Ruby

Star Wars: Echoes of the Force

Private Game.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

roster should prob be updated, chaps.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

Absolute Comics: The Batmen

Time to revise my sheet....

@Sep

mfin BatCorps in this bitch

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{collab with Ruby & @Vanq}

Casterly Rock

The conversation with Loreon wasn’t very long. He was glad to see her, although she barely got a word in as he unleashed a torrent of words at her. He told her about everything there was to tell, as he knew it. The Faith, the Targaryens, the political opportunity, the strange incident with his sister, the burning at Kinvara’s urging, the death of uncle and sister, the rage of the smallfolk. At the news of dragons at the Rock, at least Loreon had the good sense to call it a good thing.

Kinvara had been no better, instead of rambling she’d been so tight-lipped that Vaera grew suspicious. Yet their limited history together wasn’t as deep as Vaera’s was with Loreon. It didn’t stop the Valyrian from hugging the woman, if only just to whisper in her ear, “If you burn one more person in this realm, I’ll put you in the ground myself.”

Loreon’s relief at the dragons and Kinvara’s steely glare didn’t matter. When they left the room, together, Vaera held quiet for a pause, before turning to the Targaryen and saying, simply, “He isn’t right.”

She’d known Loreon longer than most. She’d fought beside him, traveled with him, camped with him—near everything but fuck him. They were friends with a deep-seated bond that came only adventuring together. She knew him…and something wasn’t right. There were already too many mysteries at Casterly Rock for Vaera’s liking, adding Loreon to the list didn’t make her feel any better.

They’d parted there, smiling at one another, as Vaera departed with a light tap on the woman’s shoulder.

She wanted to ask Rhaena about what happened between Loreon and his sister in that cave, because Vaera barely understood a thing Loreon was saying when he tried to recount it. He seemed too excited about it and given what she’d seen she had no choice but to dig deeper into it. But at the moment, there was only time for one mystery at a time. She’d promised Loreon to look into his sister’s death. That’s where she would start, leaving Rhaena to eat and bath and settle in the hands of Ser Protector.

She aimed to start with the Maester of the Rock, but halfway there she nearly ran into someone else: Lyman Lannister. He was tight-lipped, cautious, clearly still shaken from the whirlwind of events that had dropped onto the Rock so suddenly. But when she mentioned she meant to ask around regarding his sister’s death, he froze.

“What’s wrong?” She asked, head tilting just-so.

The man looked this way and that, before commenting, “Besides Lorelai being dead? Besides my uncle being murdered? It’s just…Lorelai always had good information.”

“Information?” If it was an explanation, it was a horrible one, as it just lead to more questions for the Valyrian. “Like a…whisperer?”

For the second time, the man looked around before continuing. How many eyes and ears do these walls have? “A royal circle of spies she inherited from my father, I think, we never really talked about it, but…”

“Sure.” It could be part of it or it could be none of it, Vaera knew. “Is she being buried?”

His head shook, too quickly for it to be anything but the truth, “We never found her body.”

“Thank you. It was good to meet you.” Vaera’s demeanor was warm, casual as they departed…even as her mind screamed in thought: Didn’t find a body? Not finding a body was rarely a good thing. It was either disposed, hidden, or a sure sign that the whole story hadn’t been told yet.

The conversation with the Maester was relatively informative: Kinvara made everyone nervous, the Lords of the West were uneasy, calmed only by the guiding presences of Loreon’s uncle and sister. A single night, both were lost.

“How many people have fallen from the Rock into the sea?”

The Maester blinked, initially, at the question before easing back into his chair and stroking at his long beard in thought. “Less than a handful in all my time here.”

“Any of them not wash up?”

In his eyes Vaera saw the spark of recognition. Slowly, cautiously, he answered, “Only Lady Lorelai. Even the assassin sent for Lord Tytos and Lady Lorelai washed up a day after. The sea naturally ushers into the Lion’s Mouth at the base of the Rock or one of the nearby beaches. It may take a day or two, but—”

“—she fell over seven days ago.”

The Maester frowned. “Yes.”

The man was kind enough to guide her to the captain of the household guard, a Knight from one of the minor houses of the Westerlands, a seasoned man with experience. He was her shadow as she asked to speak to the men who’d been outside Lorelai’s room that night. Or those that were supposed to be.

“We had bad stew earlier in the night, m’Lady.”

Vaera twitched. “I don’t have a title.”

That just seemed to confuse the lad. “You’re not…highborn? You look highborn. You look like one of the Targaryens.”

“I’m Valyrian.”

His eyes squinted at her, confusion setting in deep, “Oh, but…you ride a dragon? And you’re wealthy?”

“…yes,” Vaera nearly groaned, instead keeping enough composure to just seem slightly irritated, ushering him back on path, “So you were both sick the night she fell from a balcony she had never fallen from before?”

“One of Lord Loreon’s Essosi says they saw Lorelai standing at the balcony, like she might make the jump an’ all, days before.”

The second one, the one who was thicker and less welcoming, less talkative, with sullen eyes, offered it as he stared at her from his corner of the barracks. Vaera just smiled at it, I didn’t ask that, did I? She would count it up to the man being scared for his position or his life, one of the two. “Good information, thank you. Now…you were both sick that night?”

The second, sullen, guard stopped talking then. The first, friendlier, dumber, of the two answered it for her, “Was the stew, m’L—” he caught the look of dragonfire in her eyes, and quickly pivoted with only a slight stammer, “dragonrider, uh, Vaera.”

Even Vaera smiled at his awkward correction. “Was anything missing from the room?”

This time, they both just stared at her, the first giving response, “…missing? Like what?”

“Who handles the furnishings?”

The captain cut in to answer before either of the two less-than-sharp guardsmen could answer, “Steward and Understewards. Please excuse us, we all have watch tonight.”

It didn’t give her the best of feelings, but something about the two certainly didn’t give her feelings of conspirators. Just stupid, scared, men. Gods knew Vaera had seen more than her share of those over the years. It was the Understeward that finally, after a long hunt throughout Casterly Rock, gave her the answer once she found him in a lower level, inspecting drains.

“Missing?” The man echoed the question, before giving it more thought, as if he were re-checking a scroll of inventory in his mind, “…come to think of it, a chair. It was usually next to the doors to the balcony. Knowing Lady Lorelai, she put up enough fight to bring the chair and the assassin with her over the ledge. According to the mining foreman, the chair washed up in the Lion’s Mouth before the assassin did.”

“Ah, thank you, Understeward.”

It was on the way up that she made sure to find Gerion Lannister. She found him at supper with his wife, to which they invited her to. Vaera did just that, using the opportunity to regale Lord Gerion and his wife with more than one tale. Gerion was an avid reader and fancied himself a chronicler. He listened intently and followed up with a dozen questions to every story told. Her travels astounded him, and after the fifth round of wine, Vaera took her opportunity.

“I was trying to get a better understanding of what this place was like before the madness. Most of it has been told to me, but no one seems overly sure where Lady Lorelai spent most of her days? Outside of some nonsense about whisperings,” Vaera said, laughing at how silly it sounded even as she explained it.

“Oh, that’s not nonsense. Lorelai was the mistress of whisperers for her father.”

His wife, Lady Roslin, added with the eagerness of a belly full of wine, “She did a lot of banking, too, and she owned a merchant fleet based in Lannisport. Golden Lions, I believe it’s called.”

Vaera chuckled, “And here I thought I kept busy.”

They laughed, and Vaera took a long, last, sip. The dinner ended shortly thereafter, with Gerion and Roslin inviting her to visit any time she wished while she was staying at the Rock. Vaera bid them well and wished them a good night. It was an uneasy feeling as she made her way back upstairs, entering the empty chambers that had belonged to Lady Lorelai. All Vaera found was nothing of note, but it was the balcony that made it all simple for the dragonrider from Volantis.

“…that drop would have killed her,” she said to herself, as she looked over the ledge and down to the black water of the Sunset Sea at night that was far below the balcony. “…where the fuck did you go?”

It was late by the time she returned to Rhaena Targaryen. Vaera waited for them to be alone, before she walked along the walls of the chambers that were given for Rhaena and her brother, that only Rhaena ended up staying in. “Old habits of an adventurer, Princess,” Vaera explained after Rhaena asked what she was doing. The girl was still too raw, too scared, not to ask about something strange such as that. Finally, Vaera poured herself a drink before standing near the fire, near where Rhaena sat.

“I don’t think Lorelai Lannister is dead. I don’t know how; I don’t know where she is…but from what the man in the mountains told me, from what I’ve learned today, she isn’t dead. I’m likely to believe what the man in the mountains said: the uncle sent the assassin, the assassin ended up over the balcony and falling to his death instead of Lorelai, in return the man in the mountains killed Tytos before getting out of the Rock, and the West, entirely.”

Whether it was jealousy - at how Rhaena had spoken of Vaera Balaerys - or concern for her safety, the princess’s ladies were less than pleased at being ushered out of her chambers. Alayne and Samantha had shared a look and glared, out of sight of Rhaena, at the newcomer before acquiescing. She could not fully admit it to herself, but looking at either woman for too long only reminded her of all her losses.

It had been difficult to spend the day doing anything other than wonder about what Vaera would find, if anything. It had been difficult to not change into riding leathers and take to the sky with Dreamfyre. She was, for the moment at least, compelled to see what her new friend had to say. That was all, the princess told herself, no matter if she lingered in her thoughts of feeling her finger trace against her face. Or of Vaera’s effortless strength and confidence. Or of the way, she realized while in the hot soak of a bath, her heart quickened at the thought of her easy smile.

It was late, and no matter that Rhaena knew she waited for Vaera’s return, she did nothing to change her own habits. She was dressed for bed, with a thick chamber robe of black and red, of wool and fur, pulled tight around her with hints of the bedding gown beneath, around her ankles, wrists, neckline, soft silk slippers adorned her feet. Every bit the princess, the royal, the role she felt a pretender in.

That Vaera’s findings were delivered just as effortlessly, just as confidently, was enough for Rhaena’s immediate disagreement to be silenced though she tried to form the words against it. She sputtered, but at last, with a sad glance to the fire that was before her, she voiced her fears. “If that is what happened, there is no reason for the Lannisters to support me against the Faith.” Me, and not the crown. Her own feeble attempts at politicking had tied together their family’s deaths and then their fates. She had countless questions, but landed on a simple one. “What would you do, if you were me?”

Rhaena pulled herself from where she had warmed herself. Thirsty and unsettled, she went to pour herself a drink as Vaera had done. She stared at it in her cup, deep red and tiny ripples from how her hand trembled so slightly. “I can’t just let go of this.” The princess sipped at her drink and turned back to face Vaera.

When Rhaena turned, Vaera was there; inches away, having put her own cup down while the woman’s back had been turned. It was with the deliberate expertise of a healer that Vaera let the low, sweet, sound escape her own lips, “Shhhh,” as she reinforced the woman’s trembling hand with her own, “let me see that.”

Her fingertips took the top of the woman’s cup, and to Vaera’s relief, Rhaena gave it so Vaera could set it down on the nearest surface, before taking her hand and leading her to the same cushioned spot Rhaena had rested on before. Except, this time, Vaera settled first, and delicately guided Rhaena equal parts next to her, and resting on her.

The desire and impulse to taste Rhaena’s lips were hotter than the fire that warmed the room carved out of rock, but set aside in the moment as comforting her became Vaera’s north star, “Maegar is a monster. If I’m you, I keep my distance from he and his, and I keep making friends all around this harsh realm. Kinslaying is a sin to every man and woman and child, low and high, imagine the boon when you produce the proof that Tytos Lannister attempted to kill his niece, their beloved Lady Lorelai?”

Vaera’s lavender eyes pooled dark with sudden flashes of dazzling brightness as the nearby fire danced in the hearth, eyes set on Rhaena’s hands as Vaera’s own held them, rubbed them gently, as if the Volantis dragonrider might never let them go. “Faith doesn’t change, Rhaena…my family learned that very quickly in Volantis. Give them their Faith, support it when you need to, play that game better than any rival. The Freehold had so many gods even the Dragonlords I come from couldn’t remember them all to write them down, and they tried,” she recalled, with a low chuckle.

“You want this family’s support? You talk to Lyman. You talk to Gerion. Win them over. In the meantime…I’m here.” The last words came as a whisper so soft against Rhaena’s ear, even someone standing right next to them wouldn’t have heard a thing. “I’ll get the truth of Lady Lorelai, and give it to you. Deal, beautiful girl?”

She nodded to everything. Entranced, enveloped, warmed until the feeling was uncomfortable, a heat like flames, not from without but from within. Naive and confused, she had never understood why so many looked at her the way they did, at the way rumors spread that she cared for her friends too greatly, felt for them too deeply. It had never been a handsome knight in her dreams, it had never been a dashing prince or rich lord.

Rhaena blinked and the thoughts cleared. Why did it feel so right to follow her, to curl herself into her lap, to feel her skin against her. She didn’t want Vaera to look away, she needed her to stay, and it was relief, readily displayed across her face at the promise. There was nothing to question, nothing to dispute, the need for fire, for rage, was quelled, at least for the moment.

Vaera’s voice in her ear was velvet, and she leaned into it, pushed herself to feel a hint of the dragonrider’s lips against her. It’s wrong. That’s what she had been told, for all her life. Yet she surrounded herself every night with women, needed to feel their caress and arms around her to sleep.

Her own lips were at the Valyrian’s ear, voice low and suddenly unfamiliar with the words she whispered. “Deal.” She could leave it there, be content that she had had this moment. The memory of her first kiss, of the need and force of it intruded. Her heart quickened, a loud thumping in her ears and she worried that Vaera would hear it. A deep blush spread across her cheeks and down her neck. She dared not pull back to look in Vaera’s eyes again. “Stay with me. Now, tonight.”

Leaving no trace or doubt of what she meant, her lips left the whisper in Vaera’s ear and slowly, hesitatingly, brushed against her jaw. She felt Vaera respond, and stopped. Fear that she had misread intentions or that she had done something wrong, she pulled back, her hands freed and moving to caress Vaera’s face. Her own was apologetic, worry creasing her delicate features, as she searched the eyes that matched her own for a sign of anything. Her lip caught between her teeth.

What a mistake, the look in her eyes told her she was wrong to be concerned. Her concerns melted at the fire in the eyes that met hers. She leaned back in, without hesitation this time, until their lips met. Belatedly, she made her demand a request. “Please.” A murmur in between her lips pushing and pulling against Vaera. “Please.”

Each touch seemed to make it louder, and louder. Vaera never tried to hide it, she never tried shy away from it, she never felt fear of it. Just one deep breath after another as her eyes fluttered closed at the touch and feel of Rhaena’s touch, as if a fire was burning within the Volantene dragonrider, growing bigger and brighter and hotter at each sensation of warmth, at each sound of Rhaena’s voice.

When her eyes opened, they opened to see the woman’s lips as they added the ‘please.’ When she felt her eyes flutter shut again, it was only because she saw the kiss coming. But when she felt it…the fire inside her erupted. Her hands as quick and expert as they had ever been in any combat as they found the edges of the chamber robe and ripped it so far apart it was easy as breathing for Vaera’s warm hands to invade the curves of the woman’s body as Rhaena’s kiss became Vaera’s kiss, the sweetness of the woman’s tongue, the deep sweetness of the woman’s wine-flavored lips at no defense as Vaera made one kiss another, then another that became deep enough for both of them to fall into as her hands clutched at the rear-curves of the Targaryen, grabbing, groping, holding and pulling until the very weight of the woman was resting on Vaera’s lap, her lips searing at the corner of the woman’s mouth, then her cheek, then rolling like quiet thunder along the trace of Rhaena’s jawline.

It was love, lust, or madness that stopped Vaera as their bodies were pressed so tightly into each other they would have been able to trace each other’s figures in the air without even looking, her mouth pure heat as her lips gently sucked on Rhaena’s collarbone until she heard the woman moan.

Breathless, dizzy, Vaera’s head fell back to the pillows below, purple eyes smoldering as they looked up at Rhaena, her right hand daring to leave Rhanea’s hips in order to run her fingertips along the side of Rhaena’s face, and carefully into her pretty hair. “…good luck getting me out, Princess.”

A Song Of Ice And Fire : The Swords And Stars

_{collab with Ruby & @Ezekiel and @Arnorian}

The world was pain, it was darkness, and it was noises she could not place. Consciousness was something that hemmed and hawed, an elusive thing that every time she tried to chase, just seemed to get further and further away. As if it had no use for her, as if her time was past. As if she was dying, now.

Vittoria Tyrell would not surrender.

In time, she learned what the strange noises were: shouting. Voices she recognized, voices she didn’t. Some she didn’t want to. It lasted days. There was the point where she saw Dennet talk to Davos. Then Dennet didn’t show up again. She had two shadows: Davos, and Ryam. Two shadows with more problems by the day.

Whether a fever dream or real, she swore she saw Maesters yelling, then Davos and Ryam yelling. They didn’t want to hide her in the Citadel. Then they didn’t want to allow for Davos and Ryam to follow her. She made a note to ask, just how, exactly, Davos avoided Ryam bloodying his sword with the innards of Maesters.

Then it was Davos, with Ryam stepping in-between, as the Archmaesters and Davos fought over and over again, all of it focused on a single word she had dreaded: scrolls. Another note, then, to ask Ryam how he avoided all out violence between House Baratheon and the Citadel. And another note, to remind the Citadel to send a note of thanks to Ryam for saving them the indignity of facing the Storm.

Towards the end, she saw more and more of Theylin, and the Millin. The latter was smaller than she remembered him being. Maybe she was just a child, or maybe he had reached the age of shrinking. A final note to not ask Millin to his face. She recalled the Archmaester had something of a delicate temperament in that way.

Long white beard, shaved head, more silver on his chain than any man in a century. He sat, his now thin limbs hidden behind a puff of Maester robes, but het sat: his ever beady blue eyes staring intently at the only thing that ever mattered to him…whoever the current soul was he was caring for.

“…thank you.”

He grunted as he took in the hoarse, whispery, voice of Vittoria Tyrell. “I did what I could about the scar. It’s small, I recall your vanity.”

She would have laughed, had everything not hurt so bad, “I don’t have the scrolls.”

“I know. But you did, and they know it.”

Somehow, Vittoria Tyrell grinned—even if it was the last thing she did for some time, as darkness swallowed her whole once more. It felt like a long nap, but there had been sun, darkness, sun, darkness. The second time she woke up, it was Ryam and Theylin speaking, about preserving her honor.

“Ryam, he’s already seen me naked.”

Theylin was nearly as red as a bold Arbor Red. “I never told anyone, my Lady.”

Even with her eyes closed, Vittoria could see the blush, “…you never told anyone about anything, Theylin, it’s why we became friends. Get me up before he comes back.”

“Millin?” The Maester wondered, aloud.

It was Ryam who answered him, “No. Davos.”

She could hear Orys Baratheon: Hells girl, there’s nothing wrong with you other than the fact you won’t get up.

She was letting Theylin help her put on boots when the door opened, and Davos appeared in the doorway. She looked into his eyes, and spoke, “We need to go. Where’s the host?”

Davos Baratheon excused the Maester and the Sworn Shield. When the door closed and it was just the two of them, he smiled, sweetly, “Before we get into palace intrigue, how are you?”

“Davos, they could be days away. We need to get going. We need to—”

His smile never faded as he walked towards her, and knelt to meet her eye-to-eye as she sat on the bed in the small, stone, chamber in the healing wing of the great Citadel of Westeros knowledge. “How. Are. You?”

Her tongue ran over her lips; dried, chapped, they didn’t even feel like her lips at all. “I’m alive.”

“Angry?”

If she could, she would have laughed, “Sorry to drag you into this.”

“…not going to make this easy, are you?”

At least she could still grin. As if he’d never met her before. “Why, greetings, I’m Vittoria.”

She offered him the hand to shake, as if he’d never met her before. He ignored it as he kissed her, and kissed her…until she was wincing, and he was laughing as he apologized. It was only the quiet moment after that it finally came up. “Vitt, the Archmaesters—”

“I don’t have them. I made sure of it. And they’re not together. I’m trusting someone no one would ever expect with one of them, and a few…old friends with the others.”

To the eternal credit of Davos Baratheon, he gave her the only answer he could: “Okay, Vitt. Shall I help you up?”

“Gods, finally, we have a host to catch.”

Though he was gentle and cautious as he steadied her when she rose, his words were brutal enough to be honest, “They’re days ahead. They’ve been hiding you here, but the Faith knows it, too. Alaric controls much of Oldtown, outside the actual tower. The new Lord Hightower stays, and organizes what he can to rid themselves of the problem, but…he’s not his father. The Maesters can get us out, I’ve managed to get word to Garin, but we have to go carefully. If they catch you, Vittoria…if Alaric gets his hands on you. If we go east or west, it will be hard, and there don’t seem to be a lot of friends left.”

“He won’t,” she gave him a promise she couldn’t keep, but he smiled just the same, “and I still have a few friends. We’ll go South.”

Davos tilted his head at her, with pretty eyes that begged an explanation.

So she kissed him, and then she kissed him again, “Go. Get Ryam. Get ready.”

The result was pathetic, but Vittoria tried to push him towards the door, just so. When he left, she saw who was waiting. The look shared between Davos and the old men outside told Vittoria what was about to happen. Millin came in, first, followed by four other Archmaesters behind him. Vittoria knew them all; Esrus, Timmott, Larisen, and Albin.

They made their final plea. They made their case. In the end, Vittoria was too tired to care.

“…you all think your way of thinking is new, different. Valyrian sorcerers thought the same thing, and the Rhoynar before them. Valyrian showed the Rhoynar. You’re going to show the Valyrians? What makes you think you’re better? What reason, what logic? Do you even have an answer that doesn’t sound rehearsed?...you’re just Andals, instead of land you come for…”

Finally, she sighed, and let her eyes bounce off each one, “I don’t have them, anymore. They’re not together. Scattered like the wind. You’ll hunt them…if you’re supposed to have them, I’m sure the Seven will grant them.”

To their credit, the only thing that was spoken was by Millin; and that was nothing but instructions for her regarding how long it would take for full use of her shoulder, and what she ought to avoid.

They left the Citadel by small boat, along the Mander, hidden in plain sight with a dozen other small boats. Near the mouth of the Mander she saw, along the banks, a woman strung up, screaming, whipped by Faith Militant. It was Ryam who moved uneasy, but Davos put his hand on her shoulder, “He wants you to lose faith so that you’ll act rashly.”

Vittoria made a note of it, and added it to the pile: Show Alaric the full retribution of the Seven. It was godless, it was vile, it enraged every part of her mind and body…and Alaric knew it would. They was another woman every hundred feet. All of them hanging with signs that read: FORSAKEN.

In the harbor a galley picked them up. Ryam spoke to the captain, as the flag of the Arbor flew upon the vessel. Her cousin asked her only where they needed to go, and she told him: Blackcrown.

“…fuck,” was the reaction from her Sworn Shield.

When Davos looked to her for explanation, she told him goodnight, and retreated to the small cabin the captain provided her. It wouldn’t take long for Davos to get his answer from someone: it wasn’t Blackcrown, it was House Bulwer. The Reach had no shortage of Knights, but House Bulwers weren’t just Knights, they were older than that. They worked their lands, their saw to their herds, and they had been doing it since before the Andals. Directly descended from Garth Greenhand, yet the only one who preferred House Tyrell in Highgarden as opposed to themselves: they didn’t have the time or patience for, in their words, that shit. Even the Children had left the southern flats of Blackcrown alone, anything was better than dealing with the stubborn, mean, members of House Bulwer. Masters of the horse, and rope, and the brand.

The last time they stirred from their lands as a whole House was the Conquest.

One Bulwer had been with Vittoria in the Riverlands and the Basilisk Isles, Kit, the Spare. The Lord of the House, Jon, hadn’t been seen off the lands of House Bulwer since the Conquest. Lord Hightower learned to stop asking, and Lord Tyrell just never bothered. Bulwers were honorable; they weren’t going to upset the order of things, especially if you just left them alone.

The next morning, before the vessel even embarked them on the docks of the fishing village closest to Blackcrown, itself, there were riders in leather armor on the horizon. The rider that approached as they disembarked was big as a bull, dark haired, dark curly beard, and as absolutely sure about himself as the Seven themselves.

“Hello, Kit,” Vittoria offered, sounding tired.

The man just stared for a moment, before slowly nodding, “You look like shit, Vittoria. Bringing your brand of trouble to our land woman? Ryam, you ever get any good at riding a damn horse?”

“I’ll hold my own.,” the Knight answered, stiff lipped.

Kit chuckled at it, “We’ll see. Who the fuck are you?” He asked, staring at Davos. Vittoria might have answered, if they were anywhere else but in Bulwer territory. Here, if she answered for him, she’d be damning Davos to a loss of respect. And, here, that was no more damning of a thing.

“Davos.” The Baratheon spoke without pomp or title to begin with, a blunt introduction for a blunt man, pausing nearby to Vittoria if only for a moment to ensure she didn’t need support through the final stage of disembarking. Slighter things than a tumble into the tide had spelt the end of vulnerable people before. He was close, but he didn’t hurry her, nor provide aid unasked. He was under the impression that sort of thing wouldn’t help any judgement he was sure to feel from the Bulwar.

“Baratheon, you might have heard of us.” He finally concluded, offer a hand out towards the man in greeting. He might have gone easy on the courtly decorum, but he wouldn’t have it said he was impolite to a host, even if it didn’t end up being reciprocated. Without any of his own people with him, there was little to claim it so other than the distinctly Durrandon features he possessed, a somewhat untamed look that by coincidence had much in common with the features of the man opposite him, even if Davos had a little too much of the lithe Valyrian build to be the perfect match.

Kit appeared absolutely tickled, half grin, half laugh, at the offered hand, “I’m on a horse.” It was the height of manners that Kit did not add onto his response, ‘dipshit.’

“Going soft in your old age.”

The half grin became a wicked thing at the audacity of the words, “Gods damn it’s good to see you again. Alright, well…come on. We got horses for you.”

“Blackcrown?”

His head shook, “No, we’re at camp. Father got tired of the Maester and his fucking ravens demanding this, or that, of us.”

Vittoria had been afraid of that, “From my father?”

“Your daddy’s not dumb enough, I’ll give his soft ass that. Lord Hightower warned us what was coming.”

“Martyn?”

Another head shake, “Martyn hasn’t earned ‘Lord Hightower’ from us, yet. He knows what he needs to do. Seven guide Lord Hightower’s soul.” There was a pause, an awkwardly long one, during which Kit looked up to the ridge above the fishing village, and back to Vittoria, “How is she, Vitt?”

Vittoria felt her heart hurt. The dumbest thing Ceryse had ever done was show no interest in Kit Bulwer. If there was one man, in all the Seven Kingdoms, she thought could out fight Maegor Targaryen…it was him. No blades, no armor, just men and fists. How Vittoria would have liked to have seen that. “She’s alright, Kit.”

“…let’s go.”

They waited for horses as Bulwer men in riding leathers brought them down from the ridge. When Davos seemed to be too close to her, Vittoria took the chance to explain it, “Everything has to be earned to these men. Everything. You help me on that horse, and I’m no longer the High Marshall to them.”

To his credit, Davos just smiled, and backed away. Ryam looked even less pleased. Getting on the mare they brought for her was pure agony, and she only barely bit her tongue hard enough to swallow most of the sounds from that agony escaping her, even if it cost her the taste of blood in her mouth. She looked pale, she looked dizzy…but she was on the horse.

On their way up the ridge, Vittoria remembered to ask, “See any mercenaries on horses lately?”

“Seen ‘em? Hells, we had ‘em doing fence work all damned day. Give your man Garin credit, though…never said a word. Just picked up a hammer and fence post and went right to it. They should be back about dark, when we get to camp.”

The man didn't need much recovery from the slight, Davos was used to men such as these taking the worst of anything offered to them. It made them few friends in courtly peace, but such men were always useful when said courtly peace shattered, or simply when there was hard work to be done.

Watching Vittoria almost struggle herself into unconsciousness, or worse, was more difficult. It did far more to sour his feelings to their hosts than a little slight to his person. There was nothing proven out of neglecting the right to heal, it was the same customs which had lead to such things as the Lord's Right.

He took his own steed with ease, the powerful flanks beneath the side of his boots in a moment. He was close enough to Vittoria without hovering as they rode, enough that he might have a chance to intervene should she fall. He did not ask about the camp they were heading to, instead seeing fit to regard the world around them, the terrain and the path they were heading.

“Now I’m free,” Vittoria said to Davos, before she dared to smile, and gave the horse a bit of heel and let the wind catch her hair as she followed the Bulwer man who’d never died for her years before.

The camp was a ride, but it wasn’t as long as she had feared. The land rolled, with pockets of wooded area scattered, the dying orange and blue and pink and purples reflected in the many streams that cut through the plains, the Mander reaching it’s fingers out in every direction. Good for growing, good for animals.

Between two creeks they found the flat clearing, stars above and a half-moon above, the glow of cook and camp fires among a dozen plain canvas tents. Horselines were set, and the song of the night were chatter of men, and in the near-distance, the stir and sounds of the largest herd of cattle Vittoria had ever seen. They followed Kit to the horseline, and Vittoria thought she might lose vision when her feet hit the ground, her pain-riddled eyes looking straight to Davos, begging him to do nothing. To just let her stand there, for a minute, and hurt. Her cousin knew what the Bulwers were, but Davos didn’t…she wasn’t worried. Any son of Orys Baratheon knew what to expect.

They were welcomed to camp bread, roast onions and sausage drowning in gravy in crude, old, pewter plates that she preferred to any trencher. Kit told them to follow as he navigated the camp. Every tent and fire they passed, every group of men—there wasn’t an eye that wasn’t on them in an instant.

She expected nothing less than what they arrived at: Jon Bulwer, broader than tall, just head and giant shoulders, little neck to speak of, dressed in leathers same as everyone else around. He stood next to a fire, cup in hand, as they approached. Seated around the fire were men a generation younger than Jon, one older than Kit, one younger, both of them variations of Jon and Kit, the younger one with a pretty face hidden in road and stubble and slender build, the other taller than Kit, little older, just a shade less strongly built.

The younger one got up first, smiled as he hugged her, while the older waited, grinning, offering a hand to shake that he retracted when she got close, and dipped in to steal his hug. She groaned, she winced, and they laughed. Both men took their turns greeting Ryam, commenting on his height, on his ascent to manhood with a mix of humor and sentiment.

“This is Lord Davos of House Baratheon, with them,” Kit explained, as he went towards the pot near the fire for food.

“Jace,” the younger and more slender of the two offered as he offered his hand to Davos, reserved, but affable. The eldest of the Bulwers was the same, plain, not a man of many words, but the kindness came off him as easily as warmth did from the fire as he offered his hand next.

“Cole, well met, Davos.”

The voice that came was rough, grizzled, but evenly balanced with a good nature, “Ryam, good to see you, boy. Lord Davos… congratulations.”

The Bulwers turned to their father, before looking back to Davos. Then to Vittoria, then to Davos. “I’ll be buggered alive…” Kit said, stopping his assault on a sausage to voice his amazement. Jace and Cole laughed, Jon took a long sip form his simple pewter cup, and chuckled.

“You’re a lucky one, Davos. She’s a good one. Better fencer than some of her men, though.”

Even Vittoria laughed with them, there, “Did you boys break Garin and my mounted archers?”

“That’s Dothraki, right? They’re Dothraki?”

Cole sounded genuinely confused when he asked, but Jace shook his head, “No, think I saw a Dothraki with them, though. What you need mounted archers for, Vitt?”

“They don’t expect them coming on a Westeros battlefield, son.” Jon explained it for her. “Fools brace for the charge of light or heavy cavalry, instead they just circle you, killing you with each pass, pinning you down so the heavy cavalry can come behind you.”

Vittoria’s head dipped to the left, to the right, as she judged the explanation, and smiled, “Close enough, yes.”

“I’m no High Marshall, just what I’ve seen, my Lady…no we didn’t break ‘em. They’ve got their own camp, other side of the herd. Garin wanted them to be aware, doing it their own way, like they’re at war.”

“We are, Lord Jon.”

Jon took an even longer sip as his mind weighed his words, “Manfred die fairly?”

“Naturally,” Vittoria explained.

Jon Bulwer nodded, “He earned that, good for him. I got the ravens. Hells, Blackcrown Septon was red-faced when I told him we had a herd to look after.” Jon laughed, his sons laughed with him, and Vittoria just kept her smile about her. “You angry, girl?”

The smile became a grin on her face, and Jon Bulwer got his answer. “Shit, I would be too.” A few chuckles surfaced around the fire. “Faith took the city?”

“Man named Alaric seems to slithered his way into some manner of control. I don’t know if he’s still, or with Oakheart and Rowan.”

Jon listened, exchanging a look with Kit, before returning his dark eyes back to her. “Well, Oakheart and Rowan deserve what’s coming to them.”

“What’s coming their way, Jon?”

This time, it was Jon that grinned through a stifled chuckle, “You, girl. Three of you eat. Talk to your mercenaries. Ryam, we cleared out a tent for you. Davos, sorry son, but you’re not married to her yet, I can’t let you two share a tent. There’s room with Ryam, nice tent.”

“Attest to that,” Kit said, nodding along as he took another bite, staring at the fire.

“...that’s because it’s your tent,” Jace said, laughing with Cole, and maybe a little laughter from Vittoria.

“I managed to last this long, I'm sure I can survive a few more nights of separation.” Davos chuckled with no sign of annoyance, his eyes drifting to Vittoria with a longing that in this case was all concern, an ache to watch over her after a day of having to let her fight her pains alone. “I'll just have to make up for it once she's finally in a cloak of yellow and black.”

---

She rose before the sun. The only one that stirred before her was Kit Bulwer, his brothers weren’t far behind, and their Lord Father not long after that. The mare she’d been given to ride was saddled. Vittoria, herself, was dressed in riding leathers. Brown, unadorned, plain but well made. She’d always been good with horses. Better than her brothers. Better than her father. Better than anyone else in her family. Her heart wanted to stop in, wake Davos, tell him she’d be back later.

When the sun rose, Vittoria would once again be the High Marshall. She could see the battle in her dreams. All night it played, and when she awoke, it just kept going and going. Reins in hand she tugged and let her heels convey the need to move. Garin’s camp wasn’t far, but it was around nearly two thousand cattle in a field that seemed to stretch from one horizon to the next, with spots of tree line here and there.

When she was challenged, her voice sounded different than it had since before she’d gone into Oldtown, before she’d become betrothed; the power of the Gods and the absolutism of a Lord Commander was back. Truly, Vittoria Tyrell had returned.

“Who goes there?” They shouted.

“The High Marshall. Wake everyone up, get everyone packing, do it now,” she commanded as she passed the sentry, “and point me in the direction of Garin.”

First, they pointed, then, they ran off to do as she bid. Vittoria knew she liked these mercenaries for a reason. He was already outside his tent when she approached, staring into his eyes with her own as she slowed the horse, and dismounted, “We’re moving out, today. Your company, and some Bulwer men led by one of Lord Bulwer’s sons.”

For his part, Garin Sands looked exhausted, but then so did every fighting man in the camp. The last few days had flown past in a blur. He’d received word of the High Marshal’s injuries and though he’d wished to send his men into the city, his good sense prevailed. Cavalry, especially a force as small as his own would simply get swallowed up in a city as massive as Oldtown. That and he had seen what Maegor Targaryen had done in Essos, he had no desire to be anywhere near a dragon.

He’d nodded, roused his family and began give orders while his squire hurriedly strapped his armor into place. From there, the Tyrell soldiers had broken camp, taking only what they needed and riding out into the darkness.

Here and there, they’d encountered a few patrols and a couple of men had taken wounds in the handful of skirmishes that broken out between small parties of scouts. Now, all was oddly quiet, his scouts patrolled the lands and the wide expanses of grassy fields made ideal conditions for cavalry warfare.

Garin nodded politely and signaled his squire, the boy bowed and ran to pass on the word. He’d served enough great lords to know when to ask questions and when to wait. Though a part of him had to admit that this daughter of House Tyrell was . . . well, she was still a noble from a great house. But he’d taken coin from far, far worse.

It made a difference, that was all he knew.

“We leave your family at Highgarden. I want them protected, Garin. Still alright with you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that leaves you in a strong position, High Marshal . . . should I try and defy you or switch sides, if things begin to go poorly for me.”

Garin wondered if perhaps he had gone too far, scions of great houses were notoriously prideful. Then again, he would have done something similar if he were in a similar position, if only for very different reasons.

But from what he had seen, Lady Vittoria could be trusted . . . he hoped. Why was he thinking like this? Perhaps because this was Westeros and for all that talk of knightly virtue and oaths, there was no shortage of men . . . and women who would happily murder a man’s family.

The High Marshall of the Reach…almost smiled.

“Look at my eyes, Garin, and you look deep,” she said without hesitation, Vittoria’s brown eyes still unblinking, still staring straight into his, with the voice of a commander sent by the very Gods above, “I am faithful to my Gods, I am just, I am good. I didn’t look your wife and children in the eyes just to betray them. Trust me, and you’ll be a Landed Knight by the time we’re through. Trust me, and we make history.”

Garin almost felt inspired, almost. He’d heard his father say things like before to his household knights before they went out to hunt bandits. No doubt, she actually meant what she said. Well, it wasn’t the first time he’d taken coin from a true believer. Coin spent all the same and the prospect of being a landed knight? Well, that would open a number of doors for his children. Things that had been lost to him for a number of years.

Besides, his family and some trusted men would be far safer behind the walls of Highgarden than with him on the campaign. He’d seen what men did to an enemy camp or town in the aftermath of a battle and it was . . . well, bestial at the best of times.

“As you say, High Marshal, I thank you. You have done me a great honor.” He said with a slight bow.

Now, finally, Vittoria Tyrell let that smile show, “First comes the burden, then the honor, Captain…as well you know, I think. When you’re ready, meet us at Blackcrown. We’ll all set out from there.”

Within moments of Garin’s command, his soldiers had risen, grabbed their arms and readied their horse. Now, as Garin swung into the saddle, some six hundred horse archers and a score of knights waited for their Captain to ride to the head of the column.

Garin leaned from the saddle and kissed Martella from the saddle. Though he was far from the only one. Army camps and mercenary companies always had their share of hangers on, camp followers, whores and bastard offspring. And there were exceptions like himself.

Soldiers laughed, caressed faces or hauled their lovers up into the saddle with playful laughs before setting them back to earth.

Martella squeezed his gauntleted hand and gave him that secretive smile of hers, the one where her chin dimpled ever so slightly and once again, he was reminded that there was no world and no time where he would have ever chosen anything but her.

Rylla had that look she thought was so stolid but she only did when she was trying not to cry. Garin smiled gently and held her hand for a moment.

“I know what you’re thinking and I’ve told my men to keep a lookout for any lone riders who keep their face veiled.” He said.

“I wasn’t-” She began.

“It’s alright, I’m not angry, I’m proud of you. But I need the warrior you will be one day to keep an eye out for the rest of my family, yes?”

“I-”

“Yes?” His smile was still gentle but there was iron in it too.

Rylla nodded and raised a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear and if dashed away any tears, no one would have seen.

Myrna for her part set that cursed cat of hers down, gazed up with solemn eyes and raised her arms up. Garin leaned from the saddle and lifted her up with great care, he was clad in armor after all. She tucked her head against his surcoat.

“I made you something.” Garin said.

He took a small carving of a wooden knight on a horse from his belt and his youngest took with the same gentleness with which one might hold a baby bird.

“Can I come with you?” She said, her voice muffled against his armored shoulder.

If Garin fought back tears, no one could have said for certain.

“No, little one, not today. You’re going with momma and your sister. It’ll be great fun, I promise.”

“Will you come back?”

He ruffled her hair and handed back to her mother.

“Of course I will.” Garin smiled and turned away.

At his signal, the column of riders moved out and were gone into the darkness. Before the sun’s first pale light had begun to ascend over the horizon, the horse archers had spread out into thin lines, riding first north and then east.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

<Snipped quote by Ruby>

So does Nate.

Ask him about his Thor.

@Sep

Sep, I'm old enough to have learned not ask Nate about his kinks.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

_{Jimmy Olson, Metropolis}

The ‘to-do’ list that took three sticky notes, front and back, was finished five minutes later than it needed to be. He stole a minute in the bathroom to send the text that he might be a little late. Every time he was caught with his phone out, it was a sharp look, a comment. Or at least he thought it was. Better to just avoid it, sad as it was, by hiding in a bathroom stall. He just hoped no one came in and pulled on the locked stall…that was always an uncomfortable moment that, for whatever reason, filled him with dread.

He told the desk reporter he would be back in an hour. To his shock, the desk reporter just waved his hand and responded with, “Go home, kid. Nothing happening tonight.”

Even when he thanked the desk reporter, the man never looked up from the AP Flash screen he was studying and exploring, click at a time. The subway took a little longer than he would have liked to get across the city to midtown. He got through the lobby and into the elevator in good time. When he got to the suite number, he was hopeful he’d made good time, only to enter the office and see no receptionist, and the woman standing in the doorway to her office, waiting for him.

“Little late, Jimmy, come on in. We still have about thirty minutes.”

“Sorry, Doctor Lanza,” Jimmy Olson’s heart sank a bit as his shoulders slumped and he followed the woman into her office and took a seat on the patient side of her desk. Had he really taken that long to get there? She asked him about his meds, and he answered as well as he could, as honestly as he could, his right leg bouncing nervously as he sat there answering her questions.

“You think you’re taking the right dose at the right time?”

He felt like he might blush, “I think so, yeah, uh, yes Doctor. It’s just…the newsroom sometimes gets a little hectic.”

“Well, Jimmy, it’s very important you take the right dose at the right time. I’m sure the people you work for would understand. Just take them during your breaks?”

Jimmy Olson smiled, sheepish, “Right, yes, I will do that. Thanks.” You’ve never met Perry White, doc.

“Sleeping better?”

He nodded, “I think so, my Apple Watch broke, and I haven’t gotten a chance,” or the money, “to replace it yet, but tracking it myself it seems like it’s gotten better, for sure.”

“Eating better?”

He chuckled, “Learning how to cook when my roommate doesn’t take the kitchen, so I think so.”

“Suicidal ideation?”

His head shook, once, quick, “No. That’s a lot better,” the lie came so quickly even he barely noticed it. The rest of the twenty minutes were a blur of her telling him something about adjusting the dosage of his medication, and another lecture about taking it on time, every time. As if he didn’t know the agony of missing a dose firsthand. She asked him if he had wanted to talk about anything about a little joke about the five minutes they had left. He might had said something, he needed to say something—it was the only part of the sessions that he felt did any good for him, but the anxiety of the five minutes comment just left him smiling and shaking his head, making an excuse about how he had the rest of the night off and just wanted to go enjoy it.

“Well then, I’ve got a date with my husband, so I’ll see you next week Jimmy.”

The subway ride to his apartment was a gallery of people excited and dressed up for Friday night on the town. The northside seventh story walk-up was little more than a closet with a little kitchenette and a metal sink that doubled as bathroom and kitchen sink. His roommate worked in a restaurant kitchen, but left their kitchenette littered with mess and unwashed dishes that left Jimmy almost sighing as he walked in and stared at it.

“FUCCCCCK!”

The sound made Jimmy wince as it came through the thin walls of the lowest rent apartment he could find, the roommate there before him, the price too good to pass up. The roommate was rude, and it appeared, had brought company over unannounced and without checking as they’d agreed when the lease was heard. In a moment of dark curiosity, Jimmy got closer to the door, only to hear the sound of skin-on-skin, and the same woman’s voice who let out the ‘fuck’ began a disturbing stream of words that just made Jimmy blink.

He didn’t always understand why some women let themselves be treated that way, but he wasn’t one to judge, he just didn’t understand. He retreated to his tiny bedroom, a single-sized cot decorated with a sleeping beg and blanket, a few pillows tucked against the wall between bedrooms. The desk was old, something he’d found on the street and cleaned up, his old computer on it, waiting for him. He nearly jumped when something started hitting against the wall between bedrooms, sighing deep as he slid on headphones and drowned it out, deciding against sleep for now, not wanting to feel the thuds from the wall. Instead, he logged into the coolest thing he was part of; the secret online forum for super sightings. There were posts about magic, gods, metahumans.

Downvoted and towards the bottom he found a post about Boston. The poster claimed to be an MIT student with dark cell phone footage about a girl in the air, floating, then flying then floating. He tried to understand the downvoting until he saw the comments:

Great. Ultra Bimbo. Just what the world needs.

She can fly. Big whoop.

FAAAAAAAAKE.

You go to MIT and I go to Harvard, sure, bruh.

Clown ass simping dude.

He’d been to Boston. He noticed a building, it had a garden on top of it, a co-op, his aunt had shown him when he visited her last year. He sent the link to an old online friend, a digital artist that worked contracts for gaming companies, and started up Baldur’s Gate 3. It was towards 3 in the morning when he finally could escape the burning of his eyes from screen exposure no longer, saving his game and checking his messages before he went to bed, taking off his headphones and frowned at the sounds of his roommates bed hitting against the shared wall again.

Yet it was the message notification on the computer screen that drew him in.

” Hey James. Not sure what crackpipe they’re smoking but this isn’t CGI, or AI, this footage is real. Know anything more about it?”

---

_{Lois Lane, The Daily Planet}

The phone rang, and her eyes darted to it, suspicious. It was the desk phone, not her cell phone, which rarely meant anything good. In the back corner of the bullpen, where new reporters and interns were tossed and forgotten, Lois didn’t have a line of sight on Perry White’s office, or the office of Jerry, the assistant editor for Metro that she’d been assigned to…but it was nearly three in the morning, and she knew she’d seen both offices empty. She heard the phones of every desk ring, too, “Security calling to see if anyone’s still here so they can leave early? Get off your butt and do your rounds,” she snorted, and returned her attention back to the screen that illuminated her cubicle and herself, fingers continuing to type.

When it rang again, she ignored it, again. She was half-way through one of the better lines she’d written all night when the phone rang for a third time and made her nearly jump, “Jesus, you’re lazy,” it was irritation that drove her to pick up the receiver and hold it to her ear as she just continued to type, trying to recover the brilliant finish to the line she had lost when the third ringing of the phone surprised her, “listen, keep calling and I’ll give the editors your name for not doing your ro—”

“I need help. This is my only hope.”

Lois stopped. The voice was a woman, older sounding, desperate and terrorized. “Ma’am, slow down, and—”

The voice kept going like she didn’t even hear her, “—they stole my baby. It took me over a decade to track them, but I did, and I think they found me out—”

“—who found you?”

Again, the woman just kept going, “They took my little girl. They took her and everything she came with. They thought I wouldn’t fight, but I kept fighting, I escaped the facility they had me committed to, the judge they paid off—”

Her eyes rolled, hard, eyes coming a close as she sighed softly into the receiver, “Listen, Ma’am—”

Again, the voice ignored her, “—no matter what they did, I found her. Luthor, they named her, my baby Kara…named after the MOTHERFUCKER WHO TOOK HER!...I think they found me, so if you’re hearing this, I’m dead—”

Lois blinked and stared at the receiver for a heartbeat before bring it back up to her ear.

“—and you’re my only hope. The only journalists in town who they don’t own. North 81st and Clinton, Greyhound station. The key is taped onto the back of the last toilet of the women’s restroom on the second floor. It has the locker number on it...please, please, please help. Please do the right thing…please, please...”

There was just sobbing and mumbled, desperate, heartbroken pleas before the line went dead.

“...what was that?”

Lois Lane found herself jumping out of her skin, so high, so fast, that she was on her feet and swearing at the shadow who she found standing at the entrance to her cubicle, “JESUS CRIST!” When she looked up, heart beating so hard and fast it had made it’s way into her throat, she found only Jimmy Olson, the copy boy and, as Jerry as so adorably put it, the coffee bitch we’ll fire before his review period so we don’t have unemployment taxes spike on us.

That was the moment Lois decided Jerry was a fucking sleaze.

“...Jimmy, dammit,” Lois deflated back into her seat, taking deep breaths with her eyes closed before she regained her composure, and looked back to the guy, “Why are you even here?”

He shrugged, like he’d been scolded, “My, uh...roommate had a party going, I had some work to finish, so, uh...”

You’re lying but I don’t care. “…okay, well, since you’re here why don’t you get me everything we have on the Luthors? I’m going to take the recording of that call and scrub it from the Planet’s system after I download it onto my phone.”

Jimmy just looked confused, “Why?”

“Jimmy…background. I’ll explain it over breakfast, but we have a few hours until people get here, and I want to be out of here by then. Can you do that?” She asked him, her tone softer, gentler. There was something raw in the guy’s eyes. Something vulnerable, and Lois was smart enough to know how to handle it.

It was only when she watched Jimmy nod, walk off towards the archives that she finally turned her attention back to the phone, and listened to the call once more, the secure, encrypted browser on her cell phone the only search she trusted in the moment, bringing up pictures of the Luthor family and checking photo credits and descriptions, her scrolling stopping dead at a family picture dated a year ago, tagged at a charity function: the elder, Lyonel, the son, Lex, and...daughter, Kara. It should have been fear Lois Lane felt.

But she was Lois Lane, and all she felt was determination.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

<Snipped quote by Lord Wraith>

Thanks Daddy

@Sep

Kinky.

I like that shit.

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

Yay Rogue!

Absolute Comics Presents - What If? [A DC & Marvel One Universe RP]

<Snipped quote by autumoon>

This is a fine compromise for me.

<Snipped quote by Ruby>

Yeah, I can see how that would definitely get the spirits down. I'm excited to catch up on the IC and read it though.

@Lord Wraith

I actually liked it. Definitely shows her personality quick and fast. Enjoyed the Lex moment, get to see some of the truth behind that dynamic. I didn't hate it. How often do I say that?