#why the fuck should you have to face up to the witch kings legacy? who cares. fuck that guy hes dead. leave and never come back

[gachaparadise]

*head in hands* why is it every time i'm randomly like yeah i'll get back into AK it's time for a sad goat time.

[absolutepokemontrash]

The Brothers and Side Characters Play the Sims

I don’t know what possessed me to make this but WHATEVER. I’ve been playing the Sims since I was a wee little girl, and I’ve seen my fair share of weird Sims stuff that I feel would fit these bozos perfectly.

My Sims have a Functional Family Life Because I Don’t (Lucifer)

God dammit Levi’s obsessed with another game... ugh.

Spends 5 minutes in Create-a-Sim and hops into a starter home.

Lucifer’s the type to start with all the average stuff and then build their stuff up as his sim gets promotions.

It’s just... so peaceful...

...he’s adopting a dog.

Look at his new little virtual family... his sim-kids are self sufficient and getting A’s in school, his Sim spouse MC or Diavolo take your pick loves his Sim-self, his sim-dog-

WAIT NO- THE DOG’S AN ELDER?!

AAAAAAAAAAAAA-

...

He’s fine. It was just a virtual dog. *sniffle*

He’s now spending his free time drinking Demonus and playing the Sims.

What’s a mod? Levi why does your sim have gun?

Behold, My Gorgeous Home... It’s a Box (Mammon)

Mammon, like the rest of the HOL, is mooching off of Levi’s Origin account.

“AW SHIT! This house looks awesome! I’m gonna build it for Sim-me to live in!”

Mammon proceeds to build a box with rooms. Yay...

He just picks the funnest sounding job if he picks any job at all for his Sim. That’s how he ended up making 9 dollars an hour in the criminal career.

Didn’t stop Mammon from buying that solid gold bathroom set from Get Famous... a box with solid gold bathrooms.

His Sim is broke send help-

“Leviiiiiii my sim needs money... the people my sim kidnapped and is forcing to paint aren’t making enough money...” “Ugh... press control shift C and type ‘motherlode’.”

...Levi made a mistake.

“FUCK YEAH! MOTHERLODE!”

His sim’s life is so chaotic, he has a piranha pool that his sim has almost died in twice, the sim is carrying on several torrid love affairs, his sim got struck by lightning, his sim has nearly died in a grilled cheese making accident twice... in the same day.

At least once Sim-Mammon and Sim-MC get married things calm down a little.

Mammon finds out what custom content is and proceeds to download EVERYTHING HE CAN FIND.

And now he’s asking Levi why his computer is running so slow.

Expansion Pack King (Leviathan)

He got into it back when the Sims 2 was new, he’s a veteran fan.

“Bro remember when Agnes Crumplebottom would show up and whack the shit out of your sims if they were flirting?”

“Remember when that witch would show up randomly on the lot you were on if you had Makin’ Magic?”

“Remember when Bella Goth was abducted by aliens and we just... didn’t question it?”

He whines about the Sims4 and how crappy it is but still buys every expansion pack, game pack, and stuff pack.

This boy watches like 40 hours of built tutorials and ends up sobbing over his weird roofs.

“WHY DOESN’T IT LOOK AS NICE AS THE ONE I’M LOOKING AT?! THIS ISN’T FAIR!”

The mod folder is so full istg-

Levi gets custom content for the sole purpose of making his favourite fictional characters.

This is why Henry and the Lord of Shadows are married and Ruri-chan and Sim-Levi are roommates.

Oh my god they were roommates-

Levi also added his brothers to the world and uh... Sim-Mammon died in a tragic pool accident F.

Levi then proceeded to befriend the Grim Reaper.

He’s anxiously awaiting the release of Paralives.

Wait Gameplay? In This Build Simulator? (Satan)

Satan’s here to build and leave. Gameplay who?

Our favourite bundle of rage is a master architect and the amount of followers on the Gallery he has shows it.

He takes up those build shell challenges and always ends up making them look positively perfect.

Asmo’s always using his houses, and Satan often takes requests when he gets bored.

No Mammon, he reserves the right to refuse to build a golden castle for you- YOUR SIM HAS 40 SIMOLEONS-

No mods, no CC, he’s building with what EA gave him.

...and EA gave him debug objects, and he’s not going to explain how to get them.

The one time he did actually play with a family... it was one sim and seven cats.

He tries to play without cheats... and ends up getting frustrated and turns on cheats.

All hail the Pets Expansion Pack.

Custom Content Soap Opera (Asmodeus)

Asmo spends 5 hours in Create a Sim then just... clicks out of the game.

That’s how it goes most of the time, buuuuuut when he gets super invested in a family he’s made, boy howdy is he INVESTED.

Sim A is carrying on an affair with Sim C who’s in love with Sim B who’s married to Sim A but Sim D wants to kill Sim A and C even though they’re the illegitimate child of Sim C-

When Asmo realizes that in the Sims 4 he needs to manufacture all the drama himself and he can’t just sit back with a glass of wine and watch the fireworks, he switches to the Sims 2 and 3.

“...why is this old lady beating up my Sim..?”

He immediately recoils in horror upon seeing how ugly the Sims are pre Sims4.

HE NEEDS TO FIX THIS-

Ah, there we go, perfect. Custom Content to the rescue!

He ends up remaking the entire world just so he doesn’t have to look at weird looking Sims.

Asmo is the only one to have finished a proper Legacy Challenge, but it gets crazy chaotic after gen 3.

“My sim just got abducted by aliens and now he’s pregnant- WHAT?!”

He has about 40 saves and only two he actually plays.

Just a Big Ol’ Happy Family (Beelzebub)

Beel found the game, proceeded to make everyone in create-a-sim to the best of his abilities, and made everyone get along.

That’s why Sim-Lucifer and Sim-Belphie are on a swing set together, they’re friends :D

“Hey Luke do you think you can make this?” “I-is that a cake shaped like a hamburger?” “Yes. Please make.”

He took one look at the cooking options and decided to max out his Sim’s cooking skill to unlock all the options.

Beel proceeded to drool all over his keyboard. Gross...

Boy howdy did he have some crazy dinner suggestions!

Overall, very wholesome Sim-life, except for the time Sim-Levi died because the toilet caught fire, don’t worry, Sim-Beel knows how to make ambrosia.

All is good in the Sim save...

...until Sim-Beel ate pufferfish nigiri and fuckin died-

Wait Did I Not Pause- (Belphie)

Huh, this game looks fine... I’ll play for a little- *SNORE*

Belphie makes some sims, plops them into a starter home, plays for an hour, then falls asleep.

He wakes up five hours later to absolute carnage.

Three sims have died because someone decided to make Mac and Cheese and the oven caught fire, the kids were taken away by social services, and the dog ran away.

“...heheh, holy shit everyone look.”

He doesn’t play often, but when he does, death occurs. He has found out every death method for every game from Sims 2 to 4.

And that INCLUDES the Sims Medieval! You guys remember that game?

Sometimes it’s not intentional, but Belphie got bored with the totally normal life his sims were living and decided to spice it up.

“Why are the ghosts breaking my showers..?”

Help There’s a Bug- (Diavolo)

The Crown Prince started playing when he noticed Lucifer was playing it.

He was immediately obsessed.

Dia mostly plays the Sims Medieval because he likes the feeling of achievement after completing a quest!

“Barbatos... why isn’t my Sim completing their task? The icon won’t show up.” “My lord it appears the game is bugged.” “:(“

No one thought to tell Diavolo that EA doesn’t plan on offering bug support to a game made in like... 2009

This doesn’t matter! Look at how great his kingdom is doing- oh no his hero has the plague-

He plays through the Pirates and Nobles expansion and manages to get the peaceful ending, he’s so proud of himself.

“MC! Look! My Monarch’s sword is permanently on fire and I’m fighting an evil wizard!”

When he does play the other Sims games he’s pretty basic, though, he does a great job at furnishing!

Dia gets crazy sad when his Sims die... he turns off aging.

Builder no. 2 (Barbatos)

Barbie doesn’t have time for this... but when he does, he builds.

No create a sim.

No playing the game as intended.

Just builds.

It’s relaxing, okay? A nice little suburban house he’s never going to play in, maybe a treehouse, maybe a big Hollywood Mansion...

The only time he actually plays the game outside of build mode is when someone needs his help to fix something in-game.

He does download custom content build items if he feels bored by the current selection.

Oh Crap What Am I Doing?! (Simeon)

Help him. Please.

He’s so confused.

“Luke, why is my sim upset?” “He’s hungry, Simeon.” “Oh, how do I fix that?” “...Simeon-”

There’s a toilet in the middle of the living room.

The fridge is facing the wall.

There’s no bathtub or shower.

The house is on fire- there is no god- AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-

Okay, once he gets the hang of it he’s sitting pretty. His sims have good jobs, the kids are getting good grades, everything’s fine.

...

But Simeon won’t forget the nightmares.

What Even is This Save? (Solomon)

Solomon’s save is the definition of chaos.

One sim’s a vampire, the other is a spellcaster that really wants to fight the Callientes for some reason, there’s one normal sim that’s always sick for some reason,

It gets weird, confusing, and horrible.

Just how Solomon likes it.

His house makes no sense, like, what even is architecture?

Money cheats are needed because Solomon‘a goal of chaos and confusion is proving to be kind of expensive.

Square up Mortimer Goth, Solomon’s sims are here to steal your weird knight statue that’s worth a shit ton of simoleons for NO REASON.

He joined the scientist career for the sole purpose of getting to the alien planet and kidnapping adding an alien to the household via cheats.

The vampire ended up dying on their wedding day because Solomon forgot that he gave them the sun weakness.

Oh well, the ghost got added to the household! VAMPIRE GHOST!

The Child (Luke)

Before you say Luke’s too young to play the Sims, you should know that I was nine when I first started playing, and I turned out fiiiiiiiiiine.

He’s just happy to be playing.

Look, his sims are gardening :D

Look, two of them are getting married :D

Look, they had a baby :D

Look, his sims are building a rocket ship :D

Look, his sims’s rocket just crashed-

The concept of death hit the little angel right in the face that day.

“*sniffle*... my sims...”

Don’t worry, with tears in his eyes, Luke quit without saving and everything was fine!

Speaking of My Sims, Luke played MySims Sky Heroes and that was when Luke had his first bout of gamer rage.

MC came over to hang out with Solomon and Simeon, and in the distance they could just hear:

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN MY TIME WASN’T FAST ENOUGH TO CONTINUE THE STORY!? I’LL SHOW YOU FAST ENOUGH TIME!”

Okay, maybe Simeon should take the game away... just for a bit... he should take heed not to be bitten by the incredibly angry chihuahua.

Bonus:

MC: Why are our Sims married?

*Insert Boy Here*: Uh... that’s weird... I have no clue why they’re doing that...

[hopesbarnes]

Gold Dust Woman

Summary: Set Pre-Ragnarok. Inspired by the song Gold Dust Woman. The goddess of temptation and sorcery is ruled by no man and doesn’t do love. You prefer to sleep around and mess with men’s heads for fun. Loki is just the newest in the line of people who have taken to you. He wishes for you to rule beside him as queen, but that type of life isn’t made for you.

Pairing: Darker!Reader x Loki

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Cursing

A/N: This is so different from my usual writings, and I really like it. This isn’t a happy, reader falls in love type story. Reader in this is so unlike me, it was a lot of fun to write. Also the drug mentioned is 100% made up.  Bold Italics are song lyrics

In theory, being Asgardian is excellent. Thousands of years to experience the realms, powers that mortals dream of, and being worshipped sound wonderful. The little ones desire to be a goddess like you. Royalty is everything one wants. However, it’s monotonous. No good being loves the goddess of temptation and sorcery. They don’t leave you offerings or pray to you. You’re remarked on the same level as Loki. The people crave a white-veiled princess, and you’ve never been that.

Your lips are on his the moment he opens the door. There’s not a minute for him to digest your presence. The kiss is harsh, your teeth clash together and Loki moans into the kiss. You bite his lower lip to allow the kiss to deepen. His hands dig into your hips and yours lightly tug his hair. The two of you move until your back hits the wall. You pull him down, leaving him kneeling before you.

“What would people say, seeing you kneeling before someone?” you tease.

“What they don’t know is for the best, my love.”

He identifies his place and lifts your dress up and you move your leg over his shoulder to give him better access. Loki starts to move his tongue against your folds and you moan out from the feeling. He continues to tease you until you pull his head back to look at you.

“Continue teasing me and you won’t cum,” you threaten the mischievous god. He nods and moves back to your core. This time he doubles his efforts and fucks you on his tongue. Your hips move and you’re thrusting down on his face. The pleasure accumulates and you orgasm. The good boy that he is, Loki licks up every drop.

You pull him up to reach your lips and kiss. During the kiss, you wave away both of your clothes and activate a birth control spell. The goddess of seduction can’t get pregnant, it would ruin your image. The kiss continues until you reach the edge of the bed. You push him down and straddled his hips.

“I do love seeing you on top of me, it’s a beautiful sight,” he gushes to you.

“Keep being this sappy and I’ll find a new God to fuck,” you warn.

You hold his cock and guide yourself down on it. Once you’re seated fully, you move his hands to the headboard and lock them with a wave of your hands.

“Are these really necessary?” he complains.

“No, but I like the way they look. Plus, it reminds you where you truly belong.”

You start a quick pace, not looking for a sweet lovemaking session. You rock back and forth roughly and scratch his chest as you do. His torso looks as if a cat has clawed it up, and the sight sends you over. This, in turn, causes him to fill you with his cum.

You pull the sheet up on Loki before getting up and magically cleaning yourself up and reappearing your dress on the ground.

“You’re a shitty person, but a fantastic fuck,” you remark while redressing.

“It’s not like you’re quite sunshine, dear,” Loki quips back. He’s lying in his bed with his wrists still fixed to the bed frame. The sheet rests low on his hips and you can’t help but appreciate his physique once again.

“Is that what you want? A little blushing maid to control?” you ask as you straddle him once again. Leaning to his ear, you whisper, “We both know you could never be satisfied without me dominating you.”

His laugh is dark, and he doesn’t refute the statement. He would crawl the grounds naked for you if you asked. You will never truly be his, but he will always be yours.

You flick your wrist to remove the binds and free him. While keeping him tied up and hidden away seems ideal, he has duties as king to see to. You’d rather him as Odin than Odin himself running this wretched kingdom.

“Why won’t you accept my proposal as Queen?” he inquires while dressing himself.

“You and I both realize I’m not made for that.”

“We should rule the realms together, would that really be so terrible?” Yes, It would. You think to yourself.

“I’m no Queen,” you reply.

“I’m no King, and yet…”

“You were born for this life. The regal manner you have to conduct yourself, the diplomacy, the fights. It all fits you. I was born for revenge. I spend my nights high or drunk, fucking whoever falls into my sight. I tear apart relationships and fool people for fun! And I like it. I’m no Queen Loki, get that through your head!” you snap at him.

“If the people truly saw who ruled them, they would quiver in fear. I’m a fucking monster, or don’t you remember? I’m what parents warn their children of.” he spats shifting into his frost giant form.

“They warn of your race, not you. You really want to compare who's the bigger monster?”

“You’re not a monster.”

“Yes, I am. The sooner you realize this the better,” you sigh and walk out of the room.

—————

When you live thousands of years, the people in lesser worlds start to write stories of you. They call you gods and try to make sense of the senselessness way you impact their world. Thor is named Zeus to the Greeks and Jupiter to the Romans. You, on the other hand, are known as Peitho to the Greeks. The goddess of persuasion and seduction. They also created you into the story of the sirens, beautiful women who lured men to their death.

Most of the stories were true. There was a time when you seduced men and killed them. It wasn’t a high point of your legacy. But you never claimed you were innocent.

A few days after the fight with Loki, he came to apologize. Claimed the pressure of the throne was too much.

“Nobody told you to steal your father’s identity and be the ruler,” you quip back. Sympathy wasn’t a virtue you had.

“Father wasn’t fit to rule anymore. Thor isn’t around, too busy gallivanting around to care for his home,” he replied.

“Still didn’t mean you had to be king.”

“Want to destress, Allfather?” you tease just to get him to shut his whining up.

“What have you in mind, lover? He asks. The word lover leaves a bad taste in your mouth, but you ignore it.

“Snagged some Ferðalags last time I ventured the forest. Turned them into a potion to drink. Wouldn’t mind sharing,” you offer the vial. You consume the drug with him and spend the next four hours high forgetting the world.

It was only a matter of time before Loki begged for marriage again. He was planning to reveal himself as Loki soon and wished to have a wife for that. You never would love him though, and marriage went against every part of your being. A better person would cut off the relationship, leave him now before it ruined him. But you couldn’t, you enjoyed messing with his head and body too much.

 Tensions were running high amongst the realms. Loki’s approach to diplomacy and ruling wasn’t being taken to quite as he hoped. Rumors of Thor fighting and trying to bring peace about spread, and while he didn’t speak you can tell the mischievous God is worrying. You weren’t one for comfort, but you were fairly good at one of the best ways people relax.

Loki was sitting in the throne room, atop his chair. It was late, so he was in his true form instead of hiding behind the face of his father.

“Why are you here so late?” you ask.

“It takes a lot to rule a kingdom, dear,” he replies.

“You know what they say.”

“Hmm?” he questions.

“Rulers make bad lovers,” you remark.

“Is that so?” he asks, beckoning you closer with his stare.

“You better put your kingdom up for sale,” you declare walking to straddle his hips.

“I feel like I should fuck you in this throne for that statement.”

“Honey, the day you are the dominant one in this relationship, is the day I become the Goddess of Marriage.”

“Then you fuck me in this chair,” he suggests sharply.

You tug down his pants, not bothering to completely undress. You hike the long dress you have on up and he whines upon the realization that you had nothing underneath. You readjust your position and take him in one swift drop of your hips.

“This is how I would like to go, encompassed by you,” he remarks as you move your hips against his.

You lean forward to meet his lips as his hand snakes between your bodies. Instead of connecting your lips, a moan falls from them against his. It’s erotic the motion, and he groans against you. You quicken your pace and your head falls against his shoulder, unable to hold yourself up as you fuck yourself on his cock.

It doesn’t take long for you to come apart as he releases into you. You sit for a moment to catch your breath and then wave a hand to clean the mess.

“You could stay awhile, just sit with me,” he breathes.

“Loki,” you sigh.

“Loki what? Why can’t you let me love you!”

“You knew I didn’t do that! That isn’t me,” you snap, aggravated. He kept trying to make you into someone you weren’t. You warned him before the first hookup. Why didn’t he listen?

“It could be. I wasn’t supposed to be regal. I was supposed to die.”

“You wanted to change. You hated who you were. I love being this!” you shout waving your hands to emphasize the point. “I love fucking anything with a pulse! I love killing those who cross me. I love seducing people and watching their lives crumble as a result! I love being a witch in every sense of the word. I don’t get why you can’t understand that. I don’t want to be your fucking queen!” The entire declaration causes his face to fall.

“I love you,” is all he manages to mutter.

“Then I’m sorry to shatter your illusions of love, and what it should be. But this isn’t love.”

“Then I guess this is done.”

“I think I should visit Midgard for some time,” you suggest.

“I figure that’s for the best.”

[ofmadsle]

Welcome to the stage, Mads Le. Reading from King Lear as Goneril.

OOC:

-Mads will be auditioning for Lady Macbeth, but I would also love it if she played Hecate, the witches, or even Malcolm could be interesting to play for her. -I’ve written this before in some ask meme headcanons, but for Mads Lady Macbeth is the reason why she goes for roles such as this. Martha from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf has a similar characterization and is Mads’ favorite contemporary character to play. It ties into the theme of seemingly strong woman who unravels in the end, so with this background in mind I think she can seamlessly blend into this role -That being said, she isn’t expecting the lead and neither am I. I think from an overall plot standpoint that I hinted towards in the para, it would make for an interesting plot development that could affect the others in a way that would be fun and provide a fun red herring in the investigation. But again! Just because Mads wants it badly doesn’t mean either of us will take offense if she doesn’t get it. There’s so many people I can see in this rp as Lady Macbeth, so yeah! 

Mads wasn’t usually nervous for auditions, especially when auditioning for any part in the main theater program since Orson had shunned her. She knew she wouldn’t get the roles she wanted, so she would walk in with no expectations. This time? This was different. This felt different.

Lady Macbeth had been Mads’ inspiration for the exact types of characters she loved to play. She had auditioned for the program using Lady Macbeth’s infamous damned spot monologue. She used fake blood and whatever minimal SFX makeup she had to make it appear as if she was clawing at her skin with each desperate rub of her hand. It was a production in it of itself, and Mads had been very proud of that. But, she needed to do something different of course. She knew her competition, she knew all the others would chomp at the bit to perform the very same monologue so she needed to get creative. Where to begin? She wanted to show Heidi she could do anything, could be any role- but Lady Macbeth was her calling.

Even so, she was nervous. She hadn’t been a lead since sophomore year and she had accepted the status of pariah Orson had placed upon her. But Heidi promising to be unbiased gave her a dangerous glimmer of hope. She didn’t need the theater, she was thriving outside of it. But, she wanted this. No, she didn’t care to be a lead for anything else. This was just her dream role. Lady Macbeth’s descent into madness, the guilt that crawled up her throat and forced her to confess and later die, it was utterly tragic. She was the stronger one, the better ruler, the powerful soldier Macbeth couldn’t be. But even she wasn’t invincible and this resonated with Mads more than she expected to. So, she would research more, she’d give her all in a monologue and hope to the god she didn’t believe in that Heidi would see how badly she wanted this.

She felt silly, she felt pathetic. Why get excited over something she knew she wouldn’t get? Even if she had been one of the stronger actors in the beginning, she had began to read her lines half-heartedly since Orson’s proverbial banishment. She felt like she didn’t really give her all in her roles like she used to. She knew she wanted to venture away from it all here, she loved the productions she was in with the other film students and the community theater but there was something so quietly hopeful about this. Mads was a realist, she knew this wouldn’t be important and she knew a good actress could play in any sort of role. Classical theater was meant to be a way to grow, it was a strong pillar of legacy. But it wasn’t everything, she knew this.

Still, she wants. She always wants.

Maybe it should go to someone else, someone who wants this more than her, but she had to try. She can’t keep going through it all as if she didn’t care a little, right? Maybe she could have this, maybe it wouldn’t end in disaster.

Though, there was the sinking feeling in her gut regarding the fucking Orson cult that made their nasty appearance during the ball, and she wondered if this could be pinned on her because of it. What if she did get it? After being casted out by Orson, only to get a lead as soon as he died. Would she be caught up in a murder investigation for a dream she had? Which was worse, being expelled or becoming yet another target? 

She’d have to find out.

After lamenting for a week, Mads finally found her perfect monologue. It wasn’t form Macbeth, of course, nor did she opt to use the more popular monologues from the women Shakespeare had written but instead she was going to read from King Lear. A tale of cruel sisters, of insolent fathers, of betrayals. What else could be more perfect?

“Hi,” she greets Heidi as she steps onto the stage. She has since gotten used to the warm spotlight on her, she has dealt with the nerves that had been coursing through her veins over the week. But there was a quiet confidence about her- as if to say even if she didn’t get it, she would be proud that she gave her all at least. “I’m auditioning for the role of Lady Macbeth. I’ll be reading as Goneril, from King Lear. Act one scene four.” Quickly, she flashes a smile, and just as quickly does she step into her role.

Goneril is ruthless, frustrated, she wants her father to understand her pleas. Lear was greedy, childish, vengeful. In a sense, she was similar to Lady Macbeth. However, Lady Macbeth took no prisoners, did nothing to try to reason with anyone, she was vengeful and cruel to get to where she needed to be. Goneril gave Lear a moment of mercy, and that was starkly different. Mads cleared her throat first, a pleading look in her steely eyes, as if to show the warning in her voice. “This admiration, sir, is much o' th' savour,” she begins, her voice clear and firm. “Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you. To understand my purposes aright.”

As Mads recited the lines she had memorized, her inflection changes with the tone. The desperation in her tone turns harder, more firm in her voice, feeling herself as Goneril who was standing her ground against her father who was sure to throw a tantrum at the end of her begging. Her hands clasped together, shaking her fists once as she spoke, a quiet begging for King Lear to understand her pleas, to listen for once rather than jump to conclusions backed by rage. “That this our court, infected with their manners, shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust. Make it more like a tavern or a brothel!”

There’s a sharpness in her voice as Goneril admonishes her father’s knights, her voice raising just an octave. Mads was determined to show Goneril as contained in her anger, the foil to King Lear’s outbursts. It was as if to prove King Lear had indeed made a mistake choosing to banish Cordelia, for her love for her father could only go so deep. Mads’ acting was done especially with her body language and the subtlety of it. From a soft, pleading frown etched onto her skin to a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes as she went further in her monologue. 

She ends with her lips curling slightly in a small sneer, her voice like ice, “You strike my people, and your disordered rabble make servants of their betters.” She took a deep breath as she finished, keeping the fury in her eyes for a moment longer before breaking character. The smile she fought back showed her pride in herself, it showed the smile of a girl who had rediscovered what had brought her to Alderidge in the first place. She shouldn’t be here, she knew this, but this was a moment for herself. Even if Heidi didn’t give her the role, she felt proud that she had least tried. Not given up on herself like Orson had.

“Thank you.” She concludes, bowing slightly. There’s a gentle flush to her cheeks from the heat of the light, an earnest look on her face to match. For the first time since sophomore year, she feels a little bit more like herself. Who knows how long that will last. 

[oh-boleyn]

katherine / infamy

words: 4880, one shot, language: english

anne / jane / katherine / catherine

TW: there are suicidal thoughts, slutshaming, victim guilt, minor ways of self harm, nightmares and some other things.

this turned to be a character study rather to any other thing but oh well, it's done

the commentary between scenes are things I got from internet about Katherine Howard.

Katherine Howard was just an attention seeker.

(…)

When they first arrived at the twenty-one century, Katherine Howard felt alone. It was a whole new world; one she didn’t have a clue of what was it about. Didn’t even have the advantage of knowing other women, except for Anna of Cleves, the only one she met during her short time as queen when they shared a dance, but nothing more.

The rest of them were just rumours while she was in court. Names nobody dared to say. Histories without faces, blurry memories. All of them carried themselves as queens. All of them except her, who was just a frightened nobody in the middle of five of the most powerful and celebre queens.

(…)

Katherine Howard was a silly flirt who actually did sleep around even after she’d married the king.

(…)

They had all been thrown into a small house. With thin walls, two bedrooms, loud queens and just one bathroom. She shared room with Anna of Cleves, this royal Germany queen who was the second divorcee, and Anne Boleyn.

A cousin she never really had the chance to meet, since Henry decapitated her when Katherine was still young. Anne Boleyn, her famous, notorious cousin, a mystery to this new world. Anne was perfect, smart, pretty, even her reincarnated version had the long dark brown hair and big curious eyes. She knew about politics, debate, could talk fluently in English and French.

In the new world, Anne Boleyn was an icon. A notorious woman who got beheaded because of her opinions and incapacity of keeping quiet was something admirable today, and everyone loved her, as the French court once did.

The opinion about Katherine was not the same. Not then, and not now. She was a traitor before, and now she was a naïve who couldn’t even save her own life. A foolish, provocative girl who warmed her way into the king’s bed, and other beds too. She didn’t have a legacy, didn’t left anything to be remembered.

(…)

Katherine Howard: Whore or Victim?

(…)

Money and finances were not something she was interested. She wasn’t good with numbers, Francis always said that. About how she was so lucky to be so pretty, or else nobody would want her as a secretary. With the years she had been discouraged to keep trying, so she just stopped.

Not every woman had been made to be good with it. Katherine considered herself more of a pretty face, rather than someone with a great intellect. It felt shallow, now more than ever. Her life was just like that, being a pretty face, smile, conceal emotions. She was raised by her step-grandmother to please. Emotion were not needed when trying to grant pleasure to someone else.

The other queens weren’t like her. And maybe that’s why they were so worried about making money or getting jobs.

The great salvation came by Catherine’s hand. Catherine Parr, not Aragon. Rewrite their histories, if everyone could make money out of it, why not them? It could be a way to reclaim what happened to them, set the record straight, be view as the real queens they were, not just six who banged the same guy.

(…)

Katherine Howard – The Material Girl?

(…)

“Catherine, almost moved into a nunnery, and then not.” Her voice sounded snob, trying to mock the other queen. “That could almost be really hard for you.” She concluded with a fake pout.

Her heart was beating faster every second. She was never good at arts.

Even when trying to please Manox, her first music teacher, he always wanted more. She could always be better, greater. It was never enough, no matter how high her voice went while singing, or how many times she practiced dancing, or how much her hand aches after playing one instrument for hours, she was not enough.

Not enough like the air in her lungs while performing. The rest of the group were natural, delivering their lines perfect, playing with the silences making it enjoyable and funny. But she wasn’t like that, she talked way too fast, pronounced words unintelligible and forgot that she had talk.

The musical, a fake competition, didn’t help her. It didn’t bring her release, or peace. Katherine felt always numb, there was no connection between what she was doing and her own story. Her past life just felt like a numb blurry dream.

(…)

Katherine Howard, a slut 17-year-old queen who was beheaded for being a slut!

(…)

It came to Katherine attention how much Catherine (of Aragon) hugged Catherine (Parr). They were usually together, helping or making each other’s hair and make-up. She knew Cathy was Catherine’s goddaughter, but the physical affection takes her by surprise anyway.

The idea of touch being something soft, delicate was so out of her range. Her father was bed-ridden and her mother died while she was young. After that everyone was rough. For the Duchess, touch was only a way of punishment. Katherine sometimes saw the ghost of bruises she would have when she didn’t behave like a lady, when her feelings were shown.

Touching was never something appreciated after that.

(…)

Manipulative, flirty seductress.

(…)

The show was doing well, so well that they bought a new house.

New is a way to say, because it’s old, really old. It needs to be fix, the stairs crack, it is too cold, and there are leaks in the bathroom. But it’s bigger, and each one of them get a room or something like that. Catherine Parr takes the basement, and Anne takes the attic. Anna decides to stay on the only bedroom that is on the first floor. And now Katherine is stuck between Aragon and Seymour.

The room feels impersonal, and Katherine is going crazy trying to make it feel more like her. She paints it, buys a carpet, a desk. When all of it fails, she starts pinning fanart to her wall, photos with Anne and Anna, tickets of plays and movies they attended. She is trying to make new memories but it doesn’t work, it feels like she is just pretending. As if she stole a life. It feels numb and impersonal.

An empty room could be a good metaphor for an empty brain. God knows she had never been bright.

(…)

The Tudors Season 3 episode guide says “As Henry presses for an end to his new marriage, a new sexual conquest emerges – young prostitute Katherine Howard”

(…)

“Kitty, I bought new chokers.” Anne says one day, entering her room.

Katherine doesn’t like buying new necklaces or chokers, maybe because she feels them dreadful. Still she wears them every day. The scar around her neck is a darker colour than her skin, resulting in a brownish tone to it. It looks grotesque. Internet, that magic source of information calls is a hypertrophic scar, thick and raised injured skin.

“Great.” She responds, smiling.

“I thought you might like the pink ones, after all you wear a lot of pink.” She started passing Katherine pieces of electric and baby pink fabric.

“And you wear a lot of green.”

“What can I say? It’s my brand.”

“Are you okay, Annie?” Katherine asks when she notices Anne does not have her usual energy.

“Yes, just Aragon getting on my nerves.” Boleyn sits on her bed. “I’m sure she hates me. It’s not news, we been knew for like, I don’t know, five hundred years. But I hoped it would change.”

“I’m sure she hates me too.”

“Why would you say that KitKat?” Anne frowns. “Did she say something to you?”

“No, but I’m sure she is not too fond of me. Mary wasn’t.”

The look in her cousin’s face does something to her stomach, twisting it. Anne loves her, and Kat knows she does. She uses pet names with her, and calls her Kit, or Kitty or variations of it. Anne tries to protect her. But Katherine knows she doesn’t deserve any of it. Why would she?

Even when she is trying her best, Katherine can’t love Anne back that easily. It doesn’t come natural to her. Giving her love to someone never resulted in anything good. Honestly, it resulted in death. She feels guilty about not reciprocating, but it’s the best way to keep the other queen safe.

“I love this pink.” She tries to change the conversation.

(…)

Michael Hirst describes her as a “Lolita figure”.

(…)

Not even in court, where nothing was private, and people would get into anyone’s problems, people had so much opinions. Nowadays, with social media and phones, everybody had a word. Parr said something about it, about Warhol and how we imposed the new “five minutes of fame”. Social media helped to convey that.

While she was dead, people made up their minds about her. It would be nice to say that they found her just to be someone trying their best, but for the most part it wasn’t. They described her as this femme fatale. A sexually active, young woman, who seduced a whole court.

Five hundred years later, she was still nothing more than a common harlot.

The movies, and TV shows helped with it. Always naked, disposed to just fuck. A toy. A possession. The king’s favourite flower.

Katherine couldn’t be really mad about it, because that was all about her. Even her solo was about how she was the ten among these three. Aragon was the faithful wife, Boleyn the witch who made England break the church, Seymour the one he truly loved, Cleves the great queen of the castle, Parr the feminist writer.

Katherine Howard was the pretty one.

There was no personality to it, just a pretty face that happened to be compared with real queens. Of course, she would never win.

(…)

A nymphomaniac.

(…)

The first time she doesn’t feel drugged or numb comes after a show.

They were just heading out, tired out of their minds. Katherine just felt tired, as always. With that voice in the back of her head telling her how she was weak for not giving more every performance.

A man took her by the wrist, and a wave came from it. Her whole-body getting tense. It comes from her wrist, all through her arm, to her shoulder, finally getting to her neck. And now she can’t breathe. His hand is still there, firm, while she is trembling.

It could have been hours, or minutes, or seconds, but her mind was panicking and racing. She couldn’t seem to hold on to a thought, instead everything became overwhelming, a dizzy feeling. Her body not responding her calls.

“Kitty, can you hear me?” A voice quietly talks. It must be Anne; she is the only one who calls her that.

“We should take her inside.” Another voice speaks. “It’s not safe here.”

“Outside air can help, Jane.” She starts focusing in what the queens are talking. “Kat?”

She manages to break the amount of nervous on her and starts breathing heavy, as if she just ran a marathon.

“I’m okay.”

She sounds raspy, more tired than before if it was even possible.

“Can we go home?”

Parr gives her a hand to take and stand up, but she refuses and decides to stand up by herself. Instead of going to Anna’s car as she would usually do, she heads to Aragon’s, sitting in the passenger seat, making sure to set distance between her and the other queen. Luckily nobody makes questions, and Parr rides with Cleves and Boleyn, so the car is not packed.

(…)

A girl whose only education was into how to please a man.

(…)

She didn’t think it was possible, but it gets worse.

Now, instead of feeling nothing, she feels too much. Way too many bad things. She feels something raw coming from inside of her. It’s so sad, it’s eating her from inside. Her limbs are so tired, but now she can’t sleep. There are nightmares keeping her awake.

It results that feeling was not good after all.

But at least, it makes her feel alive.

After a night full of nightmares, she would just go to the kitchen and serve herself, and usually Cathy Parr, a cup of coffee. If it wasn’t enough, another cup wouldn’t do any harm. She sometimes drank energy drinks if her first cup was not even of a little help, but tried not to rely on them. It was not healthy.

The rest of the queens didn’t bring up what happened, nor her new sleeping habits. Anne would shoot her concerned looks, but nothing outside that. No words.

She must not care. Katherine thought. She knows I’m Katherine Howard, too idiotic to even be sad.

She managed. Pretended to be happy, to have energy. To be oblivious.

(…)

A reckless fool.

(…)

“Jane, just stop it, okay?”

They were alone in the theatre, the rest of the queens were heading out to a bar, instead Seymour and Howard were going home. Katherine was just so tired after just two hours of sleep, and Jane simply didn’t liked bars as much as the rest of them.

“It’s cold, put on a coat or something more, you will catch a cold.” She tried to give the teenager her pink sweater, but all she got was rejection.

“Just don’t.” Katherine bitted her lip, but couldn’t help herself and snapped. “Stop acting as if I’m a child.”

“You are nineteen.” Jane stated.

“I am like five hundred years old.” There was bitterness in her voice. “Nobody cared about me being nineteen when the king beheaded me. They didn’t even care when I was younger, why now?”

“Because I care about you.” The blonde tried to look for Katherine’s eyes, but she was too focused on the ground.

“You shouldn’t.”

There were just too many connotations to what she was saying. She felt trapped inside her own mind, a mind that was useless. As long as she looked pretty, nobody should care about anything else. It was more than enough. Feelings were too complex and ended in tragedy, and whoever cared for her would have to see her downfall.

If she didn’t take them down with her.

After all, Thomas cared. Or so he said.

(…)

Cold, calculating and ambitious.

(…)

The nightmares would just not stop, even as much as she tried.

She would just wake up, agitated and breathless, with the images still going through her mind, even when her eyes were open looking to her bedroom celling.

Katherine tried all the things internet said about sleeping without nightmares. Don’t sleep on her stomach, drink something warm first, try to be warm. Nothing worked. It just got worse and worse, to a point were her still shaken up body would not response once she was awake, instead looking at dark figures that painted the walls in her room.

Internet calls it parasomnia, she calls it her brain just can’t seem to work properly.

It’s one night when after an episode she hears a knock on her door. Heavily moving aching muscles, she opens it, revealing Aragon with a bag of crackers.

“I heard you were having a nightmare.”

Katherine lets her in.

“Why the crackers?” She asks, while sitting back on her bed.

“They say that if you talk about a nightmare without eating something first, it will become true.”

She offers one to Katherine, who accepts.

“I am not sure it was a nightmare.” She takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it either.”

They fall into a not so comfortable silence.

“Why are you awake?” the teenager asks.

“Nights are a hard time for me. I can’t close my eyes without a memory appearing. Tonight, is Mary.”

“I remember things about her.”

“I do too. I still can remember when she was a baby, you should have seen her. Her hair was so soft, and her skin looked like porcelain. Like a doll, too perfect to be real.”

“I wasn’t even born when she was a baby.”

Aragon laughs unpredictable. “You got me there.” Her face turns darker. “I can’t wrap my head about the things she had done. What they say about her. Bloody Mary, a ghost story. She was just so kind before.”

“Life in court can change you.” Katherine establishes. “Those were other times; other things were allowed. Things people now would consider monstrous.”

“No, that is still no excuse.” Catherine smiled even with eyes full of tears. “I won’t keep you up any longer, there’s no need for it.”

“You can stay here.” Katherine spoke before thinking. “If both of us have problems sleeping, it might be good to be together.”

It becomes a thing, when they heard the other one was up, they would get a bag of crackers and go to the other room. Spending nights talking about meaningless things, trying to take their minds out of dark places.

Katherine discovers Aragon knows a lot of history, things that people have already lost, or that she never heard of. Spanish proverbs and idioms, details of her time as queen. It becomes their night time stories. Talking about the older queen’s past but never about the younger. There is something so appealing for Katherine about history, a curiosity she didn’t knew she had inside her.

It helps.

(…)

It is easy to see Katherine as a spoilt child, a child saying “I want, I want…” all the time and sticking out her bottom lip and sulking if she didn’t get her way.

(…)

Anna is objectively pretty. She doesn’t have the fine gestures of Aragon, or elegancy as Parr. She doesn’t have striking green eyes like Anne. But Anna is still attractive. Full lips, dark skin, and short hair. She chopped it off as soon as they landed to the modern times, and never let it long again.

Anna was also the only one who could remember her time as queen.

Still she doesn’t talk about it, she just ignores history all together. Cleves is great at support, noticing when they are tired and buying stuff for make them feel better.

They are friends, or so she thinks, still there is a lot that is out of the line. Things they never talk but all of them know. About her own past as queen, how Jane’s actions have led to Anne getting beheaded, about Parr’s implications with Elizabeth.

Katherine wonders if they had Googled her. If they have seen the show made about Henry. She is afraid because nobody talks about her truth, is either morbid retellings on how she was abused, on how they pimped her way into Henry’s arms, or about the teenage, spoiled brat she was.

Kat doesn’t think she is either of them. She is not just someone they used to climb their way into court, nor just a teenager who had everything she ever wanted.

Maybe she is something in the middle, constructed by pieces of it. Just pieces because she knows she is not whole; she is breaking beyond repair. Every day it passes it’s another piece, another fragment missing. A nightmare long forgotten; a night lost from her mind.

A rose without a thorn was unnatural after all.

(…)

No other wish but his.

(…)

Katherine realizes her costume is the smaller one, and not only talking about size.

She sometimes feels exposed, and wishes for pants or a better skirt, but the costume designer assured her it was better that way, to play the seductress and then surprise the audience with her real story.

Whore or victim, no in between.

At least she loved pink.

“Kitty, you ready?” Anne asked.

They were at a big studio, and their performance was going to be on TV. All the queens were so anxious the house was as loud as ever, even at night.

“I’m a little bit scared.” She admitted, punishing herself for admitting that.

“Don’t be, you do perfect every night, today is just one more day.”

Emotions fills her for a moment. And it’s not as usually the horrible, dreadful feeling, but rather a warm one.

“I love you Annie.”

Her heart is beating fast, fearing rejection by her cousin. Instead Boleyn hugs her, procuring not to squeeze her in any way she might panic.

“I love you even more Kitty.”

They stay for a while. It’s been hundreds of years since the last time someone hugged her and talked about love. But it felt real. A family bond that she never thought she could have again.

“Now, get prepared, you are going to kill it tonight.”

(…)

Had many characteristics of a juvenile delinquent, who was spoiled, fawned upon, and flattered.

(…)

Jane is the first one to start seeing a psychologist.

She has a survivor’s guilt, even when she was the one who died. But it was honest that she was also the one who came back. Katherine wants to help, but doesn’t know how. Dying is easier when you wish for it. When you leave no one behind.

“How was therapy?” Kat asks when Jane gets home after the first session.

“It’s good, I think. Talking about it was like releasing a breath I didn’t knew I was holding. I know there is still a lot to work on, but I feel like it is a good decision.” She smiles. Jane lets her hand in the table, offering it to the teenager without a word. She takes it. “Thanks for asking, Kitty.”

“Can you not call me that?” Katherine pleads, giving Jane’s hand a little squeeze. “Annie calls me that, and I like it being a thing with her.”

She knows it’s cold to just say that, but Anne has been the only one to call her that. From the moment they arrived, while everyone called her Katherine, for her cousin she was Kitty. It gave her a feeling of comfort, of belonging to a family. Boleyn was her family.

“No problem, we can look for another nickname.” Jane smiles. “I want to bake cookies, what do you think?”

(…)

Could this ‘whore in the bedroom’ really be a virgin?

(…)

“Are you okay, Catherine?” Kat asks.

The survivor was still in the kitchen, even when it was past midnight. Her face was slammed on the table, illuminated by the cold light of her notebook.

“Yes, just can’t seem to get this done.” She straightens her spine.

“What is it about?”

“Just about Spain history, and the colonies.”

“Can I read?”

“Yes. I will make tea.” Parr handles the computer to the fifth queen.

Catherine takes two mugs, and chooses peppermint tea for them both. When the water is hot, she serves it, and takes the sugar to the table.

“It is good, really.” Howard says.

“I can sense a “but”.” Catherine laughs.

“You are only taking one side; you should know how Spain sent a lot of people from the church on missions to re-educate the natives. Las misiones Jesuitas. Politics and religion were more connected than what this make it look like.”

“That’s… Very true. I didn’t know you were interested in history.”

Kat can feel her face getting redder and warmer, embarrassed.

“It’s great, if you ever want to work together, you know where to find me.”

Work. Work together.

The teenager is not sure about how to react.

(…)

If only she had been willing to put her pride and title aside, (…) she may have lost her title as queen but kept her head.

(…)

When she realizes how much her life had changed, it’s more than half a year since they arrived.

There is still something obscure, twitching inside of her. The voices of a million ghosts, and even more people now with their opinions.

Researching history with the first and the last queen helps her. She starts noticing the changes in the discourses, how things that could be empowering before now are just mere normal things. The idea of a part of history she missed is attractive, and she spends hours on Wikipedia and blogs before talking to Parr about trivia facts she finds of the years they were dead.

The house gets better by the time. Having it painted, changed the plumbing, renewed the stairs. It also gets better with them, slowly growing into a group, learning how to deal with each other.

It’s slow, but it gets better.

(…)

I have to conclude that Catherine was incredibly stupid and foolhardy.

(…)

Katherine decides to start therapy. Jane talks highly of how it affected her, how she resolved so many things about her past. And the youngest queen just wants that, to be liberated, to step out of her own shadow.

At first therapy was good, having a chance to talk about her feelings, about living with people who were totally strangers. Adapting to a new world. Having a cousin. It all comes easy, it’s just the way it is. It gives her a short feeling of release, of being liberated, but it always quickly vanishes.

Not everything can always be smooth sailing in her life.

“What is a child?” Her psychologist, a woman in her middle thirties asks.

“A child?”

“Yes, what do you consider a child?”

“A really young human, I guess.”

It’s a weird question, and she feels as if she was being interrogated. That is what exams must feel like.

“I can’t really remember a lot from my childhood.” Katherine starts. “It’s just things. My mother died when I was five. I loved dancing; my father let me study it. I was never good at important things, such as math or music.”

“Why you weren’t?”

“I’m not sure. Manox always told me how I wasn’t enough, how I should try harder and be better. Francis was also like that, telling me to be quiet, to please. My grandmother also was like that, wanted all of us, the ladies to be better.”

She waits, thinks how to continue.

“I think what I always wanted to do was to make them proud, to be always better. I wanted to be liked, just that. I thought that if I was better my father was not going to leave me in a place full of people I didn’t know.”

Katherine can feel herself thinking again, trying to put her thoughts into words once, and once again.

“Why do you do this to yourself, Katherine?” Her psychologist watches her straight to her eyes. “Why are you hiding things for me? You think, and think, and think again, trying to control what your saying, how you move, how you act. I can’t judge you, and I won’t. You need to be real here, or else therapy is not going to help.”

“When I was real, I died.” Tears are streaming down her face; a pout is there and she doesn’t want to look so much like a child, but she feels small.

“Were you real? Why did you love him?”

(…)

She must have had rocks in her head.

(…)

It takes time after that, to really open up.

It takes even more time to notice that a lot of her thoughts weren’t hers, but rather thoughts she had attached herself to. It becomes difficult to realize that she is made of other people’s opinions. That she is just a victim of an adult game. It doesn’t come easy, and when it comes, it breaks her.

It breaks her to the core, to a point she is not sure how to act because that’s all she has ever knew.

(…)

Katherine had been shameless. She had been deceitful. But that was all.

(…)

Anna is there when she gets back from one therapy session.

“How was it today?” Cleves asks.

“Was I just a child?” Katherine returns a question.

“Explain that, please.”

The queen who lived the longest makes the youngest sit on the couch.

“Was I just a child when I arrived to court?”

“You were. You were so young and knew so much about things I couldn’t even imagine.”

“I thought I was an adult.”

“That’s what older people want to make you believe to manipulate you. “You are wiser”, “Too mature for your age”, “You know better than others”.” Katherine is trembling, but that doesn’t stop Anna. “They made you believe you were ready so they didn’t have to live with their own guilt. But you are just a victim.”

The teenager starts crying, and Anna hugs her.

“I thought it was my fault.” She admits. “I thought it was me.”

(…)

There is so much that is not known about her that I am still thinking of all the ideas that people have suggested.

(…)

Dealing with trauma is not easy. Katherine slowly learns to manage. Sometimes is harder, when breathing exercises are too much for her panicking brain, or when nightmares can’t seem to stop. But she still gets out of them, learns not to blame herself.

She learns to be loved. Truly love. Not to fear emotions.

Katherine gets mad, and forgives, taking matters into her own hands. She learns to be young, to be carefree.

She learns to unlearn everything she knew, to question other people opinions about herself to the point she knows who she is, and can’t bring herself to care what an history book or some random person on internet has to say.

It’s hard, but she learns to own and embrace who she is.

[inspector-montoya-fox]

let’s talk about the themes of the Sly games

Sly Cooper and the Thievius Raccoonus (2002):

Paris: this might not be the game’s main theme but it’s the theme that is most omnipresent. Paris is the glue that connects everything together. it immediately has such an impact on the player, even though it’s just the tutorial and the gang’s base of operations. Sly being a thief but also living in Paris just sounds so right, like it’s the way it should be. it fits. 

The Thievius Raccoonus: this is the main theme and what provides the game with its premise. it’s the book that needs to be glued back together and its importance is highlighted throughout. almost every level has a page included so we’re constantly reminded of its significance. the skills we earn by retrieving the main ancestors’ pages elevate the gameplay and force the player to respect it. other than that it’s a clever way to spotlight the ancestors and establish that Sly does come from a long line of thieves.

Family: this doesn’t need much explaining but i’ll do it anyway. we start off with Sly’s parents getting killed and him landing at an orphanage where he creates a new family for himself with Bentley and Murray. you’ve got 3 different types of family: (A) Connor and Sly’s mom getting murdered and Sly’s aim to avenge them, (B) Bentley and Murray being true brothers when Sly was left with no one (i’m tearing up), and (C) the ancestors, which are explored more in-depth through the theme of The Thievius Raccoonus. Family as a theme explores Sly’s motivations and drive, even though Connor’s role is minor, especially in comparison to his role in Sly 3

Morality: Sly 1 is rudimental in its gameplay. it was a little game with a big promise at the time it was released, hoping to serve Sony and the Playstation 2 with a worthy mascot and an even worthier title. but right off the bat the player is bombarded with a shit-ton of lore about the world Sly lives in and how he operates. we immediately find out he’s an antihero, an honourable thief who has a code of conduct. this comes into stark contrast with the game’s villains who are basically filthy crooks. thief takes down thieves and the theme of Morality is SP’s attempt to make the player distinguish between good criminal and bad criminal. Morality as a theme is spotlighted immensely in Cold Heart of Hate when Sly saves Carmelita because he truly is the good guy, but also when it’s revealed that what’s been keeping Clockwerk alive all these years is the lack of morals and the hatred. the game establishes Morality as the outlining theme of the entire series, placing Sly on a pedestal because he’s honourable. morals trump hatred, so fuck off Clockwerk (even though ‘perfection has no age’ might be one of the coolest lines in the game lol)

Sly 2: Band of Thieves (2004):

Paris: this is the theme from the first game but on steroids. like make it x10. when you take the plot of Sly 2 and boil down to its core, it turns out to be a full-on race against time to save Paris. it provides both a nod to the first game and a sense of closure at the end: the game begins in Paris and ends in Paris. It’s both a setting and a catalyst, and it is absolutely brilliant in the game. you spend most of the game globetrotting, away from home but as soon as you find out ClockLa is on her way to unleash her psychotic brain waves and turn the city evil, you find yourself at the edge of your seat, caring more about Paris than anything else. it’s omnipresent and powerful and i don’t know why but i love it.

Spice: if you wanna be my lover. here’s an amazing replacement for drug trafficking as a plot device in a children’s game: spice. the spice trail is what pushes the narrative forward but also gives the gang something to face before the pieces fall into place and the larger scale of things is revealed. before ClockLa steals the show, spice is the main antagonist in the game. it brings the villains together, leads the gang from one location to another, provides some memorable missions and obstacles (Spice in the Sky and a raged, spice-infused Murray). but it’s not to say that it fades away in the long-run. Spice is actually the subtle thread that connects the episodes together but also is significant to the final master plan of hypnotising Paris.

Deception: obvious one here. Neyla pretending to be an ally is the major example. we’ve got the Contessa pretending to be loyal to Interpol, we’ve got Arpeggio seemingly being the mastermind behind everything (which he kinda was until he wasn’t), we’ve got the whole evil plot reveal on the spice, we’ve got Neyla ripping off Arpeggio on her journey to become the most well-written villain in video-game history. lots going on here. overall great theme. on a wider scale (and i’ve touched on this before in some recent posts) we’ve got SP deceiving the player into thinking the plot is all laid out at Rajan’s ball until it all turns to shit and nothing goes as expected. Appearance V Reality is a sub-theme that pops up when Bentley fights Jean Bison and Bison constantly underestimates Bentley until the turtle fucking blows his lights out. it’s not an instance of Deception per se, but it’s worth mentioning

The Past: Clockwerk’s return makes this a theme instead of a motif. before ‘saving Paris’ becomes the main objective, it’s Sly’s determination to prevent Clockwerk’s revamping that kicks off the game’s events. the events of Sly 1 play a pivotal role here as they lay the groundwork for the plot of Sly 2. it’s not just Sly 2: The Sequel. with its own set of characters and an intricate story it becomes its very own thing. but Clockwerk is the link that connects everything.

Morality: this one sneaks up on you in the game’s second half and just bites you right in the ass when you least expect it. Contessa, who until her boss-fight seems to be just another selfish spider bitch witch, manifests into this advocate for Sly’s inner demons through simple dialogue. fucking brilliant. ‘You’re an ignorant child playing dress-up in his father’s legacy’ (in my opinion, the best line in the entire series) kicks it all off. and then the theme becomes obviously present throughout. it explores the fine line that Sly walks between robin hood and scumbag thief, it shows how the villains are down-right criminals who want to benefit from their crimes, it cracks black and white into a million pieces because in a single game there are like a million layers of good and evil: Barkley at the very top as the authoritarian white, Carmelita as a sympathetic cop who tries to grasp onto her own code of ethics while occasionally running with the thieves, Sly and the gang as antiheroes, the villains as... villains, and Neyla as the embodiment of satan. it’s a scale and the game spotlights this. i had a different bullet point for Justice but i think it falls under Morality. basically, Carmelita’s story arc in Sly 2 deals with blurring her views a bit and re-defining justice

Sly 3: Honour Among Thieves (2005):

Ancestry (Cooper Vault): this is what the game is all about, or at least the premise. after stitching the cottdamn book back together by the end of the first game, Sly 2 doesn’t give any attention to the Thievius Raccoonus. in fact, Sly 2 exists on a completely different plane, using its amazing plot to elevate itself away from the lore of the first game. ancestry is rarely mentioned. flashforward to Sly 3, where SP takes us back to the mythos for a new caper involving a new reveal: the Cooper Vault. what we thought we knew about the ancestors is thrown out the window to pave the way for this mystical place where the Coopers buried their secrets and their loot. i’d like to point out that the theme of Ancestry is great and all but SP does a shitty job in spreading it throughout the game. whilst recruiting the new gang members we often forget why we’re doing so and it’s not until the last episode of the game that we get the fulfilment of the theme’s promise. it’s also worth mentioning that the theme pops up in A Cold Alliance when Tsao is comparing himself to Sly and he speaks of his ancestors but we somehow get the feeling that his ancestors were all colossal jerks like him and had absolutely 0 honour

Family: this is not the same as Ancestry. the new gang members could have very well been distant with each other if not for the adventures that made them bond. Bentley’s fascination with the Guru, Murray being the Guru’s apprentice, Bentley falling for Penelope, Penelope and Panda King helping Murray with the van, Panda King and Sly working alongside each other to kill vampire mantises and the Crusher. these are all moments that helped sell the ‘group of thieves’ aspect of the game. but Family also explores the bond of the original trio and how, even when they face their differences (Bentley and Murray living in the shadow of Sly), they can still make it through, even stronger than before. other references here might include: Panda King and Jing King, Dimitri and the Lousteau diving legacy, Dr. M and McSweeney being Conner’s “sidekicks”

Honour: this replaces the theme of Morality from the previous two games as the situations the characters face allude to honour (doing what’s right for the greater good) rather than morality (black and white, good vs evil). what i mean by that is SP making an effort to distinguish why Sly is a different thief and ultimately an antihero. this was sorta explored in the previous games by having Sly put an end to the villains’ various operations but the overall plot overshadowed those instances. Sly 3 on the other hand fully explores the theme of Honour by including the word in the title and having the gang save the day in every episode. stopping harm to the environment (polluting the Venice canals, destroying the Australian outback), helping Penelope come to terms with her inner demons by encouraging her to drop the facade of the Black Baron, saving Jing King from forced marriage, etc. the theme also ties into the theme of Redemption (below) but what i’d really like to point out is that Carmelita gets in on it as well. i can’t think of a more honourable moment than when she finally, after 3 games, puts the petty cop bullshit aside and comes to Kaine Island with her squad to save Sly from Dr. M. she makes Sly’s battle her own and doesn’t give up, showing up at the very end to save him from Dr. M’s horrific boss-fight (ugh)

Deception: although not as major as in Sly 2, i’ve said this time and time again: Flight of Fancy perfectly encapsulates the theme of Deception. Penelope dressing up as the Black Baron is not the only instance of deception. you’ve got Bentley and Penelope blowing their online avatars out of proportion, you’ve got Dimitri who was initially a villain finally turning sides, you’ve got an episode card full of sunshine and bright blue and gold fonts for a hub that’s all gloomy rainclouds. beyond Flight of Fancy, i can think of a few more instances: some Shakespearian shenanigans when Carmelita disguises herself as Jing King, or when the gang doesn’t reveal their Dead Men Tell No Tales plan to the player and we’re left thinking that Sly is going to get eaten by sharks

Redemption (Choices): speaks for itself, really. this one ties in with Honour and is a sub-theme, maybe a motif. we’ve got Murray’s desire to redeem himself for feeling guilty over Bentley’s accident. we’ve got Dimitri and the Panda King joining the gang after previously being villains in the series, and eventually redeeming themselves through helping with the heist. we’ve got Penelope redeeming herself as the Black Baron by joining the gang. i also named it Choices because these characters chose to redeem themselves. Choices are all over the game, whether its the lack of free will or the sacrifice characters make: Jing King isn’t in a position to choose whether or not she gets married during her capture, Sly sacrifices his cane at the very beginning of the game to save Bentley and then jumps in front of Dr. M’s shot to save Carmelita (!!!)

Closure: or the lack of, smh. SP’s trilogy comes to a close and therefore the theme has to exist even if the game doesn’t provide the player with mass satisfaction. Sly finally gets together with Carmelita, Bentley finally gets over his fear and self-doubt and lives the good life (with Penelope), Murray kicks off his racing career, and we get happy-ever-afters for the rest of the gang as well

[aegon]

now that I’ve had time to process what happened, I’m not as emotional about the ending as I am just fucking furious at the insult.

you spend years - I still had goddamn braces, put hearts over my i’s and was at my peak gothic phase when this bullshit first started so fucking years - building an inherently thoughtful narrative that was just so rich and complex and emotional with a fascinating range of strong characters, all leading towards an epic conclusion of the end of the world, of the ultimate fight for survival that explored such intricate concepts as life, death, justice blah dee fucking blah.

you spend so much time making me give a shit about these characters, of showing me how painfully human they are, their tragedies, their journeys, their redemptions, their rise and fall and every bullshit in-between.

for it all to the thrown away in single-handedly the most expensive piece of shit I’ve ever seen. the producers pretty much took a massive dump while jerking each other off, sprinkled it with benjamin franklins, threw in some gratuitous dragon cgi, and called it a day.

nothing matters. that’s the lesson. the ones that won are the ones that did fucking nothing to deserve it, and the ones who lost are the ones who sacrificed everything for the ungrateful gremlins we’re apparently supposed to be rooting for.

and everything else? yeah, fuck you and your redemption arc, jaime. oh hey rhaegar, guess what, you asshole? your kids mean diddly squat. no, really, the whole prophecy and prince who was promised garbage was all shits and giggles. the wood witch was high on crack and azor ahai is an anagram for “kiss my ass, you dumbfucks.”

arya didn’t need to learn how to change faces. she could have literally spent years learning how to knife flip and stabbing a block of ice, and nothing would need to change from this last season. nymeria? wolf pack? lmao who gives a fuck, certainly not the writers. then she peaces the fuck out after spending five hot minutes with her fucked up family, probably to find some good plot because fuck knows you can’t find it in this wankfest.

bran’s warging abilities and his grand mystical journey were all about him eyefucking whatever poor soul walked by or cosplaying as a bird and flapping about fucking uselessly until he could roll up dramatically in the end like “hey fam I’m here to be king lmao, look I brought starbucks.”

jon didn’t actually come back to serve some great purpose. the truth is, he fucking bored everyone in the afterlife with his impressions of a miserable puppy so the lord of light told mel to get him the fuck out because he was ruining game night.

and sansa? oh well our darling sansa did nothing for two seasons but sow discord in her own family and endanger a valuable alliance that was made to save her useless sack of shit of a home. if we’re supposed to see dany executing slavers as villainous, why in the fuckity fuck should I be rooting for a girl whose greatest asset USED to be courtesy and being kind and missing her family, but who’s now some knock-off cersei/littlefinger lovechild whose throne is built on the ashes of the bridges she burned to get there. she’s left all alone in some cold ass, broke ass, racist ass kingdom with no one she loves and no one who loves her because they’ve all peaced out, and that’s supposed to be a happy ending. power cravings are a hell of a drug. but hey, we got our yaaaasssss queeeeeeen moment and that’s enough for a certain portion of her fandom so good for her.

and dany? dany spends years fighting for the people and for freedom and justice and to break away from the toxicity of her family’s tarnished legacy to reestablish the vision of what house targaryen should always have been. but fuck that bullshit, bells are her kryptonite, and she’s the big bad evil for using harsh methods to rid the world of assholes. the audacity. dany should have done what tyrion and jon do to their enemies which is give them a hug and ask them pretty please with sugar on top not to be evil because westeros is a pacifist continent and no one has ever used violence ever. fuck me.

the dothraki just kinda forgot they’re supposed to follow a khal but it was really very sweet of them and the unsullied to care so much about westerosi customs as to wait for the punishment of the man who murdered their queen to be processed in an orderly and lawful fashion. how quaint.

and then they kindly fucked off before seeing the sentence through because they’re so stupidly trusting of a bunch of dickwad lords who wanted their queen dead. mmkay. also let’s just ignore the fact that either sansa or bran could issue jon a pardon the way robert issued jaime a pardon but clearly neither of them gave enough of a fuck for their brother to give him the choice for where he’d like to spend the rest of his life. also his name and blood makes him a threat to both their thrones so condemning him to the wall strips him of any right, whether he likes it or not....so bye forever jon try not to die again xxxx

the pack survives? nah, the pack used each other as a means of reaching their goals then cast each other side the moment they had what they wanted.

ned stark’s legacy, my fucking ass.

but all that aside, you know what the most insulting part of all this is?

in their pursuit to break clichés and give us some bullshit moral lesson about leadership, they contradict themselves to an idiotic degree where even the biggest dumbass could see through it.

the whole argument that was literally shoved into our face for episodes and used against dany was that the “one who doesn’t want to be king, would be a good king.” ignoring the fact that ambition is an incredibly important factor in any good leader, this lesson serves to insult d&d’s favourite character.

enter: sansa stark, character dreaming of the throne for an entire eight seasons. are d&d implying she won’t be a good queen because everything she’s done is because she wants to be queen? or were they too busy jerking themselves off to sansa to see the picture they were painting of her reign?

the next argument the show failed to realise they fucked up: the lannisters, the tyrells, petyr baelish - all were punished for adopting a ruthless machiavellian sociopathic mindset to win the game of thrones, betraying everyone around them and sacrificing family and allies along the way.

enter: house stark. sansa betrays jon’s trust (and is rightfully not given forgiveness for it because fuck that). bran apparently knew that king’s landing would burn and that his brother and sister would suffer for it but lmao he’s about to be king so who gives a fuck. arya does not see or feel the need to stand by her family to see them through this fragile transition of power because she wants to go exploring. no one in this godforsaken family apparently loved each other enough. and yeah, welcome to the new house lannister. wolves and lions aren’t so different. both prey on the weak, after all.

and finally, fuck you, bronn, you fan-serviced jumped up fuck. a mercenary with zero development and who offers nothing to the narrative is now the lord of the richest region in the realm. nice.

okay, i’m done now.

[riczi-vengeance]

Legacy of Anti (Chapter 4)

Sean woke up and again and felt an unbearable headache when the memories of last night reinforced the pain. Looking through a small hut, he noticed photos of a little girl holding a book thicker than the entire collection of Harry Potter. He had a strange feeling that for the first time in any place he feels safe. After a moment, he remembered his broken leg that should let him know about it, but when he discovered the linen, he noticed that they can be efficient and have only a few bruises. ~ How the hell is it possible? ~ Your natural ability to quick regeneration and a little help from my grandmother who is a witch who specializes in herbs. Lena replied entering  the room with two mugs, from what Sean smell in one of them was the coffee, he smiled. ~ Thank you, so what's the plan to save Emma? He took a cup from the girl’s hand and his eyes focused again on her face, he realized that she had dark circles under her eyes and looked like she was crying. ~ I asked my friend for help, she should bring Darkipiler by the spell, Dark can negotiate with Anti so we buy some time, only thing what we need right now is time. The girl sighed softly, trying not to look at his face. ~ Okay, calm down and all over again, who the hell is the Darkipiler? and what is the world where the fucking thing happens? And most importantly why when I meet you, shit always hit the fan? Sean wasn’t able to keep his tone calm, he needed answers about what was going on and why he was supposed to be involved and why Emma had to suffer through it. - Okay, I understand your frustration but I know that if it comes from me I'd rather never find you or end in the middle of this shitstorm. The girl sighed taking a sip from her cup. ~ All in all, it began on February 7, 1990 when it turned out that the demon called Anti took a more human form and procreate boy with a woman who he thought was mundane and wanted to take the control over  our world.  The little did he know that the  boy who has born will have the strong will to live and be as good as his mother despite the strong genes of Anti. It is not to my surprise that your mother is the chosen one of the witches which unfortunately Anti didn't see coming. So last night when your green eye has looked at Anti, You could've seen it all full of splendor but when we are looking then Anti is just an ordinary glitch like in the old VHS cameras. And back to the question ''who the hell is Dark''... So basically in the world where Anti is the king and he's bringing only the death and annihilation, the last person that resisted him  is Darkiplier. Unfortunately Anti can divide the soul of Darkiplier and put it inside a mortal men, meaning that your friend Mark can have two sides to him and no control over one another and exactly only you and him are able to retrieve the soul and destroy Anti. And now your far most important question: Why am I always there in your way? Hmm let's see. Undoubtedly it is because my crazy grandma didn't tell that You need some kind of a guardian angel.. ~Lena, Mother of God! I didn't suppose that I'll ever live up to the moment where I can see the man in your bed. Hallelujah! There IS a hope! The smiling girl that had light pink hair has stood at the doorstep. ~Okay, so what did I miss? To Be Continued….

[romanoartsless]

Welp. I fell so bad for not posting an update in like a.... month. Take this update as a peace offering. I promise the next one won’t take as long to get up.

Previous Chapter

Next Chapter

Chapter 26

    Edith’s dainty hands examined the green gem on Silvertongue’s finger. “You see,” she said, pointing towards it, “this is what you get when you are with me. What did you ever get with Caterina? Rejection? Abandonment? Neglect?”

    Silvertongue slowly nodded, a single tear falling from one of her midnight blue eyes. Edith used her other hand wipe it away, then caressed the side of her face. The Crow gently leaned into the hand with a meek smile on her face.

    “I understand,” Edith continued. “I understand what you’re feeling. My father neglected me since the day I was born, all for that witch. Look at what that got him; it got him killed. Imagine what could’ve happened to you if you hadn’t come to me sooner. You likely would’ve suffered greatly and died an awful, horrible, painful death.”

     Just imagining the situations gave Silvertongue an ounce of pain. She ran her thumb along the band of the ring and took in a large breath to halt the falling of more tears. Silvertongue Crow didn’t want her legacy to be another body under a witch’s belt, no, she wanted to be more than that. She wanted to be a figure loved and adored by the masses; one people wanted to be or be with. Caterina wouldn’t let her be this. Edith would.

    “How do we kill her?”

* * *

    “Gideon!”

    As he closed the door and entered the house, Serephina bolted from her seat, slammed herself into him, and brought him into a tight embrace. She’d always been a good amount taller than Gideon, so his head was now in the nook between her neck and shoulder. “Where were you, my darling Gideon? I missed you.”

    He let out a small grunt. “Just doing the king’s business. I saw Amber Lynn on my way home, too.”

    She pulled him away and behind his glasses his blue eyes met her Petrov green ones. “You saw Amber Lynn?”

    He hadn’t even given the encounter a second thought before he’d briefly mentioned it. “Mhmm.”

    “You didn’t… do anything with her, did you?”

    He laughed her question off. “No, Sere.”

    She pulled him back in and whispered into his ear, “I don’t want you being around her, she’s not good for you.”

    Another breathy laugh came out of him. “She’s fine Sere, she’s not hurting me, she just needs a little guidance sometimes.”

    “I just don’t like you hanging around her.”

    “I’ll cut it down for you- my time with her.”

    “Thank you, Gideon.”

    She kissed his dark brown hair and began to walk back to their room. Her long black hair swooshed behind her as she walked. “Wait, Sere!”

    Her head whipped around to look at him over her shoulder. “Yes, my love?”

    “Could you get me the files on your dad and March Ranez?”

    “Why?”

    “Uh- Sorry- I need it for the competition.”

    “Alright.” She paused. “I love you, Gideon.”

    “I love you, too, Sere.”

 * * *

    “We can’t kill her right now, Silvertongue. We have to wait until you’re married and our throne is secure.”

    Silvertongue scowled at Edith’s remark, as true as it was. She was sick of her feelings for the witch flooding her mind. She wanted to rid the world of her and hopefully the way she made the Crow feel. “I just-.”

    “Shh.” Edith hushed. “Trust me, dear. I know best, so listen to me. We must be patient, we must wait. If we rush into things- gods know what would happen.”

    The lady pulled her companion into another embrace. Her fingers ran through her raven black hair then yanked it back until her ear was at the same level as her mouth. “Our prey is not at its most vulnerable moment,” Edith whispered. “We have to wait until it is.”

Chapter 27

     Gideon had told Thomas it’d be a few days before he could get the files, but even though he said that a few days ago, Thomas still didn’t have his hands on them. Hopefully Caterina would understand, although he did have some files to give her.

    He knocked on the door to the cabin, but received no reply. “Caterina?” he asked, knocking a second time. “Caterina?”

    The door opened, not with Caterina on the other side, but instead Jackie. “Yes?”

    She leaned against the doorframe, a sharp glare on her face. Her short, choppy, black hair was a mess, almost as if she was doing chores before he came. “I brought some files for Caterina.”

     Her glare grew into a smirk at Thomas’s reply. “Perfect timing,” she said, her voice full of sarcasm.

    “Jackie!” another voice shouted at her from inside the cabin.

    “What, Blackwing? I just find it amusing that out of all the weeks in the month, he came on this one.”

     “Stop yelling!” The magic user’s voice suddenly came into the picture. “You’re giving me a fucking headache!”

    Concern and confusion boiled up in Thomas. “Is she okay?”

    Jackie pointed into the cabin, her other hand on her hip. She leaned in closer to the captain before whispering, “It’s that time of the month… if you know what I mean.”

    “Oh.”

     “Oh yeah.”

    “Is that Dubroin?!” Caterina cut back in from the other room.

    “Is that Thomas at the door?” Blackwing repeated in a much calmer manner than the elemental.

    “Yes it is.”

    “It’s him, Caterina.”

    “Everyone get the fuck out of here so I can talk to Dubroin!”

    “Caterina!” the brown eyed Crow disciplined. “Be kinder, gentler.”

“Ugh. Would you all be so generous as to get the fuck out of the cabin so Thomas and I can speak in private. Please. It would be greatly appreciated.”

A sigh escaped from Blackwing. “I must give you credit where credit is due. At least you tried.”

Jackie grabbed her satchel off the floor, pushed Thomas out of the way, and walked out into the abyss of woods. Her sister picked up her pace and skipped along behind her. Once they faded into the horizon, he walked into the cabin.

He turned to go into Caterina’s room, but she now stood in the middle of the hall, clutching her stomach. “Woah, are you okay?” he asked, running to comfort her.

“I’m fine!” she exclaimed, pushing him away.

Her free hand curled up into a fist, causing the candles scattered around the room to flicker. Thomas stepped away, not wanting her to lose control of her magic because of her emotions. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

All he received was a mumble from the magic user.

“Huh?”

“Can you carry me to my room?”

“Wait wait wait.” The words that had come out of her mouth had surprised him. “So you came out of your room to come and ask me to carry you to your room?”

Caterina gave him an obscene gesture which made Thomas laugh before he grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder. To an unknowing onlooker it might seem like Thomas was carrying a dead body because of how limp she went in his arms. “Did you just have to stick my face in your fucking ass?” she groaned.

“Well, are you enjoying the view while you’re there?”

“Fuck. You.”

“I’m just carrying you like you asked.”

He threw her down onto the bed and now got a look at the scowl on her face. “What?”

Caterina took the blankets on her bed and fluffed them to cover her body. “If you ever start bleeding out of your dick don’t come crawling to me, looking for a shoulder to cry on because all you’ll get from me are sassy remarks.”

Apparently he didn’t need to be bleeding to get sassy remarks. He grabbed a chair from her desk and sat down next to her in the bed. His bag was now on his lap and he spread out the files next to Caterina. She ran her fingers along each of them, silently counting how many there were. “There are some missing.”

 “Oh yeah, I have someone getting those for me.”

Worry flooded her eyes when he said that. “You didn’t tell them about me, did you?”

“No. They didn’t really ask me why I wanted them actually.”

“Who was it?”

 “Gideon Warren.”

“Samantha Delikov’s boy?”

“Yeah. How’d you know that?”

“Samantha’s Victor’s sister. I heard about his nephew a lot.”

Time passed as Caterina skimmed through each individual file. He could tell she was jotting down notes mentally. “What did you find?”

“None of your business, at the moment.”

“Wow, I’m sorry, Scilia.”

“As you should be. Now, what files is Warren getting?”

 “March Ranez and Shaw Petrov.”

“Petrov? Like the high family?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Nothing, it's just that the Petrov and the Scilia families were rivals. I mean, a witch hunting family and the highest ranking magic using family, you think they’re going to be all buddy buddy?”

“Probably not.”

“My point exactly. Now, when can I expect those files?”

“A few days, maybe a week.”

“Alright, thank you.”

Thomas rose out of his chair and dug into his pocket for something. He threw whatever it was onto the sheets that covered Caterina. “What’s this?” she asked, picking up the small bars.

“Chocolate.”

She opened the wrapper and sniffed the candy before shoving it into her mouth. Joy flooded her body when it hit her tongue. She wasn’t as graceful when she ripped open the second one. “I haven’t had chocolate since Victor was alive,” she said with her face still full.

 The true happiness on her face made him chuckle. “You want me to bring you more?”

She nodded vigorously to answer him. It made him smile when he thought about how the happiest he’d seen the magic user was when she was eating sweets. She looked innocent, like the world hadn’t burdened her with trauma and loss. The world was a brighter place when Caterina Scilia was happy.

[qqueenofhades]

the trash saga of flynn and lucy: xiii

i stayed up too late finishing this. is anyone surprised that i, the author of the super fine literature the trash saga of flynn and lucy, also make terrible choices? no, probably not. ao3 here.

The Salem Town Court of Oyer and Terminer  (specially established to address the problem of rampant witchcraft, if Lucy recalls, and which will be disbanded in October over disapproval of the trials – not that that helps them at all right now) is held in a crowded, stuffy room, a row of bewigged and berobed justices seated behind an imposing mahogany table and a throng of eager citizens looking on from the stalls, tense and hungry for a conviction. The atmosphere is like nothing Lucy has remotely experienced: devouring, almost cannibalistic. These people are already convinced of their guilt, and they want them to suffer for it. Hanging or burning at the stake, doesn’t matter. As she and Flynn are manhandled into the docket, both in chains, Lucy tries to catch his eye, praying for one of his spectacular plans – she doesn’t want him to pull out a gun and shoot the entire citizenry of Salem, but she also isn’t in a position to be terribly picky. He might be in no mood to save his own skin, but is he going to drag her down with him? Is she going to have to figure this out all herself? From her limited knowledge of the trials, the suspects often get tried and convicted within the space of a single day, and hanged not long after that. They have no time.

The presiding magistrate bangs the gavel, and the session is brought to order. They are asked to speak and confirm their names for the court, at which Flynn gives them a look of utter disdain. “Holden Caulfield,” he drawls. “Why not?”

“It says here that your Christian name is Garcia Flynn.” The magistrate’s brow furrows at such an unusual and un-Puritan moniker. “Men of good character have attested as much to us. Are you denying their testimony, sir?”

“Men of good character? You mean Rittenhouse? The lot who have turned up recently and encouraged you to arrest all the slightly strange women you can find?” Flynn’s chains clink as he leans forward, and the judges tense. “And anyone else they want? No. No, those aren’t men of good character. But then, you batch of pitchfork-waving shitheads wouldn’t know that, would you? How many of the women have you killed already?”

There is a communal gasp at this extremely un-Puritan language, as by the sound of things from the stalls, several upstanding members of the community have had the vapors. The magistrate clutches his gavel as if Flynn might grow wings and fly shrieking into his face on the spot. “Do you, sir, unlawfully impede the justice done by this court in the name of – ”

“Justice?” Flynn sneers. “Justice? Any of you see any justice here? This is a sham, this is all a fucking sham, and you are on the wrong side of history, I promise you that. Nobody’s going to thank you for bravely clearing Salem of the menace of the witches. You’ll be remembered as a bunch of superstitious, hysterical dicks who murdered innocent women for nothing, and did it all waving a Bible and calling yourselves the champions of God. No wonder you and Rittenhouse are such best buddies. They like the same kind of thing. Probably told you everything you wanted to hear, that this time they’d make it a clean sweep. Didn’t they?”

It is not possible for anyone to make any response to this, they’re so stunned. It’s also clear that to their eyes, Flynn could not be more obviously possessed by the Devil if he actually had horns and a tail. He’s not wrong, and of course everyone has dreamed about getting to tell historical morons where to stick it, but said historical morons also have the power to order them executed more or less on the spot. John Rittenhouse and Carol Preston aren’t going to be able to stop this, even if they don’t want Lucy to die. Once a mob gets rolling, you stand between it and its target at your peril, and they will lose whatever tenuous control Rittenhouse has over the trials if they interfere. If they even know. Emma has probably planned this very carefully.

In any case, Lucy has absolutely no intention of being indebted to King Rittenhouse and her pathological liar of a mother for their deliverance, and she needs to think fast. She leans forward under Flynn’s arm, shooting him a warning look. “Saltonstall,” she blurts. “Colonel Nathaniel Saltonstall. Is he here?”

The jury rustles in surprise and disquiet. “And you are?”

“Hermione Granger.” Fine, Lucy thinks, let them try to burn an actual witch.

Flynn snorts, and she shoots him another look – Holden Caulfield does not have much room to critique anyone on their alibi choices. “Saltonstall,” she repeats. “He’s a justice on this court, isn’t he?”

“Col. Saltonstall served briefly among our number, yes,” the magistrate says stiffly. “But he resigned. Expressed dissatisfaction and disbelief about the legitimacy of the trials, or their necessity. As such, a decision was made that he was not suited to continue in his post.”

“The one man willing to stand up against you?” Flynn says scathingly. “No wonder.”

Lucy gives him a Jesus-Christ-don’t-ruin-this-for-us look, as this is the only idea she has and if it fails, they are about to be barbecue. She has no idea how to convince them to let her talk to Saltonstall, or even what she’d say to him if they do – he had (has) a reputation as a humane, fair, and principled man, but asking him to swallow the whole please-don’t-burn-us, we’re-from-the-future thing might be a bridge too far. Even trying might be the thing to convince him that maybe the witch hunters are onto something after all, and the trials get much worse. He’s the only man in Salem currently opposing them. If he gives his blessing instead. . .

That, however, is also a problem that they will have to work out once they’re so lucky as to have it. The jury is still eyeing her with deep skepticism and dislike. “Mistress Granger, how do you and Mr. Flynn know one another?”

“We’re. . .” Lucy hesitates. There is no good lie for this situation. She can’t get away with claiming they’ve never set eyes on each other in their lives, given that she was caught trying to rescue him from the stocks last night. Nobody is going to buy that they’re brother and sister, even aside from the different surnames. “He’s my. . . intended.”

Flynn shifts slightly at that, but – miraculously – does not say anything to disagree, perhaps because it’s hit him belatedly that they might need a little finesse at getting out of this. He folds his arms and rolls his eyes instead, because he can’t not be a jerk in some way, until Lucy thinks it’s probably too much to ask that they let her off on the grounds that being married to this man will be enough of a punishment. But since neither of them deny it, the jury is forced to record it for posterity. “And do either of you know Col. Saltonstall personally?”

“We’ve. . . heard of him. He’ll want to speak to us. I – ” Lucy remembers just in time that the Ivy League is still a few centuries off from being co-ed, misogyny, take a shot – “that is, Flynn knows him from Harvard College. We’re. . . friends of the family.”

The magistrate huffs, as these are clearly in his opinion very funny friends to be having, but he can’t quite take the risk that they’re not. The Saltonstalls will go on to be a prominent family in early American history: a governor of Connecticut, a captain in the Continental Navy during the Revolution, congressmen and politicians and businessmen, and Senator Leverett Saltonstall, who – keeping the family tradition of standing up alone to oppose witch hunts – was the only member of the Senate leadership to vote to censure Joe McCarthy for the Red Scare. Lucy wonders briefly if they’re Rittenhouse, as this would be just the kind of people that they want to recruit, but she also thinks that Rittenhouse would have its work cut out for it with the Saltonstalls, who can see directly through the candied promises to the rotten core of what they’re really offering. It occurs to her to wonder if that’s exactly what they are doing here, aside from the convenient side benefit of getting rid of Flynn. Get Nathaniel Saltonstall to capitulate, put aside his principles, condone the witch trials, or otherwise never establish the family legacy of defiance, and how many roads get smoothed for Rittenhouse in the future? A lot. The answer is a lot.

There is more muttering and glaring among the jury, but at last it is evidently and grudgingly decided that they cannot take the risk of hanging one of Saltonstall’s old school chums by accident. The court is sent for a recess, and a messenger dispatched to fetch the colonel, as Lucy and Flynn are allowed to retire to a small side chamber to await his arrival. Lucy hopes he doesn’t ask too many questions in advance and blow a hole in what is a flimsy ruse to start with. If he’s smart, he’ll cotton on to what they’re trying to do and pretend to know Flynn anyway, but that cannot be counted on. She shifts her weight, exhausted from the sleepless night, yawning in the summer sunlight; her wits feel muzzy and wandering. Which, given that they’re about the only thing that has a chance of saving their butts, is dangerous.

She can feel Flynn glancing at her, though he steadfastly looks away whenever she tries to catch his eye. She can’t tell if there is any guilt on his part, if he considers himself responsible for getting her into this mess when he is the only one who should have suffered for it, or he’s just angry – at her, at her mother, at all the Prestons, who are apparently positioned at the very heart of the one thing he wants to destroy more than anything else in the world. He seemed briefly willing to give it a go and escape with her last night, but that’s the thing with Flynn. You’re never sure what the fuck he’s thinking. She might just be fooling herself to think that after all this time (and all that) she should have a better read on him.

At last, there’s a cursory knock on the door, and a colonial gentleman in his early fifties, who must be Saltonstall, makes his entrance, clearly more than a little baffled. His eyes flick them up and down, and it does not take long, of course, for him to realize that he does not know them from Harvard. He is, however, canny enough to catch on, and he considers them for a moment, then shuts the door behind him. “Mr. Flynn and Mistress Granger?” The tone in his voice leaves it open to question whether he thinks those are their real names. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Lucy manages a gracious smile. “We’re. . .we, well, have somewhat run afoul of these. . . proceedings. We were hoping you might be able to straighten things out.”

“We’ve not met, have we?” He considers her with a look that makes her think of one of her favorite professors in undergrad. Whether that’s hopeful or not, she doesn’t know. “And you both are most evidently not from Salem. How did you know to ask for me?”

“Your, ah. Your reputation, of course. Since you resigned from the court – ”

“I was not aware that that was common knowledge outside the township. It was only a span of days ago, after they hanged Bridget Bishop.” His pale blue eyes are polite, but clearly skeptical. He’s not buying this. “And while I may object to these disgraceful goings-on, I should certainly be guilty of the sin of vanity myself to think I had a chance of stopping them. Such proceedings swiftly acquire a life of their own, Mistress. . . Granger. Surely you are most aware.”

Lucy hesitates. “All right,” she says. “My name is Lucy Preston. I was brought here by the people who recently arrived, the ones who call themselves Rittenhouse. I was trying to rescue this man here, after he was arrested and put into the stocks. But matters went wrong, and we were apprehended by Cotton Mather and his. . . followers, brought here for trial in the morning.”

“I see.” Saltonstall’s voice remains noncommittal. “How, still, did you know about me?”

“I – ah, I – ”

“We’re time travelers.” Flynn, as usual, is not in the mood for bullshit, or feeble cover stories. Lucy lets out a strangled noise and elbows him in the ribs, which he ignores. “She’s a historian at a university. She knows all about you and your descendants. And I’m guessing those other visitors have been trying very hard to convince you to drop your opposition to the trials, haven’t they? Whispering about some kind of grand and important future, if you join their cause?”

Saltonstall is (forgivably) floored over the first part of this statement, and Lucy spears Flynn with a look that is, she supposes, indeed rather wifely in its stern disapproval – even an intelligent and open-minded seventeenth-century man, especially one living directly in the middle of a witch hunt, is not about to blink, shrug, and go on his way with that. As usual, however, Flynn could give exactly half of a well-ripened fuck. Probably less, with the few days he’s been having. “Well?” he says grouchily, when Saltonstall doesn’t answer. “Isn’t that proof that I’m possessed by the Devil and should be executed on the spot? I don’t want you to miss your quorum here.”

Saltonstall’s mouth is still open. He shuts it. “I am unsure about demonic possession, sir,” he says – rather levelly, all things considered. “That is, however, a most remarkable statement.”

“Well?” Flynn repeats. “Your visitors. Is that what they’ve been saying or not?”

“I – yes, they have furthered propositions in that nature. They have a great deal to say about some sort of learned society they intend to found, and wish the Saltonstalls to be inaugural members. I am not terribly certain it is a wise investment.”

“It. . .” Lucy hesitates. “It’s not. A man may have approached you – his name is John Rittenhouse – and what he wants to do to America, it’s – ”

Saltonstall is puzzled. “You mean the colonies?”

“There’s going to be a war in about another hundred years,” Flynn says shortly. “You become a country. Some great-grandson of yours completely fucks up the Penobscot Expedition.”

Lucy steps very hard on his foot. The look he gives her can only be described as bite me. She is impressed (and slightly turned on) that he knows Commodore Dudley Saltonstall, who will indeed be dismissed in disgrace in 1779 for steering the fledgling American navy to its worst defeat until Pearl Harbor a hundred and sixty-two years later, but this is not the time. They are supposed to be recruiting this man’s help, not bombarding him with unflattering facts about his family’s future (and for that matter, telling him about it in the first place. That, however, is Flynn for you.)

Saltonstall opens his mouth again, decides that this is substantially beyond his pay grade in any case, and snaps it shut. “It may be prudent to make some inquiries,” he decides at last. “Until such time, I will have you removed to my home. After all, how could I refuse my hospitality to an old schooldays friend and his betrothed?”

This is clearly a bit of a pointed hint that he’s sticking his neck out for them when he doesn’t have to, and even Flynn gets it, though he glares. Then he swallows down his umbrage, nods stiffly, and takes Lucy’s arm. It takes a while to convince the jury and the disappointed spectators, but Saltonstall finally herds them out to where his carriage is waiting, which they climb into. Someone throws a rotten egg just as he shuts the door, and Lucy is reminded again of what he said. He is only one man, and these things have their own sentient, malevolent energy – this will become known as the byword for episodes of murderous public hysteria, after all. As long as they stay at his home, he himself will be in danger, accused of shielding practicing witches and/or the Devil Incarnate, and a mob might just break down the door to settle things. Getting him killed before his time would be a pretty poor way to repay the favor.

It’s a comparatively short ride through the streets to the Saltonstall residence, a handsome half-timbered, whitewashed house. They step down, Flynn giving Lucy a dutiful hand, and Saltonstall leads them inside, before nodding them up the stairs. Clearly, their presence here is to be kept quiet, and they reach a room at the end of the hall, with a door that can be barred. He says he’ll hopefully be back by evening, and that if they need anything, they can ring for the servants. He advises that it is not a good idea to go out onto the streets, and takes his leave.

When the door shuts behind him, both Flynn and Lucy blow out a slow, ragged breath, not quite daring to believe in their deliverance. The room is small but decently furnished, and Lucy sits – sinks, really – onto the bed as her legs abruptly stop working, seeing double with tiredness and wanting nothing so more as to crawl beneath the counterpane, shut the curtains, and sleep until the eighteenth century starts. Then she shakes herself, brushing her tousled hair out of her eyes. “I should – I should have a look at your gunshot wounds.”

“They’re fine, Lucy.” He doesn’t turn, still staring at the wall. “We have larger problems.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I can’t check on them.” Lucy gets to her feet and crosses the floor, reaching out – only for him to catch her wrists in one hand and hold her away from him, more or less gently but extremely stubbornly. It’s clear he is decidedly not in the mood to have her fuss over him, and while being cooped up in this small room like a tiger in a cramped zoo cage is doing absolutely nothing for his temper, Flynn’s preferred method of stress relief (i.e. going out and shooting the nearest member of Rittenhouse) is, as noted, out. Guess they have to improvise. “Are you sure I can’t – ”

“They’re fine,” Flynn repeats again, more brusquely, in case Lucy can’t see how Fine he is here now, thanks. “And even if not, it’s no concern of yours. You shouldn’t even be here.”

“Shouldn’t be here?” Lucy’s voice rises. “Because you’re the only one who gets to crash through time trying to save your loved ones, is that it? Even when that causes all the catastrophes that we’ve been trying so hard to – ”

Flynn stares at her as if she’s suddenly sprouted a second head, which confuses Lucy briefly – at least until it strikes. She wants to bite her tongue, or take it back somehow, but she can’t, and there it is, bare between them in the unpleasant silence. Flynn looks as if he’s been brained with a skillet, and Lucy almost wants to laugh, painful as it is. Almost wants to say it again, in case both of them are clearly thinking they misheard, or misspoke. But she didn’t mean to. It just. . . slipped out. And worse, she can’t deny it. Well, then. Well.

“You. . .” Flynn speaks at last, which is a pity, because anything he has to say is not likely to improve the situation. “Lucy, you. . .”

“I made a choice to come after you.” Lucy squares her shoulders and looks at him unflinchingly, much as she has to tilt her head back to do so. “I knew what I was risking, what had a possibility to go wrong. You’ve always known what I can do, when I put my mind to it.”

For half a moment, Flynn smiles, almost tenderly. As if to say he does at that, before he remembers to disagree with her about the rest of it. “Lucy, why would you be so abysmally stupid as to put yourself into Rittenhouse’s hands, to risk that bastard John doing God knows what with you, when you could just – ”

“Could just what?” Lucy shouts, finally provoked beyond all endurance by this man, this stupid, stupid man, and his award-winning obtuseness. “Just walk away? Forget about you? Pretend it didn’t matter? Pretend you didn’t? Because you know what, Garcia? I didn’t!”

Flynn flinches as if he’s touched a hot stove. Stares at her wildly for a long and excruciating moment, runs a hand through his hair, whirls away, and whirls back. “You should have!” he yells back. “You should have! Then you wouldn’t be here, all of this wouldn’t – do you think I want to watch you burn for my mistakes? I’m the only one who deserves to die! Not you!”

Lucy feels briefly as if she has been punched, though she isn’t even certain why. “Well,” she says. “You don’t get to make that call. You’re so used to living completely by yourself, keeping people around only if they’re materially useful and killing them when they’re not, you’ve lost track of any real or selfless or genuine human connection. You’re lonely and you’re sad and you’re broken, and you’ve gotten so used to living that way that you’ve convinced yourself it’s the only way you can, ever again. So you try as hard as you can to chase off anyone who might try to say otherwise, who might dig down into your hole and make you –”

“I’m not worth it!” Flynn spins, seizes some sort of knickknack off the sideboard, and launches it at the wall with considerable velocity, shattering it with a tinkle of breaking porcelain. It’s clearly going to be hard on the Saltonstalls’ possessions if he is allowed to be around them for much longer, and Lucy hopes the servants don’t come rushing up to investigate. “I’m not worth it, Lucy! I don’t know why you keep insisting on pretending that I am! I’m not! I’m nothing like you! The world’s not flower crowns and hand-holding! Not everyone deserves to be saved. Not everyone is secretly a good person deep down. I’m not. I don’t deserve it!”

Lucy is momentarily staggered. But she takes another step, even as they’re almost nose to nose, neither of them backing down. “I don’t believe that,” she says fiercely. “And you’re wrong, by the way. As usual. I don’t care whether ‘everyone’ deserves it or not. We’re talking about you. You deserve to be saved. And you don’t get to tell me whether or not I make that choice.”

Flynn continues to stare at her down his long nose, completely flabbergasted. Lucy is tired of his shit, and tired of dropping anvils on his oblivious head, and tired in general, exhausted, and no matter how brave a front she is putting up, she is very close to starting to cry and hiding under the quilts on the bed. Despite herself, her lip trembles. Would it kill him, would it actually, physically kill him, to not be so incredibly, obnoxiously Flynn for three goddamn seconds?

His eyes flash to her face, to the shine in her eyes, the quiver in her mouth. He was doubtless about to say something else to lower the IQ of the room, but this seems to make him forget it. He takes her chin in his hand, almost timidly thumbing at the tear escaping down her cheek, and Lucy is definitely going to punch him later, as he so richly also deserves, but she can’t work up the motivation right now. Instead, without a word, she all but collapses into his arms.

Flynn holds her tightly, engulfing her,  as they sway on the spot. Then he scoops her up like a feather and carries her to the bed, setting her down on it, and Lucy clutches at his grubby jacket, pulling him down beside her. He resists momentarily, one last time, and then gives in, settling next to her and pulling her into the shield of his chest. She grips his arm, burying her face into his neck, shaking on silent, half-formed sobs, as he continues to rock her clumsily. He’s muttering under his breath in what she supposes is Croatian, small nothings that sound half like endearments, if it’s possible to imagine Flynn saying such things. She doesn’t care. She just doesn’t want to get up. She wants to stay here and sleep and drown.

At last, once she settles somewhat, she thinks he’ll get up, but he doesn’t. He continues to lie there, still as a tomb-carving, and she continues to hold onto him. The world is fragmenting at the edges, turning dark and soft, and Lucy can’t resist the thrall of sleep any longer. She plunges under like someone falling through the ice, into the dark water. Down and down and down.

She opens her eyes an unknown amount of time later, feeling both as thick as a concussed ox and a bit, slightly, possibly restored. Flynn’s weight is gone from beside her, leaving the covers rumpled, but as her vision clears, she sees him sitting on the chair in the corner, staring up at the ceiling as if he’s praying. His jacket is off and he’s in his shirtsleeves, collar unbuttoned, so that it catches in her throat to see him there in the late afternoon light. He doesn’t realize she’s awake, watching him from the bed. Whatever he’s saying to God, it’s simple and silent.

After a moment, he drops his gaze, looks around, and sees her. A wry half-smile curls his lips, and he beckons to a tin plate on the desk. “There’s food.”

Lucy recognizes this as an olive branch, and nods, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and examining what is on offer. It looks like bread, a cold chicken leg, an apple, and a cup of some strong home-brewed ale, which makes her cough slightly when she drinks it. It’s good, though, weighting a small warm ember in her belly, and she feels somewhat more revived when she finishes. “Is Saltonstall back yet?”

Flynn shrugs. “Don’t think so.”

“Is there any point in reminding you to try to avoid announcing that we’re time travelers to everyone we meet?”

He shrugs again. “I suppose you could remind me. Might stick one of these days.”

“You’re such an ass,” Lucy sighs, without much heat. They’re still looking at each other, the light rich and gold, and he gets up, facing her as if to say that if she wants to shout at him some more, he will obediently present himself for censure. It’s tempting, to be sure. She will likewise have to catch up these days. But what she does is cross the floorboards toward him, pause only briefly, then stand on her tiptoes, put her hand behind his head, pull him down, and kiss him.

Flynn jerks in surprise, as it was clear he was expecting a slap sooner than anything remotely like this. But he must, at last, be that bit tired of fighting too, because his hands are warm on her waist, his mouth quietly and generously giving to hers, and both of them make soft, involuntary sounds as they turn their heads and deepen it. He starts to kiss the corner of her lips, the side of her jaw, the underside of her chin, and then down her neck to her shoulder, untying the white collar of the Puritan dress she’s still wearing to get better access. He pulls at the laces of the dress itself, shrugging it down over her shoulders, and Lucy reaches up to help him. She needs this. She doesn’t even have to think twice.

Flynn buries his head into her chest, kissing and musing, and Lucy shudders as he takes a nipple delicately, toys it for a bit, then lets go, exploring lower. His hands cup and frame her waist, slide up her spine, circle her ribs, and get a good grip on her breasts, Lucy shivering again as his thumb circles the wetness left by his mouth. Then they slide back to her hips, he lifts her, and carries her back to the tousled bed, but with a clearly different intention this time. He puts her onto the quilt and crawls onto it after her, pushing her skirts up and draping her legs over his shoulders. Then, before Lucy can do much more than breathe a curse that’s half a prayer and grip his hair, he licks her, nips at her clit with just enough teeth to make her keen, and sets to his work.

Lucy wriggles and whines, trying to get one leg free to dig her heel into the bed for support, but he keeps a firm grip on her thighs, refusing to let her have any anchor apart from him. He slides his tongue inside her, tasting her, stubble rasping against her too-sensitive folds as he sets about a slow and thorough  fucking, in and out, taking his time about each lick and bite. Garcia Flynn, for better or worse, does not half-ass anything, and especially not this, stopping here and there for a proper breath but otherwise keeping up the heat and intensity of it until she almost can’t stand it, worshiping at the altar of her body. As if God may or may not answer, but now, this, here, is the only place the sinner can kneel down and know that his prayer is heard.

Lucy twists again, heat surging in her belly and up to her head, as she reaches out to grip hold of the pillow in search of some way to reassure herself that she isn’t about to tip off the wildly spinning planet and into space. With the last of her rapidly dwindling capacity for finite thought, she devoutly hopes that Saltonstall does not choose this inopportune moment to make his re-entrance, but the door remains shut. Flynn might not stop even if he did. He continues to work until Lucy is sopping wet and trembling and whimpering, desperate and hungry for the release that he won’t quite give her. Instead he withdraws, sits up, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, dark-eyed with lust and slow with calculated consideration. She reaches for him. “Garcia – ”

Again, he doesn’t quite let her touch him, but in a softer way, less as if he’s trying to punish her and more as if he simply wants her to stop trying so hard for once, to let him be the one to make it up to her instead. He shifts up next to her, reaching for his belt, and shrugs his trousers and briefs down over his hips – not quite all the way off, as if aware they might still be interrupted. But as Lucy spreads her legs, and he moves on his knees over her, he slides a hand under the small of her back to lift her up toward him, entering her with a soft, roughing stroke. Fills her solidly and strongly, their foreheads brushing, mouths open, eyes half-closed. She squirms underneath him to give him the best angle, and after a moment, he slowly starts to move.

It stays like that, considered and deliberate, rather than tipping over into the usual heated frenzy of their couplings. As if they both drive each other unmercifully, know that they are both strong enough to take whatever the other can throw at them, but there can also be this tenderness too, this unspoken care, of piecing the broken cracks together. Lucy tightens around him, once and then again, pulling him further into her, her hands coming up to curl around his head, guiding his mouth back to hers. The kiss is slow and wet and soft as well, his nose staying nudged into the crook of her cheek, their bodies riding and rising and moving in time to the slowly lengthening strokes. Until he pulls her up against him, hard, tangles his hand in her hair, and brings them to a dazzling, silent, gasping release, pushing her other hand against the quilts and driving into her once and then again. He settles on her, knees to either side of her thighs, weight on his elbows, still inside her as he spills. There’s no sound except for their ragged breathing.

After a moment, Lucy rolls them over so she can lie atop him, practically curled on his chest, head under his chin, as he slips out of her but they remain closely entangled. She doesn’t say anything, just moves to kiss his cheek. There’s a saltiness there that isn’t sweat.

When they can hear voices downstairs, they hastily sit up and reconstitute their clothing, managing to get mostly unsuspicious-looking by the time there’s a knock on the door. Flynn opens it, to see a rather harassed Saltonstall on the other side. “I have done what I can, you have my oath, but the court has ordered your immediate recall. Come with me.”

This is an ominous proclamation, and Flynn and Lucy frown at each other as they follow him down the stairs and out to the waiting carriage. Their trip through the streets is quite a bit more eventful than last time, given the number of people waiting to throw things at it, and by the time they roll up before the public hall, Lucy doesn’t need any other indications that the tide has turned badly against them. It seems as if Rittenhouse (or most probably, Emma) has been working on the justices as well, encouraging them that if they start something as ridiculous as pardoning the accused, they’d have to let them all off, and then the witches might come back twice as strong as before. As they are led into the dim, stuffy, candlelit hall, and shouts start breaking out from the stalls, Lucy grimaces. Yeah. This is bad.

Saltonstall, to his great credit, insists on arguing in front of the jury that this is a terrible mistake, that there must be due process of law and the presentation of proper evidence. The jury is not interested in hearing it. They read off a laundry list of Flynn’s crimes that only Emma can have given them, judiciously edited so as not to make it apparent that all of these happened in the future, and as the shouts of “BURN HIM! BURN HIM!” get louder, the magistrate thumps his gavel. For gross and innumerable offenses, for general chaos and violence (well, they aren’t wrong, at least on that front), for un-Christian behavior, vices, and disposition, and fairly obvious service to Satan, Garcia Flynn is sentenced, effective immediately, to death by fire.

“No!” Lucy screams, kicking and struggling, as the mob surges forward to engulf both of them, manhandling them out the door and into the courtyard beyond, where – either expecting or hoping for this verdict – a stake and platform has been set up, strewn with bundles of oil-soaked hay. It’s not clear whether she was included by proxy in Flynn’s sentence, if they don’t care and figure they’ll burn the Devil’s wife along with him, or if this makes no difference at all. Saltonstall is bellowing about miscarriage of justice and murder for which may God have mercy on their souls, but no one is listening. Someone grabs Lucy by the hair, marching her forward, as she screams and Flynn starts tearing apart the crowd with his bare hands trying to get to her, as two brawny Puritans hang onto each arm and they have to get a third and fourth in there pronto to have any hope of subduing him. They’re dragged and hauled through the mud to the stake, slammed against it, and Lucy sobs in terror, trying to get hold of him, as their fingers momentarily catch and then are torn apart again. Someone punches Flynn in the face as he keeps fighting; he spits blood but doesn’t stop, knowing that this is for their lives. She can’t see a way out of this, nobody’s coming to save them, nobody’s going to –

“STOP!”

The scream rings out above the chaos of the courtyard, silencing even the unholy racket, and heads turn to see – Lucy thinks she must be dreaming – a white-faced Iris Flynn standing in the entrance to the courtyard. She is tall and dark and beautiful and dangerous in the torchlight, until it occurs to Lucy that if anyone is a genuine witch here, a woman whose wrath the Salemites should truly fear, it’s hers. Her cheekbones could cut glass, her eyes two dark pits, her hair loose on her shoulders. She looks like a demon and an angel all at once.

“Stop,” Iris repeats, taking a step and then another, as the crowd falls away, almost without its volition, to either side of her. She strides forward, skirts swirling, until she reaches the stake where Flynn and Lucy have been bound. “Untie them.”

The magistrate goggles, aghast at having his authority questioned by this subversive female, this very personification of the sins of Eve, a woman who has eaten the apple of knowledge and whose eyes are well and terribly opened. “I will not take orders from a – ”

Iris reaches into her dress and removes a modern handgun, a weapon the likes of which the late seventeenth century has never seen. She points it with rock-steady hands. “I said, untie them.”

Flynn and Lucy manage to exchange a wild glance, having obviously never expected salvation on this front, although Lucy supposes that Iris is only here on behalf of Rittenhouse, or rather her mother and John, making sure they don’t kill John’s valuable bride by accident along with the actual target. And yet, there is still a brief and terrible hope, a burning pride, in Flynn’s eyes as he stares at his daughter, some part of him still wanting to think she’s saving him because she’s seen the light somehow. He stops his hereto wild-animal struggle to get out of the ropes, waiting. The entire universe seems to dangle from a thread.

“Well?” Iris repeats. “Did I stammer?”

“I said, I will not – ”

Iris shoots the magistrate. She does not turn a single hair. Just points the gun, cocks it, and pulls the trigger, all in one smooth-as-silk motion that is downright terrifying. She is utterly and completely her father, for better or for worse, and there’s a communal gasp and outcries of shock as the magistrate goes down, dead before he hits the ground. Iris turns around with a smile sharp enough to draw blood, arms outstretched, daring them to come at her. Salem has met a real witch, and there is nothing they can remotely do about it. They are terrified.

When Iris jabs with the gun again, the two meatheads from earlier scuttle to the stake, unwind the ropes, and liberate Flynn and Lucy. Lucy goes to her knees, coughing and sucking air and crying, and Flynn immediately kneels next to her, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her tightly into him, then helping her down off the platform as she continues to cling to him. It’s clear that if Iris wants to take them back to Rittenhouse, they’re going to have to resist somehow, but her face turns vulnerable and uncertain as she looks at them. She opens her mouth as if to say something. “I. . .” she starts. “Daddy, I. . .”

“Don’t.” Flynn’s voice is quiet, but it shivers through all of them with the force of a freezing blade. “Iris, don’t. Don’t apologize to me. You have nothing to be sorry for, dragi. Not a single thing, do you hear me?”

Iris keeps looking at him. Her lip trembles. It’s clear that no matter how much Rittenhouse has managed to brainwash her, to convince her that they were the great white hope and that her father had unforgivably failed her, it was not strong enough to stop her fear and horror at seeing him about to be burned alive, if she had heard rumors and did her best to get here in the nick of time. “I – ” she starts, heaving a breath, before remembering where they are, and that they have to get out, that whatever spell she has cast won’t last forever. “We have to go.”

Flynn and Lucy follow closely behind her through the silent, stunned crowd, to the road beyond. She moves as if she doesn’t want to be observed, which makes Lucy wonder if she is in fact here for Rittenhouse after all. She doesn’t seem to be. They duck out and start to move fast – if Cotton Mather and his band of myrmidons are still hanging around hoping to nab more witches, their great escape could be over before it’s begun. Lucy is still shaking. Shock, she supposes; she’s had a lot of hair-raising shaves, but that feels like the closest she came to actually, truly dying. Flynn keeps a tight arm around her, keeping her pressed alongside him, as they follow Iris. Twist and turn and emerge through the city gate, until it strikes Lucy that Iris must be taking them to the Mothership. Is planning to get out of here – does she know how to pilot it? How far have they trained her to be their perfect weapon? Or –

“Stop!”

The same word, the same command, but it screeches all of them to a halt, as they whirl around to see John Rittenhouse himself, evidently just on his way back from said Mothership and not expecting in the least to run into his prisoners trying to escape (as they all are, no matter what he calls them). He jerks to a halt, staring at them. Just as before, when Lucy stopped Flynn from killing him, he’s unarmed. A man now, and the head of an ever-growing organization that has done everything terrible it can across centuries, but still.

Flynn, Lucy, and Iris remain where they are. Then Iris removes the gun again and points it at him. She says only, “Move.”

A goose walks over Lucy’s grave. By the tension in Flynn’s arm as it holds her against him, one might have walked over his as well.

“I don’t know what’s going on – Lucy, I’ve been worried, they said you’d been captured!” John looks at her entreatingly. “I didn’t intend – ”

“Oh?” Flynn growls. “Forgive me if I don’t believe that.”

“Come on. We can discuss this.” John remains where he is, hands up. “Iris, don’t do anything foolish. You know I’m fond of you, we can – ”

“Fond of me.” Iris repeats it tonelessly. She seems to be struggling very hard, the same as Flynn himself was when last pointing a gun at this man, though he was a boy then. Trying to reconcile all the lies she’s been fed by Rittenhouse with her own strength of character, her family trait to inherent and unyielding stubbornness, and hating these people with every fiber of her. This is it. Both the children grown up. The son of Rittenhouse’s founder, and the daughter of the man who has sworn to bring it down. One pointing a gun at the other. Everything hanging on it.

“Iris,” Flynn says at last, croakily. As if he can’t believe he’s advocating mercy for this man of all men, but doesn’t want to see his daughter take on the very sin he himself so nearly did. “Iris. Don’t.”

Her lips tighten further. Her finger curls. She’s thinking now, clearly. About what they’ve done. About what they’re still going to do. About how they tore her world, her family, her life, even her death, apart, and made her hate her own flesh and blood for it.

“Iris,” Lucy begs. Has no idea if she’s imploring a Flynn to spare John Rittenhouse, one more time, or to shoot him dead once and for all. “Iris, you – ”

“Please,” John says. Sounds almost like the boy he was. “Put the gun down, Iris. We’ve made mistakes, but we can still fix them. That’s the beauty of it, of this entire thing. Once you’re back to yourself, once you remember who you really are – ”

“I remember who I really am.”

And with that, Iris Flynn, Garcia and Lorena’s daughter, pulls the trigger.

[stinkrascal]

Little controversial, but a lot of fun. What are your sim s' toxic traits? Asking all of my favourite story tellers. Let's get deep

omg YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS please i love talking about controversial things lets goooooooooo <3

vlad - he’s a very controlling and overbearing person, honestly. he’s the type of person who trusts his knowledge above everyone else’s and feels he’s the most capable in any given situation, therefore he feels it’s only right that he’s in charge, no matter the circumstance. he’s wise, yes, but after centuries of believing this of himself, his wisdom has warped to unabashed pride, and he finds it difficult to trust another’s capabilities over his own because of it. i like to think this ties into why he’s fairly codependent in his relationships; he needs to feel as though he’s the one providing for, guiding, and therefore “controlling” his relationships, he needs to feel needed, so he seeks out people who feed into that desire, people he feels are “misguided” who need a wise, proper hand to bring them to normalcy. you know, someone like him, the spitting image of normalcy, seeking out impressionable people in an attempt to satiate his intense desire to be needed. like sir have u ever heard of therapy? LMAOOO

breanna - she’s laidback to a fault and oftentimes irresponsible, someone who rarely considers the outcomes of her decisions and someone who ignores the telltale signs given to her. this manifests in a lot of careless, reckless behavior and poor decision making skills. like, for instance, if vlad reminds breanna that the water bill must be paid by x day? you best bet the water will be shut off because queen, irresponsible as she is, forgot to send the check. if she promises to bring you to your doctor’s appointment, you best bet that the morning of you’re gonna call her only to discover she didn’t realize your doctor’s appointment was Today and she is currently stoned asf and cannot operate her vehicle, to which you will reply Breanna It’s 8 AM Why Are You Smoking At 8 AM to which she will apologize and cry and hang up and fall asleep. much like vlad, i like to think this ties into her own codependency issues, as she feels she’s, in essence, unable to properly, or rather, responsibly care for herself, and must rely on someone else to do this for her. she enables his controlling nature by relying on him for most things, and in return he enables her immaturity by providing for her unconditionally. isn’t that, like, super fucked up lmaooooo? like, it’s the sims universe u know, so take all of this with a grain of salt, bc like in the context of my silly sims 4 legacy all of these codependency issues honestly amount to, like, breanna being a happy and uncritical stoner tradwife and vlad being the one who pays the bills and drives. it’s not actually that serious u know. but when you think about it critically and apply it to like real-world scenarios n consequences n whatever... it’s gross as fuck <3 you guys need therapy <3

lucien - like vlad, he’s fairly prideful, as he feels he’s the most knowledgeable and capable of any given situation, but more so than that, he feels the need to show off his intelligence by testing others’ knowledge. he also feels the need to lecture those he feels aren’t as knowledgeable as he is; often he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. he’ll basically mansplain to you for hours, if you don’t keep him in check. also, his ego usually gets the best of him, and he can’t help but find himself better than those he views as unintelligent. it can come off a little classist at times, and this is something which has been brought to his attention in the past, something he wishes to alleviate in his further interactions. it’s a work in progress. ;-;

gen - their main issue is that they’ve a difficult time understanding and empathizing with other people, primarily women. i like to think this comes from their overall discomfort within themselves, whether that discomfort revolves around their personality, their gender identity, or their apathy towards life. women in particular are difficult for gen to empathize with, as it is that gen makes an effort to distance themselves from women, most likely a consequence of their discomfort with their assigned gender. lashing out at the “thing” they wish to distance themselves from is a simple, quick way to tell your peers, I Am Not This Thing! you don’t wish to be perceived as a women? vehemently hate all of that which is considered womanly, and maybe you’ll stand a chance against your audience. that’s... gen’s way of looking at it, at least. it’s not healthy, and gen realizes this by now, but so far it’s not caused too much of a hindrance on their life, save for all the girlfriends they can’t get because of their shitty misogynistic streak, so they’re not too bothered. i can promise you as they grow more comfortable with themselves, they will eventually drop their mean streak. i know gen’s been a misogynist for, like, two years now lmaooo ;-;

carlile - much like his mother, he’s extremely irresponsible. he forgets important dates, he often misplaces his belongings and the belongings of others, he can hardly be trusted to cook without forgetting the stove’s on then burning the house to the ground. he’s also rather bratty, especially when he’s hungry. idk i’m blanking on carlile honestly his toxic trait is being perfect <3

nikolai - he has a hard time establishing boundaries with others, so he often finds himself in situations he finds uncomfortable, merely because he can’t say no to anything. you can usually tell when he’s uncomfortable, as he wears the expression well on his face, but even then, he’ll bite his tongue and carry onwards. worst of all, though, he’ll be upset with you if you’re the one who suggested the plans, even if he’s the one who agreed to the situation despite not wanting to attend in the first place.

klaus - he doesn’t expect anything from anybody, and he feels that all people should feel this way about each other, as no expectations means no one can get hurt. this also means, however, that klaus’ effort put into everything he does is fairly low, and he doesn’t often impress people with his lazy, myopic attitude. he’s self-dependent to a fault, wanting to do most things by himself without considering the help of others, as he feels he’s the only one who should provide for himself. basically, he doesn’t accept “charity” from other people, and he thinks most people shouldn’t accept “charity” from others, either. very much a “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” kind of guy, which i consider toxic as fuck, so, like. :)

anastasia - she’s a lot like vlad; she feels her judgment is the best in most situations, and she feels she deserves to be in charge at all opportunities because of this. her confidence teeters on pride, and she often confuses the two and unknowingly comes across as arrogant and abrasive because of this. she trusts the abilities of others, it’s just that she believes she works the hardest and wants it the most, and this innate desire puts her above others. she’s also prone to fits of jealousy, especially over her friends, an attribute also lovingly instilled into her by her father :p if you so much as look at her best friends the wrong way, she will come for your throat as though she were some rabid dog, about to feast on her next meal. she’s loyal, yes, but loyalty doesn’t come without its faults; she’s quick to excuse her friends, even for truly heinous actions they provably committed, so long as she feels the intention is forgivable. her love and affection for other people blinds her, and often she’ll act in their best interest, even if that means being rude or aggressive towards others who go against them.

ilya - his toxic trait is that he’s never featured on this blog and idk what to do with him <3 his other toxic trait is that when hes a teen hes gonna commit arson. thats sooooo toxic

ok im gonna go through everyone else really quickly bc my fingers hurt HAHAHA ok lets speedrun this!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

bonnie - her toxic trait is that she thinks 50 shades of gray is legitimately a good book series. LMAOOOOOOOOOOOO

cooper - his toxic trait is that he smells so bad and he doesnt know why he uses soap and deodorant and bathes frequently hes just sweaty asf and you know what Me too king sweaty kings rise up

shivi - her toxic trait is that shes a barista at a coffee shop and she doesnt even like coffee. her other toxic trait is that she lowkey hates vampires :( and thats just rude asf

maeve - her toxic trait is that shes an apologist. she sees someone doing something terrible and shes like OKAY THEY DID THIS BAD THING BUT THEY’RE JUST TROUBLED IT’S NOT THEIR FAULT MAYBE I CAN FIX THEM!!!! like no bitch you cant

tarek - his toxic trait is NOTHING tarek is literally so perfect like he just wants to take care of his sick boyfriend and learn how to be a top tier witch like thats it? He doesnt deserve any slander bye

abigail - her toxic trait is that she’s SOOOOOO clingy to the point where like u guys can be in the same room but if you’re not looking at her rn while you two are in the same room together she’s like DO YOU HATE ME? like abbie please we dont hate u ur just being crazy rn. shes also extremely jealous and self-destructive so like if she feels like u are cheating on her she will FREAK OUT and ruin your relationship bc she doesn’t know how to effectively communicate her emotions and feels the need to lash out inexplicably at everything that triggers her </3 poor girl

karmen - her toxic trait is that she hides behind her humor and nonchalant persona to mask her emotions. she says it’s a coping mechanism, but the truth is, she refuses to meaningfully engage with these feelings, as they’re too uncomfortable for her, so she downplays her struggles with humor. she’s very much someone who acts as though she’s got it under control, even if the truth is, she’s struggling to stay afloat. her other toxic trait is that she will endanger her own internet safety it if means she can get a cute e-milf to send her money <3

caspian - he’s reserved to a fault, as though he’s physically unable to admit what’s troubling him. yet, when he speaks, you can always tell when there’s an issue. it’s always one of those things with him, where the emotion is too repressed to be articulated, yet too present to ignore. he’s so resistant to aid, he’d rather subject himself to terrible situations if it means denying help from another. often, he does this under the guise that he doesn’t wish to be a burden to others, therefore he must take care of himself without help, but he fails to realize that by not helping himself, he’s hurting his relationships around him, which burdens everyone. he’s deeply insecure, and he often weaponizes his insecurities, typically without meaning to. this manifests in a lot of self-deprecation, deflective language during arguments, ie “I’m the worst person ever, I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me after this,” which often comes off very manipulative. again, he doesn’t mean to sound manipulative, it’s just something that happens naturally, something he's gotta work towards alleviating.

vaughn - like caspian, he’s many emotions which are too strong to ignore, though too repressed to be expressed. this manifests primarily through vaughn’s financial immaturity and his promiscuity. he enjoys the physical pleasures of life, and he often abuses these luxuries as a way to distract himself from the very real pain he feels, pain he refuses to admit he harbors. so instead he sings his silly songs and spends his money recklessly and fucks everyone within a thirty mile radius to distract himself from the void in his chest :\

wolfgang - he’s basically an incel LMAOOOOOOO or like what do they call an incel who larps as a normal person to pick up woman? a pick up artist i think? hes that LMAO hes quite literally in the incel community is what im trying to say. i havent talked about it yet but its literally a plot point. if you look in my brainstorm sheet rn it says “Wolfgang munch reads incelme forums every day. Wolfgang munch thinks j*rdan peters*n is the leading figurehead in the hall of intelligentsia.” so like yeah