#drawing that trident was hard as fuck and i gave up

[happybearish]

quick sketch of the best qsmp member

#qsmp #qsmp fanart #fitmc #fitmcfanart #qsmp fitmc #qsmp fit #fitmc fanart #q!fit #hes the best its not up to debate #literally the only thing ive been drawing recently #drawing that trident was hard as fuck and i gave up

[dr3amofagame]

take a shot - dsmp!mcc fic

MCC FIC! MCC FIC! MCC FIC! To be clear, I outlined this weeks back, when teams were first announced, and I took very very little from the actual MCC itself when it came to actually writing this - all I have are the same teams, but it really exists in its own continuity outside of Real Life MCC (obviously, as it’s using the dsmp characters) and everything like that as a whole! Just to be clear :D)

The worldbuilding is also Absolutely Bullshitted start to finish, as well as any and all medical information. Rip. We’re here for a good time, not for a long or particularly accurate one - hope you guys enjoy regardless!! I had a LOT of fun writing this fic, dsmp!mcc aus my BELOVED

title obviously from win it all by derivakat

---

Michael loves MCC.

But it’s one thing to love the normal Championships and quite another when his team looks like it’s falling apart from the inside out - and as the games progress, it becomes more and more obvious that losing, this time, might not be an option.

tws: C!QUACKITY CRITICAL (sorry i promise i love him but he is NOT portrayed very nicely here, very dark portrayal of him), implied trauma, abuse, torture, panic attacks, manipulation, gaslighting, needles, hospitals, MCC-typical violence, emotional distress, prison arc, pandora’s vault themes

(16k words !! :D long boi) 

Michael loves MCC.

Of course he does! It’s fucking MCC - like, who wouldn’t love it? MCC is how he met so many people, how he met Dream, that one time, the two of them teamed with Techno and Burren and winning it all - MCC is a goddamn blast and he’s thankful every time he gets the invite that he’s able to compete. 

Still- it’s hard not to be a little more nervous, now. 

Dream gave him an invite to his SMP right after they teamed, but it wasn’t until months later that Michael actually cashed it in. Entering the server, it became very obvious very quickly that the DreamSMP, as it’s known, isn’t quite the same as its shiny media appearance. The spawn was covered in blocks, creeper holes littering the ground. The people he passed were grey-faced, too stoic to be the same, smiling faces he remembers from only less than a year ago. The air stings of gunpowder and iron. Worst of all are The Crater, shoddily covered in glass that does nothing to hide the damage done, rending the server in two straight down to bedrock, and the Prison, looming on the horizon. Absent-mindedly, Michael rubs at his left shoulder, remembering the Warden setting the prongs of his trident against the skin in warning, just hard enough to barely draw blood. Yeah, that place is bad news. 

The fact of the matter is the server is a mess. And like, okay, whatever, Michael gets it. Everyone has their issues - it’s just the DreamSMP seems to have more than most. Despite his original worries, it’s honestly not been as bad as he originally feared upon logging in; yeah, Bad and Puffy and Foolish and the rest of them are a little more trigger-happy than he might’ve expected (and he’s not going to say that Bad crying over turtles wasn’t a little startling when he first joined, but honestly he thinks Bad is just Like That.) There’s way more death than he’s really comfortable with, and Puffy keeps mentioning Bad murdering her son (Foolish? He thinks? The guy is also a literal God but like, families are weird, who’s he to judge) in a way that’s way too casual to come from anyone entirely well-adjusted, but overall his experience has been alright. 

Still, he gets the feeling that nobody exactly wants the outside world to know about the issues with the place. It’s not an issue for him usually, not when his sleeping schedule is the exact opposite of most of the people he knows and he spends most of his time screwing around on the server, anyway (usually harassing the Warden until the asscrack of dawn if he’s being honest) but with MCC, with everyone watching - he’s starting to get why everyone from the SMP was so damn tense all the time, now. 

Anyway- he loves MCC, he really does. But even that doesn’t stop him from wincing when he sees his team card, the names Dream and Quackity and Sapnap written in Scott’s looping handwriting. He’s not seen Sapnap at all since joining the server, has only heard a little about his place (something Kingdom, not that he was paying attention) from Foolish, and has no idea what the man has been up to. Quackity is his own unique can of worms; Michael doesn’t know exactly what’s up with him and his country, but everything he’s heard so far has sounded like nothing but bad news, casinos and schemes and a trail of wreckage following wherever he goes. And Dream-

Michael looks out his window, chewing on his lip, looking directly in the direction where he knows the prison stands, impenetrable, intimidating. Where Dream’s cell is, in line with his house, where he’s been hidden for months without a trace. Where the Warden had confronted him that one night, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, blood splattered on his boots. 

There’s no real ignoring an MCC invite - not without good reason, not without the admins picking up on something being up. There’s not really a choice, here, but for Michael to duck his head down and pretend everything’s fine just like everyone else from the SMP. He directs one last glance at the prison before walking away, setting the invite on his counter. If he’s lucky, everything will turn out fine. 

(He ignores the part of him that asks what’s going to happen if they’re not. No point in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet - right?) 

---

Weeks pass, the tournament creeping closer, and Michael gets no alerts from his teammates on his comm. No one comes to his house to check in, say hi, not even a ‘hey, we’re kinda competing in a massive tournament in like, seven days, you ready?’ Hell, he even starts checking his goddamn mailbox for a letter or something only to come up empty-handed every time. Never mind performing well - it’ll be a miracle if their team manages to arrive at the tournament at all. 

It isn’t until the day before MCC, the sun high in the sky at what must be near noon, when he finally gets a message on his comm. Michael fishes it out with a frustrated huff, seeing Quackity’s name pop up first when he manages to turn on the screen. 

Quackity whispers to you: you down for some practice?

It takes a couple seconds for him to blink away his shock - out of everyone he expected to arrange practice for their team, Quackity was definitely not at the top of the list. He half-thought they would have to drag him to the tournament kicking and screaming; from what he’s heard, he’s been nothing if not devoted to his country. Shaking his head, he goes to reply; practice is practice, and their team really needs it. 

You whisper to Quackity: sure. practice server?

Quackity whispers to you: yes

Pulling up his server list, Michael scrolls for the practice server, finding it and then letting the server transfer do the rest. A few nausea-inducing seconds later, he’s at the practice server spawn, standing in the middle of a neatly paved road surrounded by colorful arenas and signs. 

“Michael!” 

He turns; there, by the Battle Box arenas, Quackity is waving at him, already dressed in a red varsity jacket and a pair of shorts, the jacket bearing a front pocket embroidered with a rabbit and a large R stitched onto the back. He reaches behind him for a red bag, throws it his way for Michael to catch mid-air. 

“Got these outfits for us last minute - hope it’s alright with you,” Quackity smiles, and Michael tries to prevent his eyes from clinging to the scar spanning the entire left side of his face. “Anyway- how are you, man? I feel like we haven’t seen each other at all on the server. How’s it been?”

“I’m good- it’s been good.” Michael opens the drawstring bag, cataloguing the contents - there’s a jacket, just like Quackity’s, a pair of shorts and sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a headband, all in varying shades of red and white. “Nice outfit- thank you. Is anyone else around?”

Quackity waves a hand behind him. “Yeah- Dream’s here. Should be coming out of the arena soon, actually.” Michael looks over behind his shoulder to where he’s pointing - there, walking down the stairs, is another figure wearing all red that must be Dream. “There he is- hey Dream! Michael’s here!” 

Dream hurries down the stairs; unlike Quackity, he is wearing the sweatpants along with the same jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets. His hair is a lot longer than Michael remembers, pulled back behind his head in a ponytail, mask, as usual, fastened over his face. He settles behind Quackity, giving Michael a small wave; his hands are covered by a pair of fingerless gloves. 

“Hey, Dream!” Michael grins; it’s been such a long time since he’s seen his old teammate, and despite the circumstances and everything that’s apparently happened since then, it’s still pretty damn nice to see him. “How’ve you been?”

Dream seems to freeze for a moment, before shaking his head. “Good,” he says, quiet, sounding almost breathless. Michael’s eyes go to the slivers of skin that show on either side of his face, to the slight shake to his hands. 

“You alright? You look a little pale,” Michael asks, and he definitely doesn’t miss the way Dream stills at the words, muscles tensing, gaze averting to the side even with the mask - doesn’t miss how Quackity steps forward, looking Michael in the eye as he tosses a casual arm around Dream’s shoulder, smiling brightly. 

“Don’t worry. This idiot has just been practicing a bit too much before you got here,” Quackity gestures with a flippant twist of his wrist, “You know how he gets. Right, Dream?” 

“Um- yeah. Ha,” Dream responds just a little too late to be strictly normal, shoulders tight and nearly pulled to his ears under Quackity’s arm. “Practice- I’m a little out of shape.” 

“You sure?” Dream’s breathing hitches and Quackity steps forward, just a little bit, eyes still fixed firmly on Michael’s own even as he shifts his gaze to try and look at Dream. “We can take a break if you need, Dream-”

“I’m fine!” Dream smiles with a little stuttered breath that turns into a small laugh, “It’s- uh. It’s fine. Thanks Michael, but we can practice. Not much time left to waste, you know?”

“You sure, Dream?” Quackity says, suddenly, voice soft and sincere. “I guess it has been a while since you’ve been able to practice- you sure you don’t need a break?”

Dream shakes his head firmly. “No- it’s fine. Really- where’s Sapnap? He should be coming soon, right?”

“If you say so, pal,” Quackity replies, doubt coloring his tone as he pulls out his communicator. “I told Sapnap to come, he replied a couple minutes back; he should be here soon, I think. You want to go meet him at spawn?”

Dream nods, and they begin to set out towards the center of the server, Quackity and Dream quickly taking the lead as Michael falls back. After a minute, Quackity falls into casual conversation, rambling about something as Dream nods, Michael trailing behind the two of them and adding his own input as he sees fit. Sapnap arrives soon after, and the noise level picks up even more after that, Sapnap and Quackity falling into an easy rhythm of banter and quips as they set out to practice Battle Box and Parkour Tag, carefully working their way through the different games under Dream’s tutelage and advice. 

And here’s the thing- Michael isn’t stupid. Yeah, he’d hardly consider himself a top tier MCC player, and he’ll be the first to say that he’s nowhere near qualified to deal with the literal laundry list of issues that affect every member of the SMP, but even so, he’s not clueless. He’s good at looking at multiple sides of a situation, doesn’t easily give into intimidation or manipulation, and he’s observant as all hell. So when Quackity wraps his hand around Dream’s wrist, fingers wrapping all the way around until his knuckles pale, when Dream winces, muscles in his arm locking before letting it go limp, not protesting when Quackity drags him forward except in the tiny, tight expressions that flit across his face every few moments, tight and gasping and shaky at the corners - Michael notices. 

“See you at the tourney, yeah?” Quackity calls to him after practice with a wink before clapping Dream on the back, Michael watching silently as the muscles of Dream’s neck pull tight, head ducking to his chest. “Good job, big guy,” he says, laughing. “Keep this up for tomorrow and we’ll be good.”

“Mmhm,” Dream mutters after a brief second, “We’re- we’re gonna win.”

“Betting on it, pal,” Quackity replies, voice light in a way that completely fails to explain Dream’s full-body flinch. “MCC, huh? Can’t fucking wait.”

“See you tomorrow, Quackity,” Michael says as he presses DreamSMP on his server list, pretending that a chill doesn’t crawl down his spine at the smile that the other man throws his way in return. 

---

There’s no real easy answer.

Michael comes to that conclusion at some point in the middle of the night, restless and pumped on way too much adrenaline to go to sleep. He can’t outright antagonize Quackity, can’t let him know he knows something’s up - not when Quackity had already spent the majority of practice keeping one dark, narrowed eye on him at all times, lips pursed in a slight frown whenever he thought Michael wasn’t looking. He’s not stupid; whatever’s happening between Dream and Quackity is secret, and kept that way for a reason. His mind goes back to the brief flashes of anxiety that had moved over Dream’s face before he could react fast enough to school them back into a carefully neutral position; whatever it is, he doubts it bodes well for Dream in the slightest. 

Unfortunately, his hands are pretty damn tied. He knows public opinion on the masked man in the server is overwhelmingly negative, but has no damn idea how far it extends. How many people are in on whatever’s happening in that damn prison? How many people know what would make Dream, bold and bright and recklessly confident in all of Michael’s (rather limited) memories, into someone so quiet, unimposing, nervous? His head spins with the possibilities, with the ever-present reminder to not make a fuss, let the tournament pass on, to never, ever let anyone find out what’s going on within the SMP. Should he do anything at all? 

Too soon, it’s morning, and he drags himself out of bed with a groan to glare at the sun streaming through his window. Somewhere, Quackity and Dream and Sapnap are also waking up, are preparing to compete in one of the biggest damn tournaments to exist. Michael sighs, glancing over to where he’s set out his outfit, freshly pressed and waiting. Any other day, and he’d probably be fucking ecstatic. Here, he buries his head in his hands, muffling a frustrated groan against the palm of his hands. 

He loves MCC, but he sure as hell doesn’t like whatever the hell is going on with the rest of his team. 

Getting into the server goes smoothly enough. The outfit is comfortable and looks damn good, props to whoever made the thing, and the sight of the multicolored crowd successfully manages to tamp down some of his nerves. He busies himself with saying hi to all of the members waiting in the lobby, happy for the chance to talk to some people he hasn’t seen in ages, feels the night of anxieties wash away with every stupid joke told and burst of laughter drawn from his lungs. 

They come back the moment Scott steps up in front of the lobby. “Teams, it’s time to head to your team rooms! The tournament will begin in fifteen minutes,” Scott says, expression sunny and bright, “we’re wishing you all luck for a great performance today! May the best team win!” 

In a flurry of movement, they’re all whisked to their rooms for a final few minutes of preparation and morale-boosting, and Michael enters the glorified dressing room to Quackity, Dream, and Sapnap already standing there, seemingly in the middle of conversation. 

“You ready to win?” Sapnap yells, and Quackity whoops, and Michael manages a small cheer of his own. They’re all visibly nervous; Quackity has scarcely stopped moving, pacing from one side of the room to the next; Sapnap is basically jumping in place where he stands. Dream stands at the very back of the room, looking tense; Michael directs a wave his way and gets a small one in return. 

“Game plan, game plan,” Quackity mutters, “do we know what games we’re playing first? Dream?”

He nods at Dream, and Dream stands up straighter, mouth falling open.

“Oh- um,” he hesitates, a strand of hair flopping forwards as he tilts his head in thought. “We’ll want to save Parkour Tag and Battle Box towards the end- maybe something more high-risk at the beginning, but not first, just to boost morale,” his teeth catch on his bottom lip, “Maybe something like To Get To The Other Side? If they have that- or Build Mart, if we can get it out of the way.” He shakes his head. “If that’s alright- I mean-”

“Great,” Quackity cuts in smoothly. “Sapnap? Michael? Does that sound good to you?”

Sapnap flashes a thumbs up, and Michael nods. “Yeah, sounds great. Thanks, Dream.”

Dream’s head snaps towards him, mouth slightly open in shock. The sight of it makes Michael’s gut twist uncomfortably; there’s something about how surprised he is, at the nervous hesitancy with which he spoke that was nothing like what Michael remembers of his easy leadership in that MCC with Techno, that doesn’t sit right at all in his stomach. Even with his expression largely hidden, there’s no mistaking the clear, genuine surprise on his face at the idea of someone thanking him - Michael tries to tell himself that he’s reading too much into it as Quackity continues to speak. 

“We’re going to win,” he grins, just a little too sharp at the edges, “so get out there and play like your lives depend on it, yeah?” 

Sapnap cheers, and again, Michael and Dream follow. It’s not until he’s outside the door, within the clamor of screaming teams and people counting down with the timer that Michael realizes that Quackity was staring at Dream the entire time. 

---

Michael curses, frustrated, when he’s knocked off a platform again, making sure to flip Krinios the bird before he falls into the Void entirely. When he makes it to the other side, Quackity and Dream are already deep in conversation - if you can call it that. Even from here, it looks worryingly one-sided.

“-were you thinking, falling off there-” Quackity’s hand is on Dream’s shoulder, Dream standing stock-still in front of him, “you better be taking this seriously, Dream.”

“Hey- sorry about that,” Michael calls with a wave, “I swear Krinios had it out for me. At least I made it across, right?” 

Quackity turns, startled, and in the split-second that it takes for him to register Michael’s appearance, his expression smooths over into something friendlier, more inviting. “Michael!” He says, enthusiastic, and it’s like the anger that had filled his words just seconds before was never there at all. “Don’t- don’t worry about it, man. We all kinda dropped the ball on that one, right Dream?” 

The words should be encouraging, just simple ribbing between teammates. Dream’s mask is still ducked down, facing the floor, shoulders slightly hunched in. 

“Um- Sapnap did pretty good,” Dream says, quiet, “he got top ten, right?” 

Michael looks over to where Sapnap is standing a little ways away, seemingly busy typing on his communicator. Quackity laughs, sharp and loud. 

“True,” he punches Dream lightly on the upper arm, and Michael watches the way he freezes the second the fist makes contact with his jacket, “come on, man, you’re losing your touch. You really gonna let yourself get beat by Sapnap?” he shakes his head, still laughing as he pulls open his communicator. “Jesus- even I beat you in that last round. Watch your spot, Dream, I’m coming for you.” 

“I mean,” Michael says when a second passes and it becomes clear Dream isn’t going to respond, “Dream was doing pretty well with the last two rounds, right? I thought I saw his name pretty far up there.” 

Quackity takes a second before responding, again, staring at Michael oddly as he does. “That’s true,” he concedes, “hey- I was just making a joke, don’t worry. It’s all for fun, right Dream?”

His gaze goes to Dream, and automatically, Michael follows. Dream seems to startle under the attention, twitching Quackity’s direction in the awkward silence that results. Michael watches as the mask slants slightly to face Quackity, as Quackity looks back at him with an intense, unreadable expression, shoulders strangely tense. Whatever unsaid conversation that seems to pass between them is entirely lost on Michael as Dream finally responds with a sudden, almost strangled bark of laughter. 

“Yeah- just jokes,” his fingers twist over one another, hands held close together in front of his body, “Though Qu- Q’s right, I- I should probably pick it up. We’re playing to win.” 

A ding alerts them to the end of the round, and Michael steadies himself in preparation for the teleport to the next map. As he turns, he catches Quackity’s expression, once again, and the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he continues to look at Dream. 

“Good luck,” he calls just before they enter the next round, and tries not to think too much about what he’s saying it for. 

---

They manage pretty well for the rest of To Get To The Other Side, finishing with a second place overall that got cheers from Sapnap and even a slight smile from Dream. Hole in the Wall, on the other hand, has been a lot less successful - though Michael will be the first to say that it’s his fault. His practice in the last few months has been lackluster (at best) and it definitely showed in the arena. 

He leans over the railing, watching Dream and Sapnap through the crowd of participants left that have yet to be knocked out by the giant walls of slime. Quackity’s standing next to him, having been similarly thrown off the platform early in the round, expression tight and lips set in a small frown, and looking at him for too long makes Michael uneasy so he looks down at the arena again. They’re in the last round, and they’re supposed to be making callouts anyway for their teammates still participating below.

Without thinking, once again, Michael looks over at Dream. Sue him, he knows the guy best and Dream has been acting odd all day, to put it lightly. Even ignoring the part of him that’s screaming that something’s wrong, that there’s something up that has everything to do with the beanie-wearing man standing besides him, it only takes a few minutes of observation to see that Dream is - for the lack of a better word - off. Michael watches as he vaults over another wall, only barely managing to bring himself to his feet in time on the other side. Dream’s movements - even to his untrained eye - have always been fluid, effortless. He jumped and vaulted and ran like gravity didn’t exist, like every physics-bending maneuver he made was as easy as breathing. Michael remembers watching him sprint over the parkour course before, time completely unmatched as he appraised each obstacle and basically flew his way through, sounding hardly even winded when he whooped loudly in victory from the top of the salmon ladder. In total contrast, Dream jerks away from the coming wall again, movements sloppy and harsh as he scrambles to the other side of the disc-shaped arena. He’s still fast, and still making jumps, but everything is strangely angled where it had once been fluid, stopping and starting suddenly, moving in bursts of speed and then skidding to sudden stops. 

“WEST!” Quackity shouts, and Michael watches as Dream’s head turns jerkily at the noise before he dives out of the way of the incoming wall and manages, barely, to twist around the side. Michael winces at the tumble he takes on the opposite side, clutching his chest slightly as he stands back up again. 

“North!” Michael calls, because he should probably actually help his teammates, huh, and Dream manages to move around this one better, jumping through a hole in the wall and tucking and rolling as he lands. “Nice jump- East!” 

It’s an easy wall, thankfully, and both Sapnap and Dream visibly take a breath as they stand in place for the wall to pass over them. As it passes, a droning buzz comes from the speakers, and the walls below them speed up. 

“South-to your right!” Michael shouts as they turn, eyes turning between all of the false walls before finally focusing on the right one, his shout echoed by a similar one from Quackity. At each one of the calls from the man besides him, Dream seems to tighten further, movements increasingly erratic as he dodges and weaves around the walls. There’s still a lot of people left - Michael follows Dream through the crowd with a frown, watching as he and Sapnap jump the next wall, Dream’s foot nearly catching on the top edge. 

“West-” Dream flinches, jumping over the two-high wall at the last possible second, landing completely off-balance on the other side and falling to the ground. He scrambles to his feet, but there’s already a wall at the west edge of the platform - his head turns, still searching for the wall - Quackity yells.

“LEFT!”

Something in Dream’s movements seem to shift, even in the distance - Michael watches as he immediately, almost robotically, steps to the left at Quackity’s voice, not even jumping, not turning his head to take in his surroundings, just moving instinctually at the words, and slams into the coming wall hard enough to get flung into the middle hole in the platform. Quackity curses, fist crashing into the railing as Dream falls and the chat message shows on their communicators, and a second later he’s materialized beside them, face oddly slack and mask focused somewhere faraway. 

“Shit,” Dream mutters when he seems to come back into himself, shaking his head and then turning to the two of them, still by the railing, “Dammit. Sorry, I-“ 

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael cuts in before Quackity can speak. “You did good.” 

“I-” Dream catches Quackity’s gaze, then pushes his head away, mask facing the ground. Something about it and his raised shoulders and the dark, angry glare that Quackity directs over the railing when Michael looks back makes him shift in place, uneasy. “Could’ve done better, ha. Sorry.” 

The three of them watch, silent, as Sapnap continues to compete. He manages to get pretty damn far, making it to the top three, but getting knocked off-balance by a wall and off the platform just before the timer sounds. Michael cringes back at the sound of it over the speakers, watches the other contestants settle into place, panting, in victory.

“Great job, Sapnap,” Michael shouts when he materializes in front of them, and the other two are quick to echo his sentiments. If they sound a little duller than they should be, if Quackity’s jaw seems clenched and Dream’s all coiled up like a spring, far too tense, it’s from placing lower than they wanted and slipping in the rankings, not anything else.

Keep your head down, Michael reminds himself, and everything’s gonna be fine. And if the words ring more and more hollow with every repetition, well, that’s for him to ignore and for everyone else to never, ever find out. 

---

Buildmart is chosen next, which they all groan at, but at least it’s going to be out early and not left to ruin all of their scores later. Michael takes his place at his build, one third from the left side - it’s some abomination of colored glass and white concrete meant, if he is to guess, to emulate a stained glass window. He’s between Dream and Sapnap, the former positioned in front of a flower-dotted grass field with a picnic table, the latter staring down a miniature car with black concrete for tires and stone buttons for detailing. He breathes a steady breath as they await the countdown, already planning for his trip to the Colors section to grab materials for his build and the others’- Buildmart isn’t his strongest game, but it’s not his worst either, and he’s damn well going to try his best. 

He skids into the portal with an armful of colored concrete and glass, spilling half of its contents inside a chest before running to his build. He pulls himself to the crafting bench to craft - he squints at his build - he needs four red glass panes and 3 yellow, right. As he brings the panes to his inventory and begins laying out the frame of the build in concrete, he looks over to Dream, who is noticeably struggling with placing the flowers in his build and getting the placements to match that of the original. He knocks away a white tulip with a muffled curse, sounding frantic as he looks back to the original, and places it again to no avail. 

It seems that his struggle hasn’t only caught Michael’s attention, as the statue to the leftmost side of the room explodes in gold coins and confetti - Quackity has finished his build and is now looking at Dream with narrowed eyes. Dream places the flower again, and the build refuses to respond. Quackity’s gaze narrows further, and he opens his mouth-

“Hey Quackity!” Michael starts speaking before he’s even noticed that he’s opened his mouth, fumbling as he regains awareness of what he’s doing and tries to find a direction for his sentence to go, “do you have any concrete?”

Quackity looks at him like he’s grown a second head, which is fair, considering there’s a block of white concrete pretty obviously visible in his hand. “Um- no? Weren’t you supposed to go to Colors?”

Dream finally manages to place the tulip where it belongs, and the build between them disappears in another explosion of gold glitter. Michael laughs awkwardly. 

“Sorry- haha. I got a little mixed up.” He places the last piece of white concrete, watching as his own build disappears. A little wooden cottage takes its place, made of what appears to be just oak wood and cobblestone. “Are you going to get wood? Or should I?”

“I- You get wood,” Quackity shakes his head, visibly frustrated, “And I’ll get stone. We have to hurry, we’re falling behind.” 

After that, Michael finds it a little too easy - or maybe not easy, but at least tolerable, to interrupt when Quackity looks a little like he’s about to fall on the side of being angry versus just annoyed, stepping between his angry glares at Dream with a forced smile and an incessant string of annoying questions- 

“Hey Quackity, do you have any spare iron?”

“Hey Quackity, I think you placed that a little too far back.”

“Hey Quackity, can you take a look to see what I placed wrong?” 

It’s not perfect. It’s hardly even functional; Michael knows that Quackity has begun with the habit of directing death glares at his back whenever he thinks he’s not looking, his responses to Michael’s questions becoming more and more clipped, often paired with irritated grumbles and sighs. Sapnap, when Michael looks at him, seems largely engrossed with his own builds, but he’s also begun looking over at the two of them with a vaguely dissatisfied expression, and Dream only seems to be getting more jumpy with every frustrated growl out of Quackity’s mouth. Even Michael’s forced levity and falsely ignorant questions can’t do much against Quackity’s anger when they walk out of Buildmart dead last for the minigame, dropping their team all the way down to seventh in the overall rankings, and the tension within the team as they walk out - Quackity nearly stomping, Dream following with his hands wringing around each other and head ducked fearfully - is almost enough to make Michael scream. He looks at the scoreboard with a worried expression as he enters the Decision Dome, trying to quell the sinking feeling in his gut. 

There’s still five more games to go, and he’s not sure how long they can last before something snaps. 

---

Battle Box is chosen next, and they react to the game with quiet cheers and slightly grim faces. Michael’s been in enough MCCs to know that this game, of any, is crucial - after their lacking performances in the last two games, a good showing at Battle Box will be crucial to pull them back into the competition and raise morale. With Sapnap and Dream, if this were any normal game, they should be able to sweep through a good amount of the competition without much effort. As it is, though, Michael looks at the two more combat-oriented members of his team with a worried expression, the two barely even able to meet each other’s eyes. Their interactions so far have been less than promising- if they can’t hold it together for this round, well. 

Michael shakes his head. They’ll do fine. They have to. 

Even so, the first round only seems to confirm his concerns - they get woolrushed almost immediately, and in Dream and Sapnap’s stumbling to get to mid, nearly crashing into each other and focusing their efforts on the same player by accident, the other team manages to fill out the wool, sending them back to the spawn box even more frustrated than before. 

“Amazing teamwork, guys,” Quackity snarks immediately, and Michael rolls his eyes. 

“Like you did that much.” 

Sapnap is still staring at Dream oddly, Dream turning his head to avoid his gaze. The two of them look largely oblivious to Quackity and his whole deal, even as Quackity whirls around to give him the stink eye. 

“You didn’t do anything either, if I remember correctly,” Quackity mutters, and Michael shrugs. 

“Fair.” 

A ding alerts them to the round’s end, and they resign themselves to preparing for the next round. Michael picks the extra arrows from the wall, knowing that no one else will want the kit, and watches as Dream anxiously runs his hands over the crossbow. 

The next round goes better, barely; Michael and Quackity end up knocked out pretty early, but Dream and Sapnap manage to kill the rest of the team soon after. He watches from the box as they fill in the wool, Dream looking awfully tense as he shears away the white wool for Sapnap to fill it with red. Quackity watches them both with a tight expression, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Michael turns away, ignoring him, going back to watching Dream and Sapnap still standing within the arena. Both of them look awkward, oddly out of step with each other - Michael’s not watched them fight much, but he knows that they have a reputation as a pair, was there for the Sky Battle round where they completely wiped through the competition. Even here, Sapnap moves forward and Dream flinches back - there’s something heavy and tense between them, lingering in the few words they’ve spoken to each other, if they’ve even spoken to each other at all, one always rushing forward too fast or following just a little too slow. They’re still brilliant fighters, almost unrivaled in hand-to-hand combat and with swords, but the faltering communication is sure to hurt them more in the future. 

His worries come true just three rounds later, the two in between being narrow wins for their team, each a little more shaky than would be comfortable. Michael has found himself easing off the worst of his anxiety in verbally sparring with Quackity, jabbing at the other with offhand remarks and little needling jokes to keep his attention off the other two, especially as his glare has become more pronounced and his words more angry. Even so, nothing he does or can do will fix the odd tension between Dream and Sapnap, whose communication remains as stilted and awkward as ever. 

They’re facing a stronger team, PVP wise, with Punz and Seapeekay, and Michael ends up falling in a bow duel against Jack. He watches as the Captain falls to a potion by Sapnap, then as Jack is taken out by a crossbow bolt courtesy of Dream, just before Quackity falls to a well-timed bow shot from the opposing team. 

That leaves the strongest PVPers to battle it out, and Dream and Sapnap manage to team up and kill CPK - but not without taking a nasty damage potion to the face that must leave the two of them low. Michael watches Punz, booking it to mid with a crossbow, anxiously - both of them would be a oneshot with the thing, and on the condition that he takes no damage before fighting with either of them outright, he’s probably got enough health to hold out a few hits. 

Sapnap pulls out a health potion, and Michael grins - that’ll be good for the two of them, and should secure them the win - only for him to gesture roughly with his sword and for Dream to stagger backwards, panic flashing over his face. He only seems to grow more fearful at the sound of glass shattering on the ground, falling backwards further - far enough to be largely out of range of health pot - and in their shock, Punz manages to catch both of them off guard and nail Sapnap with a crossbow bolt that downs him for the round before similarly dispatching Dream in two hits of his sword.

Sapnap explodes upon respawn in the box - “What was that? I had a health pot!”

“I-” Dream fumbles, face still oddly pale, “Sorry I didn’t- I- I-”

“We had that round!” Sapnap’s arms flail forward as he gestures angrily, Dream freezing further as one hand skims past his shoulder. “I can’t believe- I had a health pot! Punz was on, like, half! We could’ve killed him!”

“Easy, easy,” Quackity moves forward, putting a hand on both of their shoulders - Sapnap seems to relax immediately, while Dream, if anything, only looks more tense. “It’s time for the next round - we’ll talk about this later, alright?” 

Dream nods, movements overly tense, and Quackity flashes a toothy smile his way as Sapnap moves back, still mumbling to himself. He and Quackity move to talk in the back corner, words quiet enough that Michael cannot make them out, and something sick and cold slithers over his spine. Sapnap and Quackity are fiancés, aren’t they? 

Michael looks over at Dream, mask still covering his face as he looks away through the glass to the arena, shoulders still tight as Michael’s pretty sure they’ve been for as long as he’s seen him since he came onto the server. He remembers the panic that make itself obvious on his face every time Quackity came up to him, even as covered as it is, the similar- if not the same- fear that had painted his face when he respawned fresh off of the Battle Box round after Sapnap’s sword had passed a little too close to his body. 

Quackity and Dream- he’s sure, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, that there’s something going on there, dark and dreadful and poisonous. Who’s to say that Sapnap isn’t involved, as well? 

---

They finish Battle Box decently well, but not as well as they’d hoped, pulling them up to fifth place with a decently large gap between them and fourth. Quackity and Dream disappear immediately as the Audience Votes begin coming in, leaving Sapnap and Michael to stand awkwardly in the lobby to wait for the rest of their team to come back. Michael watches the crowd for a glimpse of Quackity and Dream, comes up empty. A sigh fizzles through his teeth as he looks up into the sky, the endless blue doing little to ease his nerves - he’s worried, even if he doesn’t want to think about it, for his teammates. For Dream. 

It doesn’t take a genius to see that the man is scared of Quackity, that there’s an odd sort of history there that Michael conveniently has no information about. Whatever it is, it’s left Dream unsure and uncharacteristically nervous, left the entire team floundering without proper leadership to tie them all together. Really, a part of him knows that the Championships should be the least of his concerns - if he were braver, or a little better at combat, or a little less inclined to just let things pass as they always have, then he’d be raising a fuss. Getting in the way, talking to Dream, doing something other than making backhanded compliments to Quackity that he’s sure have been doing little more than annoy the man further. 

“Michael?” Sapnap comes within his line of sight, lips pressed together in a carefully put-together expression that Michael is sure will collapse the moment they’re away from others’ prying eyes, “Can we speak for a moment?”

Michael forces another easy smile to his face as he turns towards his teammate, feels a little disgusted at the amount of them he’s had to use to simply function with the rest of his team. “Sure! Where to?”

They walk at a brisk pace to the team room, Sapnap’s eyes focused forwards the entire time, not speaking. If he’s being honest, it’s a little awkward, but the lighthearted comment on his tongue to break the silence dies out the minute Sapnap closes the door and looks back at him with fierce, focused eyes boring into him. 

“What’s your deal?” He hisses immediately, words pitched low even though he doesn’t really have to - there’s no one nearby, and the team rooms are decently soundproofed. Michael feels his hackles rising as Sapnap’s arms cross in front of him, eyes still focused on his own as he talks. “I’m not going to lie- I don’t know you that well, even though you’re on the SMP now, but can you quit it with Quackity already?”

“Quit what?” Michael snarks - sue him - matching Sapnap’s tone with irritation of his own. 

“Don’t- you’ve been antagonizing Quackity all day,” Sapnap’s hand runs through his hair, messing up his hair and tangling it into knots, “And I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re kind of in the middle of a competition here? So it’d be really nice if you could save the fighting for until after we’re done?”

“Says you?” Michael can’t help the retort this time, huffing irately at the offended expression that flashes over the other’s face, “I don’t really know if you’ve noticed, but your teamwork has been a little less than stellar, today. Pot calling the kettle black, much?”

“What-” Sapnap looks confused, even through his anger, gesturing more and more wildly. “What do you even mean?”

“Oh, so are we just ignoring what just happened in Battle Box then?” 

Sapnap’s eyes flash as he closes into himself again, hands gripping at his upper arms as he crosses his arms in front of his chest once again. “That- that’s different. That’s because of Dream.”

“Oh, just keep blaming it on the other guy, why don’t you?”

“No-” Sapnap shakes his head furiously. “You haven’t been on here for nearly as long, you don’t get it, Michael. Dream- he’s-,” Sapnap flails, and Michael groans at the familiar words. 

“Dream’s what? I was on the team with the guy before, you know. It’s kind of the reason why he invited me in the first place?” He raises an eyebrow. “We worked together perfectly well then - am I supposed to believe that his self-proclaimed ‘best friend’ can’t do the same?” 

“You don’t understand,” Sapnap repeats, expression hard and oddly far away, “Dream- he’s changed- he’s done so many terrible things. I don’t know what he’s said to convince you, but he’s bad news, man. He’s hurt- so many people.” 

“Oh- you want to talk about hurting people?” 

Michael isn’t quite sure what comes over him - only really realizes a white-hot flash of rage lancing through his chest, a sleepless night and half a competition’s  worth of anxiety and frustration and build up combining into a sizzling spike of fury that briefly tinges his vision red. 

“How about the way Dream looks like he’s about to keel over whenever anyone gets close to him? How about how he flinches back at literally every loud noise and fast movement? How about how Quackity’s been making these stupid, angry comments at him for the entire competition that make him freeze for a minute each time? Or how about when you were in Battle Box and Dream backed away from your sword like he thought you were gonna drive it through his chest?” Michael barely feels himself stepping forward with each word, jabbing his index finger into the other’s chest. “You want to talk about hurting people? How about you go talk to that fiancé of yours and then come back to talk?” 

A loud, droning buzz comes over the speakers, alerting them of the end of the break. Michael steps back, face flushed in embarrassment, before the world whirls away and they’re teleported back into the Decision Dome. 

He adamantly refuses to meet Sapnap’s eyes as Quackity and Dream materialize in the sector with them, Quackity’s hand clamped around Dream’s upper arm as the other man keeps his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, looking even more panicked and frozen than before the break. 

“You ready to win?” Quackity laughs, and Michael watches as his hand tightens around the sleeve of Dream’s jacket, knuckles paling from the strain. 

“Yeah,” Michael tries to cheer, and it feels like ash on his tongue. “Let’s do this.” 

---

Survival Games ends up being picked next - Quackity and Sapnap quickly pull up to the front of the group, close enough to be within eyesight but too far to really pick up their conversation. Michael keeps an eye out for the reddish glow of their bodies as they scout the surrounding areas for chest, staying back with Dream as they look at the other side of the road. He’d be lying if he said that he didn’t feel a smug sort of satisfaction of Sapnap seemingly confronting Quackity about whatever the hell has been going on, as awkward as his whole outburst had been. As it is, some time with Dream is nice without Quackity watching over his shoulder like a hawk - he directs a small, genuine smile at the man by his side that Dream seems to do a double take at before shyly returning it with one of his own. 

“There- I think I see a chest,” Michael points under a lamppost, running to the wooden box and flicking the lid upwards. He pulls out a chain chestplate that he promptly puts on himself, then throws over the iron boots to his teammate as well as a small stone axe that he’s sure Dream will make better use of. “We should probably catch up to the others - don’t want to be caught off guard while separated.”

Dream nods, and the two of them pick up the pace before finding another chest that Dream rummages through, this time, finding an iron sword that Michael takes for himself and a cake. 

“You’ve been doing really well so far,” Michael says after a few minutes of quiet, words becoming more firm when Dream looks up at him with a surprised expression. “Seriously- you’ve been doing great, man.”

“Thanks,” Dream smiles, words quiet and terribly sincere, and the sinking pit in Michael’s gut returns at the tone. “Not as good as I should, though. I’ve been underperforming a lot,” he laughs a little at the words, but even to Michael’s ears it rings hollow. “It’s not over yet, though.”

“No it’s not,” Michael concedes, rearranging his inventory as they run. “But it’s good enough, man, really - just look at my rankings.”

Dream huffs. “You’ve been doing good, Michael.”

“And you’ve been doing a hell of a lot better than me,” Michael tips his head in his direction. “Give yourself some more credit, man. You’ve been playing well.”

Dream smiles again, but even now the corners of his mouth seem tight, tense. “I need to play better, though, if we want to win,” he says, matter-of-fact, analytical to a damn fault. Michael rolls his eyes, but nods to concede the point. 

“Sure, but that goes for all of us, Dream,” he shakes his head. “And it’s okay if we don’t win, you know?”

“No.” 

Michael turns, frowning. Dream’s tone has become oddly flat, eyes dead as he continues to stare at the pavement under their feet. He seems to be chewing on his lip anxiously, startled out of his own thoughts when he looks up to meet Michael’s gaze. “I mean- I don’t know. I really have- want to win.” 

There’s something so carefully worded about the admission, quiet and scraped open and raw in the slow sincerity of the words. Michael wants to poke at it, wants to understand what’s left him so unsure of every step, what determination lies behind the words that has left desperation clinging to every shallow breath he draws. A crack of thunder on the horizon, heralding a player’s death, reminds him that now is not the time. 

Keep your head down. 

“Alright,” he smiles thinly, hoping that the fracturing, yawning pit of emptiness in his chest isn’t obvious in the words. “Then we’re going to win.” 

---

Michael skids to a stop at the finish line, feeling the elytra deequip as he’s thrown into spectator mode. He runs his hands through his wind-tousled hair, feeling it strain against his fingers as he roughly finger-combs it back into place. Dream and Sapnap are off to the side, standing next to each other but seemingly not speaking - Michael smiles as he floats over, still shaking the adrenaline off from the race. 

“Hey,” the two look up, smile in recognition, and Dream waves; there’s a small smile on his face, strained but present. “You both did really good!” 

“Thanks, Michael,” Dream laughs, earnest, “I did decent, I guess- haha. Top ten at least.” 

Sapnap whoops. “We’re popping off!” Michael cheers in agreement, and their efforts manage to pull Dream’s smile a little wider as he ducks his head to look away again. 

“Thanks, guys.” 

They watch as Quackity flies through the finish line, appearing in front of them and shaking his arms out as he gets his bearings. 

“Geez- that trident,” he shakes his head, looks up. “Hey, there you guys are. How’d we do?” 

“Dream got seventh,” Sapnap scrolls through his comm, looking through the rows of contestants and their times as they come in, interspersed by the occasional chat message, “And I got 10th. Michael got- 28th, I think? And you got 32nd.” 

“Hmm,” Quackity hums, “What do you think, Dream? Is that good enough to pull us to Dodgebolt?”

Once again, Michael watches as Dream stiffens under the scrutiny, head ducking down and looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. “Um- I don’t know,” Dream mumbles, “I messed up a trident- fell into the void once, probably could’ve done better otherwise-” his voice trails off, tensing further as Quackity takes his usual spot by his side, jabbing an elbow none-too-lightly into his ribs. 

“But you didn’t, though,” Quackity says, tone flippant, “so what do you think? With those placements- is it going to be enough?” 

“Hey, we did great, man,” Michael glares at him, more forward than he’d usually be - but all he can see is the shoulder that he has pressed against Dream’s arm, the way Dream’s stood stock still since the moment he made contact, “Lay off of Dream, would you? He did great.”

“Yeah, Q,” Michael’s eyebrows raise in surprise as Sapnap chimes in from the side, rising further when Sapnap moves forward to link his arm with Quackity’s own and half-drag him away from Dream. “Chill out, man, we popped off. We’re gonna fucking win this, ok?”

Quackity’s lips press together; he’s still smiling, but there’s no mistaking the seething darkness that lingers in his narrowed eyes and furrowed eyebrows, gaze still trained on the pale off-white disk of Dream’s mask. Still, with the rest of the team against him, he’s in a losing fight and he knows it; Michael watches as he visibly backs down, rolling his shoulders back as he lets Sapnap pull him further back. 

“We’re going to fucking win this,” he repeats, and Michael wonders how he manages to make the words sound so much like a threat.

---

“Sky battle,” Sapnap calls as the decision dome below them lights up in confirmation of the penultimate game, expression immediately becoming more focused as he turns back to the rest of the team. “Alright- strats, what are we thinking?”

“There’s the iron at spawn,” Dream starts, interrupted by the teleport to the Sky Battle arena, making him cut himself off comically and take a second to shake off the resulting disorientation, “And then there’s the iron in the nearby island. We gotta pick one, tower as soon as we can.”

“Got it,” Sapnap looks down, seemingly calculating, before looking up again - Michael has heard him compared to fire before, but he thinks this is the first time he’s really seen it; there’s a veritable blaze burning in his eyes as he looks at each member of the team, easily taking charge as they prepare for the first round. “Same buddy system as Survival Games - Q, stick with me, Michael, stick with Dream. I’ll tower to the next island- Dream, you good with getting the iron at spawn and crafting armor for us?” 

Dream startles, before flashing a small thumbs up at the other - Sapnap smiles wider, teeth bared dangerously.

“This is our game,” he cheers, and Michael enthusiastically whoops in reply, “we’re winning this, you got that team? Let’s go!” 

This, Michael thinks, is the way the games should’ve gone - they jump into action upon the start of the game, Michael watching as Dream races through both chests on the spawn island, getting the iron and jumping down cleanly with a water bucket before following Sapnap’s bridge to the other island. He tosses over a pair of leggings and boots as he lands, then takes Sapnap’s excess iron to craft the other pieces of iron for himself and Sapnap as the other man begins shooting at opposing teams. Their communication is near wordless, simple one- or two-word requests communicating all they need as they follow each other seamlessly into the main arena area, sealing off their entrance as they search the ring for other teams.

Sapnap, especially, seems to have shifted - instead of waiting for Dream to take the lead, he seems comfortable barrelling on forward on his own, trusting for Dream to follow his steps. Michael watches as the two of them easily work through the two lagging members of Orange, shooting through a gap in the wall to catch an unsuspecting Yellow player chased by the border. Michael ends up dying to an unlucky block of TNT placed on his head - curses out what appears to be Quig, bounding over to the other side of the arena, and follows Dream and Sapnap as they continue to fight their way through the competition. 

It’s not perfect, for sure - Dream hesitates at a bad place a minute later, ending with Sapnap getting 2v1ed and exploding in a flash of red sparkles. Dream is similarly dispatched a few seconds after, and the three of them watch Quackity, caught in the crossfire of two other teams, before he also goes down. 

“Good work, team,” Sapnap says as he appears, disoriented, in spectator mode, and they watch the remaining two teams battling in a rapidly shrinking border before Fruit falls as well, leaving Pink as the winners. “That was close- we’ve got this.” The conviction in his voice leaves no room for argument, and Michael, briefly, feels bad for anyone that stands in the way of it. 

With the second round, they once again fall into rhythm without any major hiccups - someone tries to cut them off before entering the main arena, but are made quick work of by Sapnap’s relentless onslaught. As Michael watches, Dream seems to regain confidence as well, moving more to fight with Sapnap side by side instead of just playing support, tugging him back from a risky play and catching Punz in a nasty combo that does him in when he manages to slip past Sapnap. 

The four of them end up in the final stand off in the middle, but end up getting caught too high up and killed by the border before they can jump down. Sapnap hisses at the narrow defeat, but the disappointment has hardly seemed to dim his determination - if anything, it seems to burn brighter. 

“Last round,” he mutters, and Michael watches as Dream walks up to him, bumping him lightly with his shoulder. 

“This is our game,” he says, a small smile appearing on his face, and Sapnap returns it with a fiery, blinding one of his own. 

“Ours,” he says, and even just standing on the side, watching - Michael believes it. 

Still, his concerns have yet to disappear - they linger in his mind as they jump into an adrenaline-filled last round, jumpy from excitement and victory just within their grasps. Dream is still more jittery than he should be, taking a second more than usual to react to fights, and his teamwork with Sapnap - while good - is still noticeably rusty. Michael’s lips thin at the memory of Dream backing away from Sapnap’s sword in Battle Box, hunched into himself, almost on the floor, with a clearly desperate edge to his expression - and no matter how he tries, he can’t quite manage to shake it off. 

Unfortunately enough, the third round doesn’t bode well for them from the start - Quackity gets bowed off while bridging to the main arena, and upon entrance there they end up flanked, hard, by another team in a conflict that gets Michael killed within seconds. Sapnap and Dream book it to the other side of the arena, where they manage to work through a full team without too much trouble - but the next minute brings another half-team flying at them from the back, catching them in the middle of trying to recuperate. The two focus Dream in the middle of eating a steak, and Michael watches as Dream steps back instead of moving forward to fight, that same shade of fear making his muscles seize as he stands, stock still, watching helplessly as swords fly his way- Michael cries out, but there’s nothing he can do-

Between one blink and the next, Sapnap is standing in front of Dream, a snarl painting his features as he whirls through both players in a fury. Michael watches, awed, as his sword weaves and dances between the two attacking Dream, making quick work of them both until they’re no more than items scattered over the ground, then grabs Dream by the wrist and drags him up a nearby ladder onto the upper floor, plopping him by the wall and then backing off. 

Sapnap stands back as Dream sits against the wall, breathing fast and labored, dropping to his knees with his hands in front of him, palms up, no weapons in hand. Michael watches, frantic, for the signs of any teams nearby - with Dream panicking and Sapnap’s back to the rest of the arena, they’d be easy pickings - but for once, luck seems to be on their side, because no one comes. Dream heaves a breath through his lungs, deep and shuddery - Sapnap watches, lips flat from concern, but doesn’t speak. 

“You good to continue?” he asks, when Dream seems calm enough to recognize his surroundings, and Dream looks up at the words, jaw slack from shock and disorientation, before his head dips in a firm nod. 

“Good,” Sapnap smiles, tight-lipped and fiercely determined, fiercely loyal, as he reaches out a hand that Dream moves to take. “Let’s go fuck them up, yeah? You and me, just like we used to.”

Michael watches, heart in his chest, as they stand together to face the rest of the competition, towering towards the middle and facing off with the remaining teams,  watches as they move forwards through explosions and buckets of lava, coalescing onto the middle island, as they battle through the remaining opponents as one in a clean spiral of clashing blades and flying arrows, fighting with their backs to each other in the center of the arena. He watches as a well-placed fishing rod by Dream knocks their final opponent off the platform, leaving them in the middle, triumphant, as the only remaining team - 

Watches, a brilliant, bubbling laugh in his chest as Dream and Sapnap take their spots in the middle of the arena, standing side by side as Sapnap raises Dream’s hand in victory, both laughing and cheering  into the sky.

---

Their performance in Sky Battle manages to pull them to third - but second place still stands a few hundred coins away, and they watch anxiously as Parkour Tag is chosen as the last game and they are transported over the arena. 

“Last game,” Sapnap calls, “We’ve got this, alright?” 

He gets terse, short nods in return - it’ll be a close game, and even Michael is feeling the pressure. He breathes a soft, quiet breath through his teeth as they prepare, looking over to the opposite team as they choose their hunters and runners. 

“Dream, you up to hunting first four?” Sapnap seems to be watching the effects of his words more, waiting for Dream’s agreement before moving forward, sliding into the position of leader easily when Dream seems to struggle. Dream nods and steps into the hunter’s box, lips pressed together, flat and focused, and Michael turns back to the arena to plan out his route. 

Parkour, by far, is not his strong suit. It hadn’t been his strong suit during Parkour Warrior and sure as hell isn’t it now - he enjoys it well enough, but with the pressure of a hunter on him or the time creeping past and the competition standings hanging over his head like a guillotine, he’s prone to slipping up and he knows it. The map is full of dizzying, multi-colored structures and difficult jumps, the twists and turns of the arena making his head spin. Being good at parkour is more than being good at movement - it involves being able to make split-second decisions and execute them with no time to hesitate. Unfortunately, Michael isn’t particularly good at any of that, so Parkour Tag mostly just stresses him the hell out. 

He sets out to the arena, listening for callouts over comms as he fumbles over the buildings. Halfway through the game, Dream’s voice comes through comms, quiet, focused. 

“Gottem.” 

“Nice, Dream,” Michael smiles, trying not to trip over a particularly hard jump, only to fall to being tagged in the back by the opposing team’s hunter - Ant, if he remembers right. “Sapnap and Q are still in- we’ve got this.”

Once again, each time, Dream races through the opposing team in seconds, seemingly going faster with each round. Michael has heard his reputation as a hunter before, but only now is he really appreciating the extent - the speed at which he manages to dispatch all three opponents is downright terrifying. They manage to win all four rounds, lingering around second place overall on the leaderboards, before Sapnap and Dream switch off for hunting. 

With each round, Michael watches Dream in the lobby, watching as he tenses further in focus and determination and no small degree of fear, but it hadn’t been nearly as obvious in between rounds. Now, with him in the arena with Quackity and himself, Dream’s jumpiness is all that more palpable, adrenaline making him pace and jump in place from where he stands at the edge of the place. The glass lowers, and he explodes into motion, bounding on top of the nearest tower to wait for the hunter to come towards them. 

Michael ends up caught first, early in the round, once again, and resolves to following Dream over the glass to watch his movements and make callouts for the hunter chasing behind him. Watching Dream move through the arena, dodging below fixtures and through tunnels and jumping from tower to tower with seemingly no regard for gravity pulling him down, it’s become all the more obvious that this is his element. He makes another hairpin turn around a pole, kicking himself up over a tower and then diving from it to a nearby building, landing on a ledge inside it, hands clutching the wall - Michael watches, quietly awed, as he outlasts the hunter, landing in small, panting breaths in the lobby. 

“Great work,” he cheers, quiet, as Dream shakes off the last dregs of the adrenaline, all of them watching the leaderboard anxiously, “Just three more rounds, alright?” 

The rounds that follow continue in much of the same vein - Dream, once he’s gotten started, seems near-impossible to chase down; Michael and Quackity provide support, distracting the hunter for as long as they can until they get tagged, but part of him wonders if it’s all even necessary. Dream flies from structure to structure seemingly unhindered by The Laws That Be, expression firm, if a little frantic, as he parkours his way through the arena. To their credit, the hunters chase, and several come pretty close - but Dream, worked up on adrenaline or anxiety or some twisted mix of the two, races over and around the buildings within the arena like his life depends on it.

It’s a surprisingly (if sickeningly) apt description - the skill in parkour is far from unacknowledged on Dream’s record; they all know his reputation with Parkour Warrior, all know that there are little that can match his skill as a traucer - but there’s something newly desperate in the way he runs, the muscles of his body tight and taut even in between rounds, expression permanently tight at the corners from fear. His movements, lacking in their usual fluidity, are made up with sheer speed and mad scrambles up walls that no one else seems to dare replicate. It’s concerning, even to Michael’s untrained eye, how frantic he seems the entire time, the flashes of expressions that he’ll direct towards the hunter like being caught by them will be his end, but- if anything, at least it’s effective. 

Between his parkour and Sapnap’s own skill, they manage to dominate the other teams without much issue, and the bonuses from eliminating the other team first combined with Dream’s survival points each round land them a first place for the game by just a few hundred coins. The four of them watch with bated breaths for the event standings, whooping and cheering together when it shows the red rabbits in second - 

“DODGEBOLT, BABY!” Quackity cheers, loudly, and the rest of them join him, laughing and screaming incoherently, “LET’S FUCKING GO!” 

“LET’S FUCKING GO!” Sapnap punches the air with a loud, resolute whoop of joy, and Dream - still shaking off the jitters of his last round in Parkour Tag - soon joins in with a few cheers of his own. 

Michael watches them all with a smile on his face as they cheer in victory - Dodgebolt has them against the Yellow Yaks, which will be a hard match up, but between Dream and Sapnap’s skill, if they all stay focused, they shouldn’t have any issue. 

They’ve done it. They’ve made it to Dodgebolt - if they keep their heads in the game, then they should win. All he has to do is keep his head down a little longer, long enough to win them the game, long enough for them to go home with new crowns and new coins, long enough for him to go back to living his quaint little life in his quaint little house - going back to heckling the Warden at night and hanging with Bad and Puffy, working on builds and living life away from the rest and pretending that nothing is wrong. The server will go back to normal come tomorrow, and it will all be okay. 

The smile slips off his face. 

They’ve done it. And then they’ll go back to the SMP, and Dream might evade whatever immediate consequences come with losing, but there’s no evidence that whatever’s caused that heartstopping, devastating fear that has characterized his every move is going to stop. They’ll win, and they’ll go back to the SMP, and they’ll keep dying and fighting wars and keep pretending that the world they live in is normal; they’ll go back to the server, and Michael will go back in his house while Dream goes back into his cell directly across from it, still locked in a black box with no way in or out, no means of communication with anyone outside, locked away with the key thrown away for anything to happen with no one to know-

Michael glances over to Dream, to the tense edge of his shoulders that has never left for as long as the tournament has continued and long before. To the grey-faced, grey-eyed inhabitants of the SMP, coming to the Championships with sealed lips and a shared determination to never reveal that anything is wrong, to pretend that things are normal and move on. 

Michael’s hands clench into fists at his side, then unclench, the helplessness cutting through his excitement like a splash of cold water straight through his chest. They’ll win the Championship, and then what? They’ll go back to the server, and then what? 

He looks up at the sky, avoiding the eyes of the rest of his team as they are teleported to the arena. Around him, nothing comes in reply. 

---

“Shit-”

Sapnap disappears in a flourish of red particles, and Michael winces as Dream picks up the arrow he left behind, biting his lip as he watches the opposite side maneuver on the ice.

Both of Dream’s shots hit true, and Michael switches to dodging over the ice as the opposing team begins to shoot. His mind is still buzzing with uncertainty, questions whirling around his skull and making his head spin, the reminder to just let things be raging against the anxiety that has wormed its way deep into his bones for the better part of the day. His performance has fallen a bit as a result, and they’re tied, 2-2, for the last round of Dodgebolt against Yellow - winner takes all. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He wants to tell, but he wants to fall back into the background. He wants to make a difference, but also wants nothing more than to go on pretending that everything is fine. It would be so, so easy to move on and wash his hands of the whole affair - it’s not like anyone else will know, only himself and the guilt that he’s sure will haunt him to remind him of his failures. Is there even anything he can do? He’s no genius at combat, or parkour, or strategy- all he has are his eyes, his ability to see what the hell is happening with no means to change any of it. 

An arrow whizzes towards him, too low to hit, and falls to the ice by his feet. Michael feels it plop into his inventory as he runs past it, shivering slightly from the cold or adrenaline or some mix of the two - not that he can really tell. The other team still has an arrow, the gleaming arrowhead catching the light as the person shooting - Jack, it looks like - moves it from one side to the other, looking for someone to aim. Michael lets the arrow into his hand, feeling its weight.

A sudden shock of clarity. 

He staggers back and nearly trips over his own feet, feeling relief rock his body when he manages to catch his balance - his eyes rake over the rest of his team, still dodging over the ice, completely focused on the opposing side. He worries his lip between his teeth - it’s a risk. It’s a hell of a risk, and if he messes up - they’re fucked. They’re more than fucked. There’s a good chance that this does more harm than good, a good chance that it won’t do anything at all. 

Michael takes a deep breath, and nocks his arrow. 

With his bow pointed to the floor, he doesn’t think anyone’s noticed yet - especially the rest of his team, gazes still trained over the centerline to the other side of the arena. Michael plants his feet, raises his bow, aims - he’s standing still, too still, and he can already see Jack swinging the bow towards him from the corner of his eye, preparing to let the arrow fly directly at him. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

Keep your head down. 

Michael lets go, and Quackity manages to turn just in time to see the arrow hit him between his eyes.

Not this time.

Michael just manages a wicked, satisfied smirk before the world disappears in a flash of red. 

---

“What the hell was that?” 

Michael teleports into the middle of the MCC main lobby, finding Quackity already mid-yell in front of the podium, where the Yellow Yaks have taken their places as the winners of the Championships, new, shining crowns on their heads as they greet the crowd with smiles and cheers. Michael turns to where the rest of the team has gathered in the corner, Quackity hissing angrily at Dream, curled into himself against the fence. 

“I- I-”

“You lost us the fucking game, that’s what you did,” Quackity grabs him by the arm, rage painting his features as he yanks Dream closer to him, ignoring the other’s panicked yell at the proximity and flailing to get away. “What the fuck- you had both the arrows. How the fuck did you miss that?” 

“Back the hell off, Quackity.”

Michael steps forward, bodily shoving Quackity out of the way - Dream’s head rises just enough for the two eyes painted on his mask to look  above where they’d been hidden behind his arms, though Michael’s far too lost in his own anger to pay any mind to him at the moment. Quackity turns his furious direction towards Michael, only seeming to get angrier as he meets his eyes. 

“Oh, fuck off, Michael- you-” he rakes a hand through his hair, “You fucking- we fucking lost because of you, you know that? We had that! We were going to win that, you fucker-” 

“And then what, Quackity?” The words Michael had been pushing back the entire day come forth, mixed with his simmering anxiety and muffled anger that he’d been forced to push down, game after game after game, one bubbling mess of emotion underscoring his tone and making Quackity rear back, “Then you’ll go back the SMP and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy? Go back to your shiny little country with a shiny new coin, beat up Dream a few times to work off the adrenaline because, hey, it’s not like anyone else is gonna know if he’s black and blue inside of that shitstain of a prison, is that right?” 

The flash of panic that makes its way over Quackity’s face is more than enough to confirm the worst of Michael’s assumptions, and the rage that has made a home in his chest only burns hotter. 

“What- what the fuck did he say?” Quackity barely manages to catch onto his tone, pressing harder with narrowed eyes and a snarl, “He’s lying, you fucking idiot, that’s all he ever fucking does-” 

“He’s not told me shit,” Michael presses forward, forcefully pushing Quackity away from Dream, who is cowering from both of them behind him, “But you would know a hell of a lot about that, wouldn’t you Quackity?”

“I have no fuckin’ clue what you’re on about, pal,” Quackity shakes his head, hair whipping past his eyes, “And I’d recommend you shut your fucking mouth before you go around hurling baseless accusations- I could have you sued for defamation, you know-”

“Oh, we’re talking law, now? Fine! We’ll talk legalities- how about we start with that casino of yours and work from there?” 

Sapnap moves over, quiet thus far as he watched from the sidelines, and Michael watches as Quackity relaxes, minisculely, at his approach - only to tense further when Sapnap presses a hand to his shoulder, meeting his eyes with blazing eyes staring right at his.

“Q,” Sapnap says, voice uncharacteristically serious, “tell the truth, now- what did you do?”

Quackity laughs - it sounds unsure, even in Michael’s ears, “Sapnap? You can’t tell me you believe-” he waves his hands frantically, “this- this fucking asshole, now, do you hear him? He sounds- he’s literally out of his fucking mind-”

Sapnap shakes his head, firm. “Quackity, I’ll need you to cut the bullshit. What did you do?” 

“He’s backing up Dream, Sapnap,” Quackity focuses his gaze on Sapnap, something creeping up in his tone, sweet and cloying despite the bitter tone, that Michael can’t quite recognize, “You know what Dream is like- he pulled the same shit with you, remember? You and George? Tommy?” He waves a hand at Dream, who ducks down further at the attention, “He hasn’t changed, man! He’s still pulling the same bullshit, still manipulating people for the hell of it- you know, the exact same thing he did to you? Don’t fall for that again, man.”

“I-” Sapnap seems to hesitate, conflict warring over his features. 

“Look at me, Sap - you know what Dream’s like. He pretends to be your friend, makes up some stupid bullshit to justify his shit - Michael hasn’t been around for as long, not like the two of us, remember? He doesn’t know.” Quackity brings his hand to Sapnap’s own, ignoring Michael’s protests as he laces their fingers together, “I care about you, Sap. All of this- I’m just worried that he’ll end up manipulating you again. I’m just trying to protect you.” 

“...liar.” 

“What?”

Sapnap steps back, wrenching his hand out of Quackity’s own. His expression, out of what Michael can see from the sliver of his face that is facing him, is stormy with fury and no small amount of regret - Quackity steps back, unease finally beginning to flicker in the corners of his self-satisfied expression as Sapnap stares him down. 

“You’re a liar, Quackity.” Sapnap draws himself up. “Now, I’m asking this for the last time- what did you do?”

Quackity’s expression stutters, falls, as Sapnap stands back next to Michael, the two of them between him and Dream. His eyes flick between their faces, then to Dream, then back again, frown deepening with every pass he makes between the three of them. Michael keeps his arms crossed in front of his chest, feeling his muscles tense with every second of silence that ticks by, Quackity seeming to grow more and more angry and tense under their scrutiny and unforgiving stances-

-a second passes, and he throws himself forward. 

“Quackity!” 

Michael only manages to throw himself out of the way of the man barrelling towards him just in time - too late, he realizes that he wasn’t Quackity’s intended target. He tackles Dream to the ground, pinning the taller man underneath himself onto the ground in a rough thump that seems to knock all the air out of him. Dream immediately begins to thrash aimlessly, jaw going slack in panic as Quackity levels his arm against his neck, going still as Quackity presses harder against his windpipe. Michael is only barely close enough to pick up what he says over the sound of the surrounding screaming, Sapnap rushing forward to pull Quackity off to no avail-

“-make what I did two weeks ago look like a fucking joke when we get back, going to make you wish you fucking died-” 

The world explodes into white.

When Michael’s vision clears, he’s face to face to the stony face of one of the MCC admins, their status displayed by the proud red [Admin] by their nametags and the fact that they’re floating several inches off the fucking floor. He backs away, strangely winded - probably from the panic or adrenaline or yelling or, more accurately, all three, as Quackity is pulled back effortlessly by an admin, easily caging his flailing limbs with a snap of code as he is frozen into place - and Michael whoops. 

“LET’S GO!” 

(The arrow hits Michael in the shoulder, and he disappears in a flash of red - only instead of going to his usual place above the Dodgebolt arena, standing with the other competitors, he finds himself teleported in front of a dizzying array of screens and buttons, too many to have any idea where they connect and how they work. Michael turns to meet the faces of the MCC Admins, each one looking at him with odd, concerned expressions and furrowed brows. 

“You shot your teammate,” one says - Noxite - and Michael nods to concede the point, not quite finding the words to speak. “Why?”

“If you had such a big issue with the teams, you could’ve just talked to Scott,” another one pipes up from the back, “I’m sure we could’ve worked something out.”

“I know, I know,” Michael runs his hand through his hair, both relieved at the plan working better than he could’ve ever fucking imagined and suddenly lost for words in front of the admins, each one looking at him with their full attention. Every nerve in his body rails against the scrutiny, reminds him to pretend that nothing is wrong - but it’s too late to pretend, now. It’s been too late for a long, long time. 

He remembers Dream, looking away all competition, voice dead and lacking all of its former vitality - remembers Puffy, hair a little greyer from stress, grief painting her face whenever she thought anyone wasn’t looking - remembers Bad, hands still shaking despite his attempts to hide it - the prison, looming on the horizon, unbeatable, impenetrable - himself, helpless, for all this time, to do anything but watch and wait. Until now. He takes a deep breath, steels himself- 

“Something’s wrong with Dream.”)

“Thank you for your information, Michael,” Noxite smiles at him, and relief throws itself through his system so fast that it makes him dizzy- “We’ll handle this from here. Good job.” 

“Holy shit- when did you get time to contact the fucking admins, Michael?” 

Michael ignores the clamor around him as the lobby bursts into activity and people talking over each other, each one probably trying to figure out what the hell just happened, ignores Sapnap muttering, awed, from beside him, to move towards Dream, still sprawled out over the floor. There’s an admin by him, standing by to seemingly keep the crowd away but not engaging with Dream directly, and Michael ducks by them to kneel down by Dream and meet his gaze. 

“Hey,” Michael smiles, still shaking from the leftover adrenaline as he presses his hands to the ground to try and hide it, “We’ve got you. It’s over- Quackity’s gone. You’re safe now.” 

“Michael?” Dream’s voice is so damn small when his head twists to look over, hair having fallen largely fallen out of his ponytail to land in wisps all around his face. “You- how-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael shushes him, chest twisting painfully. “It’s alright.”

“...I don’t feel so good.”

Dream coughs harshly, and Michael quickly maneuvers him to a sitting position as his shoulders shake with another one, hand flying to his mouth as he is wracked with loud, wet-sounding coughs. Concern wells up in his throat, watching as Dream shakes with more coughing, nearly choking as he curls into himself, muscles tense. After what feels like an eternity, he pulls his hand back, and Michael gasps at the sight.

“Dream-”

There’s blood, and a lot of it - mixed with the saliva in his palm, shiny and stringy over the planes of his hand, dribbling past his lips and down his chin. His teeth are similarly stained red when his mouth opens slightly, stance wobbling before he collapses altogether against Michael’s body - Michael can barely hear himself shouting for a medic as Dream heaves a rattling, wet sounding breath into his shoulder. 

“Th’ts not g’d,” he mumbles, quiet, before going completely limp. 

---

When you first get strong enough to go to the Nether and collect blaze rods and brew potions for the first time, the first thing that gets beaten into your head forwards, backwards, left, right, and every way in between is that health and regen aren’t a replacement for actual recovery. Instant health pots are famous for their tendency to heal everything affected to the same degree - which is bad when you have a particularly deep injury, as it’ll often finish healing it near the surface while the injury persists underneath. Regen pots tend to be better at that front, but even they cannot completely fix a serious injury - the two can only act as a temporary, emergency fix for severe wounds, often being an invaluable resource to stop the worst of the bleeding and hold everything together for long enough to bring someone to proper medical attention. 

Unfortunately, when someone tries to use health pots and regens to completely bypass the time and rest needed for the body to properly heal itself and recover, what usually ends up happening is internal injuries - not completely healed by the potions alone - continue to be jostled and irritated, which can lead to further, worse, problems with internal bleeding and bones shifting out of place if they’ve been broken, which can then pierce through muscle and organ tissue - to be honest, Michael was never the best with all the medical stuff, and he’s half-sure that the horror stories he’s heard were exaggerated to beat it into his head never to be an idiot that thinks that potions can solve everything, but either way, he’s never tested his luck with the things.

Unfortunately, Dream doesn’t seem to have done the same, as the entire day’s worth of intense activity, between practices and MCC itself, were more than enough to fuck over the healing effects of whatever health potions he apparently downed before coming to the Championships. From what Michael has heard, it got a little harried after he was first brought into the hospital, but he’s apparently stabilized since - recovery will be slow, both physically and mentally, but at least he’s out of that damn prison to actually start on that path.

“Simply put, your teammate is a bit of an idiot,” Scott tells him when he finally catches him in the waiting room, hair fluffed up at the sides from where he’s evidently messed it up in Admin-related stress. “But he should be alright now, with proper medical attention and lots of rest - make sure to tell him to actually rest, will ya? No more parkouring for him - he can wait until after he’s out of the hospital to show us all how it’s done.” 

Michael laughs, relief settling into his chest, “Thanks, Scott.” He directs a playfully accusing look towards the other, a grin tugging at his lips, “but you know, he’s only my teammate because you made it that way. Kinda sounds like your own fault there..” 

“Oh, quiet, you.” Scott laughs- he looks stressed, and Michael feels a twinge of sympathy. The administrative side of things after his whole stunt at Dodgebolt, and then especially with what happened in the main lobby, must be an absolute nightmare. “Anyway, I need to go back - Admin meeting,” he shakes his head, already looking at his comm. “You should go see Dream, by the way. I think he’s awake.” 

“Thanks for everything, Scott.” 

Scott smiles at him, soft, sincere. “Go see your friend.” 

He disappears in a flash of white light, teleporting away, and Michael looks at the empty space where he stood for a few seconds before standing up out of his chair to move towards the door. He hesitates at it for a second, hand on the doorknob but not yet turning it to the side - it’s suddenly awkward, without the pressure of the competition at his back and the relentless questions of what he should do. He doesn’t even know if Dream knows what happened, or if he’ll be happy with him - for all he knows, Dream was the one who started the whole ‘don’t tell the Championships what happens in the server’ deal. His teeth catch on his lip as he stands, lost in thought, at the door.

Well. Here goes nothing. 

He eases the door open, getting a glimpse inside the room - it’s white, clean-looking, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, a chair on the side with his Championships clothing and what appears to be some sort of padded body armor laid over the cushions. Dream, as expected, is lying down in the bed, unmoving; for a second, Michael thinks he’s sleeping, before he suddenly twists his head over to look at him.

“Michael?” 

“Hey,” Michael smiles, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. For the first time today, Dream’s face isn’t masked, a glimpse of it visible behind him on the dresser by the bed. He blinks up at him owlishly, eyes wide and green, looking even bigger combined with the hollow planes of his cheeks, overlaid by pale, slightly raised scars. “How are you feeling, man?” 

“Um-” Dream tries to pull himself up, visibly struggling, and Michael rolls his eyes as he hurries over to help raise the back of the cot because you’re supposed to be resting, Dream, just let the fancy bed do its job, and settles back with an odd look on his face as Michael pulls over a chair. “Good? I think? I mean-” he flails his hands a bit, “this is weird. And I kind of hate this gown- but um. Yeah.” 

“That’s fair,” Michael laughs, and Dream huffs a small laugh out of his own, settling back into his pillow. He looks strangely small, with all the layers stripped away, frail and skinny against the sheets. His skin isn’t that same paper-white shade it had been when he collapsed in the middle of the fucking lobby, but it’s still pale enough to be vaguely worrying, especially combined with the IV and other wires hooked up to him. 

“Apparently, I’m dehydrated,” Dream drawls when he catches Michael staring at the IV, making a small, frustrated sound through his teeth as Michael turns to look at him, “figures, I guess, but still sucks. I hate needles.” 

“Ouch,” Michael winces in sympathy, “yeah, those don’t look that fun.” Dream smiles up at him, before his expression shutters, dulls, and he looks away, not meeting his eyes. The sight of it makes Michael frown, quiet, remembering the way he’d drawn back from them all over and over again throughout the day - that fear and trauma won’t go away in a day, but it hurts all that much more to see his face as panic flashes across it and he pulls back, gaze carefully detached. 

“Dream?” Michael moves closer, but is careful not to make contact, “you alright?”

“Hmm?” Dream directs another small, tight smile his way, strained at the corners as his eyes flick away to the floor once again, “yeah- I’m- I’m fine.” 

Michael sighs, but decides not to push it. “Have you done anything else here, yet?”

Dream shakes his head. “No- I think that someone’s going to bring food over soon, I’m not sure. Not really hungry,” he mutters, half to himself, and Michael tamps down the concern that wells up in protest, “But we’ll see, I guess.” 

“That’s good,” Michael nods, and Dream looks up at him, expression startlingly unsure. 

“Um- do you know?” He wrings his hands together, eyes darting across the room nervously before flicking over Michaels’ face, and Michael tries to make himself look as calm and comfortable as possible, “I mean- do you know what’s going on with- everyone?” 

Ah. Michael winces internally- he probably should’ve expected this question, but in the fallout of what happened in the lobby and Dream, you know, passing out in his arms, he ended up brushing off or ignoring a lot of the chaos that resulted. He wracks his head for snippets of information that he’d seen in his communicator and from visitors to the waiting room, including people that had been there with him that had been pulled for questioning and meetings, Tommy’s expletive-filled yelling from the lobby still ringing in his head. 

“Um- I think that they’ve got a team of moderators pulled up to investigate the server, figure out what’s been going on,” Michael ticks names off on his hands, mentally going through the list of people that he’s been given information on, “They have Quackity in custody, I think, for the moment- they’re still waiting for more information on what to do with him, but they’ve got a whole MCC lobby’s worth of witnesses that saw him assault you so far, if you plan on pressing charges and stuff- um- Sapnap got pulled for questioning, nothing too major right now, I think that they’re going through the other server members that were attending the Championships for the moment.” 

“Are they- putting them in jail?” Dream’s voice sounds slightly tinny despite his forced calm, arms crossed in front of him, and Michael shakes his head firmly. 

“No- legal stuff between servers is weird, and I think they’re holding off on anything like that for now. Quackity’s just there at the moment because of assault charges on the MCC server - stuff in the SMP is still technically outside of their jurisdiction.” Dream visibly relaxes, and Michael smiles thinly, “It’ll be rough for a few weeks as they collect evidence and figure out what to do, but for now, they’re just focusing on recovery - giving people medical attention if they need it, lining up therapists,” he laughs, quietly, “lots of therapists.”

Dream hums, looking away. The corners of his mouth fall, eyes fluttering shut as he breathes a shuddery sigh through his lips.

“I- never wanted it to get this bad,” he opens his eyes, looking down at his hands, lip slightly trembling, “I don’t- I don’t know where it all went wrong.” 

“Hey,” Michael slides closer, ducking to meet Dream’s eyes with a soft smile. “You’re not alone anymore, alright? You don’t have to fix it all by yourself. Focus on yourself, on recovering.” 

Dream hesitates, breath seeming caught in his throat, wide green eyes staring into Michael’s own, before ducking his head to look away with a slight nod. Michael leans back in his chair, watching as Dream turns to the side, curling in on himself slightly with a small wince, eyes fixed on the window.

“Didn’t think I was going to see the sun again,” Dream says after a while, gaze still trained behind the glass to where the sun is slowly setting, rays of sunlight streaming past the slits in the blinds and casting glowing stripes of honey-gold throughout the room and over Dream’s face. Michael feels something cold press against the back of his throat, the quiet admission making air stutter in his lungs at the image of Dream, alone, huddled in the middle of an obsidian box for months and months and months, never knowing if he’d see anything other than the same black walls for the rest of his life. 

“You’re not there, anymore. You’re safe now.” 

Dream doesn’t reply, continuing to look out the window silently, breathing slowly as he moves his hand through a sunbeam, watching the way it streams between his fingers and warms his skin, seeming mesmerized by its soft glow. 

“Michael?” Dream looks over, and Michael feels the air punched out of his lungs at the soft, disbelieving sincerity held within his expression, the fearful edges for once pulled back far enough for the light to catch the quiet, heartfelt appreciation gathered in the slight quirk of his lips and downward slope of his eyes. He looks away a second after, a band of light cutting across his face and landing over the bridge of his nose, smile still on his face, voice almost too quiet to make out. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Michael feels his own smile widen, looking out the window himself- it really is a beautiful sunset. “What are friends for?” 

#-> my writing #my writing :D #c!Quackity critical #tw trauma #tw abuse #tw torture #tw panic attack #tw manipulation #tw gaslighting #tw needles #tw hospitals #tw emotional distress #pandora's vault #prison arc #god this was so fun #hope you all enjoy !! #long post

[itskatastrophe-x]

Unhealthy Competition (CH1) c!Punz x Reader

The enemies to lovers fic has turned into more than one chapter so fuck it more than one chapter!!! Here’s the first one :3

TRIGGER WARNINGS!!! : Blood, death, suicide, swearing

Word count : 1,540

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2

^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^v^

Competition was always your favorite thing about your job. There were two other people you had to fight with for power in the SMP constantly, and somehow you always came out on top. There were few occasions where one of the others would beat you to a kill, and you took pride in that. You had travelled to the SMP a handful of months back on a mission, and decided to stay since a lot of these people seemed wealthy, and you were right. The payout for jobs was astronomical compared to your homeland, so you stayed. You honed your skills and became the best damn mercenary they had ever had here. You had jobs to kill kings in far off kingdoms, regular townsfolk, and even take out towns. You had quickly climbed the ranks and hoarded your wealth, making a base deep in the woods away from everyone else to keep the illusion of being bottom rung. There were moments where you would come in contact with the other two mercs, sparring on those rare meetings. Other times, you would meet at a kill and have to fight for the right to take the kill. Those moments were terrifying, but almost every time you won. Most of the time it would be against the kid that went by the name Purpled. He was agile and quiet, good in the shadows and dark areas. He was a silent killer, made perfect to be an assassin. 

Even more rarely, you would have to fight the other man, Punz. He was just below you in rank, and he was more likely to steal kills. He flaunted his wealth and power and had a large plot of land in the main lands of the SMP, surrounded by tall, dark walls. He was arrogant and selfish and all he cared about was money and bragging. He loved the praise that came with the power, and that annoyed the hell out of you, so each time you beat him, you couldn’t help but to be as cocky as him, wearing a smug smirk with your axe pressed against his throat. There was one day where you were sparring with him, both covered in blood and bruises, swearing back and forth at each other, and you ended up pushing him against a tree. His head flew back against the sturdy bark, making him see stars as he went down. You took that opportunity to snatch the dumb gold chain he always wore, and before he had the chance to even stand up, you stashed it away in an ender chest and took off. You felt like that knocked him down a few pegs, but now you couldn’t sleep.

So here you are, sitting at the edge of your bed, eyes wide open in the dead of night listening to the sounds of crackling and the smell of smoke. The forest around you had been set on fire while you were asleep, and you knew it had to be Punz. Who else knew where you lived? Him, and only because he stumbled across your little lodge once trying to escape a really bad storm. It was awkward and he was angry the whole time that you had been so hospitable. And now your lodge was in danger. You packed as much as you could before the fire reached you, opened a hatch under your small house, and jumped in. You had hoped you wouldn’t have to use your escape, seeing as it went all the way to bedrock and was a dangerous route, but it had to be done. You were surrounded by fire and you knew there was no way through it. The fall lasted about ten seconds before you hit a pool of water and swam back up. The area around you was small and cramped. There were a couple chests lining the walls, brewing stands, a small emergency farm, and tunnels leading in every direction. You had spent almost every waking second to dig under everything possible. A tunnel leading to every major destination in the SMP possible. What you didn’t expect to see, though, was Punz sprinting full speed at you from the direction of L’Manburg. It took you a second to gather what was happening, but when it hit you, you climbed out of the pool and ran to a chest, pulling out a potion of invisibility, and chugging the bitter liquid. Seconds later, you were completely invisible, eliciting swearing from the man halfway to you now. 

“You pussy, get out here and fight me,” he yelled, still sprinting towards you. You snuck to the tunnel heading west, making sure to press yourself as far against the wall as you could, hoping you could just melt with the cool deepslate behind you. “I did my research, bitch,” he spat as he made it to the main room. “While you were hiding away, I was learning everything about you. You really shouldn’t have pissed me off. Do you not know how I was the top dog before you even got here? I helped put that powerful, green bastard in prison. I killed some of the most wealthy, powerful people you couldn’t even touch.” He stood there, listening, so you stopped your movement, hoping he wouldn’t hear your shallow breaths. To your surprise, he started off in the opposite direction, still yelling. “Two can play at that game,” he yelled, pulling out a potion of his own. Fear finally sank in as he disappeared. The last thing to fade was his face as he turned around and smirked. He knew. And now you were fucked. 

You took off running, weaving through the hundreds of tunnels you had dug. You had every path memorized down to the pebble just in case something like this happened, but he said about research so he must know too. You stopped at another small room and stood there for a second. “I know every movement,” his voice echoed to you. You were surrounded by his voice and it sent chills down your spine. “I told you I did research,” he said. “You fucked with the wrong merc,” his voice came from behind you. You could feel his breath against your neck and slowly, the freezing metal of a weapon came to your throat. He had you pinned and there was nothing you could do about it. You shivered at the touch of netherite and the warmth of another person behind you, unable to see anything. 

“Yknow, at first I thought it would be fun to let you keep running, but killing you right now would be a lot more fun. Sending you back to spawn while you lose everything you own. Now, give it back.” His voice was laced with anger, but somehow it was playful. You couldn’t lie to yourself, the man was hot. But you were competitors and merc life wasn’t easy. But the thought crossed your mind relentlessly about a life you could have with him. You wouldn’t dare admit it out loud. “What if I didn’t,” you retorted, keeping up the playful atmosphere. The blade dug farther into your throat, now drawing blood and bringing tears to your eyes. “Oh sweetheart, you really aren’t in the position to deny me what you stole.” Slowly, your body came back into view, the potion finally wearing off. You smirked and scoffed at him, relaxing against the blade. “Now, what kind of mercenary would I be if I admit that I lost? Why would I give up right here?” You slipped your hand into your pocket carefully, the smooth surface of gold hitting your fingers. He slowly came to your vision. His potion wearing off as well. The large netherite axe in front of you held to your throat was intimidating. The surface was scratched and chipped from years of use. It dug farther, making it hard to breathe. 

In one swift move, you wrapped your hand around the totem in your pocket and pushed against the sharp blade, effectively killing yourself. The shock on his face was the last thing you saw before things went black. Seconds later, on the floor, light rushed back and you saw the man standing over you in complete horror. You had taken him off guard and that gave you enough time to get up, set tnt down, and run off. The explosion was deafening but you kept running, zigzagging. You pulled out a lever and placed it against the wall, flipping it to reveal a secret door that blended in perfectly with the rest of the stone. You took the lever, entered the door, placed it on the other side, and closed it all in ten seconds. You ran down the hall. Up some stairs, and to a small pool of water. You pulled out your trident from your inventory and positioned yourself to fly up the small tunnel up. It took you multiple times and multiple stops to get to the surface, and the full moon greeted you happily. The woods in the distance gave off an eerie glow as they burned. You smiled, pleased with yourself, and ran off in the direction of your secret hideaway through the nether.

#dream smp #dsmp #mcyt #punz #punz x reader #c!punz #mercenary #possibly triggering #triggering themes #death #minecraft #x reader #reader insert #dsmp fanfic #lore #roleplay

[yellowsuitcase]

Get in loser, we’re going swimming // Draco Malfoy

Request: Hi cutie! Could you write a Draco x reader where they are firends or dating and she's overall a bad bitch, really extra and aassy and eccentric with a loving and outgoing personality? Thank you!

A/N: I received this request a little while ago and here it is! I really hope that I did your request justice. I thought it was such a fun little story to write and I’m rather fond of it, so I hope you are too!

Summary: Y/N and Draco are best friends. Y/N has too much energy and witty remarks than Draco can handle. What happens when her antics get her into trouble?

Waring(s): Swearing, near death experience

Word Count: 1.6k

“Draco! Draco, wait up!” Y/N called after her blonde best friend. Draco sighed but came to a halt, allowing her to catch up. When she did, she bounced on the balls of her feet. It was apparent her energy was high.

“Where you off to, ferret?” she asked while linking her arm around his. Ferret was a nickname she’d given him in year four after Professor Moody turned him into one. She was lucky to have been able to witness the event herself. 

“You’re never going to drop that one, are you?” he asked, a small smile on his face.

Y/N threw her head back and let out an obnoxious laugh. “Nope,” she said, abruptly stopping her laughter. “You never answered my question. Where are you going?”

“Well, I was hoping to have some quiet time by the lake, but it seems I’ll be bringing along my little chatterbox,” Draco said, emphasizing the word chatterbox. Out of nowhere, he felt a pop on his head.

“I’ll beat your ass Draco Malfoy,” Y/N said matter-of-factly.

Draco rubbed his head and gave her an irritated look. “What, so you can give me absurd nicknames, and I can’t?” he asked exasperatedly.

She smirked and stood on her tippy toes to get closer to his face. “It most certainly is...ferret.” Y/N took off running once she’d said his nickname. Draco was right on her heels. He’d be damned if he let her getaway.

He already had his wand drawn, but before he could cast a spell, Y/N turned around and shouted, "Expelliarmus!” Draco’s wand flew behind him, and he had to force his feet to come to a screeching halt to go fetch it. When he’d snatched his wand off the ground, he turned his head to see his friend had already made it out the door and was running towards the lake.

Draco quickly took off running, trying desperately to catch up with the girl whose hair was flying behind her. He saw her turn her head around upon hearing his footsteps drawing nearer. She smiled and suddenly threw her robe up into the sky, letting it fall onto the grass, but not before it landed on Draco’s head, causing him to nearly topple to the dirt. He angrily pushed the robe off his head just in time to witness Y/N stick her hands out in front of her and leap into a tuck and roll. She didn’t pop back up after completing the stunt. Instead, she turned on her side and began to roll all the way down the hill. 

Draco came to a halt and felt his heart skip a beat. From where he stood, it looked as though she was going to roll right into the lake. “Y/N!” he called, “What the bloody hell are you doing?” Fear could be heard in his voice.

He could only watch as the girl rolled into the dark water. He held his breath until he saw her head resurface. Her laughs echoed, and Draco felt the tension leave his shoulders. “Come on! The water’s great!” she yelled up to him. He sighed but began to make his way down the hill, opting to take the safe route.

When he arrived at the sand, he noticed Y/N had taken off her sweater as well as her skirt, leaving her in her white button-up and high waisted spandex shorts. Draco felt himself blush when he noticed her bra underneath the wet fabric. 

“Get in, loser, we’re going swimming,” Y/N said with a smirk on her lips.

“Is that another muggle joke? You have that look on your face.”

She wiggled her eyebrows as her smirk progressed to a toothy smile. “Perhaps… Are you getting in or not?”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Do you ever have a moment of downtime? Christ, you do know what they say is in these waters, don’t you?”

“Don’t tell me Draco Malfoy is afraid of a squid,” she taunted, splashing some water at him, successfully drenching his pant leg. He gave her an unimpressed glare.

“Not the squid, you moron. The merpeople. The squid is docile, but it doesn’t surprise me that a half-blood is unaware of that.”

She splashed him again. This time it got on his face. He made a disgusted noise and scowled at the girl who was now floating on her back. She merely winked and said, “Go ahead, call me a moron again, Malfoy.”

Draco puffed up his chest and turned his head, pretending to be looking off into the distance. “You, Y/N, are a complete and utter moron,” he stated in a haughty voice.

Suddenly, he felt a hand on his ankle. His head snapped towards Y/N, who was grinning mischievously. Before he could shake her grip, he was yanked into the water, creating a big splash.

“You little twit. Now my robes are all wet!”

She giggled, “I told you we were going swimming, didn’t I?”

Draco gave her a light shove, she reacted by flailing. “Help! Help, I’m drowning! Ferret boy is drowning me. I’m dying,” she screamed. Draco rolled his eyes while he watched her slowly sink underneath the water’s surface. He decided to ignore her, and he swam to the shore to take off his robe. 

He was down to just his pants when he realized he hadn’t heard Y/N return to the surface. Feeling his fear begin to grow, he turned around to see calm waters. Y/N was nowhere in sight. Draco whipped his head around, desperately searching for his best friend. He concluded she must be underwater. Thinking quickly, he pulled his wand from his pocket and pointed it at himself, and cast the bubblehead charm. Once his nose and mouth were encased in the bubble, he stuck his wand back into his pocket then dove into the lake.

At first, he saw nothing. Only seaweed, but as he swam farther and farther down, he noticed a steady stream of little bubbles floating up to the surface. His heart was beating so hard that his ears were pulsing. He kicked his feet vigorously;  he needed to get to Y/N fast. He doubted she had been able to cast any type of spell to allow her to breathe.

Finally, he saw her. Her arms were in the hold of two merpeople, while a third held a trident to her head. Draco knew he had to act quickly; he could see the fight leaving her by the second. He pulled out his wand and shouted, “Relashio!”

Even though his words were muffled, it got the job done. One by one, the merpeople were forced to release Y/N. Draco made sure to scare them off by sending gusts of force from his wand, successfully making them scatter. Once they were gone, he saw her. She had stopped moving and was slowly sinking deeper and deeper. He quickly tucked his wand away and swam towards her desperately. 

His legs were on fire, but he kept kicking and kicking, pushing seaweed out of his way. He stretched out his hand, and with a few more strokes, he was able to grasp her arm. Draco made sure he had a firm grip on her before whipping out his wand and pointing it to the sky. 

“Ascendio!” he bellowed. He and Y/N were shot like a rocket right up to the surface in five seconds flat. They flew into the air and landed on the shore with a loud thump. Draco wasted no time worrying about the impact of the fall. He got onto his knees and examined Y/N. Her face had gone pale, and her chest was barely rising. “Shit, what do I do?” Draco asked, praying for someone to come and help them. Who was he kidding?  Nobody was coming. And he couldn’t think of any spell that might save her. But then he remembered. In a muggle film that she’d forced him to watch, a character's life was saved by someone doing mouth to mouth. 

“Fuck it,” Draco said before he slammed his mouth to hers. He pushed air into her mouth a few times before remembering that the character had held the other one’s nose as they did this. So he hurriedly clamped his fingers onto her nose and breathed into her again and again. After nearly a minute of doing this, he had just begun to lose hope when suddenly, Y/N’s body jerked, and she spat water right into his mouth.

Draco pulled away, immediately spitting out the water and frantically wiping his tongue, feeling utterly disgusted. He heard Y/N coughing up a storm, and he turned back towards her. The color was returning to her cheeks. He leaned over and gently helped her sit up. 

“Are you alright?” he asked her when she had stopped hacking up her lungs. 

She turned to him and smiled. “Did you kiss me, ferret?”

Draco slowly dropped his head into his hands. “You are the bane of my entire existence, I hope you know.”

Y/N giggled, “You kissed me. Did you hear that world? Draco Lucius Malfoy kissed me! Whoop whoop!” Y/N screamed this across the lake, her hands around her mouth, creating an echo effect.

“Would you shut it? Christ Y/N, you never shut that trap of yours, do you?”

“No ferret, I don’t think I will. Unless, of course, you make me,” she said playfully. 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Watch me,” he said. And then he put his hands on her cheeks and drew her face to his, planting a passionate kiss on her lips. She kissed him back, matching his intensity.

When they pulled away, Y/N smirked. “If that’s how you’ll be shutting me up from now on, I’ll never stop talking.”

Draco grasped her chin in his hand and tilted it upwards. “Good,” he said, and he pulled her closer for yet another sweet kiss.

#draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy #draco fanfiction #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy x you #draco malfoy x yn #draco lucius malfoy #draco fuckingmalfoy #request #draco malfoy fluff #oneshot #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagines #imagine #slytherin #great lake

[zenosanalytic]

Harrow the Ninth: Wordplay and Implication

So I started reading Harrow the Ninth last night(haven’t gotten far; I’m only on page 47), but some interesting stuff cropped up I wanted to yack about. Explaining it requires some Serious Spoilers tho, so don’t read past this point if you haven’t reader further than me and are also avoiding ...spoilers... X|

Ok so: Harrow is obvsl going through some Things. To begin with she seems to be having some manner of psychological break exacerbated by(possible caused by) the Lyctor transformation? A huge part of it is obvsl grief over Gideon -she seems to be avoiding any memory or thought of her and this mental block seems to be impacting her ability to access Gideon’s soul and thus her full Lyctor capabilities- but she’s also overwhelmed by her new senses and her inability to feel physical pain, and a bit unstuck in time? Some of that just might be her grief-driven illness, but so far there’s been some jumping around in the timeline/her memories so it’s possible this is also a side-effect of the Lyctor transformation and existing on both sides of life and death.

Anyway, there’s some nifty wordplay associated with all of this :>

the first one is in an edited memory, and it’s right at the start of it, in the chapter-title for said memory: “Parodos”.

Now most obvsl, that looks&sounds allot like “parody” and, while they aren’t directly related, the connection btwn the two is STILL intriguing: “parody” comes from para(side/beside/parallel) and oide(song), in the sense of a comical/mocking “parallel” to another song; parodos literally means entrance, though specifically it’s the name of a SIDE-entrance in greek theater-design which gave actors access to the stage, or the chorus access to the orchestra, BUT ALSO it was the name of the song(oide) the chorus sung upon first entering the play, coming after the prologue. The connection to an actual side-entrance makes me suspect the “par-” phoneme is from “para”, but I can’t find a constituent breakdown of “parodos” so it’ll have to remain a suspicion :T

Regardless: it is, in the manner of a proper parodos(even IF Harrow, here, is her own Chorus; this is a 3rd person perspective section), seeming to introduce us to the central conflict of the tale; Harrow is censoring Gideon from her mind, altering her perceptions and capacities in response to her grief, struggling with feelings that she is LOSING her mind(associated with, possibly embodied by, her “hallucinations” of The Body[1]), and clinging to this expression of control as a life-raft among all this trauma. At one point The Body even appears in this memory just to tell her it didn’t happen like this which “gave Harrow a curious strength”.

IntriguinglyER(and this is more of a stretch and idk if Muir really intended this implication) parodos is often popularly confused with/assumed to be related to “parados” which is a fortification embankment built to protect the rear of a military position(it’s basically the backside equivalent of parapet. Parapet=forward, parados=behind). What makes this intriguinger to me(aside from the fun of a FALSE pun for a FALSE memory :p), is that the false memory is part of Harrow’s mental DEFENSES, and in it she asks Ortus Nigenad to PROTECT her by keeping the secret that she is “insane” because, since opening the Locked Tomb and seeing the girl trapped there, she’s been experiencing full-spectrum sensory hallucinations of said girl(ie: seeing her, speaking with her, feeling The Body[the girl] touch her, the whole hog, etc etc). I feel like this is MOSTLY symbolic though, and the REAL secret she’s asking him to protect her from is Gideon’s death(and her “consumption” there of; since becoming a Lyctor The Body has had Gideon’s amber-colored eyes). Of course there’s another aspect to this and one of two OTHER potential secrets; Gideon’s body wasn’t recovered from Canaan House, Harrow does not seem to be in “possession” of her soul(though she does have SOME aspects of Lyctor abilities, so perhaps it’s partial or a connection?); so

it’s possible the SECRET Harrow is actl using Ortus to protect is that Gideon isn’t dead, that they healed her after defeating Cytherea and somehow undid the Lyctor process. OR

They’re keeping Gideon’s existence a secret for some reason

Now I think these are a bit out there theorywise because, while I’m not far into the book, I’m fairly certain that it’s only Harrow who is thinking Nigenad was her cavalier at this point. I mean: the Emperor would have spoken to Ianthe, and there’s no reason why she’d keep Gideon’s existence secret(also everytime the Emperor says Ortus Nigenad it’s attached to a description of his mouth moving oddly, so I’m fairly certain he’s actl saying Gideon Nav and her brain’s editing it to Ortus Nigenad to spare her facing Gideon’s death). Also and SUPER tellingly there’s this passage:

The Resurrecting King took on the expression of a man working out a very difficult and emotionally taxing anagram. He said, “Ortus,” again, but the bile was sputtering up into your throat...”

Now that just seems like an INVITATION to see what Ortus Nigenad can be an anagram of, doesn’t it? And, INCREDIBLY OBVIOUSLY it’s a partial anagram:

Ortus Nigenad

Gideon

Of Gideon’s name. Partial, because it doesn’t include “Nav”, and also there are these left-over letters

rtusna

Hmmm... What can THAT be an anagram of?

rtusna

Saturn

Well flog me with a spoon! I have NO IDEA what this, GIDEON SATURN, could POSSIBLY mean in the context of this convo or of the larger story(also: maybe this anagrams to other words? I honestly didn’t try too hard after this very obvs one. AtRSun??? Taurns?? OF COURSE Harrow would play Horde if she played WoW, but I’d imagine she’d’ve been a Forsaken Warlock, or Orc one at the very least :p), but that we have a character’s name being called an anagram by the narration and then that character’s name turns out to BE AN ANAGRAM of the first book’s, now(mysteriously[2]?) absent, protagonist plus the planet Saturn[3], seems an awful coincidence. Of course that doesn’t mean it ISN’T a Coincidence, nor that it means anything in relation to the story even if it IS intentional; it could be meant to throw off theorycrafters, or just as something Muir thought would be fun to do(making Gideon Nav, “the greatest cav the Ninth ever produced”, a near-anagram with Ortus Nigenad, one of it’s worst). Of course, it could also be a hint to Gideon’s origins, or where she/her body is now. For what it’s worth, I seem to recall the big contenders for her origins were Third through Fifth House, and those seem to be the most likely to be the Gas Giants&GG Moons(Third’s the wealth-house, and there’s probably more concentrated resources in Jupiter and Saturn than on any other planet in the solar system. And, for whateverMORE it’s worth, Saturn WAS the Roman god of wealth&the harvest. If Mars’s ...Martial[X| X|]... associations are a firm enough basis for its guess in the order, then why not Planet Fucking Saturn? Of course the trident theme suggests Neptune, but why in the cosmos would THAT be the third colonized planet in the system? Makes no damn sense |:T |:T).

The last thing(two things?) that I wanted to bring up, though it’s not really related to any of the above, is Alecto, the name for the next book. Presumably, this is The Body/The Girl. Alecto means “Implacable/Unceasing Anger”, and it is the name of one of the Erinyes; the Furies; the goddesses and purveyors of Vengeance. The Furies, according to Hesiod, were born from the blood of Ouranos spilled when Kronos castrated him. Interestingly, the way Necromancy works in this universe(as explained in these early pages) is that the Cohort “breaches” a planet, after which point its “thalergy”(life energy; presumably metabolism-produced energy since necros aren’t snacking on ambient heat&light) begins converting to “thanergy”(death energy, tho it’d be more precise to call it the energy generated by the detachment of a soul from a body), which Necros can use to do Necromancy. The microbiology within a planet’s soil can similarly be drained, as can the animals and plants, and the process of “breaching” allows Necros to draw on the thalery/thanergy of all of these. So Necromancy is a metaphor for environmental/planetary destruction&exploitation. Kronos is a harvest-god(his name is obscure, but probably means something like “the cutter” or “the striker”); Ouranos is the sky(probably a raingod with a name related, hilariously, to the verb for “to piss” :p :p), but at the same time still a planetary deity. Coincidentally, the primary antagonists so far in the book are “Resurrection Beasts” which seem to have been created by The Emperor Necrotising the Nine planets of Dominicus, and who have been pursuing him and his Lyctors to destroy them for this/for becoming Lyctors(Lyctordom is legit called “the indelible sin” by the Emperor himself) ever since. Sounds allot like the Furies, doesn’t it?

In this context, the Kronos Ouranos myth can be read as a story of planetary exploitation/injury(caution: I am NOT saying that’s the intended meaning of the myth originally, just that it is a possible application of it as a lens of analysis[it being referenced by the series through Alecto] to this story), and THAT suggests that Alecto, the Fury, may have been associated with this initial Necrotization(The Resurrection/Nine Resurrections, which SEEMS given what little I’ve read so far to be what they call the initial Necrotization of the Nine planets of the Sol System? Though maybe they were already Necrotized&all used up, and the Emperor revitalized them somehow?? I’m not sure yet), may be something instanced to stop it, or may be a “Resurrection Beast” herself; perhaps the initial form they took before 10k years of thwarted rage pushed them to become more monstrous. Alternately, I wonder if Alecto might be a manifestation or servant of Death? There’s a repeated focus on the Emperor having “defeated” Death, and The Body in the Locked Tomb is repeatedly referred to as a foe he defeated once but could not defeat again, so there are good reasons to disregard all the mythological trappings and focus on the clearer, less metatextual possibility.

Of course: it’s probably none of this and I’m just spinning Fantasy wholecloth from between my entirely metaphorical ears :p :p :p

[1]The Body is The Girl in the Locked Tomb which Harrow fell in love with. I’ll get to why this is relevant very soon after this footnote

[2]I mean we watched her force Harrow into Lyctorship by killing herself, so I’m still more convinced this is all trauma response. Her corpse IS MISSING, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t super-dead. Though: Camilla and Palamedes DID have a contingency, and Gideon DID wink at Harrow post-Lyctoring, and it was ambiguous if this was her impaled body or her spirit/hallucination doing the winking, so I can see ppl running with this theorywise...

[3]which is one of the Houses, obvsl(or at least it’s moons), though I’m only really confident on Sixth House(Mercury), Ninth House(Pluto), and 2nd House(Mars) at the moment. Seventh House is PROBABLY Venus, giving all its connections to poison, wasting disease, and Aphrodite(Cytherea is another name of the goddess), but that’s all just thematic suggestion. Oh also, I figured I should throw this in here given the large digression on Kronos and Uoranos, Kronos is Saturn’s Greek equivalent(or at least, the Romans considered him so).

#Tamsyn Muir #Harrow the Ninth #Harrow the Ninth Spoilers #TLT Theories #The Locked Tomb Series #HtN Analysis #Greek Myth #analytic posts #zA's Wildeyed Guessings

[killerkyara]

New Orders

[ tw: death and battle ]

Another knock at the door. Expecting a courier or a certain blonde friend, Kyara opened it quickly, willing, to find herself face to face with a fully armored Alliance officer. Extending out a missive, nonetheless.

“Damn.” She muttered, almost instantly.

It was not just a conscription, but a special order. Word had gotten around of the power she exercised in Arathi -- at least, that’s what she assumed, judging by the fact that the missive mentioned a need for her “abilities”, rather than a simple mandated service. She called home, suited up, and was at the docks in less than an hour’s time. Only to run into the man who had once been her old captain in Legionfall.

Mael had been a big shot in the Uncrowned, with feet nearly as quick as his mind. You handed him a weapon or a tool, he knew what to do with it. Together they’d taken down demons larger than the Stormwind Cathedral. She hadn’t seen him since then, and though she’d had no doubt that he was still alive and well, she hadn’t expected him to find a home within the SI:7′s ranks. 

“Grey.” He greets, circling around her like a shark; at once, she knew this meeting wasn’t chance.

“You called for me.” She realizes, coolly. “Do I get to know what this is about?”

He made a come here gesture with two gloved fingers, and she followed him into a secluded overhang, where multiple maps were spread out across a missions table, currently being pondered over by several operatives wearing the 7th Legion’s colors. He turned to face her in front of one.

“The last of the Horde’s ships just peeled out of Zandalar. They’re after something. If we can meet them there, we can end this war once and for all.” Always straight to the point, she appreciated that about him. 

She canted her head, signaling, go on.

“Our ships are capable of blasting them out of the water, but they won’t face us willingly. We need to slow them down.” He pinned her beneath his bright, amber gaze. “I want you to sabotage their flagship.”

“How--?”

“It’s risky.” He says. “You’ll need to blink onto their ship from our helm. You’re the only person I know who can step through fucking walls.” He flashed her a toothy sort of grin, at that.

“Mael…” She sighs, brows furrowing on the spot. “I’ve never used the shadows like that over the fucking ocean, either.”

“I didn’t think you have. Like I said, it’s a risk. But if you can pull it off...” He spread out his hands. “No more. I promise. I’ll throw out your contact, if that’s what you want. And you'll have enough gold to fuck off anywhere you want in the world, that sound fair?”

Her face hardened. The prospect of being able to secure anything Matin wanted in the future was certainly a draw. So was the prospect of not being bothered at her door any longer.

“Alright.” She agrees. “When do we leave?”

“Funny you should ask...” He hooked a thumb behind him, to a fully primed Alliance warship. “We were just waiting on you.”

They cruised over the open water faster than she had ever traveled on a ship before, gradually closing in on the speeding Horde ships. She enjoyed the trip out of the harbor, reminiscent of her time with her old crew. However, the gravity of the situation settled over her harshly once Mael summoned her. Together, they climbed over the helm to slide down and cling to the large, silver lion figurehead on the bow of the ship. Beneath them, waves peeled off the prow in the largest wake she’d ever seen.

If she failed to blink onto the Horde ship, she would surely fall to her death.

“Close enough?” He yelled, over the roar of the water. The stern of the Horde flagship was perhaps 50 yards out. They were riding their tail. Even then, Kyara would be hard pressed to fling herself across that distance on land, much less over open water.

“Just a little closer.” She called back, confident. The yards between them gradually closed. She prepped herself in the same way a runner would prepare themselves to sprint. And at once, she gave him a nod. Her form dissipated into a disorienting rift in the shadows the instant she leapt off.

The trip consumed all of her strength. She could feel the void pulling at her, summoning her body towards the depths, but she surged past it, closing the distance in the incorporeal plane. Back in the physical world, she reappeared clinging to the back rail of the deck, her vision swimming. She had to swallow down bile, and took a moment to reorient herself, before being able to climb over. Back on the Alliance ship, Mael rose his fist in triumph, upon seeing her come out on the other side.

Weapons drawn, Kyara slinked along the exterior wall of the galley, until she came to the nearest Forsaken sailor, back to her and gaze fixated forward...Along with the rest of the crew. As if they were expecting something. Narrowing her eyes, Kyara punched her dagger through the first two vertebrae beneath his skull, dragging his lifeless body out of sight. She was nearing on the galley door, which would lead her to the ship’s underbelly, where she planned on utilizing canon powder to blow a hole in the damn thing from the inside.

That was when the sea beneath them opened, and swallowed the ship whole.

It was surely a new sensation to feel yourself plummeting through air, to an end not in sight. Kyara did not yet completely grasp what was happening, though she knew that no matter if the ship crashed down into water, or the sea floor, the sheer force of impact would no doubt shatter it to pieces. Thus, she flung herself off the side, letting the shadows catch her, and determine her fate.

Kyara had done such a thing plenty of times before, stepped off the roofs of buildings and manipulated the void to catch her fall; though in those situations, she had her bearings and a knowledge of where the ground was, able to land on her feet moments before hitting it. Here, it was a panicked scramble; the shadows spat her out a good six feet above the rocky sea floor, and she hit it hard, the surface severely scraping up her shoulder as she attempted to tuck and roll. She landed on her back afterwards, the breath knocked out of her, staring up dazed at the walls of water held back around them. 

It was some time before she could sit up, now able to gawk upon the various shipwrecks, both Horde and Alliance; some had fared better that others. The one she’d jumped off of sat mostly intact, it’s crew tossed off every which way, a fact that made her realize that she was currently exposed in hostile territory. 

“Hey...!” A Sin’dorei soldier struggled to his feet nearby, cradling a wounded arm. “A stowaway--!” 

Before he could alert anyone, she shot up from the ground, pouncing upon him. They landed right in a deep puddle of briny water, and Kyara struggled to jerk him over, holding his head down into the depths until he stopped sputtering. Drowning was a grizzly death, one she hated to deliver; but with adrenaline fueling her, she was focused purely on survival. 

From there, she was quick to take to the shadows. Strangely enough, they welcomed her here even more willingly than they did on land. Voices whispered to her, hugged her in their comforting embrace. She did not allow herself to get too comfortable, knowing this plane well.

Slowly, she crept along until she found the ship she’d ridden here on. It’d fared much worse than the Horde flagship: mostly in pieces, though the galley and mast stood. The surviving crew was fighting off a ring of Naga soldiers, the battle quickly becoming a losing one. She recognized Mael among them, bloodied from a wound on his temple, fighting tooth and nail. She appeared beside him, and the two took up arms together seamlessly.

“Kyara--!” Mael barked, surprised, cut off as she fired for a myrmidon who’d risen their trident to bring down upon him. The naga was felled on the spot.

“Where the fuck are we?!” Kyara growled in response, keeping her aim up to the next approaching wave. Mael lifted his attentive gaze, scanning around the area around them. His answer was simple.

“Far from home.”

relevant: @brian-wellson, @quai-mason, @lovelydeadlysocialite

#my writing #wow rp #battle for azeroth #nazjatar #rp stories

[tiefling-queer]

★★★★★★ *whispers* tell me about all your ocsssssssss :D

:D

Allen Krueger - he’s the Chosen One and he’s just trying his best. Allen would rather be spending his time playing Overwatch with his discord pals or longboarding around listening to music than taking on these dangerous missions where people die or trying to figure out this weird axe that makes his head overload or some destiny and Choice-with-a-capital-c that he has to make. This was cool for about a day before it got incredibly overwhelming. Allen’s mixed race - his father is middle eastern, his mother is white. He’s 16 at the start of all this (which begins in 2016) and a sophomore in high school and he doesn’t deserve what we put him through lol. Allen’s big into emo, pop punk, punk, and basically anything you can find on a warped tour comp cd (since his mom was big into the offspring and green day back in the day, and his uncle is big into alt rock, so as a kid he latched onto fob and mcr and was just like ‘these. these are good’). Allen loves animals, especially marine mammals (ESPECIALLY WHALES), and was defo one of those kids who just kinda sits around and if prompted gives you their entire encyclopedic knowledge of wildlife. Allen often has difficulty putting his thoughts to words, and so he’ll trail off, try to use hand gestures to symbolize the word he’s looking for, use vague language like ‘the thing’ or ‘stuff’. That said, Allen also has problems filtering his words, and often says things as they come to mind. A double-edged sword because Talking is Hard. This boy is also just a terrible, terrible liar. He doesn’t like lying, he’s not good at it, Allen’s quick to draw conclusions about situations, things, and people, but also open-minded and quick to reconsider. He thrives on praise and a well-defined set of instructions or plan - he likes to know that he’s doing the right thing and on the right track.Allen was originally a Monster of the Week character, but is currently one of the characters in a webcomic i’m cowriting with @i-want-it-on-fire​. his personality is based on a combination of some of my brother’s personality with some of my own (so instead of a sarcastic wallflower stoner or an edgy emo theater kid, Allen is a sarcastic edgy emo wallflower)

Tam es Eleutherios - he’s a minotaur. he’s a sailor. he’s a scottish highland cow who talks like barbosa. he’s a little over a century old. he’s deadly with a long sword or a trident. he’s the last of his name and told his fiance he was getting some wine and purposefully got himself shanghaied to a pirate ship. Tam’s the equivalent of about 60 in human years, has a long, long list of vessels he’s sailed on over the past century (about half of those are pirate vessels) and he took the mission sailing on this expedition past the Ghostly Isles in the Undersea to die.For Tam, the idea of dying on an uncharted and untamed ocean is, well, exactly what he’s always dreamed of (frankly he’s surprised he lived this long). While he went through a minor crisis at first with how dauntingly still and unmoving and dead the Undersea appears to be, he’s back to his original goal after they’ve slowly discovered currents and life in the black waters. Tam’s afraid of commitment, and doesn’t like facing consequences of his actions or mistakes. He really just kind of goes with the flow, and does what needs to get done, and doesn’t put a lot of thought into what he’s doing.

Baylock Craft stole his name, coat, and boots off a dead man. He’s been in prison for 5 years, since he was left behind by his thieves’ guild to take the fall for a job that went bad. He’s lied about his identity to get a group of rebels breaking out prisoners to believe he’s also a rebel fighter. Baylock’s a bit in over his head now, and has only recently had a couple close-enough calls to realize just how fucked he is, and how dangerous the missions the rebel fighters go on are. His goal is to get back to his home town and get revenge on his former friends.Baylock is, despite his raspberry pink skin and lavender hair, more suited to life in the shadows. His strange arcane powers come from being born during a solar eclipse, and his personality is that of someone who’s reserved and a bit shy - content to observe. He errs to the side of caution, but is kind of a bad judge of character. The betrayal and years in prison kind of twisted that original nature - he’s now mistrusting, abrasive, and guarded.

Sydel Anastol - As a younger man, Sydel had… noble intentions. Lofty goals. A sense of duty and a desire to right wrongs and protect innocents. These were the parts of him that contributed to his becoming a blood hunter as a teenager. But over the years of self-mutilating and watching the people around him lose themselves to their obsessive quests, he began to become unhinged. Hunting wasn’t about killing monsters and protecting innocents anymore - it was about the hunt. It was about the rush. It was about any distraction he could get from the pain of the hunter’s bane, even if that was more immediate pain. Those lofty ideals, they don’t make you a better fighter, a better hunter. They don’t make you heal faster or hit harder. He drifted from the order, turned to bounty hunting.Sydel hasn’t felt a human emotion in years. He spends most of his time drunk, partly to distract from the chronic pain caused by the hunter’s bane, and partly to keep from thinking about his time with the order. Sydel is eccentric, a little unhinged, will lick anything he doesn’t recognize, and is seeking the rush of a hunt or battle in order to feel something and keep himself distracted. If he can keep himself in a constant state of intoxication and adrenaline high, he can feel good. Sydel is impulsive, reckless, callous, and doesn’t think ahead or care who gets hurt as a result of his actions (though it’s usually just him so it’s fine). He’s also a masochist. All in all he’s just a garbage bastard man, trying to keep the part of himself that was trained to be an obsessive monster hunter from taking over again - ‘because that’s how you go crazy.’

Tsuruchi Natsumi just wants peace in her life, but she hasn’t had any since some asshole Matsu dropped out of the sky and demons destroyed her village. As the eldest child of the current Wasp clan leader, she’s technically pretty damn important. Too bad she wants nothing to do with it. She planned to run away at a young age, citing being ‘fed up with clan politics’ and not enjoying her training with anything other than a bow - she didn’t want to learn court niceties, she didn’t want to learn bushido, she just wanted to shoot her bow and wear comfortable clothes. However, being a child, and with things at work in the world she was unaware of, she found herself literally spirited away, dropped in the spirit world and left there, a world apart from her family. She was taken in by a seaside village she was drawn to because of her sea-spirit folk heritage on her mother’s side (originally of the Mantis Clan), where she continued to do what she does best - shoot a bow and mind her own business. As she grew older, she eventually became the village’s protector and primary watch, and things were pretty good - just her, her village, her bow, and the red panda she took in as a pet - for a little over a decade. Until the Matsu and that Phoenix clan idiot dropped from the sky and upset the balance of the worlds, leading to a disastrous string of events that landed her back in the mortal world, having her ancestral bow thrust upon her, getting sucked back into clan politics, and dealing with a brother she barely remembers telling her that she’s got, like, some kind of duty to protect the city her family founded, or some kind of destiny as the person currently wielding Tsuruchi’s Yumi.Natsumi, while she claims to not want to be involved in clan politics, still follows Wasp Code, and still holds clan grudges and prejudices. While she is compassionate and (with some exceptions) quick to make friends and form bonds with the people around her, she’s ultimately a self-oriented person - Natsumi is very in tune with herself, what she wants, and her own beliefs, but isn’t likely to pick up on the wants and beliefs of those around her. She doesn’t even attempt to anticipate the desires and goals of other people, unless she suspects they’re up to no good, and as such comes off as a self-absorbed. Her pride is easily wounded (but don’t tell her that), she’s no-nonsense in the field, and she’ll shoot her way out of any problem she can’t talk her way out of. Her experiences in the last 5 years have left her paranoid and slow to trust her surroundings once weird spirit shit starts happening.

Ainsley grew up in Mesnia, a country where magic is a capital offense, on the streets of the central trade city of Kerrys, following their older brother and cousins in attempts to become a thief. They weren’t very good at it. One day, while their brother was giving them the slip, they were enthralled by a street musician and jumped on the offer this man gave them for apprenticeship. Growing up, they split their time between shenanigans and schemes with their cousin Brynn and learning this instrument, as well as, unbeknownst to them, bardic magic. After their mentor was tried, found guilty of, and hanged for illegal use of magic, they put their time into simple cons with Brynn - or rather, Brynn would get them into trouble, Ainsley would talk them out of it, and the ferret would manage to steal some coin.Ainsley is curious, naive, quick to make friends, compassionate towards strangers, genuinely wants to do good and right the things that are wrong, and primarily trusts their eyes. They spent most of their life not believing in gods, and only decided to do so after they saw one. They’re also mostly illiterate, stubborn, and they don’t think things through very well. They drank a potion that they were warned caused ‘random mutations and death through madness’ in desperation after an enemy killed one of their party members, hoping to gain some kind of power that could destroy him (now they can breathe fire). While eventually on their travels they found out and accepted that what their bardic abilities did was magic, they were in denial about it for quite a while.

Kip - Joffric ‘Kip’ Ravenhall was born to the head priest at a temple to the Raven Queen, with a proud lineage of Ghostwise Halfling Raven Queen worshipers - funeral preparers and Grave Clerics. As a child, he and his older sister Hattie were well on their training for priesthood themselves (though Hattie would eventually leave to find her own way to follow their goddess). However, when Kip’s father fell ill while he was still young (about 18 - Halflings reach maturity around 20), Kip began desperately searching for ways to cure his disease, or at least extend his father’s life until they could get him to a priest who could help. His father, being at peace with death and believing that the dying aren’t to be pitied, disapproved of Kip’s studies and attempts to heal him, and Kip, becoming more and more desperate to save his father, eventually sought the aid of a necromancer he and his father had dealt with several years before, agreeing to bail him out of jail in exchange for training in the necromantic arts - particularly those involved with extending life. His father found out, there was a big fight and falling out, Kip abandoned his priesthood training and tensions were high when his father died. But Kip was already too curious and too far gone, and so he continued studying, occasionally seeking help from the necromancer he bailed out. Kip’s primary area of study was reviving the dead, and extending the life of the living. His belief was that if it were possible to choose when one dies, or ensure everyone died only after living a full and fruitful life, after they’ve accomplished whatever they set out to do, society could flourish. He didn’t think it was fair that study of resurrection apparently stopped once people found out that diamonds could serve as a conduit for the spells - it limited resurrection to only the rich, the powerful, and the truly desperate. If only he could, say, find a cheaper solution? A more plentiful component?His family found out about his studies. He was disgraced, accused of necromancy, and has been on the run under the alias of ‘Geoffric Greenbough’ ever since.Kip is deeply conflicted about his studies, as he believes that undead - creatures brought back without agency or souls - are affronts to nature, and those creating and using them are particularly morally bankrupt for desecrating and enslaving the dead. While he’s abandoned his religion, he still finds himself following his old ways, and often feels directionless without the peace that worship once gave him. That said, Kip is truly driven by a morbid curiosity, a desire to see and feel and know - that’s what keeps him going through failed experiments and terrible mistakes and feeling sick to his stomach. Although Kip tries to hide his true colors to keep people from getting close enough to find him out, those who travel with him will find that his humorless and cold personality is a facade, and that under that he’s a pretty playful and friendly person. The exception to this is when he’s in a situation that requires spell casting, which is a personality quirk that even predates his necromantic studies - he’s always been taught that magic is a serious thing that requires full attention and focus, and he doesn’t have time for nonsense then. Kip is incredibly loyal and very quick to become ride-or-die for those around him. Above all, he wants to help people, and he wants to make people happy. (Ironically, while his sister was more devoted to the Raven Queen than he was, Kip was always more suited to being a cleric, and if Hattie had been around to keep him level during their father’s sickness, he probably would have finished his training and become a cleric.)

These are just a few, and mostly rp characters since it’s been 3 billion years since I’ve thought about my other ocs.

As characters, they’ve all got really fun aspects to them. Allen is probably the most ‘real’ character to me, and honestly probably has the most of me in him. Sydel is my first attempt to play someone who’s just, objectively, not a good person, and it is challenging (he’s officially done damage to every member of the party except the kobold and the rogue). Ainsley is a very simple character who I honestly slip into like a glove. Kip has the most fleshed out backstory of any RP character I’ve ever had I think, and I love the internal conflict between his need to sate his curiosity and help people and his questioning about whether what he’s doing will do more harm than good.

#emo poetry #long post under cut #ocs #ideally human #dnd #legend of the 5 rings #renaissance-aeroplane

[lilbreck]

AGoT Chapters 14 - 18

If you want to follow along, I'm tagging my ASoIaF reading as tonya rereads asoiaf.

Chapter 14: Catelyn III

Catelyn is cracking. Her world completely stopped. Thankfully Robb is there to try and pull her back.

Sobbing, she pulled her hand free of his and covered her ears against those terrible howls. “Make them stop!” she cried. “I can’t stand it, make them stop, make them stop, kill them all if you must, just make them stop!”

I think this really highlights that, although she’s married to a Stark and her children are Starks, there is a part of them that she will never share. Much like Tyrion and the others, she seems to regard the direwolves with… trepidation.

Looking on the scene where the man comes to the tower to kill Bran and I have to believe that it’s not a coincidence that he almost slits her throat but she stops it. I knew that Bran’s direwolf would save the day, but I’m so glad that we see her fighting hard to live. I’m also very glad that, after her rest, she’s back to being the woman that Winterfell and her children need her to be.

Yeah, I have my issues with her, but I can’t help but love her as well.

Catelyn gave her firstborn a challenging look. “If you are to rule in the north, you must think these things through, Robb. Answer your own question. Why would anyone want to kill a sleeping child?”

While I love that she’s teaching him this now, this is shit they should have been teaching him from a young age. He’s the heir to Winterfell, he should have been trained. Again, I love Ned at Cat, but they’ve coddled their children too much.

I fucking love that Catelyn is figuring this shit out, but why wasn’t someone figuring it out while she was in her grief fugue? Why do they not have a paranoid asshole always suspicious? Okay, I’m not sure if this really earns the “fucking northern fools” tag, but the fact that Robb wasn’t trained does, so we’ll wave this one in as well.

I’d like to mention that Catelyn riding off to take care of shit fills me with joy. We know it’s not going to work, but I still love it.

Chapter 15: Sansa I

Age 11

Not gonna lie, I’ve been waiting for this chapter. It’s going to hurt, because I know what’s in store for her, but she’s still my baby. Granted, she starts out as a prissy, entitled, stuck up baby, but the Oompa Loompas had a song about where that comes from.

The septa was not appeased. “You’re a good girl, Sansa, but I do vow, when it comes to that creature you’re as willful as your sister Arya.” She scowled. “And where is Arya this morning?”

“She wasn’t hungry,” Sansa said, knowing full well that her sister had probably stolen down to the kitchen hours ago and wheedled a breakfast out of some cook’s boy.

I’d like to point out two things here: It’s obvious that the septa uses Arya as an example of how “bad girls” act in order to make sure Sansa stays in line. It’s possible that her mother does the same thing. You know what this does? Pits sisters against each other. However, Sansa still covers for Arya here, knowing that her septa would probably not look favorably on Arya’s actions. If Sansa really was a nasty bully like people claim, she would have relished the chance here to get her sister in trouble.

Reading this chapter it just drives home both how young both Sansa and Arya are and how sheltered. Sansa was raised to be such a proper lady and all of her septa and mother’s teachings seemed to have made her look down on anyone who was below her in station. And Arya doesn’t seem to realize that she can’t just get away with anything and everything.

One day she came back grinning her horsey grin, her hair all tangled and her clothes covered in mud, clutching a raggedy bunch of purple and green flowers for Father. Sansa kept hoping he would tell Arya to behave herself and act like the highborn lady she was supposed to be, but he never did, he only hugged her and thanked her for the flowers. That just made her worse.

This right there. They are traveling with the King and his family, but Ned doesn’t even try to reign in his daughter. This shit is part of what leads to everything going wrong, IIRC. Yet another subtle example of questionable parenting in the series. If you coddle your children, they’re headed for a world of pain.

This scene where Sansa is terrified by Ilyn Payne, notice that Lady reacts. This shows that Lady and Sansa were already bonded. Just imagine what that means for her losing Lady when they were already that close. I think, because Lady is lost so early in the series, people like to dismiss what that meant for Sansa. Of course, a lot of those people like to pretend that she’s not really a Stark at all.

I’m amused that Sandor was under the impression that he was the one who frightened Sansa. Did he not notice she was shaking and terrified before she turned around and saw him? Hell, he had to grab her shoulders before she turned around.

And then there comes Joffrey playing the part of the gallant prince. For a girl fed a steady diet of fairy tales and songs then told she would marry a wonderful prince, he had to have seemed like a dream. My poor baby. She does manage to find her feet, even feeling foolish, and pay a compliment to Cersei.

“I can answer,” Sansa said quickly, to quell her prince’s anger.

Even though she’s infatuated with Joffrey, she’s quick to want to head off his anger. Given that her father doesn’t seem one to fly off the handle, you have to wonder if she’s getting some sort of subconscious feeling that he’s temperamental and that’s not a good thing. Of course, this could just be a throw away line that means nothing.

He drew his sword and showed it to her; a longsword adroitly shrunken to suit a boy of twelve, gleaming blue steel, castle-forged and double-edged, with a leather grip and a lion’s-head pommel in gold.

I just wanted to put this here to compare it with how Robb was reprimanded the chapter before this:

“…Never draw your sword unless you mean to use it. How many times must I tell you, foolish boy?”

Yeah, I don’t think Joffrey was all that well trained either. When Sansa thinks to herself that “her prince would never love her if she seemed stupid” you really have to wonder this shit that everyone put into her mind when they were training her to be some lord’s trophy wife. Yeah, I’m bitter, what of it?

You remember when I said that Ned’s indulging of Arya helps lead to everything going wrong? The scene at the Trident is exactly what I’m talking about. Arya knows damn well they’ve been interrupted by the prince, but she yells at him like they were in the North and he was just another lord up there. Hell, she even starts throwing rocks at him. If Joffrey had killed Arya, I doubt a damn thing would have happened to him. And Sansa, who’s been fed on a steady stream of songs and fairy tales is no help as she yells at both of them that they’re spoiling everything.

I’m pretty sure that Nymeria saved Arya’s life here. I have no doubt that Joffrey would have killed her, and she was weaponless and backed against a tree. As soon as Arya attacked Joffrey, I’m sure Myca’s fate was sealed, and as soon as Nymeria attacked him, a direwolf was going to have to die.

When I finish this book, my wrap up post is going to talk about how this chapter shows the core of what character traits in both Stark girls that are going to be sharped, honed, and perfected for where I think their story will ultimately end up in the series.

Chapter 16: Eddard III

You know, all the people who claim that Sansa is the reason that Lady and Myca died…

What the fuck did you think her word would do?

Cersei was damn determined to have a pelt and Lady was the only direwolf around. Robert clearly didn’t give a fuck and, even if Sansa had sworn up and down that Arya was telling the truth, Cersei would have still demanded and Robert would have given in. And Myca was already dead.

Lady didn’t die as a punishment for Sansa’s imagined sins. She died because Joffrey was humiliated and Cersei couldn’t stand that. She died because Robert had no fucking backbone.

Man, I’m a fucking huge Sansa fan and even I don’t think she has as much power as some of her haters seem to think she has.

Chapter 17: Bran III

Okay, I’m a sucker for a good dream sequence and this opening one is fucking wonderful, IMO.

He saw Sansa crying herself to sleep at night, and he saw Arya watching in silence and holding her secrets hard in her heart.

Okay, I feel slow, but what secrets is he talking about here? Unless it’s about where she had Nymeria. If that’s not it, someone please let me know. I have more questions:

One shadow was dark as ash, with the terrible face of a hound. Another was armored like the sun, golden and beautiful. Over them both loomed a giant in armor made of stone, but when he opened his visor, there was nothing inside but darkness and thick black blood.

These three are, I’m assuming Sandor, Jaime, and the third I’m guessing is Gregor. Am I right in that? I mean, he’s a giant of a man and the “darkness and thick black blood” would fit with his death via Oberyn’s poison and the removal of his head.

As we go through this dream and see Bran realize that the Night King is coming and he’s told that’s why he has to live, remember this is a SEVEN YEAR OLD CHILD. Sorry, my babies suffer so much.

“Can a man still be brave if he’s afraid?” he heard his own voice saying, small and far away.

And his father’s voice replied to him. “That is the only time a man can be brave.”

Now, Bran, the crow urged. Choose. Fly or die.

Death reached for him, screaming.

Bran spread his arms and flew.

Yeah, I’m gonna be over here crying for a bit. Okay, I’ve got a scary confession. I can see an endgame for Arya, Jon, and Sansa after the battle with the Night King is over. I can see the roles they could play in the world after. I don’t remember seeing what role Bran would play, and that scares me. Because, what if he ends up like the three eyed raven?

Chapter 18: Catelyn IV

“…I had to beg Brandon to spare Petyr’s life. He let him off with a scar.”

How much of these books would be different if Brandon had just went ahead and killed him. Seriously, just think about it. You know how I said I wanted all the men around Daenerys impaled like Vlad did to his enemies? Petyr should be right there beside them, suffering because the damn pike didn’t go through his brain. I’ve got some damn feelings on this.

 That’s all I’m reading for tonight, but I’ll definitely be reading more tomorrow. Probably another ten chapters at least. A Jon chapter is next!

#asoiaf #asoiaf:agot #tonya reads books #tonya rereads asoiaf #questionable parenting skills in asoiaf #fucking northern fools #my baby starks deserve better

[winchestersandwordprocessors]

Hound’s Song

Chapter 2

The current Master of Hounds remembered Grandfather Clegane; the man who had raised dogs so loyal they fought off a lion. Sandor spent a year (it seemed he was doomed to work no more than nine or ten months in any one place) watering and feeding dogs, clipping toenails, brushing out coats, and helping bitches bring their pups into the world.

He was happy for that year. The kennel master didn’t care about his face, and nobody seemed to give him a second glance, which was the way Sandor liked it. He frequently visited his father and sister in the village during his afternoons off, and Melyssa seemed to be blossoming under the tutelage of a local dressmaker. Their father was a knight, true, but no money had come with the title and little manor house. “Can’t eat a title,” his father was heard to say frequently and without malice.

When Sandor was fourteen Gregor came home. At twenty one Gregor was now a blooded knight; an almost eight-foot tall warrior who rode a brilliant dappled Percheron as mean as its rider. He was full of news from the capitol, news of a mad king and a potential challenger from Storm’s End. He drank too much in the telling of this, giving details of how victims of the Targaryens seem to dance as they shriek and burn.

Hearing this made Sandor’s face twinge and he was thankful to make his excuses and go back to the dogs in the Rock’s kennels.

Sandor slipped back to the village during luncheon to see his brother off; a war was brewing and his father wanted the family together to say their goodbyes. When he arrived Gregor’s grey was gone. The door to the little manor house was slightly ajar and Sandor walked in to find his father’s headless body lying on the floor by his favorite rocking chair.  Knowing there was nothing he could do for his father Sandor went to see what fate had befallen his sister.

She was on her back on her bed. Sandor’s mind cataloged the other details of the room- the twisted, clawed sheets on the bed, the way the curtains lay yanked off the wall under the window, the smashed pitcher and bowl- before he took stock of the body sprawled on the bed.

She was naked. Sandor wanted so badly to turn his face away but he couldn’t. Someone should know what happened to her, someone should stand witness to the things the gentlest, littlest Clegane had suffered. Sandor took one more step into the room, trying to breath slowly to slow the drumroll beat of his heart.

Melyssa had blood everywhere. Her nose looked broken and trails of blood were drying on each cheek. Her barely-there, just-budding breasts had been bitten, one nipple nearly off. Her neck was purple with vivid finger marks, her lips blue and blood-spattered. She had blood on her thighs, a pool under her womanhood. Her gut had been cut open, but there wasn’t a big puddle of blood underneath her. She must have already been dead by the time her eldest brother had tried to eviscerate her.

Sandor lost his breakfast, heaving long after he had anything left to come up.

~~~

Sandor buried his father and sister on the very edge of the Sept cemetery. He started just after the sun went down, one little lantern to light his way. He dug two graves; dug and dug until blisters formed on his hands and burst, dug until the shovel handle wasn’t only slick with sweat but also with blood.

The sky has lightened just a hair, not noticeable to anyone who hadn’t been watching. Sandor threw down the shovel and walked home. He hitched up the team- the same gentle beasts that had been with him after his face was ruined on that trip to Lannisport- and drove the cart to the back of the house.

His sister’s body, wrapped in a sheet, was gently laid in the back first. Sandor had also wrapped his father, but gentle wasn’t an option. He had to drag his father’s body by the ankles; a tear seemed to fall from his chin every time his father’s body knocked into a stair or doorway. “‘M sorry, father,” he mumbled as he scraped the body up into the bed of the wagon.

On his return trip through the village Sandor saw a few candles being lit in the homes and shops bordering the street. He urged the team into a trot, wanting to finish his grisly talk before someone thought to question him. His father’s body was rolled into his grave, then his sister was slowly lowered into hers. His father’s head, inside a pillowcase embroidered by Sandor’s long-dead mother, was places on the corpse’s chest.

Dirt was heaved unceremoniously into the graves. Sandor pushed the dirt with his feet when he could, used his hands and the shovel when he couldn’t. It was light when he finished, horses and carts clattering by on the road.

The septon was waiting by his wagon at the bottom of the slope where he’d buried his family. “What happened, son?” the old man asked, voice too flat to be natural. He’d grimaced at the sight of Sandor’s scars. Now he wouldn’t look him in the face.

“My father and sister. Influenza, I think,” Sandor said. He’d practiced this lie, said it over and over in his mind. “Maybe the sweating sickness. Blood had come through their skin. I buried them before it could spread. Found them last night.”

The septon took a step back. They were highly contagious diseases, he didn’t want to risk it.

Sandor held out a silver coin to the man. “Could you say some words over them?”

The coin quickly disappeared into the voluminous robes of the holy man. “Absolutely. Where are you going?”

Sandor had unhitched the team lead. He used the edge of the wagon as a mounting block. “Keep the other and the wagon. I’m leaving.”

“What of the house?”

“Give it away,” said Sandor, tying the driving reins in a knot.

The big horse cantered away, hooves sounding like drums against the hard ground. Villagers were out watching him go. Sandor knew the conclusions they would draw; knew that the priest- who was significantly wealthier as of this morning- wouldn’t do anything to quell the rumors.

With just the coin taken from his father’s house and the horse between his legs Sandor rode east into the rising sun.He plans to be a soldier: since death seems to be all he brings, he might as well get paid for it.

~~~

Sandor somehow managed to survive Robert’s rebellion. One of Robert’s commanders accepted him into service on the condition that he survived the first battle. He gutted the first man wearing the Targaryen colors to approach him and carried on bashing people with his sword until the bugler played peace.

After that one of the men would train him in the evenings on days that they marched and as long as the sun was high on the days when they camped. They camped more days than not, creeping slowly towards King’s Landing and the bulk of the Targaryen force.

Gregor was made a King'sguard to King Aerys, followed soon after by Jaime Lannister. Soldiers whispered that the King was hoarding the most talented fighters close to him; that he knew the army marching behind Robert couldn’t be beaten in the field. Morale among the soldiers was high as a result and sparring partners were easy for Sandor to come by.

As time went on most of the soldiers made the connection between the tall, wiry youth with half a face and the Mountain that Rode and began avoiding Sandor as a result. It didn’t matter than Sandor had never exhibited the same pleasure in violence for which his brother was becoming infamous. He was quiet and scarred and intimidating; he was related to the man that had apparently raped an entire whorehouse. It was enough.

~~~

“A soldier in peacetime is more pointless than tits on frog,” the old Casterly Rock kennelmaster had once said. Sandor found this to be unfortunately true: King's Landing was glutted with able- bodied men and didn’t have enough jobs to go around. Sandor had developed a battlefield reputation of his own, and his scars and height made it impossible to go unrecognized. Not even the kennelmaster would take him on. It didn’t matter that King Robert had tried to knight Sandor for his bravery on the battlefield. “I’m no ser,” he’d said, as respectfully as he could manage. Robert had nodded and the issue had been forgotten... as much as either Clegane could be forgotten.

Gregor was famous for two things now known by all to be true: He was eight feet tall and rode a horse weighing nearly four thousand pounds, and he had eviscerated and raped the Targaryen children he had been assigned to guard. This didn’t matter to the bloody Lannisters- he’d been given command of a group of Lannister men.

After the siege of the Red Keep there was one group that was thankful for the surplus of unoccupied men in the city: the whores.

Sandor was drinking in some pisshole a street or two west of the Fleabottom line when he was initially approached.

He thought he was hallucinating when a tall, generously curved woman in a dark, slinky cloak sat at his table across from him. “Not buying,” he said into the bottom of his cup. He was down to his last few coins, and he plans to spend them on wine.

“I’m interested in you,” the woman said, not removing her hood.

“Oh fuck off,” Sandor replied.

“Truly,” the woman said. “The stories of your temper do not do you justice.” She still wore a small, satisfied smirk.

He leaned across the little rickety table towards her, letting his now-long hair fall in front of his eyes. “You want to see my temper? I’ll fuck you bloody on this table. Scurry back where you belong, woman. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

The woman never took her eyes off Sandor, just lazily lifted a hand in the air to summon the bargirl. Wine was quickly brought to her, and she took a sip.

“You lie,” she said to Sandor. “You wouldn’t rape me here. I doubt you’d rape me anywhere.”

Sandor tried to ignore her. He wanted to get drunk enough to sleep in peace, but no. Even his drinking had to be fucking ruined.

“Before the Battle of the Trident you visited a ...washerwoman’s tent. You gave her two copper pieces and afterwards fixed the support pole of the structure. She had brown hair and a birthmark on her stomach.”

“How did you know that?” Sandor was both curious and horrified. Curious as to how she could know where one soldier and one anonymous whore were nearly a year ago, and horrified that not only were his face and his skill with a sword receiving comment, but now his cock was getting public interest as well.

The woman smiled in truth now, and she was incredibly beautiful. Sandor became only more aware of his own scars.

“I am Chataya. I run a house of open affection near the Red Keep. We… ladies like to keep abreast of things. If one man is too rough, or one man, he does not pay, he is unlikely to engage the services of another whore in Westeros. We also discuss little kindnesses,” she said, staring hard at Sandor.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to guard my house, my women. You wouldn’t abuse the privilege, and it would give you a reason to fight arrogant, rich men.”

“You think I’m safe because of the word of one whore I met a year ago?” Sandor sneered.

“No. Your brother is a knight, but you turned one down. Your brother leads men, you refuse. Your brother rapes girls and children and women alike. You wouldn’t.”

“I kill people. I kill people and I enjoy it. Seeing death take a man is sweeter than what’s there between your legs.”

“And that,” Chataya said, “is what makes you perfect for the job.”

It wasn’t a bad job, but Sandor preferred watching over dogs than women. Dogs made sense.  

What struck Sandor first was that all of the women would look him in the face. He first suspected they were hoping for his coin, but he soon learned the secret: they looked at all men the same way.  To the whores at Chataya’s establishment men were nothing but a walking collection of bad habits led by their cock and balls. It didn’t matter if they were noble or rude or tall or fat. A man was a man.

Sandor didn’t agree. It was the sons of noble houses that caused the most trouble. Many of them liked to hit the girls, to tie them down and beat them while their cock was still snug in the girls’ cunt. A few of the girls specialized in that; girls with lush bodies and hard eyes. Most of the women refused.

Sandor now knew the music of shrieks. He knew when a girl was giving a customer a show; he knew when a girl was enjoying herself with one of the other women, he knew when a girl was in pain, too much pain. At that point Sandor would leave his post in the center atrium and bolt into whichever girl’s parlor. He’d pull the customer off, subdue him (with a variable amount of force) and then hurl the offender out into the street. When Sandor was in a good mood he’d toss the man’s clothes after him.

He’d expected far more fallout from this than had actually occurred. When he commented on the lack of retaliation to Chataya she’d laughed. “They can’t admit they were here, let alone what they were doing to receive such treatment.”

A few of the women enjoyed teasing Sandor when they were between customers or before the brothel opened for the day. “Did you lose your cock in the war?” they’d coo. “You never come to visit us.”

“You’re doing just fine without me,” he’d reply, and they would run off in a chorus of giggles.

Some nights, when the more popular whores were into their cups, they would come out and taunt Sandor. They’d lay each other out on great satin cushions, one’s head nestled between another’s thighs. “You’ve never tasted pussy, have you Brute? It’s the sweetest thing there is,” one would moan as she toyed with her nipples. Sometimes they would slowly, luxuriously lay in front of him, legs spread, and make him watched as they rubbed themselves to completion.

One of the whores was quieter than the others. Penny never teased him, and would occasionally bring him a glass of wine. He’d had to pull the beaters off her more than any of the others, she seemed to attract them.

One slow night she’d called him to her room. “Yes?” asked Sandor, peering into the crimson-tinted darkness of her parlor.

“Come here.”

He told himself later he’d obeyed the command out of curiosity or duty, but the gods’ truth was that he was afraid he’d rub all the skin off his cock if he had to take himself in hand one more time.

“I want you to fuck me,” she purred from her reclined position on the bed. “You sit there all night long listening to other people’s pleasure, and no one ever sees to your own. Poor Clegane.”

He debated for a long moment. She made his decision for him by reaching up to grab at the hem of his heavy leather and steel-scaled shirt. While standing on the bed she was tall enough to drag it over his head. “You are a great big brute, aren’t you? What a nice present for me.”

Her breasts were right there, right in Sandor’s face, so he sucked on the tip of one while palming the other.

“Very nice,” Penny breathed. “Now take off your trousers.”

He shoved off his breeches and made to climb over Penny. She smiled and stuck a finger into his sternum. “You don’t just poke at a girl, Brute.” She shoved at his head until his nose hovered over the dark curls covering her womanhood. “Be a good boy and earn your reward.”

It was something Sandor had never done (well, he’d also never had a woman without paying first either, but he shoved that thought aside). She’d just bathed, the scent of the harsh soap the ladies used lingered on the soft flesh here. He wasn’t sure what he was doing but she didn’t seem to hold it against him. She poked the sides of his head if she needed him to move, and told him in no uncertain terms if he was doing something right. She shuddered against his mouth and Sandor kept going, hoping by now he’d earned his own reward.

Penny was true to her word. After a few more deep breaths (that caused her breasts to sway in a hypnotic manner) she shoved him onto his back and proceeded to bring him to the hardest orgasm he’d ever experienced.

Sandor worked at Chataya’s brothel for almost four years. He would wake around noon, spar with the knights in the Red Keep, and return to the brothel by supper. Penny continued her little lessons, as she called them. Sandor called them pity fucks, but he wasn’t about to turn it down. He could still count the number of women he’d slept with on one hand. Women always looked on his face with disgust, who was he to suffer their revulsion.

One night after the doors were locked and the women had all gone upstairs to their sleeping quarters Sandor staggered across the courtyard to his little room. He opened the door and found a bald, round man sitting on his bed.

“I wouldn’t have presumed,” the stranger said in a soft, lilting voice. “But it’s the only piece of furniture in the room.” He stood as Sandor entered the small space.

“Get out.” Sandor unbuckled his sword belt and laid it over the top of the trunk that held his tunics and few possessions.

“You haven’t heard what I’ve come to say.”

“I don’t care what you’ve come to say. You look like a cock with your little bald head poking out of that big pink dress.”

The intruder blinked. “I certainly didn’t see it that way.”

“If you’re not going to leave, at least tell me why you’re here.”

“Your… activities have been noted in the Keep. The Queen is looking for a man of your, well, talents.  She has a job for you…”

#Song of the hound #chapter 2 #sandor clegane #the hound #fanfic #I write things #got #not spn #I LOVE HIM

[skarletterambles]

Pirates of the Caribbean 5

I just got back from seeing Dead Men Tell No Tales.  I have thoughts.  Quite a few of them, actually.

I should preface this review by giving a bit of background on my involvement with this franchise.  I saw the first PotC movie in the theater seven times.  I saw Dead Man’s Chest three or four times and loved it.  I saw At World’s End exactly once, hated it with the passion of a thousand burning suns, and never saw it again.

I was--and am--a hardcore Sparrabeth shipper.  The canon status of Willabeth only explains part of my disillusionment with the franchise, however.  My biggest problem was how Elizabeth had an amazing character arc over three films, going from a prim-and-proper governor’s daughter to the ass-kicking Pirate King, pursuing her dreams in defiance of society’s expectations, outwitting both the EITC and legendary pirates, leading an armada in battle...and then had it all stripped away at the end of the third movie, where she is left literally barefoot and pregnant to wait for her man to come back.  I was--and am--livid.  I felt betrayed, both as a fan and a feminist, to see one of my favorite characters do a 180 like that.

So I have very strong feelings about these movies.  I’ve tried to get over it in the years since AWE, with limited success.  Against my better judgment I did see On Stranger Tides in the theater, and thought it was mediocre.  Since Elizabeth wasn’t involved I could just ignore its existence, for the most part.

Then the fifth movie was announced, and Will was going to be in it.  I had hoped that maybe, just maybe they could try to rectify some of the mistakes (read: character assassination) of the past.

They didn’t.  But they still came up with a pretty good movie.  Honestly, I’d even give Dead Men Tell No Tales four stars out of five.  I was riveted to the screen for most of it, and it was thrilling to hear the theme music and see the familiar faces.  It was exciting and entertaining, the special effects were impressive, and there were some good laughs.  Plus, zombie sharks!

Do I have issues with parts of it?  Yeah.  And I’m going to ramble at length.

**** MAJOR POTC: DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES SPOILERS BELOW ****

Sequel creep is definitely at work, where each installment has to be bigger and zanier than the last.  The gags are broader, the willing suspension of disbelief gets even more strained, the stakes are higher, and it becomes almost like a Saturday morning cartoon version of itself.  

Thinking back to CotBP, we had to buy into the curse turning Barbossa and his crew into undead, but other than that the world operated on fairly realistic terms.  Yes, there was movie logic involved as far as coincidences, travel times, fast wound recovery, and all that, but it still felt more or less like the real world.  Stakes got higher with each sequel, until we have whatever the hell that “bank robbery” was in DMTNT.  

Don’t get me wrong; it was an enjoyable action sequence, but it felt more like a cartoon than anything that could happen under the laws of physics as they exist in our world.  That’s not inherently a bad thing, but the tone was noticeably different compared to the earlier films.

Moving on, I was glad Captain Salazar didn’t have that slurpy, blood-drooling voice through the entire film.  When I first heard that in the early trailer I was both grossed out, and concerned that he would be hard to understand.  Instead it was just that one scene, and he spoke normally the rest of the time.  He was a great villain, from his badass and scary entrance through to his delightfully ironic death.  He was genuinely threatening, which was kind of surprising considering the cartoony feel of some of the action scenes.  Javier Bardem killed it.  Thumbs up to him!

The legend surrounding the trident, and the map to find it, seemed cool until you thought about it for more than two seconds, and then it didn’t really make any sense.  Calypso is the Sea Goddess in this universe, so where did Poseidon come in?  How can his trident override curses that she put in place?  If it could be broken by a single sword blow, how did it stay intact under the sea for (presumably) thousands of years?  I mean, sure, maaaaaagic, but...eh.

And why did Will get all barnacley anyway?  Elizabeth waited for him, so that part of the curse shouldn’t have kicked in.

And what will happen to the souls of the dead without the Dutchman to ferry them to the afterlife?  

And what happened to Bootstrap Bill?  Did Will figure out how to free him and let him move on to the afterlife?

And if breaking the trident cancelled all the curses related to the sea, how did Davy Jones appear in the after-credits scene?  (Assuming it was him.  The gait, crab claw, barnacles, tentacley silhouette and the music box theme all pointed to it being him, anyway.)  I could almost buy him coming back to life when the curse was broken, but as a normal human again, not ol’ squidface.  The mythology makes no damn sense at all!

This review is coming across pretty negative so far, but I really did enjoy the movie.  I thought it was much better than OST, and felt like a return to the original vibe of the series.  I thoroughly enjoyed watching (almost) every minute of it, and I left the theater grinning and humming the theme music.  As a summer popcorn movie, it’s pretty great.  It’s just when the adrenaline wears off and I start thinking and analyzing that I see the issues.  And, like I said, I have a long history with this franchise, so overthinking it is what I do.

There were definitely some surprises, although I saw a couple of the twists coming.  The instant I realized Carina was Hector’s daughter, I was like, “Well, he’s going to die saving her somehow.”  And I was right.  It was sad (and that damn monkey gave me more feels than any creepy little primate has a right to), but at the same time I’m delighted at how his character grew into so, so much more than he was originally planned to be.  He was supposed to be a one-shot villain in CotBP, but Geoffrey Rush is so damn awesome, and he and Johnny Depp brainstormed a history between their characters, decided his first name was Hector, and one thing led to another and here we are, genuinely mourning him in the fifth movie.  It was a worthy sendoff for a memorable character.

One of the themes that got raised over and over in the earlier movies was the idea that it’s possible to be a pirate and a good man.  Bootstrap Bill Turner was.  Jack is.  Was Hector Barbossa a good man?  I don’t know if I’d go that far, but he wasn’t 100% evil, either.  And he was a lot of fun to watch.

Henry definitely reminded me of Will.  He had the same wide-eyed earnestness about him, as well as the tendency to charge into danger because it’s the Right Thing To Do without thinking through the full plan first.  Elizabeth’s legacy is a bit harder to see, except in the first two scenes.  Keeping a secret stash of pirate memorabilia and legends?  Totally Lizzie.  Back-talking authority figures?  Yep, Lizzie’s genes are in there.  And later, in the jail, taking Jack’s ego down a peg by scoffing at his legendary reputation in comparison to the reality of a scruffy, rum-soaked pirate?  Also from the Swann side of the family.  So I think they did a pretty good job of making Henry his parents’ son. 

I just wish we had more information on how he was raised, and where.  I always imagined him scampering around Shipwreck Cove and up the rigging of Elizabeth’s ship(s), the mischievous pirate prince.  Based on the house Elizabeth is living in at the end, and the fact that he was enlisted in the royal navy, I don’t see that happening in canon now.

When Carina was introduced I had a couple thoughts:

1.  “I wonder if she’s related to any existing characters...  No, don’t be silly.  This isn’t a fanfic.  They’re trying to move the franchise forward into the next generation.”  (Or not.) 2.  I don’t want to like her because no one can ever replace Elizabeth Freaking Swann the Pirate King as the best female character in these movies.  And that’s still true, but she definitely grew on me.  She had a fairly good balance of “smart woman who can take care of herself and doesn’t need a man to complete her story” and “too perfect to be likable or believable.”  I could have done with a costume that didn’t draw quite so much attention to her heaving bosom, but I suppose there’s some vaguely historical style going on.

Honestly, there’s a reason her backstory could have been lifted from a story on Fanfiction.net circa 2004:  those kinds of long-lost relative reveals can be a hell of a lot of fun.  Especially when you have Jack there to tease “daddy” Hector mercilessly.

I’m glad they didn’t have her be Jack’s daughter, though.  That thought crossed my mind, too, and that would have been...not good.

Pity Hector never got to introduce himself to Elizabeth and Will as the father of their potential daughter-in-law.  Awwwwwkward!  Bwahahaha!

Speaking of the dreaded Willabeth...  Jack saw them smooching in his spyglass, made a face, and announced that it was a revolting sight.  Same, Jack.  Same.

Therein lies my biggest complaint about the movie, and, as I mentioned above, it’s just the latest sprout on a tree of dislike that I’ve been nursing since the ending of At World’s End was leaked.  How in the seven hells they thought it was an appropriate, satisfying, logical plot development for Elizabeth Freaking Swann the Pirate King to end up standing around passively on a beach in a frilly dress and a fucking corset, waiting for the menfolk to do the important stuff, I will never, ever understand.  It’s a slap in the face of everything her character arc was over the first three movies.

“Sure, little girls, you can have adventures and play pirate for awhile if you want to, but in the end you still have to get married, grow up, conform to society’s beauty standards, put aside those dreams, and take care of your husband and children.”  Fuck that with a rusty garden trowel.

And here, when they had the chance to redeem that travesty, when they could have showed a glimpse of her at the helm of her own flagship, or holding court with the other Pirate Lords, or just simply wearing pirate-type clothes and carrying a sword, for the love of all things holy, did they do any of those things?  Oh, no.  No, they doubled down and had her be so passive that she didn’t even get to speak.  (Doesn’t that mean they don’t have to pay Knightley as much?)  Literally all she’s there for is to be a reward for Will upon his homecoming, and then sleep with him--on land in a fancy house that could have been in Port Royal, for all we know.  Any journey her character had is moot.  She’s back to square one, and it makes me want to throw things.

Oops, I was going to keep that rant short, and failed.  Oh well, it’s a sore spot, obviously.  I have never felt so betrayed by a franchise as I did when they did that to Elizabeth in AWE, and it still stings after all these years.

My ire didn’t even stem from my shipping preferences, although that certainly was salt in the wound.  If they couldn’t give us a series of movies with Jack and Lizzie, the best pirates in the world, having amazing adventures while flirting like they did in DMC, at least they could have given us a sort of open ending, where she, Will and Jack all sail in their separate directions, knowing that their paths would cross in the future in any number of entertaining ways.  I’m never sure if I should blame the writers, the studio, or the actors, or all of the above, but I would have bought, like, ALL THE TICKETS to see those movies.

But, alas, that’s not what we got.  We got OST and DMTNT instead.  OST was quite forgettable, but DMTNT packed a pretty good punch and I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.  I won’t say it totally redeemed the franchise for me, but it’s got its head above water for the first time since DMC, so that’s progress.

Should you see it?  Yeah, I think so.  If you enjoyed the precious PotC movies, or just like pirate movies in general, it’s a fun couple hours.  Just don’t think too hard about it afterward (like I did.)

#Pirates of the Caribbean #dead men tell no tales #movie review #sparrabeth #anti willabeth

[jitolibido]

Asha I (part ii) Battle of Ice fan fic

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The night fell as the king had promised, as the sky shifted to grey, to a dark blue, and then black, in contrast to the white of the never ending snow. Asha could scarce make out the sound of cold steel clashing amidst the punishing winds. Her back ached from the fall, as she could hardly keep the lance straight. I’m more fit for an axe, she thought. The Frey soldiers were more like to use long swords, spears, and crossbows. Asha had slung the dead Frey’s crossbow onto her back. She thought of her uncle Victarion who would cut through scores of foes with his battle axe. Had I not pressed my claim, would he have won the kingsmoot then? Anyone in Westeros would be fitter to sit the Seastone Chair than Euron Greyjoy.

         She could almost make the Frey banners as she rode forth towards the light. The Frey rear marched slowly whilst the van was engaged with the clansmen. The two flanks of the Frey army attempted to envelop the clans but arrows flew from the king’s position, halting their formation. The fire arrows provided little or less light as they were extinguished as soon as they hit the snow.

         “We’ll lure out their rear,” Ser Richard commanded, “separate them from the main force. Ready the men!”

         Asha and the rest of the ironborn loosed the crossbow bolts onto the Frey rear. A few Frey horses fell into the snow. The rearguard turned, and they outnumbered Ser Richard’s men two to one by sight. However, by the time that their luxurious and yet impractical southron breeds managed to turn around, Richard’s cavalry already jammed their lances into a row of Frey knights. The rest of the foes remained ferocious, however, and they retaliated. The right wing, commanded by Liddle, began to retreat, and the freshly aggravated Freys ate the bait and then some. As the left wing of the rearguard rode forth towards the Liddles, Asha, Tristifer Botley, and the men under Ned Woods’s command went to engage them. We have the element of surprise, and their numbers matter but little so long as they can’t maintain the formation.

         Asha drove her spear into the back of a Frey’s neck. The man wore chainmail under his warhelm, but the sheer impact broke his neck. In a matter of moments, the left wing of the rearguard was all but annihilated. There were many left still, Asha realized that as a man cut her spear in half with a sword. She drew her axe and engaged, but her arm was growing weak. The initial blood rush from a battle would make one forget the very concept of exhaustion, but soon or late, fatigue always set in. In that instant, she grew thankful of Ser Justin Massey, who had urged her to devour more horse meat despite her lack of appetite. She gave all the strength she had and swung the axe upward, and the blade almost touched the enemy’s warhelm. Her body was left defenseless, and the foe lowered his sword to his chest level for a killing strike. Oh, fuck me.

         The foe’s head came flying towards Asha before his sword could land a killing strike. Tris? she thought for an instant. As the headless body rolled off the horse, the man who appeared was Qarl the Maid. Asha remembered the night she had spent with Qarl in Deepwood Motte, when he’d sucked her breasts whilst driving his firm cock into her wet cunt to release his seeds. Asha had loved the rough play. Quiet, mind, she reminded herself. She gave a nod to Qarl. It may be that I shall never bed you again.

         The Freys were no meek foes, the rest of the rearguard were not to submit without a fight. Thirty men or so they had left, perhaps fewer, got in formation, and charged forward with a chilling war cry, as the Liddles turned around. Ser Richard’s men engaged them, and Tris was on the left wing, attempting to surround the Freys once again.

         Qarl rode close to Asha. He sees that I’m weak, Asha thought begrudgingly, I’m not some princess who needs a flowery knight to shield me from danger. And yet she seemed to be surrounded by men who’d die for her, and a precious few who’d love to see her burnt alive. Almost forgot that.

         “Thank you.” It took a deal of reluctance for Asha to express her gratitude. She had affection for the pink-cheeked boy once in a while. Asha rubbed on her right shoulder to make sure that she could still swing. When she turned her head it was too late.

         A spear went through Qarl’s back and protruded out of his chest. Qarl had worn only jerkin, fur, and light armor, and the blood rendered the back of his white horse crimson. He held onto the tip of the spear with his right hand, and coughed out blood. The enemy tried to pull the spear but Qarl would not let go.

         No time to grieve, Asha turned her horse towards the Frey. The man loosened his grip on the spear to draw his sword, but Asha killed him with a single swing before his sword could clear the scabbard.

         “Don’t forget me.” Qarl smiled with blood around his lips. It was the sweetest smile he ever gave. Asha fought her tears, and she fought them hard. A few managed to drop, however, and they froze onto her cheeks. she pressed her hand against her cheek to break it. Qarl almost fell from his horse, and she held him.

         “Go.” He planted one last kiss upon Asha’s lips before he fell into the snow.

         “What of our losses?” Ser Richard cut down a Frey and rode forward to Middle Liddle.

         “A dozen or more,” the Liddle replied.

         Richard ordered the men to ride towards the light of the watchtower. When they rode close to the lakes, Asha realized that the light was not from the tower at all.

         The tower was all in darkness. Instead, the light that they saw was on the weirwood islet. Asha remember the tales of the night lamp of Sisterton, where the sistermen lure ships with false beacons.

         The mountain clans fought the Freys on the surface of the ice lake. Already Asha saw a few horses sinking their limbs into the ice as the knights fell off their backs. When the Frey knights got on their feet, the clansmen cut their throats.

         Asha heard one blast from a horn, coming from the longhall. The mountain clans began to spread out and retreat. The Freys either chose to dismount, or struggling to hold still. One Frey who was larger than most, dismounted and cut down two clansmen. He was freakishly huge, althought not as big as Gregor Clegane. The big bellied chief Hugo Wull raised his axe to engage him. The old man struggled, as the Frey was much stronger. The old man blocked the Frey’s blow with the hilt of his axe, but the knight kicked him in the belly. The old man rose and lunged forward, raising his battle axe. The knight got on his feet and parried the attack and drove his sword into the old man’s throat. Two of the queen’s men began fighting the ferocious Frey. And then came the second blast. Stannis’s men moved farther from the islet, and the Freys struggled. The holes were not only for fishing, Asha thought. Ned Woods had made a remark about Stannis’s men drilling holes into the ice.

         When Asha heard the third blast of the horn, large rocks were flung into the lakes from the north and the south. Catapults, Asha noticed. large portions of the ice began to crumble and crack. two dozen Frey knights sunk into the water as the rest attempted to retreat. The king’s knights and the mountain clans lined up along the east side of the lake and held a shield wall. Another hail of rocks were launched with the next blast of the horn. Dozens, or hundreds of horses fell. Asha could barely tell as the snows were blinding. The heavy cavalry were mostly sunk as the barding on the destriers added more weight. The king’s archers got into position as well, two dozens at the north side of the lake, and another two dozesn at the south side.

         “Nock! Draw! Loose!” A hail of arrows were loosed onto what remained of the Frey van. Some arrows found their way onto the clansmen’s shields as well. Most of the Freys dismounted and drew their swords to engage in melee with the mountain clans. The horses were spooked and began running in all directions. The Freys’ castle-forged steel were still an advantage. The Frey men got into formation in an attempt to fight their way out of the mountain clans’ envelopment. They concentrated their forces on the right wing. Stannis’s archers were lightly armored and the Freys cut through them with ease. The Freys began pushing south as they were no longer surrounded. The large Frey fought in the frontlines and cut down half a dozen of the tribesmen. Asha had seldom seen such ferocity. The man reminded her of her uncle Victarion. Stannis’s knights went towards the Freys. Asha could hardly see faces, but she saw the winged pig and the purple knight sigils. Suggs and Farring, she thought. For a split moment Asha wished that the bloodthirsty queen’s men would fall. She hoped that the fearless Frey knight would cut them in half. She soon regretted that thought. She wondered why she grew to hate the queen’s men a little less. Perhaps it was Ser Richard, she thought, nothing in this world turns foes into friends faster than comraderie born amidst a bloodbath.

         The fire-crazed knights were indeed a fearsome lot, as their steel clashed against the Frey armors. The knight of the winged pig, Ser Clayton Suggs, stroke the helm off the tall Frey. A husky man with a jut-jawed face thick with beard and full of rage. He blocked the blows from both Suggs and Farring, and pushed forth with his freakish strength. Godry the Giantslayer lowered his sword and cut the Frey’s leg, and as the Frey went onto his knee, Clayton drove a dagger into the brawny man’s throat.

         Asha heard a horn blast from the north, but a deal farther than the one before. More men? She thought. By the sound, Asha judged them to be a few hundred horses at least. Asha looked towards the north and could almost make out the banners. Green, she thought, a white figure on a blue-green field, a merman. The knights wielded tridents instead of spears. The Manderlys. The Karstarks came out of the long hall to engage the White Harbor knights. She could almost hear the laugh of relief of the Freys. Their saviors finally came for them, and we are fucked.

         Except, the tridents went through the necks of the Frey knights, not Stannis’s men. The clans soon understood the situation and surrounded the Frey knights completely. More cavalry came pouring through the woods onto the helpless Freys. The trumpets were blowing, as the knights continued to charge and trample through the deserting Freys, and the words they cried were “the North remembers! The North remembers! The North remembers!”

#game of thrones #a song of ice and fire #georgerrmartin #grrm #fantasy #stannis #stannis baratheon #asha greyjoy #fanfic #got #asoiaf