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thelordofgifs · 1 year ago

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the fairest stars: post iv

Beren and Lúthien steal two Silmarils, more sons of Fëanor than anyone ever needed or wanted get involved, things go extremely sideways: you know the drill. You can find the first 18 parts of this bullet point fic on AO3 here, and parts 16-20 on tumblr here.

We're starting out part 21 with a timeskip!

One year after the fall of Himring, north Beleriand remains bitterly contested.

The East is overrun. In Barad Eithel's great war-room the map of Estolad is covered in black arrows stretching from Lothlann down to the Andram Wall.

Caranthir and Amras maintain a last stronghold on Amon Ereb, with the people of Himring who fled there after its fall; but Ossiriand, they fear, will only remain undefiled so long as Morgoth's attention does not turn towards it.

Their Eastern allies, too, are unimpressed. Bór and his young sons were all slain not long after Himring burned; the few of their people who escaped the orc-raids have joined themselves to Ulfang in Thargelion, but they are none too friendly to the Fëanorians these days.

"And Nelyo says I'm bad at making allies," Caranthir remarks.

[yeah he's in this now. damn it why will they not stay in their place.]

"I wouldn't say this is Nelyo's fault," Amras says quietly.

It is a debate held, in one form or the other, in every free kingdom in Beleriand.

But anyway, the East does not seem to be Morgoth's main concern for now.

It is Hithlum, Fingon is sure, where the next assault will come.

Hithlum, the realm of the High King of the Noldor; Hithlum, where he reigns who once humilated Morgoth so thoroughly; Hithlum, where Maedhros holds a Silmaril yet.

If the last true stronghold of the Noldor falls—

And he is facing plenty of internal pressure, too.

His lords – many of them survivors of the Grinding Ice, and arch-loyal followers of the House of Fingolfin – are less than impressed by the rumours that have reached them of the fall of Himring, and Maedhros' actions there.

Fingon has tried to quell the whispers as best as he can. But it is impossible to deny the fact that the attack took Himring by surprise because its patrols were cancelled on Maedhros' orders, or that Maedhros left the field as their position worsened.

The healers who treated Maglor's stab wound have not been quiet, either, about the fact that it was an elvish blade that caused the injury.

And some of those who were at Himring have heard that Maglor was found in a pool of his own blood with Maedhros, subdued too late, unconscious beside him—

If only they knew, Fingon thinks furiously, they would not cast sly aspersions on his judgement and his taste in friends. They would not stop talking of anything consequential when Maedhros drew near, as if he is not to be trusted with the secrets of the war.

Of course when he dares to suggest to Maedhros that this might bother him, Maedhros laughs and says, "Finno, do you think this the worst humiliation I have ever endured?"

So. There's not much Fingon can say to that.

His father was a diplomat, a politician, a builder of alliances. Fingon is not doing a very good job of living up to that legacy.

Thingol returned no response to the letter Fingon sent him, informing him of Curufin's disappearance.

In fact, Thingol is kind of just Done.

So the Noldor turned out to be faithless. What else is new?

Also he didn't really want Curufin's head anyway. Where would he even put it?

Fingon cannot give him what he truly wishes for: his daughter.

In Lúthien's absence old age has fallen upon him, who has lived unwithered for long Ages of the Stars since his birth at distant Cuiviénen.

Melian sings no longer. The people of Doriath, who have known little but peace and splendour since the Girdle was first raised, begin to wonder if their blessings have been withdrawn.

So it is a Menegroth much changed into which Beren and Lúthien walk, hand in hand, one afternoon.

Their return is met with both joy and some consternation. Youth comes back to Thingol at the touch of his daughter's hand; but Melian knows that she will never smile again.

Lúthien bears it all, the feasts of celebration at which none can look her in the eye, her father's overwhelming gladness and her mother's sorrow, the halls that ring yet with the memory of her grief, for exactly two weeks; then she announces that she and Beren are leaving.

"Daughter," Thingol protests, "you have only just returned to us – and soon—"

(Thingol does not know how he will ever handle the parting that is to come.)

"Will you not stay?" he asks. "This is your home."

Lúthien is not sure she knows what home means any more.

"I am sorry," she says, regretful but firm.

The next day finds her and Beren walking through Brethil, debating their next course of action – just as they did not so very long ago, when Celegorm and Curufin attacked them in the woods.

It is of that little skirmish that Beren is thinking now.

"They say Curufin is still out there somewhere," he argues. "It mightn't be safe—"

"I sang Morgoth himself to sleep," Lúthien cries, "and you think I can't take Curufin Fëanorion?"

"Tinúviel," Beren says, with a laugh, "I do not think there is anyone you can't take."

Lúthien allows herself to be placated.

"I am not suggesting we dwell alone in the wilderness," she says; "you made your earlier thoughts on that very clear. But I – I cannot go back to being Doriath's Princess, Beren, as if every part of me is not changed irretrievably since first you called my name, as if – as if you didn't die there, and—"

"Sweetheart," says Beren, kissing her forehead. "It wasn't permanent." And when she chokes out a little laugh through her tears, he goes on, "I know you do not wish to stay in Doriath. But we must choose somewhere – and somewhere safe. It seems as though the Enemy's reach has lengthened in the time we were, um, gone."

"I thought to go to Ossiriand," Lúthien says. "My kin the Green-elves still guard those lands."

"But only those lands," says Beren. "Estolad and Thargelion are overrun. The sons of Fëanor keep no watch upon the Eastmarch. If Morgoth were to learn that you dwelled there—"

"I'm not afraid," Lúthien says. "And even if I were – am I never to venture beyond the Girdle again, for fear of him? Is all my father's kingdom to be naught to me but a prison, as Hírilorn was? I cannot stand it – I will not."

Beren takes both her hands in his one and looks at her. "Tinúviel," he says, very seriously, "I will never cage you."

Oh, he knows her. What a wondrous, terrifying thing, to be understood so completely.

Perhaps Lúthien is still a little delirious with the rush of living once more, for she dips her head to capture Beren's mouth in a delighted kiss, and for a time they both forget all other matters.

Plucking strands of grass from her hair some time later, Beren says, "I have another idea."

"What! I thought I argued my case quite passionately," Lúthien teases.

"You said you thought of dwelling among your kin," says Beren. "What of going to mine, instead?" And, when Lúthien shoots him a puzzled look, "The House of Bëor is mostly ruined, but there are still remnants of my people who escaped Dorthonion ere its fall. Some of them dwell nearby, with the Haladin. And others went north to Dor-lómin – my little cousin Morwen is the lady of that land now."

"I do not wish to stay in Brethil," says Lúthien; "it is rather too close to Menegroth for my tastes. But the Land of Echoes, on the other hand..."

Her eyes are alight with that same fanciful gleam they used to get when Beren told her stories of the world outside the Girdle, of holy Tarn Aeluin and the dread Ered Gorgoroth alike.

You would think, Beren muses, that she would have had enough of adventure by now.

"I have," says Lúthien, catching his thought. "We are to live a very peaceful and retiring life. I insist on it! That is what I told Mandos we deserved. None shall dare assail us, in Dor-lómin." She rolls the name on her tongue as if trying to taste it.

"They call it so because of the terrible cry of Morgoth when Ungoliant assailed him," Beren tells her, "not for any sweeter music."

Lúthien laughs and flings her arms around him. Oh, his living body warm and solid against hers! It is a gift she does not intend to waste.

"Luckily," she says, "I am good at changing the melody."

Another conversation between lovers:

"Do you think it could be done?"

“I have already told you what I think.”

"But you haven't explained," Fingon persists, "you have only looked at me dolefully and proclaimed that it is not possible."

"Well, it is not," says Maedhros. He is lying curled in Fingon's arms, their ankles hooked together, and he is loath to disturb their contentment with arguing. Keeping his voice measured, he says, "If our strength were doubled I do not think it would be enough, Finno."

"The attack will come either way," Fingon says, also without much vigour. They have had this debate so many times now that it is become well-worn. "Why not meet it head on?"

"Because you have a defensible position here," Maedhros says patiently, "and a greater chance of holding than you do of storming the gates of Angband."

"My father did it," Fingon mutters.

"Your father died," Maedhros says, voice suddenly sharp.

Fingon looks at him. "Don't look so worried, beloved! I am quite turned off the idea of wasteful heroics these days."

"Then look to strengthening your defences," Maedhros says, "and drop this fool notion."

"But if we did try," says Fingon, "if we united all the Free Peoples under one banner, and marched on Angband together – think what we could achieve!"

His eyes are bright with hope. Maedhros hates to crush it, but crush it he must.

"Finno," he says, "the East is lost. My brothers do not have so strong a position in Amon Ereb that they can afford to march north to join in a war that could prove ruinous. Bór and his people are dead almost to a man. Belegost will no doubt have heard the rumours—"

Fingon glances at him sharply, but he speaks without bitterness. Which is concerning in itself, but Fingon decides to let it slide for now.

"—and there is little help to be expected from other corners," Maedhros continues. "Doriath has strength to spare, but Thingol hates you."

Fingon shifts uncomfortably. He never actually told Maedhros why Thingol hates him now.

"Nargothrond," he says, to change the subject. "Orodreth will answer to his High King."

"Orodreth!" says Maedhros, dismissively. “A king too ruled by the whims of his people. If he had any spine he would have turned my brothers out of Nargothrond immediately, and Finrod might have lived.”

If Fingon were crueller he might say, You didn't manage to control your brothers that well yourself. Instead he says, "But the people of Nargothrond are many and valiant. We should not discount them."

"If Nargothrond wishes to stay out of the wars of the north," says Maedhros, "I think it would be prudent to allow them to do so." There is a thoughtful, uneasy look in his grey eyes.

Fingon gauges it correctly and says, "Are you worried for your nephew?"

Maedhros looks at him unhappily. "Everyone in Beleriand knows what a mess – Curvo – made of – everything," he says.

(A year might have passed, but Maedhros still does not much like to speak of Curufin.)

"Tyelpë is safe in Nargothrond, where his father's deeds cannot taint him," Maedhros says. "I would keep him so." Then he shrugs. "But my opinion carries no weight now, beloved. Do as you will, and I will support you, for all that is worth."

"It carries weight with me," Fingon says fiercely. "And I am not ashamed to say so. But you have not yet heard the key element in my plan."

Maedhros smiles despite himself, propping himself up on his elbows so that he can keep his eyes focused on Fingon's face. The mass of his silken hair is pooled on Fingon's bare chest. "Go on, then," he says, indulgent.

"Gondolin," Fingon says triumphantly. "My brother took a third of our host with him when he disappeared, and yet more of the Sindar went with him. They have lived in peace for more than three hundred years; their numbers must be great."

Maedhros does not seem as delighted with this idea as Fingon is. "Finno, you don't know where Gondolin is."

"The Eagles bring them tidings, clearly," Fingon points out; "else they would have opened the leaguer and come to our aid when they saw the fires of the Dagor Bragollach on the horizon."

Maedhros frowns, attempting to parse this extremely backwards logic. Eventually, he says, "If Hithlum falls, Gondolin will be the last stronghold of the Noldor in the north. I do not know if its position should be risked."

"All war is risk, beloved," says Fingon, "and if I were to call upon my brother, Hithlum will not fall."

Maedhros says, as if he has been saving this blow for last, "Finno, if you call upon Turgon, will he even answer?"

It has been more than three hundred years, since Fingon last saw his brother.

“Do you think he won’t?” he asks, more sharply than he means to.

(Turgon didn’t tell him he was going. He didn’t tell anyone. He just – vanished.)

Sometimes Maedhros thinks things were easier during Maglor’s long convalescence, when his only concern was his brother, when every sleepless night was because Maglor needed someone to sit up with him and every meal was whatever invalid's food Maglor could be persuaded to choke down – when Fingon was his strength and steadiness, and Maedhros could yet wrap his blue cloak around him like armour.

Selfish – selfish. Maglor is better now, and Maedhros is so, so glad; and Fingon cannot always be his strength. Sometimes Maedhros must be his.

"I am sure he will," he says, contrite. He presses a kiss to Fingon's tense jawline. "I just don't think it wise to ask him."

Fingon sighs and puts his arms around Maedhros. "Fine," he concedes. "Perhaps you are right."

But later, when they have extricated themselves from their warm tangle of limbs and risen for the day, he sits down to write a letter.

A few days later the High King's messenger, having ridden swiftly along the Ered Wethrin and into Dor-lómin, nearly collides with a small child playing near the road.

"Be careful!" cries Lúthien, dropping Beren's hand and rushing forward to snatch the child up.

The messenger gapes at her, for it seems to him as though she has materialised out of the shadows themselves. Then, when he gets better look at her beauty, he gapes even more.

Lúthien is not paying attention. All her focus is on the little golden-haired creature in her arms. "That was nearly very dangerous for you, wasn't it, sweetheart?" she coos. "But you don't seem frightened at all. What's your name, dear one?"

The little girl giggles and hides her face in Lúthien's sleeve without answering.

Beren feels a little dizzy, looking at the picture that they make, and at the bright tender look on his wife's face. Someday, he tells himself, someday.

He looks around. The messenger has dismounted; it seems the great house up ahead is his destination. A house of lords, clearly, surrounded by gardens as lovely as any in the chilly northlands, and with a bubbling stream running just past its walls.

Well, here they are.

He is pondering what the etiquette is here – should they knock? wait here until someone spots them? – when he catches sight of a second child, a little older, dark-haired, watching them intently from around a tree-trunk.

"Good day, lad," Beren says gravely. "Might I ask your name, and those of your parents?"

The boy regards him with suspicion for a while, before he finally says, "I am Túrin son of Húrin, and that is my sister Lalaith."

(One little-appreciated consequence of the fall of Himring: for the last year, Morgoth's attention has been on the final desecration of the March of Maedhros. He did not have time to send the Evil Breath to Dor-lómin.)

"Lalaith!" Lúthien says, delighted. "What a fitting name."

"Then, son of Húrin," says Beren, "we have reached our destination indeed. Might you do me the honour of introducing us to your parents?"

Túrin looks unimpressed. "Who are you?" he asks.

"My name is Beren son of Barahir," says Beren, "and we are kinsmen, son of Morwen."

Túrin frowns even more. "How do you know my mother's name?" he demands. "And Beren is dead."

Kind of hard to argue with that.

Before Beren can come up with a suitable response there is a small noise from the direction of the house: the children's mother has come out to call them in for the evening meal. She stands so still she might be made of stone, were it not for the wind whipping up her dark hair behind her.

Beren finds his own mouth is very dry.

He buried Baragund his cousin, and avenged him; and he has not thought of his slaughtered companions for a long time.

(There's only so much survivor's guilt one person can have, and it is usually the screams of Finrod and his Ten that haunt Beren's nightmares.)

Morwen is not now the thirteen-year-old he remembers, her face sterner and more sorrowful, but somehow she is the image of her dead father.

"Hello, little cousin," he croaks out.

Morwen stares at him.

Lúthien comes to the rescue. "You must be the lady Morwen," she says warmly, setting Lalaith down so that she can drop into a graceful curtsey. Her Taliska is hesitant, but beautiful. (Everything about Lúthien is beautiful.) "Beren has told me so much of you. And your children are charming."

"Beren's dead," Morwen says at last, shakily. "And – you—"

"I was dead," says Beren, "but now I'm not. I don't know how to explain it, cousin, but—" He holds his hand out to her, letting the Ring of Barahir gleam green upon his finger in the setting sun. "It really is me."

Morwen makes another small sound, swaying where she stands. Her hand rests on her son's dark head as though he is the only thing keeping her upright.

"Mother?" Túrin says nervously.

Before things can get any more awkward the lord of the house comes out to seek his family, perhaps wondering what is taking them so long. "Morwen," he says quietly, seeing her stiff posture.

But Morwen takes a breath. "We have guests, Húrin," she says, composed again. "This is my kinsman Beren Erchamion, and his – and his wife, the Princess of Doriath."

Lúthien turns her dazzling smile on Húrin. "A pleasure to meet you," she says gaily. "But call me rather the Lady of Dorthonion."

(to be continued)

#silmarillion #my fic #bullet point fic #the fairest stars #beren #luthien #fingon #maedhros #russingon #here we gooo!!#very excited for where we're going with this arc #this thing definitely needs more editing but I lost patience so have it now #say hi to a bunch of new characters (more are coming later too)#and a new set of political problems #also guess who DOESN'T appear here for the first time in 21 parts I'm as shocked as you are #(he'll be back next time dw)#also nobody died or got stabbed or had a breakdown or got nearly executed or like. even stubbed their toe here so BE GRATEFUL

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sgiandubh · 1 year ago

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Dear 'Hi, darling' Anon

You are so polite and I am so sorry. But I am not going to publish your ask here. The question has been asked before, in many different ways, which tells me a lot about this fandom's - maybe understandable - impatience. The reason I will not answer it in here is simple: as tempted as I might be, I will not write the damn script.

I am an optimist and I believe these two are good people. It is as simple as that.

However, what I can and will do for you, is to tell you a real French story I will try to sum up as best as possible. You take out of it whatever you want. I am just the narrator, here.

I suppose you are not very familiar with this guy, are you?

His name was François Mitterrand, and from 1981 to 1995 he was the President of the French Republic. A cunning, even ruthless politician, he managed the feat of uniting a French Left in shambles and leading it back to power after more than twenty years on the opposition benches. He truly was the master of all combinations, with an almost diabolic sense of human nature and a cult for secrecy and privacy. So much so, that even in a country like France (where people are rather fond of gossip and backstage gaming, provided all of this is masterfully executed) he was nicknamed both 'The Florentine', in an expected parallel to Machiavelli, by politicos & pundits, and 'Tonton' (Uncle), by all the rest of the nation.

His only weakness was to have led a double life for 30 years.

A scion of a deeply Catholic bourgeois family of vinegar distillers from Jarnac, Mitterrand married the atheist and radical Danielle Gouze in 1944. They met in harsh times, while he was one of the chiefs of the French Résistance, after being an underling of Marshal Pétain's Nazi collaborating puppet regime, based in Vichy. They never divorced, even if the couple became increasingly estranged after the birth of three sons, in rapid succession. She found solace in the arms of a Corsican sports instructor and he, by now a rising star of French politics, went his merry way with probably hundreds of affairs. I bet you couldn't tell, by simply looking at his official portrait, but hey - never judge a book by its cover.

By the autumn of 1965, Mitterrand started his lifelong affair with Anne Pingeot, an Art History student at the fabulous Ecole du Louvre, hailing from a well-heeled family in Clermont-Ferrand. She met him in 1957, while vacationing with her parents in Hossegor, a posh summer resort on the Atlantic coast. Both families stroke up a polite holiday friendship, so when Anne went to study in Paris, Madame Pingeot naturally asked 'François' to keep an eye on her daughter. It took him two years to seduce her, with flowers, daily letters, books, midnight walks, art exhibitions, concerts, lies, stories, restaurants and drama - Frenchmen really, really are unparalleled at this cat and mouse game. They never broke up and if Mitterrand never was exclusively attached to her, she remained the love of his life until his very last day on Earth.

The only real crisis moment in this stars aligned story came in 1973, when Anne really wanted out of the whole charade. She wanted a younger partner, an easier plot and (of course) a child. He relented. Mazarine was born in December 1974, in the deepest possible secrecy, somewhere in Southern France (this is a well-known plot device in any good French Nineteenth century novel, by the way). Her father legally recognized her only in 1984, via a simple notary statement. From 1981 to 1995, the second family shared an apartment in a building reserved for the Elysée Palace top level public servants, on Quai Branly, in Paris. At the same time, Mitterrand kept his usual home on rue de Bièvre, steps away from Notre Dame cathedral, on the Left Bank and made sure he was regularly seen there by the press, the paparazzi and the odd passerby. Anne and Mazarine were always monitored by the President's security detail, of course.

Did people know? Many did and at least as many didn't have a clue. Mitterrand was a master at separating his social life into concentric zones, but even as such, lots of people in his intimate circle had no idea he was a new father to that little girl whose toys they sometimes saw in the trunk of his official car, or who happened to be around at political gatherings. They simply assumed the toys belonged to his grand-daughters, the fugitive appearance was a relative and in general, they knew better than asking questions. Sometimes, he joked in interviews, as in 1986, when he told, on a very relaxed tone, to French TV star journalist Yves Mourousi "a certain little miss of my acquaintance told me I have to be more chébran (slang for also slang branché - trendy) and as you see, I am doing my best". Nobody batted an eyelid. When Mazarine dutifully wrote on her first day at school, sometime around 1983, "President of the French Republic" under the Father's job entry on the yearly data sheet every pupil must fill in, the headmistress thought she was joking and never brought it up again. Some of her school friends were even invited for pajama parties at Souzy-la-Briche, at the time the week-end residence of the French President, and even met Mitterrand. Nobody ever spoke.

But some people did know and could not exactly remain silent. When Françoise Giroud, a legend of French journalism, published, in 1983, at the Mazarine publishing house (!), her roman à clef (novel with a key), Le bon plaisir (As He Saw Fit), heavily alluding to the Mitterrand situation, she was forced by her editor to write a very clear frontpage disclaimer. She also had to tinker a bit with details: it was a boy, not a girl, etc. But when venomous polemist Jean-Edern Hallier, disgruntled that his support efforts were left unrewarded, wrote a tell-all pamphlet L'Honneur perdu de François Mitterrand (François Mitterrand's Lost Honor), in 1984, the manuscript mysteriously vanished without a trace (the book appeared, however, after Mitterand's death, in 1996).

All was revealed in 1995, by a paparazzi photograph being published by the reliable people's magazine Paris Match, with no intervention of the French Presidency administration to stop it. On its cover, a by now terminally ill with cancer Mitterrand was seen standing with Mazarine in front of the (wonderful) fish restaurant Le Divellec, in Paris, under the caption (I will never forget it): La fille cachée du Président (The President's Hidden Daughter). Body language was very clear (another caption: The tender gesture of a father):

And the good people of France could finally see Anne and Mazarine mourning him, on January 11, 1996, after he let himself die upon finding out that the disease attacked his brain:

First row, near the official family.

As I said, draw your own conclusions, Anon. I am not implying anything and I do not think, by any means, this is a copycat scenario. Two fifi la plume (= scoundrel, but also naïve) B-listers are not a powerful French politician, with a decisive influence on the country's society, media and secret services. The UK or the US are not France, never will be. The Eighties had no Facebook, no Twitter, no Internet and no cell phones, able and willing to turn just about anybody into a paparazzo. Mitterrand's fandom, if you want, was the Socialist Party and its army of ambitious technocrats, not the considerable mess that is the OL circus.

What I am implying, is that no secret, no matter how deeply buried, stays forever in the shadows. Have a little more patience and, damn it, faith.

I rest my case.

PS: Anne Pingeot is a Taurus. Don't mind me. I am just babbling, as usually. ;)

#Anon

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raspberryfingers · 2 years ago

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A Lion In the Garden -Tywin Lannister x Reader- (Part 24)

WARNING: Blood, gore, mentions of rape

Also, cleganebowl reimagined?

—————

After spending just over a month away from the capital, Tywin and I had finally returned to Kings Landing. And, in an odd change of events, the Starks simply decided to come with us. I knew it was convenient to travel as a group, but part of me also wondered if perhaps Robb Stark was simply too hesitant to let Tywin take the sword.

In any case, they’d come with Jon Snow, Brienne of Tarth, and Sandor Cleagane. Just a few of the hundreds of mouths that Tywin seemed to lament needing to feed.

“I don’t know why your grandmother felt the need to invite so many damned people to our wedding. Most of these lords and ladies I’ve only ever heard of,” he grumbled, looking over a few sheets of parchment as I cuddled into him. We were still in bed, and yet he had already begun his task of wedding planning.

“It’s what’s expected of a wedding like ours, Tywin. And it’s not as if you don’t possess the funds,” I pointed out, letting my fingers trace along his chest. He gave a low hum, flipping through his papers with false concentration.

“We didn’t even have this many in attendance for Joffrey’s wedding, or Tommen’s for that matter,” he grumbled, setting the sheets down on his nightstand and gazing up at the top of the canopy.

“Well, we had just ended the war during Joffrey’s, and we were attempting to preserve some of the lost coin during Tommen’s,” I reasoned, kissing along his collarbone. His head leaned toward me, but he did not look at me.

“Either way, I’m going to ask her to remove at least 25% of the people on this list. It seems it has only grown in my absence,” he said, sighing and gazing out the window. The sun was growing quite high, yet Tywin had remained in bed due to my protests.

“My grandmother is taking care of food, Tywin. That’s the biggest expense that comes with guests, so I don’t see why you’re complaining,” I told him, though I already knew it was more out of his dislike for people than anything else. He didn’t desire to be a politician at his own wedding.

“Kevan is refusing to let me do the planning so far as entertainment goes. He and Genna have been planning everything together. It’s making me nervous,” Tywin revealed, to which I raised both eyebrows.

“Your sister is here?”

“Yes. I’m certain you’ll run into her at one point or another. She’s rather witty, the two of you will get along just fine,” he assured me, sitting up in bed so he could stretch his back. I sat up alongside him, massaging his shoulders to help him relax.

“I’ll be sure to ask her plenty of embarrassing questions about you, to which I hope she provides embarrassing answers,” I said, smiling when he glared at me over his shoulder. I pressed a kiss to his warm back, running my hands over his shoulder blades. I was constantly touching him, it seemed. And vice versa.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, (Y/N), if you would greet the Martells when they arrive at the end of this week. Trystane and Myrcella will be there too, of course, but it would be appropriate for you to accompany them,” Tywin requested, sighing out as I continued to massage him. I could feel the degree of his stress in every individual muscle.

“Of course I will,” I said, though I paused as if another sentence was on the verge of my tongue.

“But..?” He questioned, looking at me over his shoulder. I shook my head.

“There’s no but. I was merely going to ask if Ellaria Sand is going to be with them,” I said, laying back down and trying to calm myself down now. If Ellaria Sand was coming with them, it meant I would finally have to fulfill my side of an agreement.

“Yes, she will be. Why?”

“I’m afraid she doesn’t like me very much for what I did to her daughter,” I lied, not wishing to tell Tywin of my plans. He would most certainly not allow it if he knew what I intended to do.

When I had gone to Dorne with Jaime, I had promised to send Ellaria Sand a small gift. Or, a large gift, technically. I had promised her The Mountain’s head.

At the time I’d made that promise, the mountain was already dead. Or at least, I had thought he was. Upon returning to King's Landing, I learned the bone chilling truth, which was that he had quite literally been brought back to life.

Somehow, through Qyburn’s talents, the mountain was still alive and just as strong as he had been. It had disturbed Tywin for a while, but loyalty was loyalty, and that had not changed even in his… revived state.

I, however, felt nothing but fear and disgust when I saw the Mountain, and for that reason, Tywin had assigned him to protect Cersei. Though, if I was honest, I knew that Tywin felt uncomfortable around the creature even if he was loyal.

But now, with Ellaria’s arrival, I was going to have to kill him, and it was a terrifying thought. Normally, the thought of killing excited me. But the mountain? I was terrified.

More than anything, I was nervous. How on earth does one kill something that’s already dead?

“She wouldn’t dare to do anything. She would jeopardize Dorne’s position, which is not wise when Oberyn’s nephew has married Myrcella,” Tywin said, interrupting my thoughts. He leaned down and placed a kiss on my forehead before rising from our bed and pulling on his robe.

I watched him begin to dress himself for the day, but my mind was elsewhere. All I could think of was The Mountain.

Gods, I was going to have to kill The Mountain.

—————

It was late at night, and I’d told Tywin to go to sleep without me, as my grandmother had required my assistance with a certain number of things in relation to the wedding.

Though Tywin may have suspected me, he was compliant enough. And that freed me to be here, down the hall from Cersei’s chambers at an ungodly hour.

But even from where I was, I could see the Mountain standing outside her door as faithfully as ever, and I knew he could not see me from this angle.

He was mechanical, standing perfectly still at his post. Part of me wondered if he was even breathing at all.

The lights were dim in the hall, as only the constantly flickering candles were available without the regular sunlight. I was glad for it too, because it had aided my sneaking, and I had made it thus far. I was in leather armor, so as to be quicker and quieter than usual, but I still feared that the conflict might be overheard.

It was a trying task, attempting to cut off a man’s head quickly and quietly. I hoped I could draw the mountain back into the courtyard, and give myself a bit more room to get away from and dodge him.

I had my daggers, my sword, and some throwing knives, but I was still nervous. I often wished I had been trained with a spear, for perhaps I could’ve finished what Oberyn Martell started.

Either way, I had to be strategic, and I felt my best bet was to sneak up from behind, knock his helmet off, and slight his throat.

Though, the slit his throat part was wishful thinking. I truthfully didn’t think I was tall enough to reach. My best bet was to knock his helmet off and jump onto him. If I could hang on his back, then perhaps I’d be able to get his throat from there.

The dangerous thing was, it was also entirely just as likely that he would be able to knock me off, or slam me backwards into a wall.

Now that would be deadly.

Either way, it was the best option I had, and I found myself quietly inching towards the giant form, daggers in both hands.

When I was close enough to jump at him without giving him time to react, I picked up my pace and began running at him, letting out a grunt as I jumped and wrapped my arms around his neck.

He reacted quickly, struggling as I removed his helmet and reaching back for me. I evaded his hands, holding on for dear life as he tried to shake me off.

I stabbed one of my daggers straight into his neck, and he silently began to back up with extreme aggression. He was attempting what I knew he would, and still, even despite knowing that, I was unable to remove myself from him by the time I was slammed backward into the stone wall.

I gasped out as I made rough contact with it, at least removing my blade from his neck as I fell to the ground. I was struggling for air, but I needed to move.

As the Mountain drew and swung his sword at me, I jumped away just in time, eyes wide with fear as I crawled back and forced myself to stand up. There was no blood pouring from the wound I created, and I realized then that it might damn well be impossible to actually kill him.

At least in a normal sense.

He would not bleed, he would not tire. The only way he probably could be stopped was if I sincerely chopped his head off, and that was going to be quite tricky to pull off.

The only advantages I had were speed and flexibility, but even then, it didn’t matter if there was only one way for me to kill him. What I needed to do was take out his eyes, for the rest of him was covered in the finest armor, and I wouldn’t be able to hack off a leg and disable him.

Yes, I needed the eyes.

I found myself dashing for the courtyard, drawing him out into the space and swallowing. Gods, how was I going to go about this?

I reached for my throwing knives, hoping that perhaps I could miraculously take them out. It would require perfect aim, but perhaps…

I threw with as much confidence as I could muster, one blade landing in his cheek and the other landing in his eye. He pulled both out as if it was nothing, letting them drop to the floor and clank on the stone. I felt my stomach sink as they did, and I cursed out as the Mountain brought his sword down at me with extreme power.

I avoided him by a miracle, rolling away from him and drawing my own sword. My hands were shaking, and for the first time in years I was afraid of someone else in combat.

He continued to swing at me, and I blocked him each time, though his sword was so large and so heavy that I had to strain myself to keep from being crushed under my own blade.

I was unable to hold the next swing, and he slammed the handle of his blade into the side of my head, and I cried out, lifting my hand and feeling the cut on my temple.

There was no time to care though, because I was quickly back on my feet and attempting to evade him.

The Mountain was relentless in his attacks, and I could feel my arms slowly beginning to give out. I knew I needed to be confident, but I did not feel good about this fight whatsoever.

I’d been using his blind eye as an advantage, but it wasn’t helping me to any extreme degree. Again, he brought his sword down, and I couldn’t fight back anymore. My sword was knocked clean out of my hands, and I felt an odd fear run through me as I moved back.

I continued to evade his sword with my speed, daggers in my hands again, but I saw no possible way to actually kill him.

Just then, as the Mountain began to lift his sword, I saw a blade plunge through his back and come out from his chest. My eyes widened when I saw Sandor Clegane standing behind him, fury in his eyes as he wounded his brother.

He learns exactly what I had, though, which was that this creature did not bleed and feel pain as we did. In the Mountain’s distraction, I ran for my sword and throwing knives, trying to find an opportunity as the two brothers fought.

The sound of Sandor’s growls, and of their swords clanking against each other had no doubt woken a few people, and I began to grow nervous.

How was I to explain this?

I pushed that thought back, now feeling the same confidence I always did with Sandor’s help. I ran at the Mountain from behind once more, mounting his back and reaching around his head. I stabbed his other eye out, and he was sufficiently blinded.

In doing this, though, I had to sacrifice myself. The mountain let himself fall backwards, and I was being crushed under his weight. Additionally, my head had smacked against the floor, and everything around me was spinning as I gasped for air.

Sandor pulled his brother off of me, but I still felt absolutely horrible. Through my blurry vision, though, I could see that Sandor had disarmed the Mountain, and was now viciously punching him.

I also saw someone in the hall run by, and I knew our time was limited. They would most assuredly be running to find guards.

I heard a loud bang, and looked over to see the Mountain on top of Sandor, choking him. Even without eyes, he’d managed to overpower the Hound, and it seemed as though he was feeling around his face.

I’d let Oberyn die this way, I wouldn’t let it happen to anyone else.

Despite the spinning of the room and the deep pain in my head, I forced myself to sit up, clutching my sword as I caught my breath. I made my way onto my feet, steadying myself and adjusting my grip. Gods, I was in so much pain.

I kept going, though. If I couldn’t reach him in time, I would be next. I inhaled deeply and approached the two men, the Hound beginning to scream out as his brother pushed his fingers into his eyes.

It was only for a second however, as I raised my sword and cut the Mountain’s head clean off. In my trance-like state I watched it tumble to the ground, and I heard Sandor’s screams go silent. The large body collapsed, and after a moment he pushed it off of him. Blood was dripping from his eyes, and I wondered if he was going to go blind.

After a few moments, he opened his eyes, and I felt great relief as I collapsed back to the floor. The screams had most assuredly woken even more people, and I could hear the faint clanking of guards. I laid back, looking up at the stars through all my pain. I had hit my head miserably hard, and I was trying to pull myself together but I couldn’t.

Sandor crawled over to me, lifting my head into his lap and trying to get my attention.

“My lady, we have to go. We have to leave,” he said softly, trying to help me up. I could only cry out, tears beginning to stream down my face.

“I n-need his head. H-his head… I promised I’d give it to Ellaria Sand,” I whispered through my tears, needing Sandor to know.

“It’s yours, my lady. I don’t bloody care what you do with him. He’s dead, that’s all that matters. Are you alright?” He questioned, looking into my eyes with deep concern. The tears wouldn’t stop, even though the pain didn’t feel harsh enough to really warrant sobbing.

“I-I’ll be fine, go. If Cersei knows you helped she might try to blame the Starks,” I mumbled, trying to push him away. He swallowed, unable to move until the sound of armor really started to get close.

“I’ll see to you later, my lady.”

With that, I was left alone, and I continued to cry as the soldiers approached. They were Lannister men, I could tell by the way their armor clanked. A horrible panic filled me when I realized that in my current state, any one of them could easily rape me.

With that fear, I tried to crawl away from them when they approached, even if it was nonsensical. One of them bent down, trying to observe my face in the dark.

“Is that the Mountain?” I heard one of them mutter in shock. A few whispers of affirmation followed suit.

“Gods, this is Lady (Y/N) Tyrell. My lady, what’s wrong?” The man bending over me asked softly, surprised by my tears.

“M-My head,” I mumbled, sniffling. I was so confused and overwhelmed I’d stopped crawling.

“Did you do this? Did you kill the Mountain?” He questioned, looking at the detached head warily. I nodded, blubbering. I hated how pathetic I felt, but I knew the way I’d hit my head must’ve caused some sort of reaction.

“He must’ve thrown her down during the fighting. Lads, help me get her to her chambers,” he said to the other men, to which a few of them laughed.

“Oh I’d be glad to. Think she’ll remember any of this in the morning?”

I had no clue who’d said it, but it made me attempt to crawl again before a voice called out.

“All of you, get away from her.”

All of them looked up, and I turned my head, finding the last person I would’ve expected to vouch for me. Cersei stood there in her nightgown, a look of distinct anger on her face. The men who’d made the comment quickly backed away, bowing their heads upon realizing that she was watching.

“My lady, we had no idea-“

“Be quiet. You, take off your helmet. What is your name?” Cersei questioned the man, and he gave it to her. I hardly processed what was being said.

“Thank you. I’ll have your tongue for it. Now, however many of you it takes, get the Mountain’s body to Qyburn’s chambers and tell him to find me immediately. One of you go summon my father,” she commanded sharply, bringing me great surprise. It seemed even despite her great hatred for me—or at least her perceived hatred—she was not so low as to permit men’s cruelty.

She came to me then, helping me from the ground and into the hall. I found myself being laid on a sofa in her chambers, and she sat with me.

“T-Thank you,” I whispered as she wiped my tears away, putting a pillow under my head.

“There’s no blood other than your temple. Qyburn will treat you well,” she said matter of factly, wetting a cloth in a bowl and then bringing it over to wipe down my forehead.

“I-Is Tywin coming?” I asked softly, having recalled her mentioning her father. At least, I thought I did. Everything felt hazy currently.

“Yes… my father is coming.”

Just then, the door burst open, and I heard a panicked voice curse out. In an instant, Tywin himself was at my side, also in his dressing gown.

“What happened?” He asked Cersei, observing me and checking for any sign of serious injury.

“She killed the Mountain. Cut his head clean off. Though, she must’ve been hurt in the process because I woke to the sound of screams,” Cersei said, watching as Tywin sat beside me on the sofa and held my cheek. I felt safe with him beside me, and my tears were beginning to slow.

“Seven hells… how did she end up here?”

“I went outside when I heard the guards. One of them was insinuating she wouldn’t remember it if he raped her. I stepped in then and promised him I would take his tongue.”

“Will you?”

“Yes, I will.”

“Good. Did you send for Qyburn?”

“I did that too.”

Tywin gave a hum of satisfaction and began to pet my hair, looking down at me with concern. The anger would come later, I was certain.

Realizing I could hardly comprehend what was being said, they continued to talk.

“You said she murdered the Mountain?”

“Yes. Jaime mentioned she wanted to give his head to Ellaria Sand when he first saw what Qyburn had done. She promised it to her in Dorne.”

“Gods, she was asking about Ellaria Sand this morning. I should’ve known something was wrong.”

“Well, Ellaria Sand will certainly have it. There’s no use in Qyburn bringing him back if he’s blind.”

“She’s going to make a habit out of blinding her opponents, it seems.”

There was silence for a rather long interval, and then:

“She’ll be alright, father. There’s no bleeding.”

“I know, Cersei. I know.”

That was the last thing I could recall at all before going unconscious.

—————

I woke in my own bed, finding Cerella beside me. After I blinked a few times, her face lit up, and she shot from her chair.

“She’s awake, my lord.”

Tywin came inside from the balcony, relief on his face as he approached me. He reached for one of my hands, giving it a small squeeze.

“What happened?” I asked warily, not entirely remembering. Something felt off with my head, though it mostly just felt like a headache.

“You killed the Mountain, my dear. He must’ve thrown you down during the fight. Qyburn assessed that you obtained a concussion,” Tywin informed, which brought back hazy memories. I couldn’t exactly remember the night in perfect detail, but I recalled the Hound. I recalled being unable to stop crying.

And I recalled Cersei helping me into her chambers.

“Cersei helped me…” I muttered, thinking about how surprised I had been by it when it had happened.

“Yes, she did…” Tywin responded, though there was a pause in his voice, almost as if he was debating whether or not he should reveal something.

“What?” I questioned, furrowing my eyebrows at him.

“Do you remember why?”

“Why she helped me?”

Tywin gave a noise of affirmation, and I thought about it. I recalled the guards, and crawling away from them. From there to Cersei’s chambers, there was a large gap in my memory. I shook my head.

“One of the guards insinuated that he was going to take advantage of you. Cersei intervened and brought you into her chambers,” he explained, sitting beside me on the bed. I nodded, processing that information.

“How is your head, my lady?” Cerella questioned after a moment, not wanting to interrupt us.

“I feel as if I have a headache,” I replied, sitting up carefully and blinking a few times. Cerella nodded.

“A bit of a headache and memory loss are expected. Qyburn said you will be fine by the time of the wedding, it was relatively minor in the grand scheme of things,” she assured me, to which I nodded.

“How long have I been out?”

“Just a bit more than a day. I’ll bring some food right now, though it’s best if you stay away from wine for a few days,” Cerella suggested, and I nodded in agreement. She left us then, and when the door closed Tywin gave me a sweet kiss.

“I should have known something was wrong when you didn’t come to bed. I suspected you were lying about needing to help your grandmother, but I didn’t expect you to do something quite so foolish,” he reprimanded after a moment, sighing out and shaking his head. The kiss had been a sign of his gratitude that I was alive, now I would get the lecture.

“His head, what happened to his head?” I asked quickly, needing to make sure my efforts hadn’t been in vain.

“Qyburn is keeping it safe for you until the Martells arrive,” Tywin said, though he was completely annoyed as he did. I would’ve felt bad, but I was fine now, wasn’t I?

“Tywin-“

“It was stupid. It was utterly and completely stupid. Time and time again you seem utterly thrilled to get yourself killed, despite telling me that you would stop. I will not stand idly by and continue to watch you conduct yourself this way, (Y/N). If I need to assign guards to you, I will,” he said, a slight tremble in his stern voice. I scoffed.

“Assign guards? Don’t be ridiculous, Tywin. I’m not eager to get myself killed anymore, but I owe Ellaria Sand that debt,” I denied his claims, shaking my head firmly. His eyes gave a slight twitch.

“It’s not ridiculous. I want to be able to go about my day knowing for a fact that you are safe. If I can’t trust you not to behave recklessly, then I’ll ensure that you aren’t able to.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Then stop behaving like one!”

I jumped a little as he raised his voice, but even despite his anger, I could see the tears welling in his eyes. We’d had this argument one too many times, I’d feared.

“I apologize for raising my voice, but you know my feelings on this. How many times must this conversation be had before you understand that it is not just your life, (Y/N)? I lost Joanna, I cannot lose you,” he said, eyebrows furrowing with a genuine concern and sadness. I felt myself soften, especially as he raised his hands to my face.

“Tywin…”

“I need you to be more cautious, (Y/N). I know I promised you whatever you wished, but this is the one thing I cannot grant you. I refuse to watch you put your life at risk so casually, for Ellaria Sand of all people. You have talent and you have ambition, I cannot take that away, but I’m simply asking you to consider what matters more,” he whispered, looking deep into my eyes as his words sank in. I knew he was right, I always had. It was just so difficult to ignore the desire to fight, to win.

But after the tourney, I had felt that recklessness mostly dissipate. My acts against the Mountain were not a product of that ambition, as I’d been scared shitless. It was compensation for the guilt that ate at me.

The guilt that I still felt for causing Oberyn’s death.

“I’m sorry, Tywin. I’m so sorry. I just- I had to. This time I had to. I’m done now, I promise. I swear above all else that it’ll stop, this was the last time,” I whispered, looking down. Tywin was scanning my face, as if trying to discern how truthful I was being.

“I know you miss the freedom of doing whatever you please, (Y/N). I’m sorry to take it from you. But I- I love you too much…” he muttered, pulling me into his arms. I buried my face in his neck, clutching his back. I was oddly emotional, and suddenly sacrificing the impulsive behavior felt trivial. I would do anything for this man, it seemed.

“Oh Tywin…”

We stayed like that for a while, and I felt Tywin shake for a moment as he choked back tears. The only thing that ever seemed to make him cry was the thought of losing me, and I had no doubt in my mind Joanna was part of it.

Never again.

When I pulled away, he had returned to himself, and I was glad to see it. Tywin had never been fond of showing too much emotion and I knew he preferred not to.

“It wasn’t just me, you know. The Hound appeared. I would’ve died if not for him. I took the Mountain’s head, yes, but I wouldn’t have been able to if he hadn’t come,” I mentioned, voice quiet. It was hard to admit that I’d needed help, but it was true. I owed the Hound my life. Plus, it might’ve soothed Tywin’s nerves a bit.

“Why wasn’t he there when the guards found you?” He asked, suddenly stern. I placed my hands on his chest to calm him.

“I told him to flee. I didn’t want to implicate the Starks somehow,” I explained, watching him relax a bit under my touch.

“Well, he’ll be rewarded handsomely for it. Though, it was you who blinded the Mountain, wasn’t it?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, of course it was. You told Cersei it’s become my signature, didn’t you? I wasn’t processing much of what was said, but I thought I heard that,” I asked, attempting to recall memories from that night. Slowly, things were coming back, including Cersei promising to cut out the tongue of the man who’d wanted to rape me.

“Yes, I did. You ought to name those daggers the blinders with how many eyes they’ve removed,” he suggested, to which I laughed and nodded.

“Perhaps I will. Do you think I’ll end up in any of the history books they write for the greatest fighters in Westeros?” I wondered, looking out the window somewhat solemnly.

“You will. I’ve already discussed the subject with Jaime at length. He would knight you, if you desired.”

Tywin had said it so casually, but my mouth fell open as I processed what I had just learned.

A knight?

I tried to consider what I’d wanted, not knowing if being called Ser (Y/N) Tyrell would fit me. I’d always admired knights, but in all honesty the way I fought was not honorable nor very knightly. Would I make a good knight?

“I don’t- I don’t know what to say…” I muttered, head whirling suddenly. Tywin cupped my cheek.

“If you don’t wish to be a knight, you don’t have to be. Visenya Targaryen is famous for her skills, and she was no knight,” he reasoned, both eyebrows raised a bit.

“I didn’t even know women could be knights. I’ve never- never heard of a female knight,” I said softly, feeling Tywin take one of my hands in his and give it a gentle squeeze.

“There are no rules against it.”

I sighed, knowing it was something I would need to think about more before I gave any answer. I recalled the day Loras had been knighted, and the pride I’d felt for him. But knighthood came with so many… responsibilities. So many rules. And I had always fought for myself, for enjoyment.

Just then, Cerella came through the door with some food, and she laid the tray across my lap.

“Eat slowly, my lady. I don’t want you to eat too much and throw up.”

“I will, thank you, Cerella.”

She nodded and left again, and I found myself sitting there as Tywin spooned the soup and raised it to my lips. I smiled, raising my eyebrows with amusement and carefully sipping the liquid.

“The Frey’s arrived this morning. So did Baelish and Lysa Arryn,” he informed me. I sighed, shaking my head. Gods, did all the worst of them have to arrive at the same time?

I said nothing though, as that was a problem for another time. What I needed now was peace. Peace and rest.

The wedding was two weeks away, and every time I remembered that, the excitement hit me full force. As I looked at the man sitting beside me, all I could consider was his love. Gods, I was so lucky.

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#tywin lannister #tywin lannister x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones x reader #house lannister #tywin x reader #charles dance #asoiaf #a lion in the garden #tywin imagine

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lunargazing-png · 2 months ago

Note

Hey Lunar! I do hope you don’t mind me dropping an ask in here. You’ve got me very curious about Lt. Ikoleta Sylso, who is apparently Aspot’s momma, as crazy as it seems! It’s genuinely hard to imagine a woman this harsh-looking having a child at all…

May I ask, what’s her background? Was her apparent marriage to Az prearranged by their parents or other authority figures? Was Aspot conceived out of genuine passion or as part of their marital agreements, like a requirement or something? Why did they split up?

I sincerely hope this isn’t too much! You’ve just got me very curious about this mysterious, scarred lady. Thank you so much in advance! 😄

I love it when people send in asks about my ocs!! 😁 This is a formal invitation for anyone to ask questions about any of my mass effect characters, my ask box is always open to people's curiosity about them! Thanks for popping in about Ikoleta💃This might be long and very convoluted, but I'll answer all your questions to the best of my ability. I leap at the chance to talk more about her when given the opportunity, she's interesting to talk about. Ikoleta was born on Palaven, near the capital of Cipritine. A lot of the turians in her family are associated with the government there, playing roles that would be similar in concept to political administrators. She is downright faithful to her Hierarchy. She takes her background very seriously, and plays her part of public service for the good of her people, no matter the cost. She prefers her feet on active soil, but still carries the sharp tongue a politician would have. The Relay 314 Incident was the first time she experienced any real "threat" when it came to the security of Palaven, and was motivated to join the fight. Much like a lot of turians, it was not a brief skirmish in her eyes. This was war. Azailick and Ikoleta met each other during training and shared a lot of equal pride for their backgrounds. Their service during the war made their bond closer, and even after, she stood by his side during the rough patches as a close companion. Apsot's conception was a complete accident (oops) but her family was supportive and used it as an excuse to pressure her to come back home to continue as a public servant. Their union was simply out of necessity to keep a clean reputation (specifically for Ikoleta's family), albeit I think everyone knew there was something going on due to how young they both were. Two years after Apsot was born, Ikoleta had discovered paraphernalia Azailick kept from the war on Shanxi. A photograph of a human with a child, and a mysterious USB stick.

(Taken from Az's reference sheet. It's a picture of Kara and her daughter, Kenzie, as a baby. The USB stick is the research she abandoned from the colony. You can read a little more about their story here. Azailick didn't know that Kara was alive during this time- only eight years after the fact.) I think it's important to note that Ikoleta's feelings towards humans after the war were strained and full of deep distrust. She couldn't give a pyjak's ass about their politics and integration into the galactic community, except if it's only for the interest of the turians. Despite the alliance that the Citadel conjured up between the two species, she still has the perception that they're still "at war" with each other, but bends to the whim of needing constant change for the betterment of galactic society. Her own opinions on this are much different, as one could imagine. The discovery of these items made her LIVID. Years of deception, when Az knew how she felt about the war. How did her partner really feel, then? If he was so willing to hide something from her for so long. Azailick never told her his experience as a soldier during Shanxi, and everything coming to light honestly explained why he kept a tight lip about it. They got into a HUGE fight over it (honestly it was probably little incidents and that was the thing that broke the damn), and Ikoleta fully cut contact with him, which followed with a divorce. She considered him a complete failure in terms of turian pride and honor.

(I drew this awhile ago- and was planning to make better art for it, but never got around to it! Az is blue and Ikoleta is orange.)

I could go on about how Ikoleta feels about a human participating in raising her son after Kara and Az reconnect, but that's a whole can of messy worms- and I think we all know, honestly 😬 She still visits Apsot often but focuses heavily on pushing up in her ranks. The scar on her face is from an assassination attempt a couple years after, but she still works as if nothing has happened. She gets that hardened look from a mixture of everything that's happened to her... And from being a little bit of a hater, i think. 🤭

#thanks again for sending in the ask!! I had fun writing this all out :-)#mass effect oc #starcrossed #infodump

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braveclementine · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 32

Warnings: None

Copyright: I do not own any Marvel characters or locations. However, I do own my OC: Elizabeth Y/L/N (created so you don't get Y/N and Y/S/N consistently mixed up. I do not condone any copying of this.

YOU WENT LOOKING FOR YOUR MOTHER as the dinner came to a close. The wedding cake would be up soon and then the garter and flower toss which you were sure would embarrass Elizabeth greatly.

Your mother was with your father, and you heard their shouting before you saw them. They had closed themselves off in their bedroom so that the guests did not hear they were arguing.

"The farm was Y/N's!" your mother shrieked. You could tell she had been crying. "You are taking everything away from her!"

"No, I am not." Your father said, trying to keep his calm. "Y/N does not want the farm, she does not like the farm. Both of our daughters will be happier this way. Y/N will not have to keep the farm and Elizabeth will."

"Y/N was going to sell the farm you idiot!" Your mother shouted.

"I know." Your father said calmly. "Another reason I gave the farm to Elizabeth. This farm has been in our family for eight generations. There was no way I was going to let this farm be sold. And Y/N no longer needs any money she could have gotten from this farm. She's married to a billionaire, or did you forget?"

"You also took away her chance to get married first." Your mother snarled. "Do you not understand how the first child is supposed to work?"

"Why should Elizabeth always be put second?" Your father snapped. "Why? What's the point?"

"It's the way this world works." Your mother said. "I was a first child and I was always put first, the way that Y/N should always have been put first!"

"And I was born third." Your father said coolly. "And I know exactly how Elizabeth feels. You would never understand. You would never understand how it is to be second, to be looked at last, to be observed last, chosen last. I refuse to let our daughter go through that as well. That's why I fought it when she was growing up. And I cannot believe you are doing this on her wedding night!"

"It shouldn't be her wedding night." your mother sniffed. "It should be Y/N's."

"Well her wedding will be coming up very soon." Your father sighed. "So I don't know why it matters."

"Poli-"

"If you talk about how Polite Society will look down on us one more time I'm going to blow a fuse." Your father snapped. "Polite society hasn't done a damn thing for us, how many times to do I have to tell you? Politicians look down on farmers, you know how many times they've tried to take this farm from our family? You think we're poor? That's because they keep taxing us every cent that we make to try and get us to sell our farm! There's your polite society."

"I knew you should have gone and worked in the factory when you had the chance." Your mother sighed.

"Why should I give in? Why?" Your father snapped. "This is my father's father's father's father's farm. Eight generations. The Government has no right to take it from us!"

"But Y/F/N," Your mother sounded desperate. "I've gotten an amazing contract from this company. They'll pay us thirty million for the land!"

"Thirty million?" Your father sounded incredulous. "Only thirty million for eighty acres of land? You've got to be kidding me. What company?"

"TYPHON." Your mother said and your heart leapt in your chest.

"Absolutely not." Your father snapped. "That is not a company we'll be taking money from. They kidnapped and tortured Elizabeth."

Your mother was silent for a moment and then said, "I know. I told them where to find her."

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

"Y/N, WHAT'S WRONG?" LOKI CAUGHT your arm as you rushed through the crowd. You felt sick and you had no idea who you were looking for. You had no idea if you wanted to tell Fury or not. And on Elizabeth's wedding night?

You bit your bottom lip, eyes darting around the crowd. "I- my mother. . . Come with me."

You dragged Loki far away from the party, deep into the woods. You were shivering as a cold wind started to blow and Loki took his dress jacket off to put it over your shoulders.

"Talk to me Y/N. I can't entirely read minds like Wanda." Loki said and looked back to the tent. "Should I go and get her?"

You shook your head. "No. I don't even know if I want to tell you. Not now. Not on Elizabeth's wedding night. I cannot ruin it. Please, you must ask me later. But I do want to tell you this much: it's about TYPHON."

"Are they here?" Loki asked, straightening up immediately, a dagger created from nothing in his hand.

"No." You shook your head, though you weren't sure if your mother was or not. Nor were you sure why TYPHON wanted to buy the farm. "I can't tell you all of it, because you'll freak and I can't have you freaking tonight. Not when you're supposed to be with Elizabeth. But for some reason, TYPHON wants to buy this farm. I'll tell Fury all the details when you go on honeymoon."

Loki hesitated and then dipped his head. "Fine. But I will want every detail when we get back."

You nodded. "I'll tell you. I promise."

Loki held his arm out. "Now, let's go back and enjoy the party."

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

STEVE HAD GONE TO GET SAM AND BUCKY drinks so the two of them were sitting by themselves at one of the tables. Sam had handed Bucky back the jacket and Bucky was being quiet. One hand was under the table and Sam knew that his hand was in his pocket.

"Why'd you keep it?" Sam finally asked and Bucky looked up at him. "The figurine that she made you. Why'd you keep it?"

Bucky sighed. "I like it."

"I know Steve didn't keep his." Sam responded.

Bucky hesitated and then said softly. "Actually, he did."

"What?" Sam was shocked.

Bucky's eyes flickered to where Steve was still getting drinks. "Look, Sam-"

"You want her." Sam demanded. "I know you do. I've seen the way you looked at her. Why are you ignoring her?"

Bucky shook his head. "Can we not talk about it?"

"Why?"

Bucky sighed, "Look, it's just about something that Steve thinks, okay? Now can we drop it?"

Sam didn't want to drop it at all, but he watched Bucky clammed up, putting both hands on the table as Steve came over, handing drinks to them.

"Thanks Stevie." Bucky said, giving him a strained smile which Steve missed as he turned to give Sam his drink.

"Thanks Steve." Sam said softly, taking a huge sip. He'd make Bucky crack. He just needed to get him away from Steve.

"Hey buddy, we're heading out." Tony said, coming over and clapping him on the shoulder.

"You're sober." Steve noticed and Tony grinned.

"Well, I need to be sober tonight." Tony said, "You know the bonding and all of that." His smile slipped off his face a little. "Actually, I've sworn off drinking. I refuse to let a repeat of the club happen."

Steve stiffened a little and Sam stood. He hugged Steve first, "I'll see you guys when I get back."

"Don't have to much fun without us." Steve said, hugging him back tightly.

"I'll try." Sam said, hugging Bucky next. He looked at Bucky as he hugged him and then kissed him roughly. "Love you Buck."

"I love you too." Bucky murmured, kissing his jawline. "Now go have some fun."

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

ELIZABETH WAS NERVOUS. SHE WAS wearing a light blue dress for the honeymoon. Tony would normally have booked a flight, but Stephen simply portaled them to the hotel in the Bahamas. She waited patiently as they checked in and she found that they were actually staying in a separate, rather expensive villa right by the ocean side.

"Come on sweetheart." Tony said as they filed out of the hotel, wrapping an arm around her waist.

She thought she was going to throw up.

These were all men who already had sexual experiences. And she knew absolutely nothing and had zero experience.

Tony and Stephen chatted easily with each other. She could sense that the two of them were happy and carefree. But she sensed something different from the other three. Loki was deep in a serious conversation with Hogun about something, which she couldn't hear. Sam looked lost in thought as well.

Her stomach turned again.

She yelped in surprise as Tony scooped her up in his arms to carry her over the threshold of the Villa. Once inside, the outdoors noises quieted a little and they all turned to her.

"How do you want to do this sweetheart?" Tony asked gently.

She blinked and then looked at Loki, "Is something wrong? You seem. . . distracted."

Loki winced a little and then after a slight hesitation admitted, "There might've been a new development with TYPHON."

"What?" Elizabeth and Sam asked.

Elizabeth was surprised. She'd though Sam was in deep thought over the same thing.

"When?" Tony asked, frowning.

"At the wedding." Loki shrugged. "Fury said he'd take care of it though, so we don't have to worry about it."

"Are you sure?" Elizabeth bit her bottom lip. "If there's danger-"

Loki shook his head. "There's no danger. It's more related to your actual farm than yourself. Or your family. Well, we've always said TYPHON had spreading branches. Y/N overheard your parents talking and your mother said TYPHON wanted to buy the farm. That's all. But it isn't necessarily because of you that they want the farm. They buy up properties everywhere. Y/N just wanted Fury to look into it to keep you safe."

"Oh." Elizabeth murmured, blushing, "Okay."

"So." Stephen asked softly. "How do you want us?"

Elizabeth blushed deeper, eyes flickering between everyone. "Can we all just. . . together and like, I don't know. . . see how it goes?"

"Sure." Hogun said softly, kissing her temple. "C'mon, leave your bags here."

Elizabeth blindly followed Hogun up the stairs, clutching her hand in his. She wasn't sure why she was so nervous, but she was shaking so hard that her teeth were chattering.

Or maybe she was just cold.

Oh wait- she couldn't get cold.

"Relax." Hogun whispered in her ear, which did nothing to help her relax as it sent goosebumps down her spine.

Elizabeth closed her eyes as the others moved around her. She relaxed and then she made the first move.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

ELIZABETH WAS STILL WEARING HER wedding dress as she approached you. The sky was either a blinding white or a deep red, it didn't seem to be able to make up its mind.

The wedding dress was slightly different from what she'd actually worn. It was still white, but the design in the front was different. Instead of the two curves meeting in the middle, there were birds stitched into the silk fabric. And it wasn't as long, seeming to be ripped along the bottom, the edges black with dirt.

"Hello big sister." Her voice was pleasant and the sun shone through the clearing. Her brown hair was down, swirling around her in a way that should have been messy, but instead was flattering. She looked like either a goddess descended from the Heavens, or a devil risen from Hell.

"Elizabeth." You whispered back and went to step backwards, before you found that you were standing on the edge of the cliff. The Cliff.

"Did you come here to think?" Elizabeth asked softly. "I come here to think. I like to think about that time period, you see. I was just a little girl Y/N and you were so jealous."

"It was an accident." You whispered. "I never meant-"

"Lies." Elizabeth hissed, her eyes darkening into black tunnels. "Your mind was fueled with your mother's poisonous words. A mother that clearly wants me dead too. You're the little prize, just a trophy Y/N. A trophy for mother. Glorious Y/N, precious Y/N, perfect Y/N, beautiful Y/N. Ensnares all the soulmates so that they abandon the little stupid ugly sister. Well, imagine if you didn't exist."

"I never meant for them to not accept you." You whispered. "It's not like I told them to be cruel to you."

"But you stayed with them." Elizabeth pointed out, reverting back to an angelic phase.

"Of course I stayed with them!" You replied hotly. "They're mine."

You froze on your words. Steve and Bucky were not yours. Not really. They were supposed to be both yours and Elizabeth.

Elizabeth laughed and it sounded like a beautiful bird song. "You're completely right. They're yours. All yours Y/N."

And then she pushed you off the cliff. You screamed, your body twisting over so that you could see the crumpled, dead figures of Steve and Bucky at the bottom of the cliff.

"Y/N!"

Steve's voice jolted you straight out of bed and Bucky caught you with his hands. Both of them looked worried and you sunk into Bucky.

"It's okay doll." Bucky murmured, hugging you to him.

"Y/N," Steve's voice was soft, but also firm. "Look at me."

You looked at him and saw the serious caring face he was wearing. "It was just a nightmare." You croaked out.

"I know." Steve murmured, pulling you into his arms as well. "But I need you to look at me and tell me the truth."

"Okay?" You questioned, your heartbeat speeding up again. Had something happened?

"Are you scared of your sister?" Steve asked seriously.

You blinked, heart rate slowing down with the confusion you were feeling now. "Elizabeth? No, I'm not scared of her?"

"Y/N, you were shouting for her to stop in your sleep." Steve said gently. "You don't have to protect her just because she's your sister. If you're scared of her, if she's hurt you or if you're scared of her hurting you, we can take care of it."

You were flabbergasted and also guilty. The nightmares weren't from Elizabeth ever hurting you. They were a manifestation of your fears about something you'd done to her and were afraid of revenge for so long. But Elizabeth being Elizabeth had simply forgiven you with zero repercussions.

"She's never hurt me in my entire life." You explained.

"Clint said these dreams have been going on for a while though." Steve said with a frown. "Please Y/N, don't lie to me."

"I'm not!" You protested, shrugging out of his arms so that you could look at him better. "I would swear on a stack of Bibles Steve, she's never hurt me. I mean, besides our sword fights we had when we were kids, but that's it."

Steve looked uncertain, but he was clearly going to drop the conversation. He sighed and then nodded, "Alright."

You wished you could explain everything, but you didn't want them to look at you differently. It had happened when you were ten years old, there was no reason to bring it up now.

Or ever.

⬅️➡️

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xxmyhomexx · 1 year ago

Text

THE DESERT ROSE: My Rose

Ok, since I am going to romance Zain because he's hella interesting, I started thinking of a love scene that might happen, but it also has no connection to the game, and that's just how my imagination runs because I'm a sucker for intriguing LIs. 🤷‍♀️ WARNING: NSFW

~~~

What if they are in Brazil and they're on a date, and Zain takes a genuine interest in her but she's a bit afraid because if their age range? He's about 10 years older at minimum, but Yasmin can't help but feel a connection to him.

In the lobby of the villa they are staying, she decides to chance it and accepts Zain's attraction. They go on a date, exploring small outdoor markets in Brazil as well as eating at a restaurant that makes the best food amongst the Portuguese culture. Around four hours later, they end up in a bar, sitting at an indoor lounge area enjoying each other's company. Zain takes alcohol very well, whereas Yasmin decides to just drink water.

"Come on, try it," Zain suggests. "You never know."

"Ok, but if I end dying of alcohol poisoning, I'm contacting my father's men." Yasmin side-eyes him as she sips a beer from a bottle offered, but the touch of its taste to her lips is enough for her to fling it back in his hands. "Gross!"

Zain chuckles. "I guess Mr. Kadir's daughter isn't fond of beer."

"Not that kind," Yasmin sneers. "It tastes like vomit."

"Like I said, I admire a woman of traditional value." Zain sets his bottle aside.

"Does this traditional value include a foot up your ass?" Yasmin raises a brow.

Zain smirks. "Only if you're the one doing it."

Both of them laugh as Yasmin sighs, staring into the fireplace and listening to the patrons in the bar. So much had changed in a long span of time, and she rested her head along the arm of the chair. While pondering, Zain took the time to admire her. The dress she wore was one he designed for her, shaping the curves of her figure comfortably without it tightly restricting her. Her elegant brown hair was loose around her shoulders in waves, her eyes winged.

He set his beer to the side and leaned in close, catching her attention.

"You're pensive," he noticed.

"I just...it's amazing how much my life has changed. I was just Yasmin Al-Aziz, daughter of Kadir, Sefer's most famous politician. But now...I'm out here, with his colleague. And I wouldn't even change a damn thing."

Zain takes in her words as he notices she wears the bracelet he gifted to her. He offers her a hand, helping her from her chair. They walk through the bar and a set of double doors, up a staircase taking them to a second level. The bar he chose was also a hotel, discretely making a reservation for the evening.

"I hope you don't mind," Zain flicks a key card between two fingers. "It's quite late, and I'm awfully tired."

Yasmin blushes. "I didn't bring pajamas, Zain."

"You won't need them tonight."

Yasmin crimsons as he takes her hand and escorts her into the room. It's about the size of a standard living room, with a chaise lounge right next to a lit fireplace, and a queen-sized bed with a purple canopy. In the middle of the room was a small table with a vase of roses.

"Oh wow," Yasmin was in awe. "You really planned everything out. Let me guess, you knew I'd say yes to this date, and thought you'd get lucky?"

Zain shrugged. "No, I never take advantage of a woman like that, especially one I've...grown too fond of."

Yasmin smug look faded, and now she was genuinely confused. Zain plucked one of the roses from the vase, causing his date to warn him of the thorns. However, they'd been cut, and he twirled it in his fingers thoughtfully.

"I'm not asking on behalf of your father, but as a genuine man. Yasmin...will you give me your heart? Fully and honestly, only committed to me?"

Yasmin didn't move, couldn't even answer. She eyed the man closing in on her, eyes following the rose in his hand. He inhaled its scent before holding it out to her. He let it trail across her cheek, down the hollow of her throat, to the region between her breasts. Her chest heaved when she felt the softness of its petals tickling her skin.

"Are you trying to seduce me with a rose?" She raised a brow.

"What?" Zain's lips thinned. "Of course not!"

Yasmin smiled sincerely. "I'm kidding."

She closed her hands around the one that held the rose. "Zain, I've already known who my heart belonged to a long time ago. This attraction between us...it scares me, but years are just numbers, and they don't add up to what I want now. I want you, heart and soul, no one else."

And with this, he slammed his lips against hers. His tongue invaded her mouth, tasting every inch and corner that he could lap up. Yasmin's also did, as if was a war of who wanted dominance over the other first. After several minutes, they broke a part, gasping for air. Yasmin knew where the next part lead them, but she was nervous...and a virgin.

"Zain," she gulped. "I-I've never done...it before."

He nodded. He walked behind her and she turned to face the fireplace, the orange flames dancing in her eyes. Two palms rested on her shoulders, and she closed her eyes when she felt them start to massage her, across her collarbone, blades, and down to her back. She heard the zipper to the back come down, slowly. Soon, the golden fabric pulled at her feet, leaving her in a set of red lingerie. He kissed the base of her neck down the crook of her shoulder, letting her head lull to the side.

"Beautiful..." Zain voice rasped as he started to rid her of the rest of her underwear. Soon, she stood bare in front of him, still with her back against his taught chest. A part of her should have been embarrassed, but the fire in her belly bubbled and crackled with determination. That was, until she felt one hand slide downward.

"Zain...ugh!" She buckled her knees together, locking his wrist in a semi-firm grip.

He smirked. "Already ready."

"Zain, I-I'm..."

"Sssshh," he purred. "It's to help you. Trust me, Yasmin."

She moaned as her legs finally buckled beneath her, causing her to hold on to the arm of the chaise for balance. With aide, she crawled onto the cushions as his fingers continued their magic.

"Z-Zain, please," she gasped. "I-I n-n-need you."

He kissed his way up her spine and toward the base behind her ear. "I'm right here."

In a haze, Yasmin couldn't hear him ridding himself of his clothes and ripping open plastic, slipping on protection. She grunted when he flipped her over on her back and dragged her toward him.

"Oh my god." She gasped. Zain's body was built like a Morroccan warrior, a six-packed lined with definition but not overly done. His biceps were bigger than she thought, but he was the kind of fit she liked in a man: natural, hard, the kind that made her blush. He kissed her once more, molding her body against his. The chaise ricked from underneath their weight, but it held to full support as he crawled on top of her.

He started to lick, graze his teeth, and suck at her collarbone, neck, anywhere he could find. He then trailed his mouth tortorously down her body, earning him a pleasant tune of moans and groans. She was so lost in it, she almost didn't feel a sharp cut into her body.

"AAAUGH!" It was sudden, swift, and full. She clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the labor breathing. It burned and stung, causing tears to prick at the corners of her eyes.

Zain didn't move, didn't budge. He just ran his fingers through her hair, assuring her it'd be better in seconds. He ran his thumbs across her wet eyes and lifted her slightly.

"It's better," she was no longer in pain. "I can take it."

Slowly, she felt him start to move. He never peeled his gaze away as she interlaced her fingers in his, urging him to go faster.

"Yes, yes, like that," she pulled him in for another kiss. "It feels like Heaven!"

Suddenly, she flipped him over, now atop of him. Zain kept his hands on her hips as she balanced one hand on the arm of the chaise with the other on his shoulder.

"More, more. Zain!"

"Such a greedy, rebellious princess." Zain smirked. With a final jerk of his hips, Yasmin collapsed on top of him, exhausted but satisfied. She lay there in his arms for a few minutes, gathering her thoughts before he slowly lifted her and carried her to the shower.

In the bathroom, Zain shampooed and soaped the length of her body, running his fingers through her soaked main. She soaped the entire area of his back, across his chest before finishing off with his hair. Yasmin pulled his head down and kissed him, molding herself against him.

"I'll never get tired of this."

"I'll never get tired of you, Yasmin. Never."

This was all she needed. He was all she needed.

#romance club #the desert rose #yasmin #zain

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nicklloydnow · 5 months ago

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“After damning politicians up hill and down dale for many years as rogues and vagabonds, frauds and scoundrels, I sometimes suspect that, like everyone else, I often expect too much of them. Though faith and confidence are surely more or less foreign to my nature, I not infrequently find myself looking to them to be able, diligent, candid, and even honest. Plainly enough, that is too large an order, as anyone must realize who reflects upon the manner in which they reach public office. They seldom ever get there by merit alone, at least in democratic states. Sometimes, to be sure, it happens, but only by a kind of miracle. They are chosen normally for quite different reasons, the chief of which is simply their power to impress and enchant the intellectually underprivileged. It is a talent like any other, and when it is exercised by a radio crooner, a movie actor or a bishop, it even takes on a certain austere and sorry respectability. But it is obviously not identical with a capacity for the intricate problems of statecraft.

Those problems demand for their solution—when they are soluble at all, which is not often—a high degree of technical proficiency, and with it there should go an adamantine kind of integrity, for the temptations of a public official are almost as cruel as those of a glamor girl or a dipsomaniac. But we train a man for facing them, not by locking him up in a monastery and stuffing him with wisdom and virtue, but by turning him loose on the stump. If he is a smart and enterprising fellow, which he usually is, he quickly discovers there that hooey pleases the boobs a great deal more than sense. Indeed, he finds that sense really disquiets and alarms them—that it makes them, at best, intolerably uncomfortable, just as a tight collar makes them uncomfortable, or a speck of dust in the eye, or the thought of Hell. The truth, to the overwhelming majority of mankind, is indistinguishable from a headache. After trying a few shots of it on his customers, the larval statesman concludes sadly that it must hurt them, and after that he taps a more humane keg, and in a little while the whole audience is singing “Glory, glory, hallelujah,” and when the returns come in the candidate is on his way to the White House.

I hope no one will mistake this brief account of the political process under democracy for exaggeration. It is almost literally true. I do not mean to argue, remember, that all politicians are villains in the same sense that a burglar, a child-stealer, or a Darwinian are villains. Far from it. Many of them, in their private characters, are very charming persons, and I have known plenty that I’d trust with my diamonds, my daughter or my liberty, if I had any such things. I happen to be acquainted to some extent with nearly all the gentlemen, both Democrats and Republicans, who are currently itching for the Presidency, including the present incumbent, and I testify freely that they are all pleasant fellows, with qualities above rather than below the common. The worst of them is a great deal better company than most generals in the army, or writers of murder mysteries, or astrophysicists, and the best is a really superior and wholly delightful man—full of sound knowledge, competent and prudent, frank and enterprising, and quite as honest as any American can be without being clapped into a madhouse. Don’t ask me what his name is, for I am not in politics. I can only tell you that he has been in public life a long while, and has not been caught yet.

But will this prodigy, or any of his rivals, ever unload any appreciable amount of sagacity on the stump? Will any of them venture to tell the plain truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth about the situation of the country, foreign or domestic? Will any of them refrain from promises that he knows he can’t fulfill—that no human being could fulfill? Will any of them utter a word, however obvious, that will alarm and alienate any of the huge packs of morons who now cluster at the public trough, wallowing in the pap that grows thinner and thinner, hoping against hope? Answer: maybe for a few weeks at the start. Maybe before the campaign really begins. Maybe behind the door. But not after the issue is fairly joined, and the struggle is on in earnest. From that moment they will all resort to demagogy, and by the middle of June of election year the only choice among them will be a choice between amateurs of that science and professionals.

They will promise every man, woman and child in the country whatever he, she or it wants. They’ll all be roving the land looking for chances to make the rich poor, to remedy the irremediable, to succor the unsuccorable, to unscramble the unscrambleable, to dephlogisticate the undephlogisticable. They will all be curing warts by saying words over them, and paying off the national debt with money that no one will have to earn. When one of them demonstrates that twice two is five, another will prove that it is six, six and a half, ten, twenty. In brief, they will divest themselves of their character as sensible, candid and truthful men, and become simply candidates for office, bent only on collaring votes. They will all know by then, even supposing that some of them don’t know it now, that votes are collared under democracy, not by talking sense but by talking nonsense, and they will apply themselves to the job with a hearty yo-heave-ho. Most of them, before the uproar is over, will actually convince themselves. The winner will be whoever promises the most with the least probability of delivering anything.

Some years ago I accompanied a candidate for the Presidency on his campaign-tour. He was, like all such rascals, an amusing fellow, and I came to like him very much. His speeches, at the start, were full of fire. He was going to save the country from all the stupendous frauds and false pretenses of his rival. Every time that rival offered to rescue another million of poor fish from the neglects and oversights of God he howled his derision from the back platform of his train. I noticed at once that these blasts of common sense got very little applause, and after a while the candidate began to notice it too. Worse, he began to get word from his spies on the train of his rival that the rival was wowing them, panicking them, laying them in the aisles. They threw flowers, hot dogs and five-cent cigars at him. In places where the times were especially hard they tried to unhook the locomotive from his train, so that he’d have to stay with them awhile longer, and promise them some more. There were no Gallup polls in those innocent days, but the local politicians had ways of their own for finding out how the cat was jumping, and they began to join my candidate’s train in the middle of the night, and wake him up to tell him that all was lost, including honor. This had some effect upon him—in truth, an effect almost as powerful as that of sitting in the electric chair. He lost his intelligent manner, and became something you could hardly distinguish from an idealist. Instead of mocking he began to promise, and in a little while he was promising everything that his rival was promising, and a good deal more.

One night out in the Bible country, after the hullabaloo of the day was over, I went into his private car along with another newspaper reporter, and we sat down to gabble with him. This other reporter, a faithful member of the candidate’s own party, began to upbraid him, at first very gently, for letting off so much hokum. What did he mean by making promises that no human being on this earth, and not many of the angels in Heaven, could ever hope to carry out? In particular, what was his idea in trying to work off all those preposterous bile-beans and snake-oils on the poor farmers, a class of men who had been fooled and rooked by every fresh wave of politicians since Apostolic times? Did he really believe that the Utopia he had begun so fervently to preach would ever come to pass? Did he honestly think that farmers, as a body, would ever see all their rosy dreams come true, or that the share-croppers in their lower ranks would ever be more than a hop, skip and jump from starvation? The candidate thought awhile, took a long swallow of the coffin-varnish he carried with him, and then replied that the answer in every case was no. He was well aware, he said, that the plight of the farmers was intrinsically hopeless, and would probably continue so, despite doles from the treasury, for centuries to come. He had no notion that anything could be done about it by merely human means, and certainly not by political means: it would take a new Moses, and a whole series of miracles. “But you forget, Mr. Blank,” he concluded sadly, “that our agreement in the premisses [sic] must remain purely personal. You are not a candidate for President of the United States. I am.�� As we left him his interlocutor, a gentleman grown gray in Washington and long ago lost to every decency, pointed the moral of the episode. “In politics,” he said, “man must learn to rise above principle.” Then he drove it in with another: “When the water reaches the upper deck,” he said, “follow the rats.”- H. L. Mencken, ‘The Politician: Thoughts’ (1940)

#mencken #hl mencken #trump #biden #politics #democracy #america

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thephantomcasebook · 2 years ago

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I love the Daeron Dayne theory!

Re: And thus all of Team Green has to be bad guys in some way so that people can root for "Girl Bosses" and "People of Color" ... which as someone who is not white, I find that shit more racist than anything else.

I personally also can't wait for the optics of good bastards (the Hulls) played by black actors who stay true and loyal to team black, and evil bastards (The Two Betrayers) played by white actors who go comedic relief warlord, as well as, white girl (Jaehaera) gets murked for black 9yo beauty pageant LMFAO. Just a deeply unserious and disingenuous show. Will only be peeping the rest for the amazing performance of the team green actors tbh.

I also really like Steve Toussaint as Corlys but the show seems to not care for him beyond putting him in the role of Rhaenyra's wise wizard which comes with its own racist implications. He's a shrewd politician himself who was ready to pimp out his daughter but like everything else team black it's neither highlighted nor problematized as much as Otto/Alicent was. There's no way they're for real about that Seasnake show 😂

You joke, but I'm sure, at least before GRRM took over writing duty for Season 2, that was exactly what Spotchnik, Hess, and HBO Corporate had in mind for future seasons.

I mean it's now basically a well known fact that they tried to write Daeron out of the show, because, they didn't want Alicent or the Greens to have a heroic and moral son that is on par with Jon Snow and Robb Stark. GRRM had to fight (And fire a showrunner) to get him on the show, because, the people in Season 1 were so married to their political bullshit that they though Daeron's mere existence would spoil their racist algebra of "Team Black x Diversity + Pogressive Values = Good Guys! Team Green x White people + Catholic/Conservative Values = Bad Guys! Even in the parlance of GRRM's World that is not how things work.

Ugh, don't get me started on the Dragonseed Riders. I wish people would stop perpetuating that, somehow, they're all badasses. They fought like one battle - "The Battle of the Gullet" - in which both Aemond and Daeron were far from home. Then, they all pissed themselves when Rhaenyra tried to send them at Daeron. They literally threatened to quit, because, they were scared of Daeron and Tessarion. At Tumblestone, Hammer and Ulf shit their pants at the sight of Daeron in battle and switched sides so they wouldn't have to fight him. The only Dragonseed Rider who actually fought another Dragon was Adam Hull ... and he and Seasmoke got their asses kicked by Daeron and Tessarion - and yes, Daeron was piloting Tessarion in that battle, anyone who actually believes the maester about Tessarion doing all that shit on her own ... I got a bridge to sell you.

The only thing I looked forward too is Daeron and Hugh Hammer's rivalry. Cause Daeron really shows who he is by being Alpha as fuck going up against this jacked roid-rage rapist murderer on the biggest dragon in the world and sitting Hammer's dumb ass down every time they mix it up. I just love that the most powerful and dangerous Dragon Rider in the war is afraid of a 17 year old master swordsman who denies the Iron Throne twice and just wants his mommy back.

I mean if you polled any of the fans in 2018 everyone was saying that Daeron or Criston was their favorite character in "the Dance". It's revisionist history to say that Daemon or Corlys were popular when the book came out. I mean Daemon was GRRM's favorite and he became popular when Matt Smith took over the role - and he's damn good - but I'd argue that no one was that big a Daemon fan till Smith got cast. Daemon was a piece of shit who abandons his wife and young children to run off with an underage girl.

I do like Steve Toussaint a lot. I especially love that he and the actress who play Rhaenys are big fans of GOT and I love them together on the press tour. To be honest with you, I knew all the way back in 2018 that they were probably gonna race swap the Velaryons, because, even in the book House Velaryon stank of "Marketability" - You mean the House that is only ever mentioned in passing in ASoIaF and plays no bigger role except getting wiped out at the "Battle of Blackwater"? It had the stench of HBO on it from the beginning. So when they announced Toussaint as the Sea Snake, I wasn't mad nor surprised cause Corlys felt like a Corporate character from the inception.

I also agree with you that it bothers me a whole lot that somehow Corlys got a pass for doing the exact same thing to his own - much younger - daughter as Otto did and for the exact same reason. Except that I think it's much worse. On some level, I think Otto knew what he was doing was wrong and at least he never justified his bullshit with Alicent. Corlys not only did the same thing, but he was entitled when he did it. He didn't give a shit, not about Viserys or Laena. At least Otto eased Alicent and Viserys together and fostered a friendship. Corlys was just "You're gonna get Funky with Strawberry Shortcake and you're gonna like it!" like she wasn't even his daughter.

#House of the Dragon #Daeron Targaryen #Daeron the Daring #Corlys Velaryon #Otto Hightower #Hugh Hammer

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sims-half-crazy · 2 years ago

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Shortly after the funeral, Eugene went to his father for some advice and help. The news of late had not been good and he wanted to secure his future any way he could. First his cousin, Josephine, had succumbed to her illness. Instead of the whole family taking time off from school and their responsibilities, only Effie had gone to pay her respects. Then Goldie's father suddenly passed. He'd choked on a sandwich whilst laughing at a joke! Eugene didn't want to seem like he was taking advantage of the situation, but with 2 unmarried daughters and a young son still at home, Mrs. Hughes was going to have her hands full. "Father, I would like for you to begin speaking to Mrs. Hughes about Goldie's hand in marriage. We have corresponded since my first year at university and I want to make her my wife."

"Well, I'll be... that's wonderful news, son. I can speak to the widow on your behalf, but I might be dealing with her eldest boy, Calvin. I don't know how they're working the family dealings, but I'll see what I can do."

Just before the end of his 2nd term, Eugene received notice from his father that the betrothal was ready to proceed forward as long as Goldie agreed. Eugene swiped his hand through his hair. He was going to have to ask her after all. He sighed to himself. "Why couldn't he have just secured her hand without her agreement? I like her well enough and she seems to like me, that is going to have to be enough. I'm not going to lose myself in anyone. It hurts to damn much to get that close. I suppose I'll just have to get her to say yes. A politician can't be unmarried. Voters won't trust a man without a wife. I want children as well. They'll grow up knowing both of their parents from day one, but they need to understand that emotions make things complicated and it's best just to leave them at the door."

#Gosnoll Ancestry #ts4 historical #sims 4 historical #ts4 decades challenge #simerican #sims 4 decades challenge #sims 4 random legacy #GA Gen 3 #GA Gen 2 #Gilbert Collier #Eugene Gosnoll #GA 1880s

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maybeitsalivescribbles · 11 months ago

Text

“Can you repeat ?”

The woman before you adjusts her glasses. You hate her. You hate her since she has come into your house. You hate her more when she opens her mouth to say:

“Frankly sir, I don’t know why that seems so surprising to you. The facts are damning. Every year on Earth, the number of cartoonish villains is on the rise. You have evil CEOs and corrupt politicians that would make children scoff if they were in a movie. Civilians protests are...fine, I suppose, but we spirits of the earth have decided to help. Magical girls is the only logical solution to that evil. I am the representative of the Dawn goddess, and I have come to bless someone in your family to save your world.”

She doesn’t say “whether you want it or not”, but somehow the way she pronounces her last sentence makes her intention more than clear. Her glasses shine. You clench your fist, but your wife breaks first:

“Maybe when gods will stop being so condescending towards us and clean their own mess we will listen to them, but I am not going to let any of my daughters near you.”

“They’re both eight year old,” you add.

“It’s a traditional age to begin.”

“Tradition can change, in fact I’m all for putting your glasses in a nontraditional place in your -”

“It doesn't have to be your daughters. You could do it.”

Your wife stops her menacing walk, surprised:

“Who, me ? But I have a full-time job !”

“Your husband, then.”

You tilt your head, confused:

“Me ? But I’m…”

You point to yourself, a thirty-seven-year-old, arguably quite muscular guy:

“I mean...I don’t think I fit the picture. I’m a man, to begin with.”

“Oh, don’t be stereotypical. Men can make very decent magical girls if they want to, just as they can be princesses.”

“He does get grumpy if there’s something bumpy under the mattress”, helpfully offers your wife, while you glare at her.

You bite your lip. It’s been a couple of years since you’ve been unemployed. You’re very happy to spend your time with your daughters, but the cost of living is what it is and your spouse works way too much to support your family.

“How much is it paid ?”

The woman with the glasses says the price. Your jaw falls on the floor and you say yes before you have the time to think more.

It’s hard at first. You don’t know much about magical girls to begin with, but you live under the same roof as some experts. Your daughters are very happy to brief you on the subject. You spend hours of intensive training watching old anime on the couch together, while you stuff yourselves with pop-corn (everyone knows that fighting with an empty stomach can do no good. All these girls running with their toasts in their mouths must have a lot of trouble digesting.) You take notes while your daughters explain to you the potential risks, reenacting situations with their toys (you don’t want to notice most of them have lost a limb too much).

The transformation...is nice. Your don’t feel any pain in your joints anymore. Suddenly gravity had no hold on you, no matter how much Training Pop-corn you ate. You can make huge leaps, you feel an ancient power running in your limbs, and your skin is suddenly extremely smooth and glittery. Your main complain is the suit. You desperately try to find a compromise, but the woman and her boss don’t budge an inch: everyone knows that the costume is the most important part to strike terror into your foes’ heart. You don’t know how a weird tutu can do that, but the fluffy skirt is now your nemesis. As you represent the Dawn spirit, it is all pink and orange, and it sparkles so much you want to bring sunglasses with you. The wand shines just as much. The only part you really like is your necklace – a lot of pink hearts made in modeling clay assembled together by a string stolen in the kitchen – because it’s not part of your official costume, but your daughters made it for you. You couldn’t be more proud of it, because if your girls think you’re cool, you’re doing something right. Maybe you’re rocking this costume after all. That’s what’s your wife pretends anyway (even if she changes the subject when you ask if she’d like to wear it someday, the traitor.)

You begin your actual work. It’s the simplest job in the world. At night, you go after a cartoonish villain on your list, break into their lair, point the finger at them dramatically, and if they haven’t changed their lifestyle somehow after your impassioned speech about virtue, you fight them in a duel. (That’s the part you like best. Punching them in the face is your special move. You found this all by yourself.)

To everyone’s surprise, it turns out that an actual trained adult makes better results that a fifth-grader. You win fights in a row, your popularity rises, until the dreaded day when the cartoonish villains decide to counterattack. They invoke their own dark gods, and one dreary night a magical girl all dressed in black rises from the shadows to meet you. You have equal magical powers. But...she’s a teen. She’s literally a teen. You’re not going to raise a hand on a fourteen-year-old who looks like she needs twelve hours of sleep. So you take your scariest voice, the one you use when you discover someone has somehow stuck a pink unicorn on the ceiling (you’re still shivering about that), and you ask if she has done her homework. If not, she’s going to have a lot of problems in life, and she’d better study ! She says no, that she doesn’t care about homework, that you’re cringe and just a mean sexist who doesn’t understand her, and she charges.

Two months later, you sign the adoption papers. Twilight still thinks you’re cringe, but now she says it with a mouth full of pop-corn on your couch (you make very good Training Pop-Corn). To go with your costume, you wear the black ear-clips she gifted you for your birthday. The villains, being cartoonish, thinks that it’s all her fault, and try again. The next year, you have eight daughters.

You still have problems with money.

Back to Fantasy Masterlist

magical girls are real, and you have been chosen by a magical creature to become one. The only problem is your a full grown man with 2 kids and a wife.

#writeblr #writers on tumblr #original fiction #creative writing #writerscommunity #fantasci writing #fantasci tumblr #writing snippet #writing drabble #my writing #fantasy #magical girl #fluff #idk how to tag this

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shawnjacksonsbs · 18 days ago

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I probably feel about you how you feel about me, except without the hate. 10-26-24

"People shouldn't be afraid to express their opinions." - Eminem

I'd like to think I'm past that. Grown up away from that side of it, the hate side of it.

I know I put a lot of my heart into trying to not be that, but also without backing down from, what I believe.

It's a hard battle sometimes, mainly because it's such a fine line running between both.

The video in the comments gave me goose bumps to watch, for sure, but it's the quote I'm trying to focus on.

. . .

I'm sure I feel the same about the opposition as they do about me, at least in terms of . . ."How could you believe that side? Or you're falling for that crap!" etc, etc, etc.

I'm definitely an "anybody but Trump" kinda guy, but regardless of where you land politically, these opening and closing quotes are gold.

And then, seeing him welcome Obama, I got chills, but I digress,

I'm not the first to say that I only want the greater good for all of us, but I do want that.

Our biggest difference lies in who we believe and which side we believe will get us there.

One of us is being ignorant and the other is being arrogant(?), or . . . Or maybe we're both being both?

Just give up the hate, and let people be who they want while making choices they believe is best for them and theirs.

Do we really have freedom to, and freedom from . . .?

I mean, really??

Things I catch myself doing that I'm trying not to do . . .I still fall short of, probably a lot more than I'd like, but it's like those indirect jabs you hope startles someone awake.

True motives are ours and ours alone. So knowing the why, we do things is on us.

I have things that bother me when I do them. And things that don't.

To reference a specific incident, I had a cousin say something to the effect of, "Someone would have to have their head in the sand" Now . . .not a direct jab at me but grouping me with others that I align with, so I'm jabbed all the same. Lol

I want so bad to be bigger than those times. But like I said, I fall short sometimes myself.

How do we, the ones that don't want to play the us vs them game, stop?

How do I show love and compassion to the side that hates me, while letting both sides know it's not o.k.? How do I get others to follow suit?

'Cause even those that lean my way, do us no justice sinking down to that other level from time to time.

I want to be over it, without losing my way.

#stopthehate

#stoptheugly

Life is too short to spend such a large part of it "against" other human beings thinking and trying for a bigger, better, brighter future.

Mr. ROGERS would be so disappointed.

Feel your feelings. Don't be ashamed and don't let anyone make you feel less than, for doing so.

None of them care about us anyway, not individually, not really. The politicians, I mean.

How am I gonna carry hate in my heart for someone, especially someone I care about, based on an aspiration of a political, elite puppet(s) who will never know my god damn name?

Got 5 bucks says that our daily lives aren't severely affected in any abnormally negative way after this election, no matter who wins.

Just like every other ridiculous hate fueled election we've ever had before.

How many of these have you lived through now?? I mean, c'mon.

Life goes on, and the people we care about in the first person way, like inside 6° kind if way, all die, but yeah hate on that guy who wants a better life for his daughter and doesn't really know all the truth and then bases it all on what he believes in his heart to be true.

. . . .

I want you all to share in the love and the laughter of those really around you . . .before it's too late.

If we stand up, it's game over.

Stop playing it their way. (We could just stop playing the game at all, but that's a whole other conversation)

That's it.

Just quit.

Talk to your neighbors and stop hating people because it's easy or it's the "in" thing to do.

It's so fucking . . .fucked up.

Anyway, until next week;

"And I don't think anyone wants an America where people are worried about retribution, of what people will do if you make your opinion known." - Eminem

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the-firebird69 · 4 months ago

Video

youtube

riMcLaren 570 GT | 322 km/h run & faster 100-200 km/h than a 992 Turbo S |...

This guy does not work for mclaren but it's kinda been a little accurate it is going 100 to 200 it's a tough speed he's been a politician in United States for 40 years I did not have yours in about vice presidential nominee JD Vance and he said to be honest I don't know him I don't think I've ever met him who's gonna take it over 'cause it's a huge **** they're talking about the bases in the USA and this is the Max plans to put him back in and what we say is yeah we've already done it and it comes out like crap OK idiots there interfering with everything but regardless it's not that fast

= Zero to 60 and 5.9 seconds

damn slo And our daughter is laughing she says you have to put the kick car on the mclaren probably

= Quarter mile 11.1 seconds

= Top speed 200 50 mph.

With our kid which we have not formally named yet and the max I kinda dig in the female name argument and we like it they like it but he wanted to name his own company something of his but Hera thinks she might start a different one that's more like this smyth to fight teh female trumpsters we agree. And will help with the design and make it a little bit cooler and she agrees she wants to make it look really cool no this fix the rear use bigger tires in the back and pump it out a little not massive changes but the back end would look like a mid engine and not extravagant even though his is gonna look a little bit snazzy and it's true

our kit car We provide everything but the donor car and the donor car must have an engine with lower miles that works well the transmission works well driveframe and the wheels hubs are in decent shape and we have to change the suspension yes and the brake system but not the brake fluid delivery and the controls are pretty much gonna stay. We will change the gages and the gear shifting and steering mechanism. Wiring harnesses mostly will be changed. We will provide a full shell a full roll cage and cage where required for a drop on a one step process where you don't have to attach anything to the shell except for the glass and some interior components. The other components you have to put in to the bottom of the car which would be the gear shifting area the center console in other words and carpeting the lower dashboard and upper dashboard and seats and there will be 4 by the way. we start with the And she says no we're gonna do both cars the same way and they look different and it's true hers will look more like a girl's car and they do have a style and it's a supercar style and it will look very hot to guys too. We will include a top end kit and the exhaust kit and we will also provide the new electronics to go with it and the electronic module that goes with your cell phone or the drop in digital readout of your gage is. It also includes super cooling.

Magillicutti: so add mine in Morrisetti ahaha good i like it its my idea lol truetoo he heard it.... Both will have a donor car a Chevy or a Ford Compact 4 door they start with 135 horsepower and that's what going to model here.

Both cars will have very similar performance within four or five mph it will have a different look heres more like Bugatti is more like Ferrari and the mclaren.

= 0 to 60 in 3.9 seconds

= quarter mile 7.9 seconds.

= Top speed 380 mph

Price of Kit Approximately $10000 add the tires and rims and it's $12,000

Donor car 70 or Ford or other and we're looking at other vehicles usually these two and possibly dodge due to the frame. And his son and daughter say the frame on Dodge is sufficient as to the 4 so we're gonna go ahead with that too dodge. The price of the donut car range from $3000 to about $8000 and those are used. Some people might use the new car which is about $15,000. You'll be retaining your air conditioning the original stereo will be removed and you're responsible for that which is nice because people will put expensive systems in the other things you're responsible for would be to register and insure it but we'll provide DOT papers there's a list of items that they require we will have all that documentation included in the package and for each state in other words every state will be covered and it's not hard there's like three states that have extra but we like those things and we'll put in a booklet so you can't lose it and they have a checklist but you have in the book all the proper documentation if they required you photocopying the book one page at a time and it's only gonna be like 15 pages. It's a great way to do it because people won't lose anything. Also when you're at the DOT they'll ask you why you're buying it what you're doing it for and the obvious answer is you cannot afford a car that's a sports car and then this is a cheap sports car. and that's the pat answer any other answers usually won't be given approval. There are people who say the body is ruined and I need a new one and this is one of the only kids I can find that's a very acceptable answer. It still sees four people. Include a complete safety package that meets and mostly exceeds all the DOT requirements as does the exhaust and top end and glass and safety enclosure and roll cage remember you have a roll cage the crash rating is about an 8.5 whereas the crash rating on the 4 door Ford or Chevy or Dodge the donor car is about a 3.8 you're going to be telling them that too it's just in the documentation. And they have applications online and you can look at the booklet and we go through how to fill it out.

I'm putting this project in the pipe we're very serious about it. We talked to the kit car people today because we had to. To this massive guy is going to take it and they're helping and they said this is a concept and he was not aware hundred percent of it the concept is not true but he wasn't aware they do the car and it's just really mad at it and the people take advantage and they're so stupid they think is worth nothing and won't even treat him with respect now for having ideas that work very well. They are happy to accept it and we're going to run tests out where we are and we have cities and we're gonna put them in the cities and it is a go. And he says the testing would have to be done kind of in like erase car area in Kansas where it is still recognized as a city that can go to and it sort of recognized that but he wants us to do it for his order and hers and to stop flexing with it and to see what the hell it is and to get middle men and line it up and do it and he wants it to go quickly as if it's urging because it might be we don't have anything like that out there and we have to see it here what the deal is. And we don't wanna miss the big picture you can hear it we do say if we don't clash it we're gonna hear a bigger picture He wants the guys to get down there and build it and get it ready and say we're ready to test it and get the kit car people on it so I'm gonna send it into Olympus but I said approve it by tomorrow morning

we do have a consensus need it. nd Salazaar and Goddess wife say to do it. so he reqeustss they join the team. and tons are. the kit car gruop is up. and taking applications and for jobs any jobs. need this now to see. and we tesst it and one at first they agree.

the other mmodels one has 150hp and one 180 hp

the 180 hp

top speed 380 mph

0-60 mph 3 seconds or better

quarter mile 6.5 seconds

Thor Freya

we buy te they come out all of them

mac daddy

we see his idea smuggle them to each group they will infight we do this now

Olympus

great finally nd try to see it ok. we do that now

Nuada Arianna

we rebuilt some. old ones and all bradley and modern now. and will test the idea and it is covert. did get permissions.

the old vw engine. top speed 320mph new exhust supercooing and new topend. fast as hell. the motor is rugged. goes for hours at 80mph or so. need to cool is small the new motors will go for five hours at ieghty.

Savag Oppress

#youtube

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