believed in them.

And as the national anthem played and the champagne flowed, Y/N’s thoughts were with Leon. They knew this was just the beginning of something incredible, both on and off the track.

When the podium celebrations were over, Y/N quickly made their way back to Leon, who was waiting just where he’d promised. Without a word, Y/N pulled him into another kiss, this one slower, more deliberate, a promise of what was to come.

As they finally pulled away, Y/N rested their forehead against Leon’s, their smiles mirroring each other.

"Looks like I’ve got another reason to love racing," Y/N said softly.

Leon chuckled, his eyes shining with happiness. "And I’ve got a new favorite driver."

Together, they walked away from the podium, hand in hand, ready to face whatever the future held.

[scoringeffects]

i would LOVE recs please and thank you 🫶🏽

OKAY ! so. these to me are like 2997 required reading:

cover to cover and unbound by lighthousetowers (M, 24k) this is like The connorleon fic to me getting together whole figuring out who they are as players and people and to the oilers and to the nhl as a whole and how they built their legacy and write their story and how they’ll fit in to other legacies and stories it is spectacularly written the themes are so consistent and connor and leon’s voices and actions are so freaking realistic like even if you dgaf abt them u should read this and then gaf about them

he’s no jacob from the bible (but damn he made me pray) by softnoirr (M, 8.5k) easily the most devastating and crushing fic ive maybe ever read, definitely at least in the connorleon tag, postcareer and intimately exploring the effects of career ending head injuries and how to love one another when one of u barely remembers half the hours of the day. one of the tags is ‘connor mcdavid isnt a robot but probably wishes he was’ and i think that succinctly summarises the fic. one of those ones u read once and think about forever

a brief, unauthorised guide to tending an exit wound by stridents (no rating, 10k) getting back together fic of my personal dreams quite frankly. just a very very good concept delivered in an excellent manner with perfect execution every action they take feels incredibly in character. something something sometimes it isnt about how u get there but thr fact that you did get there in the end

take me back to the places i feel loved in by fishfoods (T, two works 1.6k total) THE. married connorleon series by my ride or die @bboes about loving and being loved so so freaking soft and fluffy and so quintessentially connorleon in that they love eachother above and beyond quite possibly everything else

bones in the foundation by cuprun (M, 8.6k) directly taken from the tags: this is NOT about wanting to escape the oilers, this is about how you can feel trapped somewhere even if its somewhere you don’t want to leave. sososo good gives u exactly what you come for really conveys connor and leon’s whole ‘best players in the world don’t want to win anywhere else but everything else is making it damn hard’ thing

be the one to set me free by notthequiettype (E, 31k) getting togetehr and learning about eachother and eachother’s bodies cannot recommend it enough also one of THE connorleon fics to me the way connor is written genuinely hits like a freaking line every single time and the way he interacts w leon and others is soooooo. oughhhhh

not strictly connorleon but something about us by lemonfractals (E, 19k) is connor/leon/dylan holloway but also the way connor and leon are in this like that is Them through and through truly truly such an incredible fic and made me a dholloway frontliner

goes without sayibg really but the rest of the fics by these authors are also an always recommend so i heartily suggest u check them out too!!!

[anetherealpoetess]

you have to wonder about who is running the clown show at mercedes. because the goal wasn't simply to lock lewis in for a final few years on the track. no, the goal was to lock in the whole legacy. the legend. the man and his myth. the team he retires with gets it all. and the hamilton brand? it's massive. it's iconic. it sells.

so what do they do? what does mercedes do with this singular, insane, once-in-a-generation opportunity? they lowball him. they offer no ambassador role. they come up with a near no commitment contract. they want the name without the man. they want to push lewis out the door, retire him in mercedes merch, get the rights to the story without paying the author. the last ride. the quiet exit. thank you, champion; but more importantly, "every dream needs a team, so don't go thinking these are your achievements, lewis. they are ours. you owe us." (insufferable idiots.)

this mind fuckery might work on someone with as sensitive a soul as sir lewis hamilton, but when it comes to his legend, the man doesn't play stupid games. he never has.

so he leaves.

to ferrari.

the only brand in f1 that is as big as his own.

and it's not just a contract. it's a blood pact. he's not simply signing on to drive. he's signing on to belong to the family. he's making himself part of their myth. he will retire in red, and stay red. he'll be partnering with ferrari for the rest of his life. ferrari might be a meme factory on track, but off track? nobody moves better or smarter or harder.

the world stops the second it's announced; the story breaks on a different sport's biggest news day. then the content drops: lewis in front of enzo's house, lewis in ferrari fireproofs, lewis and his new teammate executing tandem doughnuts in the italian streets, lewis all crimson and composed, the living legend in a house of legends. you cannot pay for storytelling of this level, but you can. because ferrari did.

it's all romantic. it's all viral. it's unthinkable and perfect and right. it's the pinnacle of motorsport and modern mythology come together in the hands of one singular man. and what did mercedes get? not the man, and not the myth. all they are left with is a ghost. stupid games, stupid prizes, etc.