#even if he's doomed to always destroy them

[withahappyrefrain]

Drowning in the Light Part 1

Summary: Once excited about your job as a lounge singer, now you can barely get through it, thanks to your less than charming boyfriend. Can a blue eyed bodyguard pull you out of a horrible situation? Or are you both doomed by the life you chose?

Warning: extensive reference to domestic abuse (not by Bob), language, guns, mob bodyguard Bob AU (yes he comes with a warning you'll see)

***

Sharp pain seared throughout your body, starting at your legs, bruised from kicks, up to your shoulders, sore from being shoved against a wall. Then your head, God, your head. You must have hit something when you got knocked down. 

The throbbing pain surrounding your right eye was familiar. From past experience, you knew it would be bruised, no need to look in the mirror. But the sharp, stinging pain near your scalp was new. Gently, you placed your fingers on the area, feeling something wet. 

Blood. 

You should get up, take care of yourself, try to leave before the man responsible for it all comes back. But instead, all you could do was curl into a ball. 

It wasn't always like this. 

For as long as you could remember, you wanted to sing. Selling out Madison Square Garden wasn't your end goal. No, you were content to land a job where you could sing at the same place every night. No more wedding gigs that took up your entire weekend. No more supplementing your income with that lousy waitressing job. Plus, the owner was sweet on you. 

At first. 

Slowly, you sat yourself up, thankful the pain in your arms from a few days ago has subsided. It wasn't fun wearing long sleeves in late spring, but you didn't have the time to cover it up with makeup. No, you were now far too busy helping run the club, despite making almost no money from it. After all, who was going to restock the bar? Clearly not the owner. Nor would he clean up the room he just destroyed.  Chairs had been knocked over. A now broken bottle of Bourbon had clearly been smashed against the wall, the scent burning your nostrils. 

But no sign of the man who was the cause of all this. 

Looking back, the red flags were obvious, but at the time, they were easy to ignore. You were living your dream and had found someone who supported it. That was all you wanted since moving away from your family to pursue your ambitions. 

So what if he got a little jealous when you spoke to male patrons? It was easy to calm him down and besides, you quickly learned to be on the lookout for him. When he suggested you stop interacting with your family, it seemed to come with good intentions. They had never supported your dreams and their phone calls always ended with an offer to pay for graduate school, scoffing at the possibility you were truly happy. 

In retrospect, it’s possible they saw the red flags you were blind to. 

Moving in together was a no brainer. It meant you could quit your temp office job that you did only to make ends meet. It also made sense why you were giving part of your paycheck to him, to help cover household expenses. 

You were now lucky if you could stash away a few dollars from your nightly tips before he got to it. 

Running a club was stressful, especially one where clients did seedy business. They never harmed you or other patrons, unless provoked (by someone who had too much liquid courage and not enough wits about them). He started off just yelling, which then turned into shoving, which had now turned into you lying on the floor of your dressing room, surrounded by destruction. 

So you didn't get up right away. Your eyes remained closed as you attempted to block out the sounds of an argument on the first floor. Your so-called "boyfriend" was probably giving some bullshit excuse as to why he was unable to pay someone on time. 

Again. 

Tonight, you had interrupted to offer a much better reason as to why he couldn't pay a vendor on time. You even got an extension, something the club desperately needed. Can’t run a place like this without alcohol, after all. 

But that wasn't good enough. You made him look incompetent, stupid. Like he couldn't manage his own lounge. It was the truth, one that everyone could see, but making it known was a sin. You knew it would be bad with the way he grabbed your wrist, practically dragging you back to your dressing room, ignoring the stares of onlookers. 

This was a new low for him. Funny how he kept surprising you, even a year later. 

Sounds of men talking downstairs were muffled, probably one of the many seedy customers who stayed past closing to discuss less than legal matters. They were loud tonight and you'd probably have to clean up whatever mess they were making. After all, your boyfriend was far too busy to help. 

But first you had to clean up yourself. Standing up was painful, your knees throbbing from being pushed onto the hard wooden floor earlier. If things kept the way they were going, you would need a walking cane before you turned forty. 

There was no way in hell you could put up with this for much longer. You wanted to leave, it was escaping that was the problem. The other night acts felt pity for you, but they also had to make ends meet. Assistance came with a risk, whether it was losing a huge chunk of their income or worse, facing his wrath. Same with the bartenders, the bottle girls. Looking the other way was much safer. Besides, you weren’t the first they’ve seen in this situation. Won’t be the last either. 

The broken mirror encapsulated the damage done to your body. Your tights were now torn, a sleeve ripped, revealing the constellation of healing bruises on your arm. The skin around your right eye was swollen, no doubt turning into a blackened bruise by tomorrow. Some of the blood near your scalp had begun to dry. That would be a pain to hide. Applying makeup would run the risk of infection. Perhaps you could come up with a believable excuse, should Bob ask. 

Bobby. 

The thought of the blue eyed man brought a sense of warmth to your body. How such a kind man ended up working as the bodyguard of a gang was a mystery, how he kept that kindness even moreso. His boss Maverick had been a repeat customer for several months now. Where they went, Bob followed. He always made sure to comment on how well you did up on stage, even sneaking you a tip. Bob had the sweetest smile you ever saw; pink lips forming into a thin, slightly lopsided grin, the corners of his eyes subtly creasing. He didn't smile during his shifts, just with you. 

His beautiful smile entered your mind quite often. It was the nicest thing you’d see all day. Yes, you were in a relationship, but it’s not like you were in love with the guy. No, if you had a choice, it would be Bob, the man who always spoke respectfully to you, always asked how you were doing, always genuine. 

But you didn’t deserve a guy like Bob Floyd. Before, you hoped for luck. That you’d finally win this time and be happy. Be loved. 

What a fucking joke. 

Wetness began to form around your eyes. Looking up, your reflection revealed eyes brimming with tears. A year ago, you rarely cried. Now it happens almost every day. You had become numb to it, barely registering as you grabbed a tissue, trying not to physically wince as you blotted the open wound. 

It was time to fix yourself. Stuff it all down and go out and sing. Just like you did every other night. 

**

Bob Floyd had always been quiet. Truth was, he preferred to mind his own business and not get in anyone’s way. Ironic, considering his job. 

He didn’t want to do this. But when his father died and left Bob, his mother, and his four other penniless, his sixteen year old self knew something needed to change. Temporary, he had told himself, it would be temporary. Enough to get his family back on their feet. Besides, it was more de-escalating situations rather than causing them. Usually his stern voice and presence was enough to deter folks, meaning the amount of times he had to resort to violence was rare. 

It was supposed to be a temporary job. 

But he was good at it. He got promotions, more money, more stability for his family. He was able to send his mother back to school, giving his family a better life. When Iceman retired, Bob was kept on for the new generation due to his valuable knowledge and established connections. 

Jake called him a stealth pilot. Quietly lurking, observing. Taking mental notes to share later, keeping track of every detail. It was how Bob realized what was going on with the lounge singer. 

Bob had been going to the club with Jake and the rest of the crew for almost a year now. Maverick wanted to keep a low profile, so he sent the latest recruits who had proven themselves. The first sign was how the light had steadily left your eyes, even when you were singing. When Bob first met you, you were like a ray of sunshine, eyes bright, smile radiant. 

Then came the tense arguments with the owner. Bob could never hear them but he could tell from your face afterwards it wasn't a two way street. 

Bob didn't hate most people. But he fucking hated Beau Simpson. 

It was obvious he didn't treat you well. Bob noticed how prevalent bruises had become on your arms, how often you ‘bumped into something' to explain a black eye. No person could be that clumsy. 

So when Simpson had come up short on payment again, Bob didn't show mercy. 

“Isn't this the fifth time he's been late? Why don’t we go down and talk to him?” Bob suggested to Jake. 

Jake, always eager to please Maverick (and annoy Bradley) was more than happy to take him, Javy, Mickey, and Natasha over. They were a well oiled machine; Bob would find and corner him, Jake would ask the questions directly to the traitor, Javy and Mickey were there for muscle while Nat was getting the real answers from others and looking into their systems if need be. 

The coward made eye contact with Bob and then swiftly turned around, no doubt attempting to avoid him. What a fucking joke. Bob hated this was the guy you were tangled up with. 

So yeah, maybe he should have used his voice before putting his hands on Simpson. A saying his mother always told him and his siblings, her school teacher career showing. 

She also still thought Bob worked in construction. 

Bob couldn't lie, it felt good to slam him against the wall. Make him feel a tenth of the pain he caused you. It would never be enough, not unless he saw Simpson six feet under. 

But when he came into the doorway of your dressing room, the rage disappeared. It was gone the moment he saw you hunched over the vanity, applying makeup despite the steam of tears on your face. 

"Dove?"  

As soon as you turned your head, he made way to the vanity, carefully stepping over broken glass and knocked down chairs.  

Bob knelt down, his hands near yours, but not quite touching. You couldn't even look him in the eyes. Normally his special nickname would bring a smile to your face, but you were too ashamed of how he found you. 

What a fucking pathetic site. 

"Dove," he repeated, his voice now soft, barely above a whisper, "Who did this to you?" 

He knows the answer and has for months now. It's the confirmation he needs. But it's also the hope that maybe with your confirmation, he could help you begin to heal. 

The name was on the tip of your tongue. But that would mean admitting it. Not just that he hurt you. But the fact that you had become some pathetic singer who was stuck with an obvious piece of shit. This wasn't supposed to happen. When you first started working here, it was full of excitement. 

It was easy for your mind to think of Bob when you were with your partner. It was easy to think of those surprisingly soft blue eyes. In bed, you did your best to pretend it was his hands touching your body. It was an escape. A fantasy you indulged in as a desperate  attempt to not think about your current situation. 

Like he would want to be with you! You were a liability. You didn't deserve him. 

That didn't stop your heart from fluttering when you felt his fingers gently cup your face, tilting your head up to look at him. His fingers were calloused. You knew what his hands were capable of, having witnessed him sling punches, like they were nothing. 

But Bob Floyd’s touch was soft. You could feel them on your face, but he refrained from adding pressure. And gentle, oh so gentle. He avoided the bruise that was forming near your right eye. The way his thumb gently stroked your mascara stained cheek was comforting. 

Soft. Gentle. Comforting. 

When was the last time you felt any of that from someone touching you? It was a foreign concept, one you so desperately chased that you were willing to ignore the bright, beaming red flags and run head first into danger. 

By all means, he should be seen as a danger. A huge scarlet flag. His 'job' required him to oversee and commit violent, illegal acts. He didn't hide it. And with those expensive suits, rings, and those dark eyes, he looked almost like the Devil, ready to trick you into signing your soul away. 

But he wasn't like that. At least, not to you. A sweet smile, reserved only for a selective few. Eyes that pierced through your soul. His presence brought an ease to you. 

He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. A battle of emotions was going through his eyes. Rage. Anger. Concern. It felt nice for someone to be concerned about you. 

"Did Simpson do this to you?” He asked, voice barely above a  whisper. 

When you nodded, it felt like a weight being lifted off your chest. Finally, someone else knew. 

Bob’s jaw tensed as he nodded his head in understanding, "And was he responsible for all the other injuries you've had?" 

He did notice. Why he was paying attention to you, some lowly singer, was beyond your comprehension. 

You nodded your head, tears filling your eyes, "It's…..it's all been him, Bobby." 

He nodded, the tension in his jaw remaining. He wanted to say so much, but knew what was most important: you. Your safety. 

"Let's get you cleaned up Dove," He said softly, standing up. He stuck out his hand, clearly gesturing for you to take it. 

It felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room. His large hand felt like a peace offering, a shining lighthouse in the midst of the dark, bleary night. But taking it meant Bob would now be involved. You didn't want that, couldn't have that. If he found out….sure, Bob could take care of himself. But you would feel guilty if anything were to happen to him. Besides, what would happen to you? What if Simpson found out? The beating would probably send you to the emergency room. Even worse, it probably meant you wouldn't get to see Bob anymore. 

You needed that lopsided smile and kind eyes to get through the nights. The thought of not seeing them scared the shit out of you. 

"You need a first aid kit, not concealer," Bob explained, sensing your hesitation. 

So sensible. But you didn't have time for any of that. Shaking your head, you turned back to the vanity, “I have to go on soon.” 

“We shut down the place. Need Simpson to explain why he's gone two months without paying us.” 

When you still didn't move, Bob’s hands trailed down your face, landing on your shoulders. He kneeled down, looking into your eyes, “Can I help you? Please?” 

"Bob, it's not worth it. I don't…if he finds out…” The very thought of what could happen made your eyes brim with tears.  

You were right to be hesitant. Bob wished he could scoop you up into his arms and take you far away from this place. For now, first aid would have to be done and he needed you to see that. 

“Dove, I can make sure he never touches you again, if that's what you want.” God, he hoped you wanted that, “But getting cleaned up is the bare minimum of what you need. And the least I can do after not saying anything earlier.”

So he had noticed all the bruises you tried to cover up. How the light in your eyes only came back when you were up on stage singing or talking to him. He noticed how quickly that light drained from your eyes, how fear replaced it at the sight of Simpson. Bob should have said something earlier, instead of waiting so long.

Never again. 

You didn’t know this at the time. But something, deep in the back of your mind- call it hope or wishful thinking-told you he meant it. 

So you took his hand. He could see you limping and placed an arm around your waist, allowing you to put your weight on him. Sage flooded your nostrils, his scent comforting. Bob led you to  the couch in the Manager's office, walking away to find the first aid kit. It was quiet, but not in an awkward way. You enjoyed it, to be truthful. So much of your life was loud, violent, chaotic. To sit in peace was refreshing. Though you couldn't help but look at the door, the thought of anyone being able to come in at the back of your mind. 

“He's not going to come up. Mickey and Javy are currently holding him down while he answers Jake,” Bob commented, not even bothering to look up from the first aid kit. 

How did he know? The question was soon replaced by another one, “Why aren't you down there with them?” 

Bob made his way to the couch, gently laying the kit on the coffee table, rummaging as he picked up sanitation wipes. 

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” He confessed, the tops of his cheeks turning a dusty pink. The admission made your heart flutter. Despite his job requiring a cold, hardened demeanor, a kindness shone through. 

You witnessed it the first time Bob met you. Oh, you had seen him beforehand. It was hard not to miss the tall handsome man with the piercing blue eyes, clad in a well fitted suit. The top of his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a silver chain that reflected against the lights. 

God, he was so attractive. Still is. It was your first day on the job and the last thing you wanted to do was ruffle one of the patrons. Beau had warned you that they would leave you alone as long as you did the same. 

Looking back, you wondered if his advice had other intentions, more self serving ones that out of kindness. You tried to follow his advice, situating yourself near the bathroom while waiting for your cue. Once the previous act waves goodbye, you knew it was time to move. But God, you were so nervous that day! So nervous that you were too busy inspecting your dress for any possible wrinkles instead of looking up. 

Your head ran into a firm chest, large hands quickly stabilized your body. When you looked up, you found yourself face to face with Bob Floyd. 

Instead of a scowl, there was a small smile on his face as he asked, “You alright ma'am?” 

You had been smitten ever since. Keeping a distance made sense, he didn’t deserve you. Which is why you brushed it off as just a silly crush and looked elsewhere for affection. 

“Whatcha thinking about Dove?” Bob asked before gingerly applying the sanitizing wipes to your forehead. 

“The day we met. You were so sweet, making sure that I was okay and wishing me good luck,” you spoke fondly of the memory, sharing a smile with him, “I think about that day often.” 

“I do too,” he confessed, making your heart flutter once again. It made you want to explain, want to tell him everything that had happened. 

“I....it's all been going on for a year. It wasn't bad at first. Like yeah, he would yell at me, but he'd apologize afterwards. At first he’d just grip my shoulders real hard. Then he'd shove me out of the way. But he would still apologize to me afterwards. Sometimes he'd even get me flowers. I knew business was rough, so I convinced myself it wasn't personal,” you paused, “I must sound so fucking dumb.” 

“No. There's nothing wrong with wanting to see the best in someone,” Bob mumbled as he shifted through the first aid kit, finding the right size gauze, "Doesn't make you dumb."

“That's what I kept telling myself when it got worse. Over time, he’d stopped apologizing. Made me feel bad, like it was my fault. And I knew it wasn't, but I didn't want to set him off again. By the time I realized it wasn't going to get better, it was too late. Did you know you need ID to enter those shelters? Can't get in if you don't have it. I've been trying to save up what I can to get a ride back to my hometown, but it's been six months and I don't even have half of what I need,” your cheeks felt wet, no doubt being stained by tears. 

“He takes your earnings too?” Bob asked, trying to contain his anger by clutching a rag in his hand. 

You nodded, “I can only take a little here and there, so he won't notice. I didn't want him to find out and…..” 

A sob escaped your chest. Once it was released, you couldn't stop. Given how often you cried, it shouldn't feel any different. 

But then a strong pair of arms wrapped themselves around you, gently pulling you into a broad chest. Resting your head in the crook of Bob’s neck, you felt a sense of safety for the first time in who knows how long. A soft pair of lips gently pressed against your temple, a thumb caressing your cheek. 

“We can make sure he never touches you again. And we will,” Bob murmured against your skin. 

“How?” you sniffled, “I have a contract and it’s legally binding, I can’t leave.”

He shook his head, “We can take care of that.” Your hands found his, fingers skimming over his long digits, tracing over each ring, every crevice and line. It was comforting, helping you slow down your breathing. 

Bob continued, “Natasha found out he's been running this place dry on purpose to commit  fraud. He doesn't have enough to pay us back, so Jake is gonna make him sign over the place to Maverick.” 

You had heard whispers about Bob’s boss. Apparently he wasn't a fan of Simpson anyways. Not a shocker, the man didn't even try to be pleasant. 

Looking up at Bob, your faces were now inches apart. You could see flecks of gray in his stubble and at his temples. Faded freckles were scattered across his face, like stars in the night. Sandy brown hair that curled at the ends. A button nose that accentuated his pink lips. Did he have freckles else along his body?

“Whatcha looking at Dove?" He asked, a small smile creeping across his face. 

“Just admiring how handsome you are, Bobby." The words left your mouth before your brain could process them. 

You expected him to push you away, to shrug it off.  Instead, his cheeks turned a bright red as he ducked his head into the crook of your neck. You figured that Bob heard it all the time. Besides, he was just being nice, done because he felt bad for you. 

You certainly didn't expect him to become flustered, unable to form a coherent response. His soft lips pressed a kiss against your collarbone. You could feel his smile burn into your skin, like sunshine. When you grabbed his hand, Bob intertwined his fingers with yours.  

Perhaps you weren't the only one who craved affection, for gentle touches.

“You're too sweet for me, Dove.” His breath was hot on your skin, sending a spark of electricity up your spine. 

There was always an unspoken tension between you two. So many maybes. Maybe he should have spoken out sooner. Maybe you should have tried going for Bob rather than settling like always. 

“I feel the same way about you,” it felt good to finally admit it, like a weight leaving your shoulders. For a brief moment, you forgot the circumstances of the situation. For once, it felt normal, as if you two were simply friends who met through work. 

Bob gave your hand a reassuring squeeze before sitting up straight. He studied your face, taking in every mark and line, everything that made you you. Bob also took in the bruise forming around your right eye. 

“We need to ice that eye. I'll be right back okay?” After receiving a nod, he untangled himself from your body, much to his dismay and yours. But he wasn't doing it because you repulsed him, no. Rather, he wanted to take care of you. 

"So will Maverick be the new owner of this place?" You asked, eyes glued to Bob as he moved about in the room. 

"More or less. Though he's still looking for a partner. Someone who can be at the club and help run things," He looked back at you, "Someone who has been working here for a while and was already unofficially running the place." 

You knew damn well who he was referring to. Your lips tightened as a pang of panic peaked through your brain at Bob Floyd’s proposal. Was that why he was doing all this? So he makes a business deal? 

He must have sensed this, as he quickly came back to the couch, bag of ice in hand, "If you want to. If you want to keep on singing here, you can. I also don't blame ya if you want to get the hell outta here." 

Choices. You had multiple choices to choose from. When was the last time that had happened? 

"What are you going to do to him?" It was haunting your mind. Was it worth staying here if you would always have to look over your shoulder? 

Bob leaned in, his hand gently touching your knee, avoiding the bruises, "Whatever you want us to do." 

Whatever? 

"If you want me to put him six feet under, I'll do it," He elaborated, "If you want me to scare him off, make sure he never comes within twenty feet of ya, I can do that too." 

More choices. It was your problem, you should have a say in how it was solved. 

"It's up to you Dove," He said, his thumb softly stroking your knee. 

You liked his touch. You wanted more of it. He was so gentle. 

"I want…..I want him gone Bobby. I want to never worry about whether he'll show his face again," You revealed. The idea of it being a threat, always looming in the shadows, was terrifying. How could one expect you to sleep soundly at night? 

Bob nodded his head. He leaned in and gingerly pressed the bag of ice to the corner of your eye. 

“I’m sorry,” he said as soon as he saw you wince, “It's going to hurt a little, but the cooling will help with the bruising.” 

“It would be nice to sing again and actually enjoy it. You think Maverick can actually turn this place around?” You placed your hand on his wrist. Bob wanted nothing more than to take yours and kiss your soft skin. 

That would be taking it too far. Yes, ironic, considering he already kissed your temple and collarbone. Was a collarbone kiss more intimate than a wrist kiss? Or was it the other way around? 

“Bobby?” A soft, sweet giggle fell from your lips upon seeing how his brows knitted together when he was in deep concentration. 

“Sorry Dove, what did you say?” Bob asked sheepishly. He didn't know what was worse, confessing he was distracted by your beauty or that he was thinking about kissing your body. 

“Do you think Maverick will turn this place around? Not trying to doubt your boss, but if it's just seen as a way to get back at Simpson….I don't know if I'd want to stay.” 

Bob’s heart sank. If you wanted to walk out of this place, he'd burned your contract in a heartbeat. He couldn't blame you for desiring it either. But selfishly, he wanted you to stay. He wanted to hear your voice, see your smile, and speak without having to walk on eggshells in case a certain someone was listening. 

“I think he will. He’ll probably give the place to either Jake or Bradley, either one of them will do a good job just to piss off the other,” Bob chuckled, “Besides, he doesn't want the transfer to be a big deal, so I don't see him firing folks, other than those that are loyal to Simpson. Which isn't that many. Maybe three?” Bob scratched his head, trying to think of the actual number. 

You snorted, “Three's a pretty generous number.” 

When Bob Floyd laughs, the corners of his eyes creased and he threw his head back. It was the sweetest discovery. It was also the first time you truly laughed, full belly, that day. Probably the first time in weeks. Lightness flooded your body, despite the bruises and cuts that currently marked it. 

“And if Maverick owns it, I'll be here more. I can make sure you're safe. If that's what you want!” Bob added the last part quickly. You had just gotten out of a relationship from hell, one that involved controlling behavior. The last thing he wanted was for you to think similarly of him. 

Your lips stretched into a smile, “I'd like that…to see you more. Whenever you came to visit, it was always the highlight of my day.” 

Bob couldn't help but beam, his heart fluttering at a pace that should be medically concerning, “I felt the same about you Dove.” 

Upon receiving a bright smile from you,  Bob removed the bag of ice from your face, fingers delicately skimming over the bruised skin. It was as good as it was going to get. He would be happy to help you ice it later, if that's what you wanted. Bob would give you the world if he could. 

Gathering all the courage he had (ironic considering he's killed people before), he leaned in, allowing his lips to press against your cheek. This time, it wasn't stained with tears or smudged makeup. A refreshing change that Bob hoped he could help keep. 

You leaned into his touch, fingers finding purchase in the lapels of his black jacket. Looking up, your noses brushed, his lips inches away from yours, if that. 

You could stay like this forever. In his arms, you felt safe. You felt like you could joke and laugh and be yourself. 

Knowing how soft his lips were made you wonder how they’d feel against your own. It wasn't the first time this thought flashed through your brain. But it was the first time you were close enough to find out. 

Simpson will be gone, Bob would make sure of that. There wasn’t anyone to fear, you could just lean in and-

A loud knock interrupted the sweet moment. Fear swept through your body as you buried your face into Bob’s chest. 

He pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before telling you to get in the corner, right behind the mini fridge.  You did as you were told, crouching down to make yourself invisible to whoever walked through the door. 

In your position you could see Bob, pulling out the gun he had tucked in the waistband of his pants. He quickly cocked it as he moved swiftly towards the door. It was locked but that didn’t deter people here. 

“Floyd, you in there?” A familiar voice rang out on the other side. Relief flooded your body at the sound of Natasha’s voice. She was a rare sight, working more behind the scenes. It must be pretty bad if they brought her in. 

But Bob remained silent, back pressed to the wall, gun in hand. He couldn’t take any risks. Not when it came to your safety. The way he effortlessly demonstrated his care made you wish that Natasha had waited twenty seconds before knocking. 

“The rodeo is all cleared,” Nat said. At the sound of their code word, Bob let out a sigh of relief. With his gun still in one hand (just in case), he opened the door, revealing the dark haired woman, who also had a matching gun in hand. 

“We finally got him to sign over the place. Now we’re figuring out what to do with him. Got any ideas?” She asked with a smirk. 

Bob turned to your direction, as you were now standing by the couch, “I think that’s her decision. She had to bear the brunt of him after all.”

Natasha peered over, taking in your bruises and cuts. She nodded, to silently show her understanding, “What would you like?”

You had a choice. What even was the right thing in this scenario? Was it letting someone live, despite all their wrongdoings? Or was it preventing him from hurting anyone else? The blood wouldn’t be on your hands, literally. But you still played a part. 

“I….I want him gone. To not be able to come back to this place and hurt people. You guys know how to do that better than I do.” 

You saw them nodding to each other. They had probably made a decision. It was obvious what was going to happen, but you didn't say it out loud. Does that relieve you of some responsibility? 

Maybe. Probably not. But it made you feel better inside. 

“You wanna come atch?” Natasha asked, motioning to you and Bob. 

Seeing you shake your head, Bob mimicked, “I'll stay up here with her. Make sure she's all cleaned up.” 

You sat down on the couch, waiting for Natasha to leave. It warmed your heart that Bob chose to stay with you. Maybe he also felt it too, that spark of kismet that circuited back and forth. 

Bob kneeled down in front of you, eyes and hands inspecting your arms and your legs. His gentle touch left goosebumps along your skin. You shifted to the edge of the couch, clearly to help him inspect the rest of your wounds. 

No other reason. 

“I gotta clean up this scrape, don't want it to get infected.” A lovely gesture, considering you didn't make enough money to qualify for health insurance. 

You nodded your head. His large hand placed itself on the back of your leg, the other gently pressing a wipe against the cut. 

“You'll hear a gunshot pretty soon,” he warned, not wanting you to be alarmed. You nodded, bracing yourself for the imminent noise. 

Except you didn't hear a gunshot. You heard several voices arguing. 

“Who the fuck are you?!” 

“Get him!” 

“Get the gun!” 

Then, you heard a gunshot. 

“God dammit,” Bob cursed under his breath. His eyes darted to the door that Natasha left a hair open. 

He moved quickly, not even waiting for you to stand up. Instead, he wrapped an arm around your waist, the other underneath your thighs and picked you up. He carried you to the closest, gently sitting you down in the dark space. 

“I’ll be right back, Dove. But I need you to stay here. I'm going to lock the other door, but don't open it to anyone. Even if you hear my voice, don't open it unless I use the rodeo, okay?” His voice was hushed, his ocean eyes piercing your soul. 

He was leaving. A fight had broken out when they tried to off Cyclone. Started by either him or his two loyal goons. Bob was going to leave you. 

He might not come back. 

“No,” your voice shook like a leaf in the wind, “Please- don't leave me!” 

His fingers stroked your cheeks in an attempt to bring comfort, “I’ll be back, okay? But I gotta go in order to protect you. I don’t want him or one of those goons to find ya.”

In the distance, a familiar voice yelled out your name. A voice that made your blood turn to ice. 

Bob was operating off of adrenaline, off of the primal need to protect you. Desire was coursing through him as well. Your tears were for him, not because he brought you pain but rather you cared so much for him that the thought of him not returning tugged on your heart strings. He wanted to wait, to make sure you were ready and then take you out on a nice date. 

The nice Italian place that was secretly a front for Slider’s real business. Despite being a front, it made some of the best penne alla vodka in town. 

But a nice date wasn't at the forefront of Bob’s mind currently. Rather, it was your lips and how they were quivering, how soft they looked. 

His mama would smack him upside the head if she could see him now, kissing a girl he hadn’t taken out on a date yet. 

She would also smack the shit out of him for lying about his job all these years. 

Bob was too lost in the softness of your lips. Your hands found their way into his soft hair, gripping the strands to deepen the kiss. His lips were so soft, his hands gentle as they cupped your jawline, as though he didn’t want to apply additional pressure, as though he didn’t want to cause you any harm. 

You truly believed that was his intent. 

The kiss seemed to go on forever, but simultaneously not long enough. Sounds of heavy footsteps and yelling in the hallway caused him to break away. Your hands remained on the lapels of his jacket, silently begging him. 

Please. Don't go. Stay with me. Please. 

“I'll be back, okay Dove?” he whispered before pressing a quick kiss to your lips once more. He removed your hands from the lapels, silently standing up. Bob paused for a brief moment, for what you hoped (in vain) was him considering staying. Instead, he took off his jacket and placed it on your shoulders. 

You wanted to shout, but that would be deadly. All you could do was watch Bob close the door, listen to the sound of his gun cocking and then a second door closing. 

Left in the dark. Alone. Bringing your knees up to your chest, you tried rocking yourself back and forth, silently willing the tears building up to go away. 

They still fell. 

[lilwoofs]

I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I think what saddens me the most is that shadow doesn’t really seem to like adventuring. Sonic and shadow are similar in that they both go fast and go on a lot of the same adventures, and even though adventures just like, happen to sonic he kinda starts them, or at least seems to enjoy them after all “what you see is what you get, just a guy who loves adventure”. He didn’t choose to have chaos unleashed, turn into a werewolf or have eggman make a war, and I’m sure there’s moments (like metal virus and frontiers) where he’d rather that all not have happened, but overall he seems to have fun doing all of this stuff, it’s his hobby, even in the twitter takeovers most of the time when a question about what they is asked he basically just says running and adventuring.

Meanwhile shadow just kinda has that stuff happen to him, his memories are altered and someone wants him to destroy the world, he has amnesia (also metal sonic is mad and making it everyone’s problem), he has amnesia (also someone’s trying to make him destroy the world again), and whatever was going on in 06. He never seemed to relish in the adventure like sonic did, he only really seemed to fight when he had too. (Okay in some games he seemed like he wanted to kill sonic??? (og generations) or just fight sonic for little reason (not to mention what happened to infinite) but it feels like they’re kinda fixing that and it’s pretty out of character for him). For sonic danger is a challenge, it’s fun. For shadow it’s just something happening to him, yeah he might get a little smug about it, but “if the world chooses to become my enemy I will fight like I always have” shadow wouldn’t be fighting if he didn’t have someone trying to make him destroy the world every two seconds-

It would also make sense shadow doesn’t seem to enjoy danger like sonic does, he knows what its likes being attacked and it going wrong (Maria’s death). And to contrast sonic in the twitter takeovers whenever he’s asked about hobbies he says he wants to start a cat orphanage, or that he reads books and plays chess, volunteers at soup kitchens, taking care of his bike, also won’t shut up about flowers. All pretty low stakes things! (He even mentions multiple times in the newest twitter takeovers that he doesn’t fight for fun, only when needed. Now that could just be him not wanting to admit he’s having fun with sonic, because there is a lot of moments we’re he fights with sonic for no reason other then fun, but there’s still probably some truth in there. Who knows maybe we just think that because we always see it from Sonic’s side, and since sonic likes it we assume shadow does too ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ) And talking to Maria in sh generations it makes so much sense! She seems frightened at the concept of shadow attacking black doom, she’s not scared to talk back to him when he’s being rude to shadow, but she seems surprised that it’s happening, surprised that shadow is so “bold and confident” when shadow fights. Yeah she told him to protect everyone on earth but I don’t think she had shadow stopping earth ending situations in mind. They play chess and go to school, when Maria talks of going back to earth she mentions having food and meeting her family. That was their plan. She didn’t think shadow would have to stop gods and war, she thought he was going to met friends and eat good food! And just help out in small ways when he can.

Going back to Maria’s death we know shadow was powerful at that time, not as much as he is now, but he was frozen for those 50 years (no time to train) which means he was just as strong then as he was in sonic adventure 2 (makes sense he’s the ultimate lifeform). If shadow was back there he would’ve fought the G.U.N agents, but taking in the Maria dialog (“bold and  confident”) and how their life was on the ark he wasn’t used to fighting. If nothing happened to shadow he probably wouldn’t be fighting.

TLDR: where’s my sonic game that’s about shadow owning a cat orphanage and reading books sega?

[pixieswashere]

Jayce: *ignores Viktor's voice/promise in helping Zaun/not harming or destroying lives by not ONLY creating weapons for Caitlyn, but also recruits Zaunites to Piltover to die later even after he called them dangerous in S1 (but Piltover is in trouble...oh no! How will we go on and survive), kills Viktor for no fucking reason despite finding out it was Viktor, the mage from his childhood...and wasnt some monster, only wanted to help their timeline, and NEVER questions why the Gray is worse in his husband's home, knowing how much that affected his beloved husband Viktor...but dw he found out his bf was always in every universe doomed/predestined to be the undercity villain and never to have the ability to create postive change but destroy it because of his selfish wants to cure his illness or save his home caused by *cough other city cough*...and his future self could never save the world despite his powers if it wasnt for....he, the piltovan golden boy was always the one to save him in the end, and convince him to help him save his home and not be evil despite classism/the contrary.*

Dw It's fine tho bc Jayce told him he was perfect and all is forgiven including Zaun still being completely fucked and all the deaths that happened too bc none of it would've happen if Viktor is finally accepted for who he is as a person and couldn't have done anything else without Jayce's validation or acceptance. What matters is that they saved the world and....they lived happily ever after in some other part of runeterra living their best lives as they should.

This is why I love arcane ya'll. I need more lesbian, gay, disabled, and lgbtq representation and relationships done EXACTLY like this from now on. If they end up having both a respectful and healthy resolution of their problems then I don't want it. This is perfection and peak at it's finest. Screw anyone who has a sensible opinion.

[llondonfog]

half the time i'm torn between this is my blog!! i write what i want!! and rocking in a corner wondering if the concept is too dark and out there to be well-received by the three dears who read them :'))

[triglycercule]

What do you think the types of drunk would the murder trio be? Im pretty sure ask dusttale already answered this question about dust but i have to ask the mtt expert

see now askdusttale DID answer the question. but they didn't ANSWER the question when asked what dust is like drunk. they just said that dust is the type to drink himself blackout drunk. so that mean i have total freedom on deciding what the mtt are like drunk hehehe (rubs hands together in a villanous way that you would imagine nightmare doing or something idk)

i already have an absolutely hilarious idea for horror and it might just because i'm on the guilt section of his character analysis but i could TOTALLY imagine him being an emotional drunk. like he CRIES. horror sans man known for being incredibly guarded and private with what he feels bawling his eye out. he gets mad he gets sad he does not get happy because horror doesn't have the right to be happy. he is too upset over the fact that he fucking DOOMED all of horrortale because of his selfishness and nothing can stop him from being incredibly vocal about that fact so much so that killer had to tape his mouth shut because he wouldn't stop crying so loud. and then he just silently cries until he passes out from exhaustion. the alcohol has an incredibly strong effect on him because i dont think he would drink regularly plus he definitely hasnt drinken anything in those 7 years of starvation. it hits like a fucking plane crashing into him. or like getting his eye taken out again. either one!

another funny idea i had for killer would be like the alcohol affecting him but he SWEARS that he's still sober. he is very confused when he starts stumbling because wtf he doesnt FEEL drunk??? why is he bumping into walls and tables HELP WHY DOES HE SOUND FUCKING STUPID???? the alcohol is definitely effecting him but he swears he swears he doesn't feel drunk. hes not drunk its just the damn body doing this stupid bullshit!!!! he's still very aware of what's going on and is basically the same as sober but just like. he's wiggly he's wobbly and oh shit he just fell head face first into a tv whoops. he'd also have a high tolerance because just because. he can drink without feeling like shit until he just blacks out mid conversation with someone because his body couldn't take the toll of all the beer or whatever. hilarious idea triglycercule thank you triglycercule i know

dust in the context that we already know that he drinks AND he can fight against the human while like partially drunk.... i feel it would be kinda like a giggly drunk situation. except dust doesn't laugh at anything that's funny he only laughs when someone gets hurt or something. SADISTIC giggly drunk. because i can already imagine a half drunk dust laughing his ass off after killing the human and its a beautiful sight to me.

anyways imagine how it goes when you pair this sadistic giggly drunk with another that wont stop going through the 5 stages of grief and another that keeps on fucking falling over for no reason in his eyes. dream blunt rotation but the blunt is a bottle of vodka. i can already imagine it in my head and its fucking HILARIOUS. horror going on about how he caused the deaths of others and manipulated and tricked papyrus while killer is just trying his best to keep his eyes open because for some reason they won't stop trying to close. he is surprisingly getting frustated. dust has long since lost his voice laughing at this and he's just silent wheezing at everything. also phantom papyrus is only making the laughter worse because he keeps on making rude comments towards horror and killer and only he can hear him and its guffaw inducing. mtt amazing friend group you dont get shit like this anywhere else

[al-luviec]

I ran out of tag space but oomf had some good notes

smthn easy for today (sorry)

[dekariosclan]

Imagine Gale as a talented and impressive young man, able to compose the Weave at will, skilled in a way that few can match, and favored by the Goddess of Magic herself. Imagine that because of these accomplishments, he’s caught the eye of a few up-and-coming magic adepts, and he falls in love with one of them—his first real love. Gale isn’t one to toss the ‘L’ word around lightly, so when he tells them he loves them, he means it; he gives himself over to them completely.

And in return, they love him for his potential. For his status. For the magic he can command. They love the wizard they see on the surface, but not the man underneath. They are attracted to his power, but not to him.

So of course the relationship fails, after the thrill of his magic wears off. But because Gale is a resilient young man and he’s caught the eye of so many, he soon falls in love with another.

And then it happens again. And again.

And each time Gale’s heart is ravaged, his ambition to become a better wizard grows, because he’s being shown time and time again that his magic ability is all that matters.

So much so that, by the time Mystra decides to elevate him from Favored to Chosen to Lover, he welcomes her with eager, desperate arms. Because if all his worth is in his magic, and that’s all he has to offer, and that’s all anyone wants from him, who better to love him than the Goddess of Magic herself?

Except…there’s a nagging voice in the back of his head that whispers she doesn’t really love him. There’s anxiety in his heart as time passes, and he reaches both the limit of what his talents can do and what Mystra will allow him to do. And most troubling of all: a growing panic that, just like his other lovers, she will soon grow tired of him and discard him if he can’t improve his magic any further.

He tries pouting, and pleading, and begging her to let him take more power, to let him be more for her, but she refuses. Smiles patronizingly. Tells him to be patient. But Gale can’t be patient when his power is tied so closely to his self-worth; he can’t be patient when doing so in the past has only ever lead to heartache.

So he does what he believes will be a Grand Romantic Gesture, one that will finally put him on equal footing with the woman he loves. Instead, it turns out to be a folly that dooms him and destroys his talents. And just as he’d always feared, Mystra tosses him aside the moment his magical gifts are gone—because what’s left of him holds no value for her.

————

Imagine Gale in his tower, alone, afraid, the ever-hungry orb in his chest, with only his tressym there to help him. No other friends to speak of. His colleagues forced to keep away for their own safety. His magical talents utterly stripped down, so that even when he does try and distract himself with illusions, he’s bitterly reminded of what he used to be capable of. Waking every morning wondering if it will be his last, ending every day full of loneliness and disappointment.

…and then he meets Tav.

At the lowest point in his life, at his most vulnerable, when he knows he’s going to be considered a burden, he meets this stranger and their group. So he does what he can to be useful—assigning himself to be camp cook, offering up his (now meager) magic skills, turning the charm up to 11—as he desperately hopes this will somehow work out. He’s pleasantly surprised when, after providing only minor details of his condition, Tav agrees to help him. He’s even more surprised when they actually follow through.

Imagine how Gale feels as Tav treats him kindly. As he grows to trust Tav, and then grows to like them. Imagine his surprise as he opens up and shows them more and more of himself, and they don’t turn him away.

But then his condition worsens. And he has to reveal everything: the foolish mistakes he’s made, and how dangerous he is as a result. He clings to Tav’s hand as he shows them his folly. He’s at their mercy now, and he knows this might be the last time he’ll ever feel the touch of another being, if they decide—and Gods, why wouldn’t they decide?—to cast him out.

…but they don’t. They don’t. Instead, they tell him to stay.

Imagine the relief Gale feels. The gratitude. And perhaps…just a hint of something more. Something that he dare not name, but that flares to life every time he thinks of how warm their hand was in his. Something that feels dangerously close to jealousy, when he’s had too much to drink and sees Tav smiling at another…

But he knows these are all foolish thoughts, because he has nothing to offer Tav. They are wonderful just as they are, but he…he is an empty shell of a man, a discarded husk of a wizard, and while they might tolerate him, he could never believe they might actually want him.

And besides, he still thinks of Mystra. He still longs for Mystra. She who cast him out, but to whom he still feels tethered. Sometimes he needs to cocoon himself in the weave, just to try and calm his fears and bring some joy back to his life, because magic is his life. And sometimes he just needs to see her face, even though that hurts as much as it heals.

One night he’s lost in thought, having conjured Mysta’s image after settling down at camp. Thinking that even if she hadn’t ‘loved’ him—certainly not in the way he’d loved her—she’d given him enough otherwise, hadn’t she? She’d amused him and been amused by him, they’d shared countless pleasures, why hadn’t he been satisfied with that?

Gale is so lost in thought he doesn’t realize Tav has come up behind him. Until they ask a question, startling him out of his trance. He’s a bit shaken, so he tries to turn the conversation from Mystra to the weave itself. And then a wonderful idea occurs to him, something that he’d been toying with already: what if they were to conjure the weave together?

He can show Tav how important magic is to him, let them experience what he does, perhaps even impress them a bit. But most importantly, share a moment with them. As friends would do…

He’s elated when Tav agrees. He leads them through the steps effortlessly, and they’re a surprisingly good student, following his instructions correctly (if a bit clumsily). He’s as excited as they are—perhaps even more so!—when they succeed in channeling the weave.

It’s such a pleasant, familiar feeling for him, like coming home to his tower in Waterdeep. Even as the weave connects him with Tav and makes them one, he’s easily able to hide his innermost thoughts, because he’s done it so many times before.

…but he’s forgotten that Tav has not.

————

Imagine Gale knowing every romantic partner he ever had only wanted him because of how he could raise their status, or how he could amuse them, or how he could command magic for them. And, each time, he was happy to oblige them, even desperate to oblige them, because if that was the price of their love, then he was sure it would be worth it.

But it still all came to nothing.

Now imagine Gale connected in an intimate way with someone he likes very, very much—while being what he considers his lowest, most worthless, and most humbled self. As far from the powerful, impressive wizard he once was as he could ever be. And suddenly a vision enters his mind from the lovely creature standing next to him. Only, to his complete and utter shock, it isn’t one where he is providing them with a service, or wowing them with his magical ability, or granting them some kind of power from one of the spells he commands.

Instead, when he sees their desire laid bare before him, it’s a vision of kissing him. Of holding his hand. The two most basic forms of affection and physical connection. The two things that he would still be able to offer them even if every last ounce of his remaining magical abilities were stripped from him. The two things he could share with them even if he was no longer Gale of Waterdeep, and just plain old Gale Dekarios instead.

Imagine the embarrassment and trepidation he feels at first, because surely he is mistaken?…and then the elation when he realizes that he is not. So much elation that his concentration is broken, the weave dissipating as he forgets about channeling it, as he forgets about Mystra. Because all that matters to him now is the image before him—the most pleasant and welcome image he’s seen in a very, very long time.

Imagine how that would feel…and how besotted, enamored and completely devoted he’d be to Tav afterwards. To know that someone finally—finally—just wants him.

Just imagine.

[jonathanrogersartist]

How 'The Acolyte' Disappointed Me, and Why the Themes of 'Star Wars' Matter

Someone recently commented on my 'On the Dark Side, the Jedi and the Moral Decay of Star Wars' essay with these words: 

"A lot of words for saying 'I don't like the newer media, but I won't get into specifics as to why.'"

Okay! I shall then finally clarify those specifics....

That first essay has, so far, been my biggest success on this blog, and it's attracted a number of interesting responses. Full disclosure: I wrote that fresh off the heels of feeling depressed over how the Acolyte ended, and after reading/listening to several of Leslye Headland's interviews, where she went into great detail about her ideas behind the show's choices, the themes she's trying to get across, and what personal baggage she brings to Star Wars. 

Why was I depressed?

Because the show's finale ended with the deeply problematic implication that Osha, by killing Sol and joining Qimir, has achieved true self-actualization. As Leslye herself put it, it's a 'positive corruption arc.' Interesting way to phrase it. 

Furthermore, Vernestra's actions that frame Sol for several murders, all to protect her own reputation, and to avoid oversight by the Senate, confirmed one of the things that I was really worried this show would do as soon as we began learning plot details, which is that it's leaning into this very persistent edgelord take that the Jedi are actually big ol' bastards not worth seeing as heroes. 

It's the Dave Filoni gospel of the Jedi Order as a morally broken and fundamentally hypocritical institution, a decaying monument to religious hubris, who brought about their own destruction with their arrogance and so-called rejection of emotion making them lack empathy. 

This is, as many of my followers know already, a giant misreading of George's storyline in the prequels, and what he was actually telling us about the Jedi's philosophy and code. And in my experience, it gets us some vicious pushback when we try to inform fans of it, even if we back it up with proof of George's words. 

George really did intend the Jedi to be the ultimate example of what a brave, wise, and all-loving hero should be, and are very specifically inspired by Buddhist monks. They do not 'repress emotions': they learn to regulate their emotions, so as to not let the negative ones feed the Dark Side, and they have the moral fortitude to focus on their spiritual duty. They're professionals that have dedicated themselves to a higher calling, and who still feel and display the same emotions we all feel, unless I watched very different movies from everyone else. We see that Jedi characters can still crack jokes, cry when they are sad, become scared or anxious, feel strong love and loyalty to their peers, and can even be righteously angry in some situations BUT always knowing when to pull back.

The Jedi of the prequels were victims of manipulation by Palpatine, and were caught in between a rock-and-a-hard-place with the Clone War, and they were ultimately destroyed not by their own actions, but by the treachery of Anakin Skywalker, who failed to overcome his own flaws because he refused to really follow the Jedi teachings, and was gaslit by Palpatine for decades on top of that. 

Leslye's take on Star Wars, based on how she wrote the story of the Acolyte, is that "yup, the Jedi were doomed to destroy themselves by being hypocritical and tone-deaf space cops," and she also outright compared them to the Catholic Church (this reeks of Western bias and misunderstanding of Eastern religions). The one that really stunned me, was when she said she designed Qimir to be her own mouthpiece for the experience of being queer and suppressed, who isn't allowed to just be her authentic self in a restrictive world. Which, to me, implies that Leslye wanted to depict the Dark Side as actually a misunderstood path to self-actualization that the Jedi, in keeping with their dogma of repressing emotions, only smear as 'evil.' 

Let me remind you all: Qimir is officially referred to as a Sith Lord, by Manny Jacinto, by Leslye, etc. And what are the Sith, exactly? 

Space fascists. Intergalactic superpowered terrorists. Dark wizard Nazi-coded wannabe dictators, whose ideology is of might-makes-right, survival of the fittest, and the pursuit of power for power's sake. To depict followers of this creed as an analogy for marginalized people who have literally been targeted and murdered throughout history BY the real-life inspirations for the Sith.... I find revolting and tone-deaf by Leslye. 

SO.... seeing how that show ended, and reading up on how Leslye intended it to be interpreted (Osha's 'triumph' over the 'toxic paternalism' of Sol/the Jedi in general), really put me in a funk, because deep down, I could just sense that this was not at all compatible with the ethos of Star Wars. It made me go on a deep-dive into the BTS of the writing of the prequels and George's ideas about the Jedi, and it's how I discovered the truth that Dave Filoni has been pretty egregiously misrepresenting George's themes for several years now, usurping George's words with his own personal fanfic about the motivations of characters like Anakin, or Qui-Gon, or the Jedi Council, etc. 

His influence on the franchise has caused this completely baseless take on the Jedi to become so widespread as to rewrite history for modern fans. Who are utterly convinced now that this anti-Jedi messaging WAS George's vision all along, and they get real mad at you if you show them actual proof of that being a lie. 

And the Acolyte is perpetuating this twisting of the very core of Star Wars. This is what I meant by the 'moral decay of Star Wars.' 

The Star Wars saga was made by George Lucas in 1977 to accomplish these specific tasks: 

To remind people of what it really means to be good.

What evil actually looks like, and how it comes from our fears and greed.

To teach kids how to grow up and choose the right path that will make them loving, brave, honest people that stand up to tyrants.

To give the world a story that returns to classic mythological motifs and is fundamentally idealistic, to defy the uptick in cynical and nihilistic storytelling after the scandals of Vietnam and Watergate broke Americans' belief in there being such a thing as actual heroes anymore. 

THAT is the soul of Star Wars. That is what George meant for this remarkably creative universe to say with its storytelling. But I sincerely think that what the Acolyte told, was that morality is relative, the heroes of this saga are actually bastards, the fascist death-cult is misunderstood, and a young woman being gaslit into joining said death-cult is a triumphant girlboss moment. When it actually comes across as the tragedy of a broken person choosing the wrong path that will only make her miserable, full of hatred and powerlust, and hurt innocent people along the way. 

The Acolyte betrayed one of George's most critical lessons: that the Dark Side ruins people, and if you want to truly become your best self, you must choose the path of Light, and the Jedi are the ones who have best mastered that path. So if the future of Star Wars is to continue framing the Jedi and their teachings as some corrupt and immoral system that is making the galaxy worse, then I would rather stick to rewatching the classic scripture of Episode 1-6. George wrote a complete and satisfying story, that is thematically consistent, and in my opinion should have been allowed to rest. 

I will not hate on new fans that love the new material, but I will pity them if they really think any of this is actually faithful to George's vision (they may very well simply not care, either, which troubles me too), and I am afraid of a show like Acolyte teaching young people to see the Jedi's philosophy as wrong, and the Sith as having a point. 

(P.S. I have a moral duty to clarify this, given the discourse around the show: No, this is not a problem with 'wokeness,' or diversity, or representation; that side of the fandom is very sick in the head and not to be taken seriously. 

It's a problem with Leslye's themes and tastes as a storyteller, being fundamentally against the ethos of Star Wars and how it soured the entire show in hindsight for me... a show that I was actually really liking, before the finale dropped its thematic nuke.)

[lunartuness]

Spoilers for Book of Bill

Thoughts on Bill talking about Ford

I was not prepared for canon Billford in the year 2024 and yet here we are.

But seriously, I'm kinda surprised how much Bill actually liked and valued Ford? Obviously it's in a horrible, toxic, never come within the same continent as them kind of way but it's just, I always kind of figured their relationship (while obviously adoring from Ford's end due to Journal 3) was mainly just Bill humoring Ford long enough until he no longer needs him. Like, 'yeah, sure, of course you're special, I definitely believe in you' sort of nonsense.

But in Bill's book it's implied multiple times he had as close to a crush on Ford as he's probably capable of. I mean, the whole 'love cage' section is literally verbatim what he did to Ford (and just wait until they're mentally broken enough to confess their true feelings! Fear and love are basically the same thing!) And in the valentine's section he talks about leaving mice, which again, he did for Ford's birthday, and then when he wasn't happy about that, got him drunk enough to have a good time (implied kinda forcibly? since Ford declined beforehand). Then there's the fact he literally calls Fiddleford a third wheel (also coincidentally after we just learn Fiddleford spent hours on handmade gifts for Ford and forgot to get his wife anything).

And when Ford finally does catch on and things go bad? Bill tries first to talk with Ford through the zombies (to manipulate him, of course, but also Admit it, you'd miss me. I have missed you, and Bill actually smiles.) And then leaves little sticky notes asking nicely to talk. When he finally gets mad enough to escalate, he still does so in a very not-violent-for-Bill-way. Sure, killing Ford wouldn't help him but we know how messed up Bill can get. And yet what does he do? He leaves Ford's body to almost freeze, only to have a warm fire and a love song playing when he wakes up. He causes mild public disturbances and gives him an obnoxious tattoo. When he finally, finally snaps is when we start to see more of the Bill we got in the show when he tortures Ford a bit. But even that is mild?

Like, Bill rearranged a man's face for fun and takes joy in destroying the Nightmare Realm. But after threating Ford he leaves him unharmed. Very mentally scarred, yes, but safe and intact. He even gives him three days to get his life together. And then treats it like a messy breakup when Ford finally breaks free. Hell, it seems like he was more upset about losing Ford than losing the portal.

All this is to say that I think from Bill's point of view he was being genuinely kind to Ford. He gave him gifts, complimented him, and tried to work things out peacefully when Ford started pulling away (again, his very messed up version of peaceful, but the point still stands).

So when they do finally meet again? Bill still offers Ford a spot next to him. Again, I originally thought this was more playing into Ford's ego while taking a cheap shot at him (i.e. you'll fit in great with the freaks!), but by now it's obvious he wants Ford. He's petty and cruel and horribly abusive about it, but in his own twisted way he likes Ford. A lot. Enough to show mercy (or at least not be as violent as he could be) and to try and give him multiple chances to come back, no apology needed!

And the worst part is Bill knows this. Bill's trying to make this relationship work. He feels connected to Ford in a way he quite possibly hasn't felt with anyone else. And he knows its doomed to fail. In his mind he has to destroy everything he touches and everything he cares about. Any other connections he has are either superficial or dead to him (usually literally). This relationship will end the same way, it's just in Bill's nature. To him, that's all his relationships are capable of being.

All this just makes me sad and adds so much depth and I'm obsessed. There's just something about self-destructive and truly cruel characters having moments where they wish they weren't that way. Where they'll come the closest they ever can to apologizing for how they are.

(Also Bill literally wanted Ford to get a tattoo saying 'If lost return to Bill' like we cannot just ignore that oh my god)

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

Astarion teaching Tav embroidery/sewing. Preferably with him dragging them onto his lap for a close-up demonstration.

Why do I make everything so long? Do I have a problem? There is always so much introspective nonsense idk man. Anyway adorable idea actualized below!

Also mentions of sex but this is totally sfw. I went with the timeline of when your sleeping together but he hasn't quite admitted his feelings to himself, as a side!

~

Astarion had no idea how he became your camp's designated seamstress. How was it possible that a team of eight adults were all incapable of knowing the basics of such a fundamental skill?

Then again, Karlach seemed to be perfectly fine with wearing her clothes to tatters. Wyll was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Lae'zel, for some gods forsaken reason, was only capable of fixing up heavy armor. Gale seemed to prefer eating magical clothing items versus being able to salvage them and the rest were mediocre at best.

The look of confusion on Shadowheart's, who was the second most skilled by far, face when Astarion tried to explain a ladder stitch was enough for him to give up entirely. It was quicker to fix the tears then to explain simple concepts to simpletons.

Brats. All of you. With one who was significantly more brazen than the rest when it came to using Astarion as their personal tailor.

Tav, the lovely thorn in his side. Who could handle wielding a glaive with startingly accuracy, but somehow managed to consistently stab themselves every time they picked up a sewing needle. It was impressive, how useless someone who was otherwise extremely competent could be.

Impressive as it was frustrating. Because somehow you managed to destroy your clothes more often than anyone else. Always bashfully handing him over torn trousers and ripped shirts every other night. Anyone else he would have told to fuck off by now. Even the rest of the camp knew better than to test their luck with anything more than once a fortnight. But you lacked the very basic level of self-control.

It was his own fault for giving you special treatment in the first place. But sleeping together did warrant a few extra benefits. He got your protection and you got to experience the pleasure of being with him. Simple. Or it would have been if you didn't insist on making things complicated.

Because Astarion was starting to feel things. Things that he hadn't anticipated. Because your company was... oddly pleasant. You were an interesting little thing, he had to give you that. Well-read and talkative, but not boringly so. No, Astarion sometimes found himself losing track of time when he was with you. A simple question could easily turn into a two-hour conversation about the silliest things. It was... nice. New. And oh so different from what he was used to.

Cazador didn't even allow him or his brethren to speak in his home, let alone speak to each other unless it was strictly necessary. But here he was free to do whatever he pleased. And he was finding that included being near you, despite how differently you both saw the world.

He couldn't quite blame you for your delusional optimistic views. As a Tymora worshipper you were basically doomed from the start to believe inane concepts like good fortune, luck, and gods, the good that could be found in "anyone".

You were as sweet as you were aggravating and Astarion truly, honestly, had no idea how your insane trusting nature hadn't managed to get you killed yet. But then again he... kind of liked that about you. He liked that you trusted him. It made his life more convienet and... it was nice to be seen as a person worth confiding in. Instead of the blood-sucking monster he really was.

He... liked that. He liked you. A fact that he didn't enjoy thinking about. He didn't really know what to do with it, and the implications of where his feelings could lead were starting to become unsettling. So he pushed it out of his mind. It was an easy thing to do when doom was always looming in the background. He had plenty of things to think about that didn't include his fondness for you.

Like the inner-rage you caused when you managed to somehow rip the same shirt twice in one day.

"That's it," Astarion announced when you bashfully asked for his help yet again, "Come here. I'm teaching you how to sew."

"But you always get mad when you try," You whined. But despite the hesitancy you still obediently sat next to him as he got out the sewing kit, "Do you promise not to snap this time?"

"That depends," Astarion said with a roll of the eyes, "Do you intend on not maiming yourself with a sewing needle?"

Astarion smirked at the way that made a blush crawl up your neck, "That was one time!"

"Actually darling it was closer to seven," Astarion corrected as he snatched the shirt from your hands, "Now pay attention. Look at where the tear starts. Notice how it's on the seam?"

You nodded along as Astarion explained the basics to you. He could tell that you were trying your damndest to pay attention, but when it was your turn to hold the needle your hands couldn't stop shaking. Astarion frowned as he tried to watch you work, his view obfuscated by the angle and the flow of your hair.

Well that wouldn't do.

Before he could think better of it he was hauling you into his lap, ignoring your surprised squeak as he situated you just right.

That was better. At least now he could see what you were doing. It was a sloppy stich, sloppy enough for him to undo it before putting the needle back in your hand.

"Now do it again," Astarion ordered, "Let me see what your doing wrong."

Astarion watched as you tried again, frowning when he realized your shaking was even worse than before. In fact, you seemed more nervous than ever, your face red as you kept your eyes down.

It made Astarion torn between watching your hands and looking at your face. You really were adorable, getting all worked up from simply being in his lap, all while trying to stay dutifully undistracted. He could almost hear your heart racing, obvious through the tension coursing through you.

Silly little thing, acting all shy like he hadn't already literally been inside of you. But at least you were doing better, your stitching straighter than Astarion had ever seen it. Maybe he'd have to make the lap-sitting mandatory from now on, for the good of your learning.

"See," Astarion said softly, his breath tickling your ear as he leaned in closer, "You're perfectly capable of learning this."

"So it looks good?" You asked, taking a chance to glance at him. Astarion hadn't realized just how close the two of you really were. He had never... seen you like this before. So closely. Even when you slept together, he had been a bit distracted by other parts of your body. He never noticed just how many light freckles were hiding across the bridge of your nose, how your eyes looked almost golden in candlelight. You smelled nice too, sweet. Like you had been rolling around in a field of lilies. Considering your personality, Astarion had to wonder if that's exactly what you did.

It would take almost nothing to press your lips together. Barely a turn on the head.

"Astarion, are you listening?"

The sound of his voice snapped him out of his revelry. He straightened, clearing his throat as he looked over your work again, embarrassed in a way that he couldn't quite describe.

Maybe you weren't the only one being affected after all.

"It looks better," Astarion said honestly, "But still needs work. You'll almost certainly be needing more lessons."

Preferably like this. Astarion wasn't quite ready to let you go yet, not when you felt so pleasantly warm in his lap. But luckily enough for him, you didn't seem quite so keen to leave.

Astarion tightened his hold on you laughing at the way it made you gasp, "But that's enough for today. I think you've earned a reward. Don't you?"

"I-yes?" You said back, your eyes flitting from Astarion's mouth and back, "Please?"

You really were too precious. How could he possibly say no to that?

Astarion grinned as he tilted your chin up, finally pressing your lips together. It was an odd feeling, kissing someone when he couldn't stop smiling, but he supposed you just had that effect on him.

Maybe being the camp seamstress wasn't so bad after all.

[linkspooky]

YUTA WAS ALWAYS SELFISH

I was originally going to make this post the week the big twist with Yuta in Gojo's body happened, because of the massive subversion that it was. It was the kind of twist that made you question if everything you ever knew about the character was wrong. Namely, Yuta one of the most empathic sorcerers we see in the series - the character who seems to lack the selfishness of the other sorcerers that make up jujutsu society. The kid who fights with the literal power of love.

Was Yuta a monster to begin with and we just didn't see?

So ignore the clickbaity tagline, Yuta is one of my favorite characters I'm not going to start calling him a terrible person. Rather that Yuta is dismissed as a soft kid or a wifeguy, when he's actually more cunning and cutthroat than anyone gives him credit for.

If a sorcerer is nothing more than a con-artist, then if the talent for trickery he displayed in the Sukuna fight is anything to go by Yuta is a true sorcerer down to his bones. Yuta turning Gojo's body into a puppet seems like a massive twist, and almost out of character for Yuta who was so devoted to Gojo.

His earlier fight in the culling game even seemed to hint that Yuta was too soft and he didn't truly have the attitude to fight someone like Ryomen Sukuna who was the embodiment of a calamity.

These panels seemed like a prophecy that Yuta was doomed to fall short against Sukuna. That he could never live up to his title as the next Satoru Gojo, because unlike Gojo and Sukuna who can stand on the top alone Yuta clings to his loved ones.

Sukuna got to where he is by rejecting love. Sukuna is Sukuna because he's never needed anyone to satisfy him. So how can Yuta who needs to be surrounded by his loved ones at all time to validate him and tell him it's okay for him to be alive even compete?

However, even in JJK zero Yuta's love is questioned on whether or not it's as selfless and "pure" as it seems. To begin with, Maki calls him out early on for attracting bullies by playing the victim a lot. He pretends to be a good and innocent person put upon by his circumstances and bullies when really he doesn't want to help himself. Instead of standing up to the bullies he's always let Rika protect him and then condemned her for being a monster. He's let Rika take the blame for all the destruction, even though Rika is HIS cursed technique, created by HIS emotions, and is protecting him.

Yuta doesn't make any attempt to try to learn to control Rika, or even work with her, he just shrivels away in fear.

"You act like a good person, but it feels fake..." Yuta has always adopted the facade of a good person. He seems soft, socially anxious and withdrawn, even after he gains confidence as a sorcerer those traits don't go away because they're a part of his outward persona. Jung divides the psyche into two parts, the persona a mask that faces the world the parts of yourself that come out in your social interaction with people and then there's the shadow your repressed personality.

Yuta's shadow is a literal monster that declares her love for him and then expresses that love by violently destroying everything around him.

Yes, Rika initially contained the soul of someone else but Rika the curse was created by his technique, her power corresponds to his emotions, she comes from his shadow, and even after the real Rika passes on the Shikigami RIKA still remains completely under Yuta's control. Rika is Yuta, the embodiment of his twisted definition of love that would curse his loved ones to keep them by his side forever because he can't live without them. All of Rika's insane possessiveness? That's Yuta's too. Rika's violent overprotectiveness? That's Yuta.

How poetic is it really that Yuta and Rika are so codependent that Yuta's shadow, the other half of his personality is literally RIKA. Yuta cannot exist without love, and without someone too love, he's so terrified of being alone that he cursed Rika and then turned her corpse into a puppet after death. He uses his loved one as a weapon to fight his enemies.

If you think about it for more than five minutes Yuta's cursed technique and Rika has some seriously messed up implications, but it's hard too because as messed up as Yuta's love is it's still genuine.

Love is a curse, but in 236 Nanami speculates that sometimes curses can save people too, just like how Jujutsu Sorcerers use curses to fight and protect others.

So Yuta's love is a screaming, raging, overprotective monster, but it's also what give shim the motivation to fight ofr others. Yuta's love is a curse, but curses can save people too.

Yuta on the other hand isn't aware of his own darker nature most of the time.

The big twist in Jujutsu kaisen Zero is that just as Maki accused him of from the beginning, Yuta was playing the victim all along. He acted like Rika cursed him with her dying breath, but Yuta was the one who cursed her because he couldn't bear to live without her.

However, even this apology is a bit telling of Yuta's self-centered nature. He immediately turns everything into his fault and starts beating himself up over it. He doesn't look at anyone else's perspectives or that other people had a role to play. He deliberately ignores Rika's feelings on the past few years, which Rika is quick to point out for him.

This scene has a parallel later where Yuta ultimately, only thinks about himself first and foremost. In spite of wanting so badly to be surrounded by his loved ones, it's more about him loving them, and less about their feelings for him.

After all he's completely willing to commit a double suicide with Rika to protect his friends, ignoring the fact Rika doesn't want him to pass on just yet, and Maki, Inumaki and Panda wouldn't want him to disappear either. This scene has a direct parallel a year later in the fight against Sukuna when Yuta gives up his body.

Maki almost breaks character from her usual culling game arcs stoicity to fight and argue with Yuta to stop him form doing this, and Rika who one year earlier told Yuta to live a long life so she wouldn't have to see him on the other side so soon is reduced to screaming and sobbing while holding his dead body.

Yuta loves people, or at least he feels an intense amount of love for people, but he can be as self-centered as the other sorcerers we see in the story. Geto even points this out right away, that Yuta is selfish, that he's seeking self-affirmation first and foremost. He needs other people's approval, their love, to feel like he deserves to exist. He'll do anything to earn that love, and once he has it he'll do anything to protect it but it's ultimately for himself.

It manifests in Yuta's technique itself copy, which first and foremost requires Yuta to consume parts of his loved ones that can never be healed if he wants to keep their copied technique. Yuta gets stronger by literally eating his loved ones. We have canon confirmation that Yuta fed part of Inumaki's severed arm to Rika.

Yuta's cursed technique is to emulate the strengths of all of his loved ones copying them and making them a part of his oqn technique, because Yuta will take any shape and form in order to be loved. It's also the perfect technique for fighting as a part of a group, because someone like Sukuna will naturally assume that Yuta's technique STEALS instead of COPYING so he'll forget that the original still retains their technique.

Yuta's not only selfish and has a very selfish, overprotective love for others, but it's those exact qualities that make him an effective sorcerer strong in the area that Gojo is the weakest. Group coordination.

Gojo is in his element when he's alone, but Yuta is so codependent that he literally cannot exist unless other people are looking at him. His strength comes from the things he copies and takes from his friend, and he turned his loved one into a puppet to fight others. Is it really that surprising that this kid would willingly use Gojo's body as a weapon after death when that's literally what he did to Rika.

How telling is it that like Yuta learned that Rika was cursed by him, went so far to exorcise her spirit, and then after finally letting go after her spirit passed on he made a second Shikigami named Rika a few months later made out of the small remnants of cursed energy that Rika left behind as a gift after passing on. The dude is not over Rika, he's like, Geto and Gojo levels of not over Rika.

Yuta's cursed technique being the literal weaponization of his love and his loved ones makes him the best character for group coordination in the entire series. Yuta even adopts apsects of hakari's persona when making his plans against Sukuna since he decides to gamble at several key points in the plan.

Several of the key moments in the fight are all Yuta's plans, with some collaboration from Angel. He makes several bets too like Hakari would. The first being going to finish Kenjaku by himself and using both Todo and Takaba in conjunction to trick him. The second is the bet that he'd be able to make it back in time to rejoin the fight in case Higuruma's plan fail.

It was Yuta who let his own domain barrier down on purpose to let Sukuna think he had the victory so he would let his guard down and make it easy for Maki to ambush him. Something that also required perfect coordination between Yuta and Maki working in tandem with one another.

Yuta set up Hana to do one large jacob's ladder when Sukuna least expected it because he knew Sukuna would forget that his technique is COPY and not steal. He also made the biggest bluff which was leading Sukuna to believe that he fed Rika his last finger.

These aren't just good bluffs, they require near perfect coordination with your allies and taking several chances on them. Nobara might not have even woken up so the last finger / resonance Gambit was perhaps the biggest gamble. Maki and Yuta had to coordinate with each other well so Maki would be there when Yuta dropped the barrier. Yuta needed Takaba a relatively new and inexperienced sorcerer to survive against the threat that was Kenjaku, and he needed all of his allies to stay alive while he was prioritizing Kenjaku.

These are all plans Satoru Gojo would never have been able to pull off, because Gojo only ever relies on himself. If Yuta and Hakari had intervened in the Gojo and Sukuna fight then he would not have been able to go all out, whereas Yuta REQUIRES people collaborating with him in order TO GO ALL OUT.

This is Yuta. This is his strength. Yuta is nothing without love, so he takes on the forms of the people he loves and takes things from the people he loves in order to gain the power to protect him. Yuta copies everything from the people he loves, so is it really that much of a surprise that he'd become a monster just like Gojo.

In some ways, Geto and Yuuta were the same. Geto was too sincere. To someone like him, the reality that the world of sorcerers presented to him was just too cruel. ’…that in a world like this, I couldn’t be truly happy from the bottom of my heart.’ To live for the purpose of being yourself. And for that goal, Geto could only continue to pursue his twisted dream, drowning himself in the curse that lies in the gap between ideal and reality.

Love is a weapon for Yuta. Just like his curse technique can take any form, so does Yuta's love, and so does Yuta himself. Love always wins, and in order to do so Yuta will take any shape necessary, no matter how twisted.

Love is the worst curse of them all, and Yuta will become the worst monster of them all if it means protecting his love ones.

[phantaloon]

the thing that makes the pjo books so good, and superior in my humble opinion, is how hard it is to stay on the "hero's" side by the end of book 5

and im not saying I would have followed luke and both intentionally and unintentionally kill my fellow halfbloods, im not saying what luke did is right, because it's not, and because in the end it was always kronos manipulating him since the start

but the thing is, luke is so right to be bitter and furious at the gods, he of all people knows what it's like to suffer bc a god simply wanted something, and they wouldn't stop until they did

losing his mom, psychologically speaking, bc it was a god's curse that made it impossible for the oracle to work right, and drove may insane

praying for years for hermes to help with his mom, for anything, and receiving silence in return

losing thalia, the first person he had been able to connect with, because of a hades's need for vengeance (bc zeus killed his lover in the first place)

going on a quest, failing and ending up with a scar and having nothing but pity simply bc hermes, his dad, asked him to go

being left behind by the gods, seeing his cabin fill out by unclaimed kids the gods are leaving behind, kids the gods for one reason or another don't want to claim

seeing how hey, there's kids here whose parents don't have cabins here, and yet the gods want there to be cabins for the twelve olympians only

and just the countless injustices he saw happen along the years, all bc of the gods will

and like i said before, kronos's manipulation didn't help, but it was luke being beyond bitter that made that manipulation work

and yeah, maybe i personally wouldn't have started a civil war between the literal strongest gods that would have ended up destroying the world, and I wouldn't have sent an innocent twelve year old to his doom to tartarus, and i wouldn't have done like a single thing luke did throughout the books, bc he ended up hurting his kind, more than he did the gods themselves

but it's so easy to see where luke is coming from, it's so easy to understand his anger, his desire to see the gods pay in some way, because they don't care about mortals and how the consequences of their actions affect them greatly

it's also easy to see that luke was, after all, simply too angry, too bitter, and that made him vulnerable to the power of those who wanted to overthrow the gods

and it's what makes even percy question everything he thinks he knows about the gods, it's what makes percy take smth from all of luke's ways of thinking, and ask for the gods to be better by the end of the last olympian

and it's what makes percy, even in hoo, think back to luke's motivations and think, huh he wasn't entirely wrong was he?

and god i just fucking love these books thanks for coming to my ted talk

[kentopedia]

when nanami dies, there's a box of letters waiting for you.

months pass before you find it. it's not until you're cleaning out his things, wondering if you can stand to get rid of them, that the letters are there waiting for you.

its no bigger than a shoebox, dark wood engraved with an intricate design, one that you're certain kento picked out specifically for you. you've never seen it before, and you open it with shaky hands, tears already pooling in your eyes at all the memories your lover left behind.

inside, there's a stack of letters, each one dated at the top with kento's name intricately signed at the end. some are in sealed envelopes with beautiful stamps. some multiple pages long and include some little haikus that are far too lovely to be about someone like you. and some are just quick little notes scribbled on napkins.

your spread them across the floor, staring down at each of the tiny little hearts he'd drawn next to your name on each note. even though you'd been together for years, you had no idea that he'd been writing all of them—hours of his life dedicated to this little pastime, and you'd been clueless.

they're like journal entires. insights into kento's life and your relationship, both the good moments and the tough ones. he leaves behind everything to you, entrusting you to keep his entire existence safe in your hands.

you read the letters with tears streaming down your face, and you choke on your sobs, trying so hard not to smear the ink from the wetness on your cheeks.

when you pull one out with shaky hands, you realize it's a decade old. the writing has faded a bit, and the paper is yellowing, but it's kento's handwriting, nonetheless.

it makes you near sick to read it. for a minute, you have to set it aside, cry into your knees as you curl into a ball, wondering when you'll ever stop feeling this empty.

this letter is from a sixteen year old kento; a quiet boy who had a silly little crush on girl in his year that was much too pretty for him. and in the letter, he says he knows you're too good for him, but he can't help but love you. he can't help but hope that one day, in a few years, you'll want to marry him as much as he wants to marry you.

it hurts, burns in your chest because even back then, kento had known you were the one. he'd known and he wrote you these letters because he'd felt that his life would be cut short. he'd felt like that since haibara died, and geto left, and it started to seem like the life of a sorcerer was always doomed to be an unhappy one.

kento had been so afraid that his friend died without knowing how much he meant to him, and he refused to make the same mistake with you.

there are letters from even when you weren't together. from the years that you were eighteen, nineteen, twenty, and kento had been so desperate to leave jujutsu behind that it meant he had to leave you too. even then, even when you were nothing more than a shadow from his past, he adored you.

you feel so outside of yourself, nauseous and filled with so much grief that you're not sure where to put it.

sometimes, you’d doubted if kento felt as loved by you as you did by him. but there's pages and pages of him speaking of how special you make him feel, even when you were separated, and he missed you so much that the thoughts of you consumed him.

you spend hours going through the letters, and then, you see one dated halloween, 2018. even breathing feels hard, but you can't stop yourself from reading it, even though you know it will destroy you, know that you won't be able to leave the house for days after reading it.

in the letter, kento says he loves you. he talks about the day before, when you'd convinced him to watch some halloween movies, and though most of them were silly, he didn't care how he spent his time with you as long as it made you smile.

he says that he feels bad for cancelling your dinner plans, and he's going to be thinking of you when he's in shibuya. that it's such a shame that being a sorcerer is so much more fulfilling than a salaryman, because it cuts into your time together, and you’re the most important part of his life.

he says he loves you again. that he really hopes he makes it back from shibuya because even though he's never told you, he wants a family with you.

he says he’s decided he'll bring it up when he gets home safe and sound. he’s not sure how you’ll feel about it, but you better know that he’ll always love you no matter what you decide, even if what he really wants is a little girl that looks just like you. and lastly, he hopes that you don't stay up too late waiting up for him—you’ve been so tired lately, and it’s making him feel bad.

his name is at the bottom with another little heart.

you let the letter fall from your hands.

[hexblooded]

cold facts, jayce is probably doing the right thing on the long run, because:

viktor had asked him twice to destroy the hexcore, he knew it was getting into his head and that he wouldn’t be able to resist its pull, after what happened to sky, viktor knew it was dangerous

and then jayce couldn’t, he needed to save viktor’s life (even if it was dooming him at the same time)

the hexcore is using sky’s image to manipulate viktor, she is the literal embodiment of his guilt and shame and if she tells him he is helping people he will believe it, and in a way he is saving them, they were all dying anyway, but the thing is, the hexcore needs all these bodies/souls/life energy for something

and magic has always been about balance, so even if viktor is saving lives, he’s offsetting the natural balance of the world, that’s why ekko’s tree started dying, so you can extrapolate that the more people viktor saves, the worse things are going to become

whatever jayce experienced inside the wild rune, he saw he made a huge mistake in betraying his promise to viktor, and now he’s trying to honor it again, even if it takes killing viktor for that

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 3: Mist and Bricks]

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, dragons being weapons of mass destruction, King's Landing gets some visitors, Larys gets alarming news, Alicent gets an idea, Red gets a shock.

Word count: 7.2k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

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There is a chilly steel-grey mist on Blackwater Bay, and another in your skull, your thoughts slow and muddled, the past bleeding into the present. It’s weeks later, the longest you’ve ever been away from Aemond, and the pebbles on the shore needle your shins through your velvet gown the color of cinnabar as you kneel to claw seashells from the muck. Helaena is here with you, and while you haven’t told her your plans for your next mosaic, she somehow knows what color shells to drop into your basket: dark green like Vhagar’s scales, shimmering white like Aemond’s hair. Sometimes there are still creatures hunkered inside, and Helaena can never bring herself to pry them out. She passes the doomed crabs and snails to you for a swift exhumation that you deliver with your bare hands, and then you wash the vacated shells in the surf. Mother and a flock of maids are playing with Jaehaera and Maelor farther down the beach. You can’t go near them, or Maelor will start screaming.

Grandsire comes plodding down the stone steps carved into the cliffside, carrying a plate laden with lemon cakes and slices of fresh bread slathered with butter and blackberry jam. “Helaena, you must eat,” he says.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Helaena, please.” And his voice is gentle in a way it has never been with you. “My gods, why are you wrist-deep in wet sand?”

“We’re collecting shells.”

Grandsire gives you a familiar look: disapproval, frustration. The he turns back to Helaena. ���I can’t watch you disappear. You must eat something, I’m not leaving until you do.”

“You like blackberry jam,” you encourage her. But she flinches away when Grandsire offers her the plate, and suddenly you understand, you feel the thought as if it is your own. “It’s the color,” you tell him. “The jam, it’s like…” Like blood, like gore. Like the night Jaehaerys died.

“Oh.” Grandsire is quiet for a moment, remembering. “The lemon cakes, then.”

Helaena reluctantly rinses her hands in the seawater, takes a single lemon cake from the plate, and sits on a nearby rock to nibble on it, gazing blankly out over the inlet. You attended Jaehaerys’ funeral procession in her stead—an act of mercy, of penance, while Helaena spent that day sobbing in the Dragonpit, clinging to Dreamfyre, a pale blue century-old monster with infinite patience. The people of King’s Landing saw the dead prince, his head crudely stitched back onto his tiny body, and howled for vengeance. They burned white-haired effigies of Rhaenyra and Daemon. They gave rare autumn flowers to you and Mother. It’s always strange when you leave the Red Keep to interact with the smallfolk. They call you by your real name, something your family seldom does; they seem to believe you are righteous and wise. Perhaps they even pity you: no husband, no children, no dragon.

Mother has left Jaehaera and Maelor with the maids and is venturing closer. “Are there any new letters?” From Criston or Aemond, or even Daeron in the Reach. The Hightower army has been delayed there, cutting through the treasonous soldiers of House Rowan and House Caswell, Tessarion burning them alive in their armor.

“Ravens,” Helaena says thoughtfully from her rock, and no one knows why.

Grandsire shakes his head. No letters today. Butterwell, Stokeworth, and Rosby have bent the knee; the defiant lords of the Crownlands are being put to death. By now the Green forces will be marching on House Staunton at Rook’s Rest. When Aemond does write, you are not mentioned. With each passing day you find yourself thinking: Has he forgotten me? Does he truly love me? Perhaps this is not so irrational a question. Aemond has never used the word love to describe what you are to each other.

Grandsire frowns at you. You gaze mournfully back. He snaps: “And what’s wrong with you?”

Mother’s reply is hushed and sympathetic. “She’s lonely, Father.”

“Lonely?! She still has us here. Don’t we matter? No, I suppose not, she prefers arrogant fools who imperil the realm with their self-obsession. Perhaps she’d like us more if we wore silver wigs and eyepatches.”

Mother is distressed. “Father, please.”

He waves an irritated hand at you. “I better not find out you’ve been keeping the cats away from your chambers again.” Grandsire had a hundred cats brought to the Red Keep to do the tasks the dead ratcatchers left unattended.

“They scare my babies,” you say.

“Your vermin, you mean. Revolting creatures. Flying pestilence.”

You rise from the sand and pick up your basket, now full of shells. Your head is beginning to ache. Maester Orwyle removed your stitches this morning, but the wound in your chest still pains you more or less constantly, a gnawing sensation like an animal chewing on your ribcage.

“Where are you going?” Grandsire demands. You don’t answer him as you ascend the stone staircase, the waves growling behind you and gulls squawking in the foggy air.

In your chambers, you leave the basket of seashells on the floor and call for wine. The maids fetch it and you drink straight from the pitcher, staring at the little wooden figurines on your dresser until they turn blurry. Among them is Vermithor. You recall what Aegon said when he gave it to you years ago, when you were so stung by the dragon’s rejection: You might not have the real Bronze Fury, but you can keep this one.

Your bats are beginning to scrabble out of their roost and vanish through the window. As the sun sets and the room spins, you crawl into bed and lie there in the darkness clutching pillows, your pulse thudding just above your left eye. You doze in and out of consciousness. Aemond told you to think of him when you are here, and you do whether you want to or not: Aemond spilling red wine down your bare chest and then licking you clean; you straddling his lap and stroking him as he reads myths aloud to you in gloomy alcoves of the library, dust motes wheeling in the air, grinning victoriously when you make him lose his focus; the five game pieces racing around the wooden board, Aegon’s green snake, Helaena’s yellow butterfly, Aemond’s blue wolf, your red bat, Daeron’s purple shadowcat before he was sent away to Oldtown and the rest of you never played again.

Then something hits you, not like a vision but like knuckles that could crack teeth, and you are besieged by what Aemond is seeing in the Crownlands. There is flesh, horribly and ruinously burned, sheets of it sloughing off as Aemond peels away scraps of charred fabric, and the smell of it—like blackened pork, oily and stomach-turning—is in your nostrils, and you can feel the calamitous heat rising off the man who must be dying. You can feel Aemond’s terror, disbelief, desperation; you can feel his tears on the right side of your face.

Dragonfire??

The dreamscape abruptly disappears like a candle blown out. Your head throbs, your eyes are squeezed shut as you whimper into your pillows. Your fingertips go instinctively to the scar on your chest.

Who was burned? Criston? Gwayne?

But now the dire portents are here in your room, and they are real: the ringing of bells, smoke, shrieking, scorched flesh.

You open your eyes, and your bats are soaring back inside through the open window; but they have been turned to comets. They are on fire, squealing as their fur is singed off and the fragile membranes of their wings melted from their bones, herding around their roost as they try in vain to seek shelter inside. The dark blue velvet cover has been engulfed in flames.

“No!” you scream, bolting off the bed.

Your door is thrown open and Mother rushes in, dragging Jaehaera behind her. Helaena waits in the doorway holding little Maelor in her arms. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he is already wailing. The horror is back. When will it end?

“We have to go!” Mother shouts, grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your bats. You know you can’t save them, and yet you are compelled to. They are pieces of you, pieces of Aemond. They are burning to death in the house you built for them.

“What’s happening—?!” And then you hear the screeches of dragons, not Vhagar or Sunfyre or Dreamfyre or Tessarion. Through the window, you see an inferno bloom in the night sky. You get a firelit glimpse of a beast you do not recognize: dark, angular, very large and covered with jagged spines. People are screaming. Rooftops are ablaze.

A wild dragon? Claimed by who?

“We’ll go to the beach,” Mother says frantically. She’s thinking of the escape hatch in Aemond’s bedchamber, the only secret passageway in Maegor’s Holdfast. The king known as “the Cruel” wanted no spies or assassins in his walls. But one door was enough for Daemon’s executioners to kill Jaehaerys. “Helaena will try to get to Dreamfyre.”

But you won’t be able to fly away with the rest of them. Dreamfyre would sooner reduce you to ashes than let you touch her.

Mother knows this. She tells you, low and fierce, her coppery hair like glowing embers: “I won’t leave you. You and I will find another way out of King’s Landing.”

“You should escape on Dreamfyre if you have the chance.”

“Never,” she says. And then again: “Never.”

In the hallway, Grandsire has arrived, panicked and urging everyone towards Aemond’s bedchamber. He wheezes, breathless from his sprint through the castle: “I saw Syrax and Caraxes, and Vermax too I think, or maybe Moondancer, a small dragon…but who is the other one? It’s not Meleys. It’s a hideous creature, it looks deformed.”

“I don’t know,” Mother says. Hordes of yowling cats careen past your bare feet.

“Could Rhaenyra be finding new riders?” And Grandsire, a man who is afraid of very little, is petrified down to his bones by this.

I should have a dragon, you think, forlorn. I should be able to help fight this war. And instead I am worthless.

“I don’t know, Father,” Mother says again, and you follow her through the threshold and into Aemond’s abandoned bedchamber, illuminated only by the moonlight that streams in through the windows. You have not been in here since Jaehaerys died; the stone floor is still stained with his blood. Helaena begins sobbing, clutching Maelor closer to her chest. Downstairs, you can hear swords clanging and men groaning as they die.

You hurry to the hidden door and ram it with your shoulder, but as the passageway opens, you see red-orange torchlight approaching through the blackness like fire boiling up in the throat of a dragon. Rhaenyra’s soldiers are already here. You try to close the door, but now knights in armor are forcing their way inside the room. And Grandsire, who has never liked you, pulls you away from the breach and puts himself between you and the intruders.

“The hallway, back to the hallway!” he booms, giving you a shove, and that is the only place left to go. You, Mother, Jaehaera, Helaena, Maelor, and Grandsire flee from Aemond’s bloodstained bedchamber. But your captors have climbed the Grand Staircase—the place where you once waited for Aemond to return from Storm’s End, so convinced that he would not fail you—and now they are here.

Under the torches carried by her guards, Rhaenyra alternates between firelight and shadows. Daemon marches beside her, his face severe, his sword Dark Sister drawn. Mother pushes you, Jaehaera, and Helaena, still carrying Maelor, against the cold stone wall. Grandsire stands in front of Mother. Jace is walking behind Rhaenyra and Daemon, you notice, dressed in red and black, his cloak billowing behind him. The last time you saw Jace, you were smirking when Aemond shoved him off his feet at the last dinner King Viserys ever attended. Now you are trembling with thunderstruck terror.

Rhaenyra is supposed to be bedbound on Dragonstone. Daemon is supposed to be in the Riverlands.

Daemon points at you with the tip of his blade. “You should have that one executed,” he says to Rhaenyra. “Isn’t she Aemond’s whore?”

“They were never married,” Mother tells him, her dark eyes huge and reflecting the torchlight, her arm thrown in front of you.

“I didn’t say wife, I said whore.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra warns, and she studies you, Helaena, Grandsire, Mother. Her blue eyes are sharp like fractured glass, edges that glide effortlessly through arteries and veins; there is a queenlike composure in her face, but beneath that wrath, wrath, wrath. After a moment, she says to her guards: “Take the adults to the dungeons.”

Mother and Helaena are shouting and protesting, trying to stop the guards that rip Jaehaera and Maelor out of their grasps. Grandsire is attempting to negotiate. Rhaenyra and Daemon ignore them, continuing on down the hallway, taking possession of the rage-red castle where they first fell into their peculiar, destructive breed of love.

As he passes by, Jace glowers at you and you glare back, and when he reaches for the hilt of his sword you bare your teeth at him; but before Jace can draw his blade—to threaten you, to frighten you, to spill your blood the way Aemond spilled Luke’s—the guards have dragged you away.

~~~~~~~~~~

Your head is very bad now. The pain is almost impossible to think through; you are sick with it, retching into a wooden bucket until there is nothing left to expel. If Aemond was here, he would be holding you, murmuring to you in High Valyrian, pressing a cloth soaked with cold water to your forehead. But Mother is here instead, and she is doing the best she can.

It’s the next day, cold grey light tumbling in through cracks in the walls. You are imprisoned on the second level of the dungeons, reserved for highborn captives; you and Mother are in one cell, Helaena and Grandsire in another on the other side of the aisle. Helaena has been weeping constantly, worrying for her children. Grandsire and Mother try to console her as you lie pitifully on the floor, wishing the pain would knock you unconscious. You need Orwyle and his milk of the poppy. The guards have brought bread and water, but nothing else.

There is a creaking sound from several cells away, and then a slow shuffling accompanied by the tapping of a cane. Mother keeps one hand on your shoulder as she cranes her neck to see her visitor. Grandsire and Helaena move to the front of their cell, their fingers gripping the rusted iron bars.

Larys Strong appears, his hands resting on the handle his cane. Unlike Maegor’s Holdfast—the residence of the royal family—the other buildings of the Red Keep are rife with secret passageways, a latticework of corridors that one unfamiliar with their paths could get lost in forever. Surely Daemon and his confederates are in the process of searching them, but it is a task that could take a week.

“Lord Larys,” Mother says, relieved. “They have not found you.”

“Not yet, Your Grace,” he replies docilely. “Though I’m sure it will not take much longer.”

“Can you retrieve some milk of the poppy?” For you, she means.

“I will try.” Then he stalls, as if he does not wish to share what he has heard through his clandestine chain of whispers. “Something has happened at Rook’s Rest.”

Mother’s brow furrows. “Where?”

“The seat of House Staunton,” you tell her from where you lie on the floor, remembering it from the maps in Aemond’s bedchamber. He would tell you things, show you things, sometimes kindly, sometimes tauntingly, sometimes as he undressed you. He would quiz you and if you got an answer wrong, he would put your clothes back on.

“In the Crownlands?” Mother says to Larys, alarmed. “Is Aegon alright?”

Larys takes a moment to decide how to proceed. “The castle was captured without much difficulty, but a maester there must have gotten a raven out, because Dragonstone received word of the attack and was summoned to defend Rook’s Rest and retake it from the Greens. It is located very close to Dragonstone, and thus cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of the enemy.”

Larys pauses and looks at his audience. Grandsire asks: “So who answered the message?”

“It seems that Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jacaerys were already preparing for an invasion of King’s Landing and were elsewhere,” Larys says. “The other dragon, the large brown one, is called Sheepstealer and is ridden by a peasant girl that Daemon found. There are rumors that he has grown somewhat…attached to her.”

Mother grimaces, tugging on the seven-pointed star necklace she never takes off. “He’s a beast.”

“The girl is a Targaryen bastard?” Grandsire says, confounded. “Whose? She’s not a child of Viserys, surely. Where the hell did she come from?”

Larys is apologetic. “I could not tell you, my lord. If I discover anything else concerning her origins, I shall share what I learn. She is known as Nettles.”

“Nettles?” Grandsire snorts.

Larys continues: “When the raven reached Dragonstone, Baela received the letter. It appears she was told that Sunfyre was the only dragon guarding Rook’s Rest at the time, and that Vhagar was away feeding. She must have thought she could best the king, or at least chase him away from the castle.”

“An understandable error,” Grandsire says, and you scowl at him between fruitless retches into your bucket. The thrumming in your skull is like blows from a hammer, rhythmic and disorienting. Your face is hot with fever; it radiates off of you in waves. Mother rubs your back—although somewhat cautiously, as if she is afraid that barbs might split through your skin to prick her—and offers you sips of water.

“Baela left Dragonstone, likely without permission. Rhaenys followed her on Meleys, but Moondancer was faster.”

“Meleys?” Mother says, startled. “Meleys was there too?”

Larys nods solemnly. “Aegon and Sunfyre attacked Moondancer and broke her neck high in the air. Baela perished when her dragon fell to the earth.”

“Daemon’s daughter,” Mother exhales, wondering what the retribution will be. “Jace’s betrothed.”

“And one of Rhaenys’ only two trueborn grandchildren,” Larys says. “When she arrived at Rook’s Rest and saw Moondancer’s carcass smoldering just outside the castle walls, she pursued the king before he could retreat. And Sunfyre…he was no match for a dragon as large as Meleys.”

“Aegon, he’s…?” Mother cannot bring herself to speak the words aloud. Tears gleam in her eyes. “Is he…is there no hope…?”

The ruined flesh, charred and raw, you remember from your horrifying glimpse into Aemond’s mind. It wasn’t Criston or Gwayne. It was Aegon.

“He was burned,” you whisper, and Mother stares at you.

“Aemond returned on Vhagar, and they slayed Rhaenys and her mount. But not before the king and his dragon were engulfed in Meleys’ flames.”

“He’s dead?” Grandsire says, emotion you’ve never heard before in his voice.

No, you think. Not yet.

“Aegon and Sunfyre are both gravely wounded,” Larys replies. “It is uncertain whether either will survive. The Blacks received the news just before their assault on King’s Landing.”

“Where is Aegon now?” Mother says.

“I’m not sure, Your Grace. He was still at Rook’s Rest last I heard, but they might move the king elsewhere to keep him hidden. I would imagine Aemond and Sir Criston Cole are requisitioning maesters from nearby houses to treat him.”

“Burns,” Mother sobs. “He must be suffering terribly, the pain…the disfigurement…”

Grandsire drums his fingers on the bars of his cell, his rings clinking against the rusted steel. His expression is remote, somber, resigned. “So we have two dragons capable of combat, one of which is young and small and pinned down by battles in the Reach, the other is on the far side of the Crownlands and trapped there while Aemond tries to keep our king alive. And Rhaenyra is here in the capital with Syrax, Caraxes, Vermax, and this new dragon Sheepstealer, larger than any of her others, and her faction seeks vengeance for not one but three royal deaths.”

In reply, Larys Strong only bows his head. Mother swipes tears from her cheeks and tucks your hair behind your ears as strands escape your braid.

“Well,” Grandsire sighs. “I believe we might be losing this war.”

There is the distant noise of a door’s hinges creaking, and Larys hobbles out of sight, retreating to the secret passageway he previously emerged from. A minute passes, and then footsteps echo down the corridor. Daemon strides into view, swinging Dark Sister in his right hand, and you are suddenly reminded so much of Aemond’s mannerisms that the absence of him guts you all over again, vital parts of you excavated like the organs of a slaughtered animal. Daemon is accompanied by several guards and a group of noblemen who you assume are members of Rhaenyra’s council. You recognize among them a tall man with short grey hair, Lord Bartimos Celtigar.

Daemon says: “Princess Helaena, the queen has taken your tiny, traitorous children to ward. Perhaps one day you will see them again. Perhaps not.” She gazes out from her cell vacantly, her face bloodless with shock and fear. Then Daemon turns to Grandsire. “Otto Hightower, you orchestrated an unlawful rebellion and therefore you will be put to death.”

Grandsire gapes at him. “What? When?”

“Oh, immediately.” Daemon steps back and the guards unlock the cell, seize Grandsire, knock him over and drag him wriggling on his belly into the corridor. Mother pleads for his life. Helaena shrieks and claws for him, trying to keep him with her. The guards fling her roughly away and slam the door of her cell shut before she can escape.

“No, no, do not mourn me!” Grandsire is bellowing as he is hauled away. “I am an old man, I have lived a good life, do not think of me, think of the living and what you can still do for them!”

“Father!” Mother wails, reaching through the bars of her cell though she knows she will never touch him again.

“I am ready to see your mother, Alicent,” Grandsire says; and then he is gone. The men of Rhaenyra’s council begin to file out of the dungeon.

“You followed us across the Narrow Sea, Lord Celtigar!” you shout after him, crawling across the floor and pressing your face against the bars of your cell. “House Targaryen saved you from the Doom, and now you rip it down from within by aiding a usurper. We will not forget your treason when the war is won. We will visit you on Claw Isle and bring with us fire and blood. And you will have no defenses. You are no dragonrider.”

“Neither are you, princess,” he says cooly, and leaves you in your prison.

Daemon is the only man still standing in the aisle. He peers down at you with shadowy deep-set eyes and twirls his Valyrian steel sword again. He grins, humorless, hungry, burning up inside with fury. “Perhaps I’ll be back soon.”

Mother yanks you away from the bars, and you can see what she’s thinking etched into the desperate lines of her face: How can I save her?

“I’m going to behead your father now,” Daemon tells Mother, then sweeps down the corridor. There is the sound of a heavy door closing when he reaches the end of the hall.

“Do not speak to them,” Mother hisses to you, and you are in too much pain to respond. Now you can hear men jeering out in the courtyard of the Red Keep. Daemon is listing Grandsire’s crimes. Crows are cawing.

He’s going to die too? you think dizzily. When does this end, how do we stop it?

The door at the end of the hallway opens again, and Mother stands and places herself in front of you; but it is not Daemon this time, relishing his chance to drag another Green to their death. It is Rhaenyra and Jace. The Blacks’ queen stops at your cell, her son a few paces behind her. He looks at you with heartbreak, with hatred, and of course he does; one of your brothers murdered Luke, the other killed Baela. And he does not believe you to be blameless like Helaena. You are a very different sort of woman.

“Alicent, your degenerate son’s insurrection is over,” Rhaenyra says. “I have taken the city and—”

“Jace needs to strengthen his claim,” Mother interrupts. Outside, men are cheering; Grandsire’s head has been struck from his shoulders. In her cell across the aisle, Helaena sinks to the floor and sobs quietly into her palms.

Rhaenyra studies Mother, incredulous. “What did you say?”

“There have always been people who doubted his parentage, as you well know,” Mother says, and you can see her hands are trembling; but her voice is steady. “And there are many who favor my line. They fear Daemon’s recklessness, and perhaps yours as well.”

“You speak so boldly for a woman who stands behind bars.”

Mother is unflinching. “Perhaps you imagine that you will kill every last Green, and all of our loyalists throughout the Seven Kingdoms, millions of people, and therefore you will have no use for bricks upon which to build a lasting peace. But I think that would be a mistake.”

“And you wish to help me?” Rhaenyra mocks.

“I wish to safeguard what is left of my family.”

The woman who calls herself queen considers this. Surely the same hope lives in her ribcage as well, the same catastrophic fear that it will prove impossible.

“One way or another, the war will be won,” Mother says. “And whichever side triumphs will have the other at their mercy.”

“I will have you at my mercy, yes.”

“Aemond and Vhagar are still out there. Underestimate them at your peril.”

“And what is your suggestion?” Rhaenyra demands. “To bolster Jace’s claim, to save your own skins?”

“Baela is gone and he is unspoken for. You once offered to unite our bloodlines by marrying Helaena to Jace. Perhaps if I had accepted that, I could have spared us this torment. I was wrong to dismiss your proposal so swiftly, Rhaenyra. I did not give you the respect you deserved. And I have reconsidered.”

Rhaenyra is puzzled. “Helaena is already married. Unless you have proof that Aegon is dead, which would be welcome.”

“No. I have another daughter.”

Both you and Jace begin to object at once; your mothers silence you with fearsome glares.

Rhaenyra is aghast; her sharp blue eyes dart to where you are slumped on the floor of your cell and then back to Mother. “This is a sickening insult.”

Mother seems calm, measured. It cannot be easy for her. “Willingly marrying my daughter to Jace is accepting his legitimacy. She is a Green, and very close in age to your son, and from what I have heard of Jace’s temperament I believe them to be well-matched.”

“I don’t,” Jace says.

Rhaenyra shakes her head in disbelief; but is there a ripple of uncertainty across her regal face? Yes, you think there is. “Aemond has already bedded her.”

“And who has said this?” Mother asks. “Daemon, who hates my family and has no mind for strategy or alliances? Rhaenys and the Sea Snake, who hungered for the Iron Throne all their lives and saw a chance for their descendants to possess it through Baela?”

Rhaenyra is looking at you again. “I’ve seen the way they watch each other. The way they move.” The dinner, she means. The night that Viserys died.

“She is a maiden,” Mother insists, but she gives you a transient sideways glance. Are you? “They had a flirtation, yes, as is so common for siblings of your foreign house, but nothing more. I would never have allowed fornication or the use of moon tea to disguise its consequences under my roof. They are grievous sins. You know me. You know my devotion to my faith.”

“She will submit to a maester’s examination to make sure?”

“Did you, Rhaenyra? Before you and Laenor Velaryon were wed?”

Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow. And you have the sense—vague and dreadful—that perhaps it is dawning upon her that taking something Aemond holds dear might have its advantages. “What do you want in return?”

“We have both lost innocent people,” Mother says. “There has been enough bloodshed. It must stop somewhere, or all the Targaryens will be dead and their dragons too, and this dynasty will vanish from the earth, and our ambitions will be for nothing. If you do indeed win the war, I want my surviving children and grandchildren spared. And my brother Gwayne, and Sir Criston Cole.”

“I cannot give you Aemond.”

“If you swear that you’ll pardon him, we shall do the same for Daemon if it is our armies that triumph.”

Now the hope is unmistakable on Rhaenyra’s face. “And my remaining sons will be allowed to live? All of them?” Even Daemon’s?

“Yes.”

She muses on this. “You make tempting promises, Alicent. But I don’t have any conviction that Aemond will heed you if Aegon dies and he is made regent until Maelor is grown. I don’t believe you can control him.”

“He’ll listen to his sister,” Mother swears. “He will not do anything that would bring her despair. And if she is married to Jace, she will come to love his family as her own. All the more so if they have children together.”

“She might not be trustworthy,” Rhaenyra says.

“She is of no threat to you. She is untrained with the sword, she rides no dragon. And you have her mother, sister, niece, and nephew held captive. She would not endanger us.”

“You have great confidence in her. Your hopes for survival are in her hands.”

“She is spirited, but she is clever, and she loves deeply and enduringly. She will do whatever is required to protect her own.” Now Mother’s voice breaks. “I want her sent away.”

“Mother, no—”

“Far from the war, far from Daemon,” she says, ignoring you.

Rhaenyra is nodding. “Somewhere secluded and peaceful…all the better for her to quickly give Jace an heir. The Riverlands, yes? Perhaps House Footly of Tumbleton.”

“No, not far enough. The Westerlands.”

“The North,” Rhaenyra counters.

“The Stormlands.”

“The Vale,” Rhaenyra says. “There will be no battles there, winter has already begun in the mountains and the roads are treacherous. She will be tucked away in obscurity until the war is won.”

“The Vale,” Mother agrees. She looks down at you and smiles, soft and sad and merciful. At last, after eighteen years, she has saved you.

Jace is whispering furiously to Rhaenyra, but she holds up a hand to stop him. He is exasperated. The supposed queen tells Alicent: “I shall think on this tonight.”

“She needs Maester Orwyle,” Mother says, kneeling beside you. “She is ill, she gets headaches. This place is bad for her. It’s the cold and the dampness. And the fear.”

“I’ll consider that,” Rhaenyra quips, and then she leaves, the hem of her black gown displacing dust on the floor of the aisle. Jace gives you one final glance—seething, appalled—and stalks after her. At the end of the hallway, he slams the heavy wooden door.

“I won’t do it,” you snarl, sick in body and soul. “I won’t, I won’t. I don’t care what you say.”

“We are in a fucking dungeon,” Mother says, grabbing and shaking you, and you’ve never heard her curse before. “Do you want to try to save your brothers’ lives? Or do you want to surrender to the destruction of our house? If you care for Aemond, as I know you do, you will give him a chance if he and Criston cannot win on the battlefield. You will earn Jace’s affection and convince him to spare us.”

You look at her, weak, stunned, at war with yourself. Jace can’t touch me. Only Aemond.

She asks you something; it takes great effort. “You are still…you haven’t…you’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

You hesitate. “In the literal sense.”

“In the…? Never mind, stop, I don’t want to hear any more.” Mother takes a deep breath. “Good. Then we haven’t lied to them. Jace might be able to tell. Sometimes there are…signs. Pain, blood.”

“He’s a bastard,” you hiss.

“He’s Rhaenyra’s son, and so he is a Targaryen and a dragonrider. And if Jace’s side wins, he will one day sit the Iron Throne. He can be proud, but no one says he is cruel. I don’t believe he would harm you. Your brothers are warriors, but you’ve never killed anyone.” Then she goes soft and hushed, and she cups your face with her gentle hands. “I know you’ve always thought you would marry Aemond.”

“Mother, I love him.”

“My darling, my brave girl, what you and Aemond have is…” She shakes her head, her large dark eyes grim and glistening. “It’s strange, and violent, and obsessive and profane and…and…unnatural.”

You are defiant. “If we had grown up in a true Targaryen court, we would have been expected to be this way. We would have married years ago, and no one would have condemned us for acting exactly like what we are. We aren’t First Men or Andals. We are the blood of the dragon.”

“It’s an affliction that brings nothing but sin and suffering.”

“You wed Aegon to Helaena!”

“And it has been a source of tremendous sorrow for them both,” Mother says, and now she is weeping again. “I should have stopped their marriage. But I was young, and I had already refused Rhaenyra’s offer of a match with Jace, and Viserys was so adamant, and I thought…maybe…maybe it’s not an offense to the gods. Maybe it’s just something I don’t understand. It was my husband’s custom, and so I deferred to him, as I had been taught to. But I was wrong. It’s too late for me to undo the pain I’ve caused Aegon and Helaena. It’s too late for me to mend Aemond’s eye or his soul. I can’t spare Daeron from the horrors of war. But I can still save you.”

“I belong with Aemond.” I belong to him.

“You don’t know better. You never had a choice.”

“I’m not you, Mother,” you say. “I’m not a Hightower or a Lannister or a Baratheon. I’m not like them, and I don’t want to be. I want to be Visenya.”

“You’re not going to be anyone if Daemon convinces Rhaenyra to have your head hacked off your shoulders.” Her vast eyes, dark like the mouth of a well, plead for you to understand. This is not a punishment; it is tenderness, it is compassion. “I would do anything to save you and Helaena and your brothers. Anything. You marrying Jace unites the realm. It provides a cornerstone around which to build a peaceful resolution. He will protect your kin. When the battles are past, we can negotiate a divided Westeros, or a line of succession, or exile to Essos or banishment to the Wall, or anything else that will preserve the lives of the people we love. And if Aemond can still win somehow…” She shrugs, and you know whatever affection she once had for Rhaenyra is dead now. “Then he can do whatever he wants with the Blacks who are left.”

I don’t want them to die. Aemond, Aegon, Criston, Daeron, Mother, Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor.

Mother asks: “Will you do it?”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.

Again, desperately: “Will you do it?”

And you cannot look at her when you answer. “Yes.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Maester Orwyle appears an hour later to dose you with enough milk of the poppy to kill the pain in your skull, and when you sleep it is deep and dark and dreamless. Rhaenyra, Daemon, and Jace arrive at first light, dreary grey dawn trickling into the dungeon. You know what she has decided. Both Daemon and Jace are scowling, and you think, somehow knowing that it is true: The more they try to dissuade her, the more convinced she is. She feels the need to remind them that she alone was Viserys’ heir, that she is a queen in her own right.

“Just marry him to Rhaena!” Daemon is ranting.

“Rhaena brings nothing to our cause that we do not have already. And she will always feel second to Baela. She knows Jace loved her sister. It is perverse.” Then Rhaenyra collects herself and asks Mother: “She consents?”

“She does.”

Rhaenyra turns to Jace. His reply is toneless. “I will do as you bid me to, Your Grace.”

“She will be in the keeping of House Corbray until the war is over,” Rhaenyra says, nodding to you. “They are an honorable but old and modest house, and of little strategic importance. No one beyond who is absolutely necessary will know where she is, for her own safety and that of the children she bears. Jace will fly her to Heart’s Home.”

House Corbray. You remember their banner, Aemond once taught it to you: three black ravens, three red hearts. You have a memory of being in the library with his lips on your throat, his fingers skating up the inside of your thigh, whispering for you to keep quiet as maesters stock books on the other side of the shelf.

“She cannot ride a dragon,” Mother says.

“Sure she can, if he puts her on Vermax.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Mother insists. “Dragons hate her. She cannot go near them. They will attack her, they will kill her. She and Jace will have to travel by ship.”

Rhaenyra is taken aback by this. Daemon scoffs: “What the fuck kind of Targaryen repels dragons?”

“The kind that will never be able to fly to battle against us,” Rhaenyra mutters, and you think: She is angry with him. He has done something, he has displeased her somehow. And you wonder about the girl who rides Sheepstealer.

Your eyes drift to Jace, you cannot stop them. He stares back from beneath dark curls, his gaze hard like the cold stony earth of the Vale, his fingers tapping on the hilt of his sword.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s the very first time.

You are at your vanity, and you are supposed to be getting ready for dinner: choosing your earrings and bracelets, combing out your hair before you braid it, a silver river that shimmers like moonlight in the mirror’s reflection. You have bathed, and steam still clings warm and dewy on your skin. You wear a silk robe the color of ripe cherries and nothing underneath it. Candles flicker, cool evening air breathes in through the windows…and your mind is wandering.

For years, you have felt episodic pangs of longing, an indistinct need, a deep untouchable hunger, and you have never found a way to satisfy it. It waxes like a moon growing full and then wanes into nothingness, but it always reappears again, and tonight you are feeling restless, occasionally shifting on the cushion of your chair, seeking the pressure that gives you a taste—and only a morsel, a nibble, a drag of the tongue—of what fulfillment might feel like. Lately, when you are like this, you find yourself thinking of Aemond. He has never spoken of it directly, but you have noticed the way his eye catches on your chest and your hips, how his hands linger when he grabs or shoves or embraces you. You can’t stop wondering what it would taste like to kiss him. You can’t stop imagining which positions he would fuck you in, remembering the lustful figures on the tapestries that hang from the walls of Aegon’s bedchamber.

Your hand settles in your lap, and there—over the glossy blood-colored silk of your robe—presses down tentatively. You sigh, you writhe, you picture Aemond forcing your thighs apart and gazing transfixed at the rare pieces of you he’s never seen.

How do I satiate this craving, how do I make it go away?

Your bedchamber door opens and Aemond stands in the threshold, black leather and silver hair. “Are you ready yet—?” Then his eye drops to where you snatch your hand out of your lap, not quickly enough to escape him noticing. There is a stretch of silence that seems very long. Then Aemond’s scarred forehead furrows and he asks: “What were you doing?”

You consider lies; they dangle in front of you by the dozen, so many ways to deflect or deny or even to disparage him, those prickly games of wordplay. But when you speak, it is not just the truth. It is an invitation. “Thinking of you.”

And Aemond steps into your bedchamber and shuts the door behind him. He crosses the room, kneels in front of you, reaches beneath your robe to hook his arms under your thighs and yanks you halfway out of the chair. You yelp in exhilarated shock as he buries his face between your legs, and then your fingers knot in his hair, and then you are pushing him closer, shaking, awestruck.

Is he really here? Is this finally happening?

You cannot stay quiet when the pinpoint ecstasy opens, blooms, drags you to places you never knew existed. It is something too powerful to be found in the world of mortals. It is bloodmagic, it is shade of the evening, a poison so sweet you’d let it ruin you.

Afterwards—collapsed and gasping on the stone floor, your robe open and your body laid bare for him, flesh that he has claimed irrevocably, bones he owns like a dragon or a blade—you say: “What was that?”

“You had a climax,” Aemond murmurs. “It’s easier for a man, but they are possible for women too.” He smooths your hair back from your face; it is unbound and wild, spilling all around you. You think vaguely: He wants me even when I don’t look like Visenya? He ghosts his thumb across your lips and then kisses you, and it is nothing but warmth, desire, the shared minerals your blood is built of, undying affinity like the celestial kinship of stars in the same constellation. “You can always ask me to take care of you, and I’ll do it. I’m the only one who is allowed to. No one else, not ever.”

This is no sacrifice. You have never wanted another man, and now you know you never will. “Teach me how to satisfy you,” you say, smiling. “I want to see you helpless too.”

Before you dress and leave your bedchamber, you erase as much of the evidence as you can, washing your skin clean and taming your hair into a tidy braid; but still, Mother frowns worriedly at you and Aemond all through dinner.

[rainybubbles]

141 coming back to you after a eight months mission

Plus size reader :) !

(Sorry in advance for my mistakes, English is not my mother tongue. So sorry if it's badly written or if they're OOC)

G H O S T

-Eight long months, every fiber of his being yearned for a hot shower, his eyes struggled to stay open.

- Yet, it wasn't his shabby apartment that the taxi drove to.

-Simon, buried beneath the Ghost's mask, still held a glimmer of humanity within him, a breath hidden beneath Ghost's blood, death, and violence.

-But on that evening, what he ardently desired was them: their gentleness, their scent, their warmth.

-Like a wild animal slowly tamed by food, he returned to them whenever possible.

-Under the pouring rain, he advanced, hastily thanking the driver, the heavy bags weighing on his shoulders.

-He stepped into the still slumbering pastry shop, and the bell rang.

-And there they appeared.

- Covered in flour, with a pastry cap and apron, they were surprised to find someone there at five in the morning.

-"Simon," they murmured.

-The sound of his name was so sweet, so soothing.

- But he wanted more.

-He wanted them to whisper his name over and over again, filled with desire, until they could only utter it, clouded with pleasure.

-His bags fell to the ground, and his arms enveloped them in an instinctive movement.

- Their hair smelled of sugar and butter, the flour staining their black sweater. Simon wanted more.

-"Y/n"

-" I missed you," they whispered.

-He couldn't bring himself to respond, to admit this longing, but they could sense it.

-His arms didn't let them go.

-"Scone?" they asked.

-"No. "

-"Muffin?"

- "No."

-" Croissant?"

- "You," he finally said.

A silence stretched between them.

-"I have to finish my batch, I open in an hour. Do you think you can wait?"

-No, he couldn't. But reason prevailed, and he nodded.

-"I'll help you," he murmured.

-"You barely know how to fold a dough."

-"I can follow orders."

-"Sorry, soldier."

-Their laughter echoed, and a sense of relief washed over him.

- He wanted to hear that sound again and again.

- In silence, they worked. Simon followed every move, ignoring the pain, stretching each muscle. He was ready for anything.

-When the last batch was ready and the saleswoman arrived, Simon breathed a sigh of relief.

-Y/n gave their final instructions and left.

-Alone on the street, they walked together.

-Like a starving beast, Simon jumped at every crumb of affection, grabbing their hand, his fingers brushing theirs through gloves.

-"We need to talk, don't we?" they finally admitted.

-"Yes," he replied.

- "About what happened before your deployment…"

-The kiss. A hurried kiss, without thought.

- Lips so soft, erasing the bad news of his deployment and eight long months of silence.

-"I… "

-'Don't say you regret it," he finally said.

-"No, I don't. I mean it. But I don't want it to destroy us."

-"It won't."

-"I know you avoid people, Simon. Attachment."

-"Yes."

-But not them, he thought

- Since the moment his feet led him to that pastry shop. Simon knew he was doomed.

- A stupid cake for Soap's nephew, and he found himself charmed by a baker making incredible scones.

-Simon had become a regular there, a man of habit enjoying the good things, he told himself.

- It was close, he said.

-Close to his shabby apartment, to his gym.

-Just a daily stop for coffee and scones, he reasoned.

- But every morning, his eager eyes searched for their silhouette.

-Their rolls, their belly, their thighs, that smile.

- Every crumb he could get, he took.

-They eventually noticed him.

-A mountain of muscles, hidden by a mask, softened by scones, it wasn't the most discreet.

-They greeted him.

-Always the first customer at dawn.

-In reality, Simon came so early out of military habit but also to avoid the saleswoman.

-Simon desired the baker, not the small, slim saleswoman.

-Slowly, they spoke to him, and everything fell into place.

- They had become his anchor, an anchor in reality.

- A tough mission, and he came to them silently, without needing to place an order, without having to face the crowd, slipping to the back and watching them work.

-No questions, just comfort.

-The smell of sugar, flour, and eggs permeated his clothes in the most exquisite way.

-And now he dreamed of a life where this scent would be constant.

-"I don't want us to drift apart," they said.

-"We won't," he assured them.

-"So, what do we do, Simon?"

-"Kiss me."

-It was a prayer, a barely audible order, a cry for help.

-Slowly his mask fell.

- Their eyes met, hesitant but filled with desire.

-And they kissed him.

- In that dark street, under the pouring rain.

-"Again," he murmured.

-"We have to go back," they said.

- "I don't care about going back," he replied.

- "Simon, you don't want to spend your leave sick."

-"If I stay with you, I do."

-"Idiot."

- "For you."

-Their laughter burst out, and Simon kissed them again to capture it.

-Slowly, they finally arrived at their place.

-Their dog welcomed them, barking happily at Simon. And after eight long months, Simon could finally breathe.

-"I'm home," he murmured.

- "We were waiting for you," they replied.

-Nothing surpassed this feeling, he thought as he kissed them again.

-Simon was a man, and like any man, he had finally found his long-desired home in their arms.

__________

P R I C E

-In an emotionally charged atmosphere, Price let the water flow slowly, carrying away the remnants of blood under his nails.

-After eight long months, he felt like a ship drifting without a course, without a real destination.

-At least that's what he claimed to anyone who would listen, but the ring hanging under his uniform whispered different truths to him.

-Staring at his own reflection, Price read the inscription inside the ring, a name he hadn't uttered in years.

- Like enchanted by a spell whose charm he feared, he hesitated to whisper it again.

-Yet, his heart demanded it.

-He knew it was the longing that drove him.

-Without those eight months, he wouldn't be here, longing desperately to have them back in his arms.

-(It was false; since the divorce was signed, he dreamt of them.)

-Since the day their marriage ended, he had wanted to throw himself at their feet and beg them to come back.

- He desired their warmth, their ridiculous work stories, their cooking, their scent, their fingers, their kisses.

-They were the oasis in the desert of his life, and through negligence, he had let them evaporate.

- It all dated back to before his promotion to captain.

- Back then, he was just a young lieutenant full of ambition, willing to sacrifice anything to obtain that coveted title.

-But the long hours at the office had gradually poisoned his time with them, an absence they had signaled to him, one he had ignored, one he had maintained until everything exploded like a grenade.

-Now, he stood there, on the minefield of his emotional life with a ring they had probably forgotten, longing to hear them say yes once again.

-As he dried himself off, Price settled into his office.

-He told himself it was just simple nostalgia, but the bitter taste of tobacco wasn't enough to distract him, remembering how much they hated that smell. He extinguished his cigar.

-To take his mind off things, he decided to go to the nearest bookstore. A good book would be welcome, he thought.

-"John?"

-That voice, which had haunted him for three years and eight long months of divorce.

-"Y/N."

-It had been so long.

-Too long, he thought, seeing them so different.

- He admired their new haircut, their new clothes. What a lucky man he had been.

-"Yes. Still teaching?"

-"Yes. And you, did you manage to become a captain?"

-"Yes."

-The silence stretched, their eyes avoiding his.

-"But it wasn't worth it," he admitted.

-"Too much work?"

-"Not enough of you"

-"John," they interrupted.

-"I'm not trying to get us back together, far from it. I know it won't happen, but I wanted to be honest with you. I think this divorce has been the biggest failure of my life, and you deserved better than me."

-Hesitantly, they opened their mouth, a mouth he had kissed so many times, one that had shared all their troubles, all their doubts.

-"Thank you, John. But I'm also to blame. I should have told you everything that was going on in my head, everything that wasn't right."

-"You couldn't, when all I listened to were orders."

-"Maybe…"

-"Good person, wrong time, it seems."

-"Nothing prevents us from correcting the timing, right?"

-John raised an eyebrow.

-"It doesn't mean we have to start all over, but… you've been a pillar in my life, John. I missed you. Whether as friends or more, it doesn't matter."

-"Thank you, love," John murmured.

-They approached him, and during this long absence, John could finally feel human warmth again.

-To just be John again, not Captain Price.

-Their hands wrapped around each other.

-They both knew it wouldn't be purely platonic, but like a suspended promise, for now, they would stick to it, hoping that one day the rings would find their respective places again.

-Theirs from their drawer to their finger, and his from his neck to his hand.

-"I missed you."

-"You too. Tell me what I've missed."

-And John could only smile.

-If these eight months of hell, these three years of desert led him back to them, then it was worth it, he decided.

- So when he packed for his next return, the soldiers watched him curiously because for once the captain had a home where he really wanted to be.

_________

S O A P

-Immersed in an ocean of turmoil, Soap returned after eight months of absence, longing to celebrate his return with his family.

-His thoughts, drowned in alcohol and his mother's reprimands, were rocked by the cheery laughter of his nephews and nieces.

-Between the urge to scream and the desire to simply savor their presence, he oscillated.

-When the festivities finally came to an end, he could finally breathe.

-Eight months.

- Alone in his flat, memories flooded in, evoking strategies, bombs, deafening tumult, and lingering smells.

-Everything was an attempt at distraction; the television, the rain, a run, a cup of tea, messages on his mobile.

-He longed for something, even if he didn't know exactly what.

-But it was missing, creeping under his skin little by little, scratching at the door of his mind.

-"Again, really?'

-His eyes fell on his neighbour.

-The same one who had endured his screams at three in the morning, his hurried departures on missions, his heavy suitcases dragged at seven in the morning.

- And now, at four o'clock, they stood before him, a mischievous gleam in their eyes, the result of an incident involving dumbbells in his hands.

-"Sorry.", he apologized.

-"I'm starting to think you're doing it on purpose."

-"On purpose…? "He raised an eyebrow.

-"So that we see each other. You know, like in those cliché romances where the noisy neighbour ends up seducin' the complainin' neighbour."

-Incredulous, he couldn't help but laugh.

-"Ye wouldn't need that."

-A teasing smile stretched across his neighbour's lips.

-"I know. But you seem to need it. Not an adventure, but a distraction."

-They referred to the dumbbells.

-"Aye."

-"I make cookies." they said.

-"At 4 a.m.?"

-"I know how to keep myself busy in silence."

-"…"

-"Interested?" they asked.

-The latent feeling under Soap's skin resurfaced.

-He nodded and followed them. And then he realized.

-The warm atmosphere, the decor, the unstacked dishes, the soft carpets.

-That's what he had missed, a heaven of peace.

-"They won't be the best cookies in the world, but they'll do."

-"Ah'm good at it." he said.

-"Pastry chef?"

-"Military."

-"Hm, that explains a lot. "They gave him a complicit look.

-"Like what?" Soap asked.

-"This horrible haircut."

Laughter erupted in the kitchen.

-"Ma haircut is incredible."

-"For a 6-year-old."

-"Ah look handsome with it."

-"Even without it."they said.

-"Good at flirtin'?"he asked.

-"With the right person, yes."

-Soap smiled.

-"Ye would be bonnie with a mohawk."

-"No thanks. But, well, I understand the muscles and the irregular movements now."

-"Aye, Ah don't choose my hours."

-Too bad, you'd think criminals can't be punctual, huh? "they joked.

-He smiled.

-"Exactly."

-Hands in the dough, Soap couldn't help but let his gaze drift over his neighbour's curves.

-He admitted that sometimes his door slammed a little louder in the hope of catching a glimpse of them, like a good luck charm before a mission.

-Curves he longed to explore, letting the eight long months fade from his memory to be replaced by love for them.

-"Ah should hae made more noise if it means havin' cookies."

-His neighbour smiled.

-"Maybe. I was worried about this silence, you know."

Soap felt touched by their concern.

-"Ah'm sorry."

-"Don't apologize, you didn't decide on that. It's just… maybe I could give you my number? If you ever have plants or stuff like that, I'll take care of them."

-"Okay." he acquiesced.

-He took the paper feverishly, keeping it as a precious treasure, and continued cooking.

-At the end of that day, returning home, Soap could finally close his eyes.

-The creeping feeling had come to an end.

-That longing, that emptiness, it was them, the sound of a life together.

-He brushed the paper, a smile on his lips.

-Getting up, he decided to drop a dumbbell loudly.

- A noise at his door rang out, and he smiled. Nothing was worth his neighbour.

-So slowly he opened the door, and dinner followed to apologize.

-Then another to repay.

-And slowly, they erased from his mind the eight long months that had haunted him.

G A Z

-After eight long months of absence, Gaz finally found a moment of respite in his humble accommodation on the base.

-The deafening noises of the base's incessant activity, the hurried faces, the soldiers' rushed departures, everything seemed to dissolve into a chaos filling his ears.

-Everything seemed to fade away as soon as he could cross the threshold of his room.

-Here, in this haven of tranquility, he could finally silence the external turmoil.

-His pulse slightly quickened as he reached for his phone, his fingers instinctively finding his favorite contact: them.

- He felt this visceral need to reassure them, to feel their presence through the voice that was so dear to him.

-In this suspended moment, he longed to hear nothing but their soothing breath, to lose himself in their tender words.

-His ears buzzed, every beep deafening his eardrums and…

-"Hello?"

-"Y/N," he murmured, relieved and tender.

-The echo of their voice provided him with a welcome comfort, a balm for his weary soul.

-"Kyle. Back among us?"

-"Yes, I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you."

-"No, I'm on break. I have a shift tonight."

-A silence stretched.

-"Is everything alright?"

-Kyle hesitated before speaking.

-Is everything alright? The blood, the bruises, the cries, the deaths… Everything seemed to still be on his skin, vivid in his mind.

-"I don't know," he admitted.

-"You didn't break an arm, did you?"

-Kyle smiled at the memory.

-After a rough mission he had rushed to his flat ignoring the pain in his arm and the medics.

-Yet he ended up to E.R days later with a blue arm and broken bone.

-Y/n was one of the nurse who was in charge of him and his cast, they kept contact.

-"No, I don't know how I managed to cope without hearing from you."

-"Charming," they laughed at his attempt at flirting.

-"Maybe."

-"More seriously?"

-"Tired," he admitted.

-"I would tell you to sleep, but I imagine you don't want to."

-"I can't."

-Not when he knew the nightmares awaiting him.

-"…I finish at 1am, if ever. I'm not implying anything, I know your base is super far, but I know that company can help."

-"Hmm, I don't know, will there be food?"

-"My company isn't enough for you, Kyle?" they joked.

-"I fear not."

-"Damn," they exclaimed, laughing.

-Ah, there it was.

-A tender smile stretched across Gaz's lips.

- In this exchange, he found comfort, a precious connection.

-His body relaxed slightly.

-"I missed you," they confessed.

-"You too."

-"You know, I bought those awful biscuits you talked about so much, hoping you'd come eat them at my place."

-"I'll take it as a declaration at this rate."

-"Shut up, I know you'd never buy them because 'no time'."

-"I like speed."

-"Even in bed?"

-A mischievous smile formed on his lips.

-"That's for you to find out."

-"You always say that."

-"I mean it."

-"About?"

-"Us."

-"Kyle…"

-"I know, after eight months of absence, it might just be the longing speaking, but… the only thing I wanted was you. Coming back to you, holding you in my arms, making you laugh one last time. And… staying friends… it's worse."

-"Worse than eight months without me?" -"Yes."

-"You're horrible for doing this."

-"I know."

-"At a distance, over the phone. I can't… I can't guess anything."

-"I guess I'm a coward."

-"Shut up, I… I swear I'm going to hit you and then kiss you."

-"Kiss me?"

-"Of course, do you really think I answer all your calls at any time out of friendship?"

-"Y/N…"

-"Last time there was an eight-hour time difference."

-"You told me…"

-"That there were only two, yes, because… I didn't want you to worry. You're a stubborn idiot always thinking of others, so I wanted to be selfish for once that you are."

-"I am. I want you, Y/n."

-"Then come get me."

-Kyle smiled and hung up.

- In his car, stress, fear, adrenaline surged. But for once, the enemy wasn't to be fought.

-Once in front of the hospital, hours of driving later, he stood at the entrance and saw them come out.

-Their name spoken from their lips, and he embraced them.

-"Never again," they whispered.

-"I can't promise anything, but I'll try."

-"I swear I'll kick Price's ass if he does that again."

-"I'll help you."

-"Promise?"

-"Promise."

-And he kissed them.

-Suddenly the eight long months evaporated on Y/n's couch, his fingers sliding through their hair, and his lips on theirs.

-The silence returned and Kyle could finally breathe.

If you want more : my masterlist