#he did that kind of move to so many riders before

[muxas-world]

Thank to @marquezian for bringin this traumatics memoris back (2018 is worse the way vale retaileted againts marc just hurts to much)

[kingofthering]

motogp riders as hockey players

This has been a long time in the making but we are finally here. Promised myself I would take care of MotoGP after doing F1 two years ago and I landed on some stuff. Probably couldn't have finished this without the help of @moonshynecybin, @vanillow and every other person who had opinions on this in my polls and ask box.

I am not known to know how to make choices. I struggled to make some of those decisions (it's a miracle they didn't all end up on the wing). Also I've kind of been in a hockey break the last couple of years so the real players comparisons weren't coming to me as easily as they did for F1, sorry.

Would love to hear your opinions (don't be mean about my choices or I will cry) (okay bye).

2024 grid

Aleix Espargaro : I rewrote this one so many times because to me Aleix could play any position but everyone sees him as a goalie and I will agree on that. Big Flower vibes except Aleix was drafted in the 5th round and arrived in the NHL and started establishing himself later. At some point his team’s captain leave and they don’t name a new one (team just has 3 or 4 As like it happens sometimes) and Aleix already had one of those As but he's nicknamed Capitán anyway. Has a rookie leaving with him pretty much every year.

Alex Marquez : Defense baby, very evident to me. He blocks a lot of shots (part of the best PK of the league and all) and always gets into fights to defend Marc.

Alex Rins : Calm, defensive d-man. Moves teams a bit but never needs long to be given an A.

Augusto Fernandez : I am sorry I know so little about Augusto this is a little bit of a struggle. We’ll do center that mostly manage the 3rd line.

Brad Binder : Also someone I struggled to pinpoint so I tried thinking about hockey players he reminded me of and the first guy that came to me was Morgan Reilly. Then I thought of guys with little brothers that are a little more feisty and brain supplied me with Quinn Hughes so that’s probably a sign to go defense.

Enea Bastianini : Top 5 pick. Winger that lost the Calder fight to Jorge Martin (did you know that they technically were born only 30 days apart because I just realized when checking their draft class). Kind of a little shit on the ice but so good at what he does. Will bitch about having to speak English at any occasion. The media adores him anyway.

Fabio Di Giannantonio : 3rd round pick that arrives in the league 3 years post draft. Feels a little scrappy to me despite the fact that he has the softest of voices in interviews. Position? Hm. Also a toss-up. I’ll go defense. PP2.

Fabio Quartararo : First round pick that everyone criticizes until he proves everyone wrong by winning the Cader the season right after the draft. Winger, very talented, almost wins the Art Ross in his second season before struggling in the last quarter. Calder Trophy winner. The comparisons to Marc go crazy that first year (Fabio is star struck the first time they're face to face on the ice, thank god they're not dealing with FOs).

Franco Morbidelli : I think he’ll forever be a little enigma to me but I want to say goalie. Makes attempts for goalie goals every now and then. Succeeds at least once.

Jack Miller : 4th liner center that would deserve to go up and down between the AHL and the NHL but alas, he’s no longer on his ELC :) Definitely talks too much (both in and out of the ice), gets into a lot of fights, doesn’t win that many of them.

Joan Mir : The one that everyone predicted would be first overall but he wasn’t (Shane Wright vibes, sorry) (I’ve seen both Slaf & Pecco with my own eyes and they indeed have a big size difference so we’ll end the comparison here). Oh, and that’s a center baby.

Johann Zarco : Genuinely can’t even imagine him on ice skates. Maybe defense.

Jorge Martin : Center. Gets drafted lower than he expected but does beat Enea to get the Calder despite a big injury in his rookie year. Lives at Aleix place when he arrives in the league, spends so much time with the kids, etc etc

Luca Marini : My instinct was defense (while being aware of my ‘taller guys go play defense’ bias) and I have seen some arguments about putting him at center. I think putting him on the offensive line puts even more pressure on him re: being Valentino’s brother and I do like d-man Luca. Can’t imagine his beautiful face marred by a puck/stick/elbow bruise (or god forbid a broken tooth) but hm, we’ll ignore that.

Marc Marquez : Speedy crafty winger. True mix of Sidney Crosby and Connor McDavid (yes they’re both centers, I know, I do not care) (if we wanna name actual wingers, Callie also said Travis Konecny and Johnny Gaudreau and I approve very much). Boy wonder that the media has been following forever. Angel face that does get into fights sometimes (Alex has to defend him so much because he’s tiny and good so obviously big guys come after him). 1st overall. Calder winner. Art Ross winner. Hart winner. You can’t really win the Stanley Cup on your rookie season when you’re first overall but he wins it early on anyway (think Sid in 2009, Kane/Toews in 2010).

Marco Bezzecchi : Winger. Connects with Pecco so well. Gets into fights and trash talks a little too much while having his mouthguard out of his mouth more often than in (think Matthew Tkachuk). Always plays it up for the camera when their photos are being taken when arriving at the arenas (and loves to have fun with some of his fits).

Maverick Viñales : Another one I could see in various positions. Definitely a first overall that had huge hopes put on his shoulders during his first years and then things faltered a little (bunch of trades, struggling to find his place within teams, etc). Fighter that went calmer with age. Since I can’t have an Aleix/Maverick d-pair, I think I’m gonna keep him at center.

Miguel Oliveira : I think solid center. Takes care of the second line. Probably has an A.

Pecco Bagnaia : Center and it’s not negociable in any world. Could be a 1st overall that disappoints a bunch of people by not getting the Calder. Very clinical play. Could see him as a two-ways forward (Anze Kopitar is coming to mind). Played college hockey with Bezz & Cele (was living with Bezz but Cele was at the house all of the time anyway, already in that first year where he was assigned to the dorms) (inspiration here being my beloved 2021-2022 UMich team).

Pedro Acosta : Winger. 1st overall. Calder trophy winner. Gets compared to Marc a lot and is so tired of it. Trash talks so much when he’s on the ice and on the bench (and in the penalty box). Was the very last rookie to live with Aleix, the last year before Aleix’s retirement. Scores a Michigan goal somewhere in his first 10 games in the NHL.

Raul Fernandez : I kind of want a brothers d-pair so I’m going to go defense for the Fernandez brothers. Arrives in the league the second year after his draft despite being drafted halfway through round 2.

Takaaki Nakagami : I can see him as a center, captain of his team at Worlds/Olympics. Has the best fits for rink arrivals (sorry Bezz).

retired riders

Valentino Rossi : So. Listen. Valentino is obviously a legend of the sport, maybe of Gretzky’s level. Obviously a 1st overall. Won the Calder. Won the Art Ross & the Hart on several occasions. Several Cups and one Conn Smythe trophy. You get the picture. Now, he’s a forward, we all know that. I posted a poll about his position and literally got a 50/50 split between center and winger. My initial gut feeling was center and then several of you gave arguments for wing and talking with Maddie led me to the changing positions at some point / playing both options (like all the guys who have double availabilities when you do fantasy hockey, real life example could be Leon Draisaitl occasionally). Anyway. I’m gonna be a little stubborn there and stay with center (although I was very delighted when my brain came with the idea of Jorge Lorenzo having to center both Vale & Marc). The intensity of those blue eyes at the dot? 70% faceoffs wins ratio ✨ Additionally, not much of a fighter (not until he bulks up please) but he definitely has a mouth on him when he’s in the mood. Very loud. He wins the best shootout goal + celly thing at the ASG at minimum 3 times in a row.

Jorge Lorenzo : Center and not taking any criticism on that one. Very good at faceoffs. Definitely challenges Valentino for his spot on the first line when he first gets in the league and yet, they connect extraordinarily well on the PP. Moves teams a bunch toward the end of his career and retire early because of an injury. 

Dani Pedrosa : First place my brain went was ‘he’s so tiny please let him go on a wing’. It also allows him to be centered by Jorge when they play together during World Juniors and they’re soooo good (despite the rivalry that obviously also exists in there, don’t worry). I will say, I could see him centering with Nicklas Backstrom vibes as well.

Andrea Dovizioso : Winger. Second rounder who wins the Memorial Cup during his juniors career (with the London Knights, because I said so). Does get into fights, especially where Marc is concerned.

Casey Stoner : Center. Valentino is very bad at faceoffs against him, it's a thing. Casey is named captain of an ASG team in like his second year being invited (Valentino is obviously captain of the other team). Starts taking the game ban over going to the ASG at some point (Ovi who). Has a concussion that takes him out for over half a season, struggles to come back and eventually retires. Also, very canonically, the biggest fisher of them all.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

Maybe brennan x witch reader that help eachother all the time but at some point she gets really hurt and brennan just goes ballistic trying to get to her on time and the fluff afterwards of him being a mother hen

Don’t die

When Brennan had first come to the Riorson house he never imagined that the first thing he would be greeted by would be a hurdle of females. All visibly drained. All way paler. The silver lining their eyes. That was the first of many times you had hissed at him. Back then he had misjudged the situation. His understanding of what was going on was murky. Brennan had little to no knowledge of what else was used to power the wards. Too many scrolls were in languages he couldn’t read.

That day he had simply attempted to pick up a little girl that had been crawling across the floor. Brennan had barely bent over when a sharp knife dug against his neck. “Move and I will cut you open”, that was when he first laid eyes on you. You were younger than him. At least that’s how it looked. But even if your hand wasn’t shaky Brennon saw the fear in your eyes. If not that then the scars all across your body did.

That was also the day when a new side of anger was born. They were using witches as power outlets. Dragging innocent children to the borders. But Brennan was going to change that.

“So what does this say?”, Brennan leaned over your shoulder, pointing at the paragraph he had been struggling to translate. You were in his room. The hour was edging towards the early morning but you both couldn’t seem to put the work aside. “I’m not one hundred percent sure”, you admitted, frowning softly. As yet another yawn threatened to slip past your lips. “But it looks like a sacrifice ritual”, you tapped your finger against the illustration above, “Basically the best way to use us as outlets”. Brennon shook his head, “Then we do everything against that and make sure that everyone is prepared to see signs of someone who might try to…”, “We could help”, you cut him off. For some months now that the revolution had kicked off in full swing the question of witchcraft had been raised in almost all meetings. For the most part, witches could uphold simple powers. But where they could shine if they gave away their powers to others.

“No, not like that”, Brennan protested as he stepped away from you. “This would give us the upper hand”, you pushed on further. He had never asked anything of your kind. But his protectiveness had harmed the progress of the revolution. “I will not allow that”, his sharp features deepened even more. The dimples on his cheeks wiped off with no trace. “But I am offering. A lot of us are”, you stated, turning to face him now. “Most riders don’t know how to safely use your power”, he pointed out in a huff. You knew that he understood what the offer implied. You knew the outcomes too. You crooked your head to the side watching the male in front of you.

“Don’t”, Brennan pleaded softly, his tired eyes meeting yours. “We will be fine”, you stepped closer to him, “I will be fine”. Your fingers softly brushed across his jaw. One that he flexed out of reflex before his lips softly touched your neck. You two hadn’t given time to discuss the situation brewing between you two. At first, it was a mutually needed distance. But now with you spending almost all nights in his bed and all the little touches. It had to be more. It felt like more. “I can’t…”, Brennon breathed out, his fingers digging into your hips just a thing stronger. “We already lost so much”, his desperate eyes met yours. But you didn’t let his fears reflect in your eyes, “You won’t lose me”, even if promises like that were so wrong to make in battles like that.

Brennon had triple-checked your daggers, flying leathers. Even the pins in your hair had been fidgeted with. You had caught his hand when he moved to recheck the straps of your other weapons, “I got it, Lieutenant Colonel”, you nudged his shoulder, hoping to suffocate his nerves for him. But he only frowned, “You never call me that, don’t call me that”, he grumbled, leaning his forehead against yours. “You are sleeping in my bed tonight”, he muttered after a couple of minutes of silence. “Is that a suggestion?”, you chuckled, letting your arms sneak across his waist. “No, an order and you know how much I love when you follow my orders”, he muttered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Kinky”, you muttered as you two watched the horizon, waiting for the signal you all dreaded most.

Through it all. All you could think of was Brennan. And rule number one was to not get distracted but you worried. Worried for all of them. The cadets that for the most part were stepping into their doom. You had just helped to carry the injured flyer to the healers when your eyes landed on Violet and the venin that now surrounded her. It took you a second to make up your mind as you darted through the field. Summoning illusions as you ran in hopes of winning more time for her.

“Use me and get to Tairn”, you ordered her, as you threw one of the daggers, her confused eyes watching you. “You shouldn’t be here”, she stared but you quickly cut her off, “You’ll be able to aim right”, you growled out as you watched another cloud of wyvern approaching. “Now, Violet”, you hissed out, right as her hand reached for you and you fully lowered your shields, allowing her to dip her mental shields into yours.

It all was going right as you hoped it was until you eyes caught a glimpse of venin. “Traitor”, it hissed, “trading our secrets and for what?”. You turned, throwing another dagger before launching yourself off the closet building as you ran in hopes of reaching a dragon that you could use as leverage. You needed to get off the ground. See it all from the air. But your jumps had gotten sloppier, and with your powers running through Violet too, you knew your time was running out quickly.

You leaped off yet another rooftop. Eyes falling on orange scales. Marbh. It had to be him. Meaning that Brennan was here you only needed to get his attention but you needed to get rid of the venin that was chasing you first. “Pathetic little witch”, the venin snickered as you dodged another blow. You only had one dagger left. If you threw it you would be left defenseless. You looked back up, whistling in the tune you and Brennan used to identify each other with while raiding. But it was Marbh’s eyes you met first. And his claw was close enough so if you just jumped now. You leaped. A pained roar sliced the chaos as Marbh quickly changed his position but you saw something in the dragon’s eyes. Something that meant…

And then you felt it, a sharp claw digging into your flesh. Wyvern. Sadistic laugh. And the claw that was meters away from crushing your body. You managed to twist yourself, plunging the last dagger that you had right at the center of the claw welcoming the felling off free fall. Until your eyes caught Brennon’s mortified ones. His lips were moving but you no longer could make out what he was saying.

It felt as if someone had ripped Brennon’s heart out of his chest as he watched your body fall. It’s like every part of him froze for a moment. And it’s Marbh who’s working on his own accord as he plunges reaching out his claw to catch your limp body. Everything else feels equally as if it’s not him. Not him getting off his dragon. Not him watching Marbh slowly letting your blood-covered body hit the grass.

“No”, and it’s share panic. Blinding panic. Not real. Brennan kept telling himself. If he blinked. If he could only make himself blink it would all go away. You would be here. His knees hit the ground as he reached for you. Pulling your body to the side so he could examine the cut. “Yn”, he calls out, eyes scanning your face. “Come on, love, open your eyes for me”, slowly he mends the fresh cut, watching the flesh come together but your limp form remained.

“Come on”, he pulled you closer to him. Not safe, Marbh growled assessing the surroundings, flashing his teeth at anyone who got too close. “Please”, Brennan brushed some of the hair away from your forehead, “You can’t die. Don’t die”. His eyes were burning with tears he refused to weep just yet. He couldn’t. Never in his life had he had anyone he loved so much. You had become part of him. Letting go wasn’t an option. Marbh let out a pained roar too no doubt feeling the same emotion his ridder was feeling. Brennan felt his mending powers flailing. He was exhausted himself and with him not knowing what exactly he was healing and what other damage had been done most of it was wasted.

He didn’t care that he was covered in blood and grime as he pressed you closer to his chest. Swaying from side to side. Trying to suppress his sobs. And then he felt a light twitch. The feeling of fingers brushing against his side. Brennan pulled back, wide eyes looking down at you. Your own eyes were barely open but he could see the slight rise and fall of your chest. “Oh, thank you, thank you”, his eyes darted up to the sky before his attention was fully back on you. “Brenn…”, you muttered, bloody lips cracking as you spoke. “I’ve got you, you will be okay”, he reassured you, “I will never let anything happen to you, darling”.

[mirai-e-jump]

TV Life, 8/2/2024 Issue (No.15) ft. Kamen Rider Gotchard Cast Members (translation below)

Publication: July 17, 2024

The film version for the currently airing "Kamen Rider Gotchard" will finally release in theaters! We heard alot from the six main cast members on the highlights of the film and each other's future!

"What were your thoughts after reading the script?"

Motojima: I was very excited, as it felt like a side story to Kamen Rider Gotchard. In this film, the process of how past Houtaro became Kamen Rider Gotchard Daybreak is carefully depicted, so please pay attention to it.

Matsumoto: It was so moving, that tears would start flowing every time I read the script. I did my best to convey those emotions into my performance so that those who watch feel the same way.

Fujibayashi: When I first read it I thought, "Huh? Is Spanner even here?!" (laughs), but as I kept reading, it wasn't like that at all. In this film, I play a double role, which I think doubled the highlights, and personally, I felt a great sense of accomplishment after filming.

Abe: As it's a story that goes back and forth between the past and future, I found some parts to be alittle difficult to follow. However, as Reiyo-chan said, there are many scenes that moved me and gave off an intense feeling that only a film can give.

Tomizono: I also want to see this film on the big screen in theaters. I think one of the highlights is seeing how the characters who also appear in the TV series will affect the future in which the film takes place.

Kumaki: That's for sure. Those of you who have seen the TV series will recognize some things that'll make you think, "That thing from back then!," and I'm sure that you'll enjoy the film while reflecting on these various things.

"This time, DAIGO-san will make a guest appearance as "future Houtaro," who transforms into Kamen Rider Gotchard Daybreak."

Motojima: I was nervous before we even appeared together, but he was very kind to me. I could feel how much he cared about the character of Ichinose Houtaro. I was really happy that we were able to create this one role together.

Matsumoto: While they play the same Houtaro character, his personality and way of thinking are slightly different in the present and future. As Rinne, I was saddened at times by these differences, but I was able to empathize with him because I got to see Motojima-san and DAIGO-san's passionate performance up close. The two of them inspired me, and it also made me want to work harder, so I'm very grateful.

Fujibayashi: Ah! Junsei looks embarrassed!

Motojima: I didn't know you thought that way…that makes me happy!

"Now then, the theme of this film is related to the future. Please make a prediction about each other's futures."

Abe: I think that Kumaki-san will appear in a period drama.

(everyone but Abe & Kumaki): Oh~!

Abe: He's got a stern face, and I feel that a kimono would look good on him.

Kumaki: Oto-chan is both an actress and model, and her expressiveness is powerful, so I believe that she'll eventually become a top actress. With how sexy she is, it's hard to believe she's only in her early 20s, and I think she'll become an even more attractive actress as she gets older.

Fujibayashi: Well then, I'll talk about Rikiya. Even now, I think Rikiya has an androgynous aura to him, and I actually think that's precisely his strong point. That's why I hope he'll challenge himself to continue moving forward as he is now and become a one of a kind actor.

Tomizono: That makes me happy. I'm gonna make a big assumption that Yasu will continue to be an actor, and that he'll probably be traveling around the world (laughs).

(everyone but Tomizono & Fujibayashi): We can see that happening!

Tomizono: I think he's the type of person who always wants to try new things, so regardless of the country or location, he should be a globally active actor.

Motojima: I think that Reiyo-chan's crying performance is appealing. Her smile is cute, but her worried facial expression is also wonderful, so I'd like to see her play a two sided role that evokes the positive and negative of her character.

Matsumoto: When we were filming the scene where I become possessed by Zukyumpire, I thought about how Motojima-san would also be a good fit for 2.5D productions and roles, so I definitely want to see you challenge yourself to them!

Motojima: I might give it a try. I look forward to all of our futures!

[intoxicated-chan]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 ༻ 𝐓𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐞-𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐁𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞

(A/n) ➳ I have written this over three times as an attempt to get Daemon’s personality correct and I butchered his character... P.S, I used a High Valyrain translator. I’m not sure how correct it is but you can find it HERE.

Word Count ➳ 1.8k

Content Warnings ➳ 3rd P.O.V, alcohol use, theft, threats of violence, mentions of murder, mentions of death, mentions of war...

AWOIAF Masterlist

Daemon stepped into the Prancing Pony, slipping off his waterlogged hood to reveal his platinum blonde hair and violet eyes. It was a candlelit inn, a seemingly calm one for the night. He observed the inn a couple of hours before entering, he wanted to make sure few eyes were on him.  

But his observation of the inn did him nothing, everyone stared at him, gaining all kinds of attention. Good or bad. He kept his arm rested on his sword, making his weapon known so no one would dare.  

He approached the bar, setting his pouch of coin he stole off a drunk bystander. “A pint of strong ale.”   

The bartender eyed him before pouring his drink. Daemon handed the man the coin, taking the wooden mug in return.   

His nose scrunched at the heavy and bitter taste of the ale. Daemon could certainly hold his own when it came to drinking but this was different. He took the mug as he left the bar and made himself comfortable in a corner with a man.  

It was his contact from the last lead that led him to the Prancing Pony. “I was right to say you are not from these parts.” The man started. “You are causing trouble, drawing eyes from people you do not want to start a war with.”   

Daemon scoffed, laughing to himself. “These people are the least of my worries. I only care of the dragon people speak of.”  

But the man started to laugh, too loud for Daemon’s taste. “The dragon they only hear of is Smaug.” Yet his eyes became wide with a mixture of fascination and fear. “I’ve seen another, not as big but just as fearsome.” He murmured.  

Daemon breathed deeply, his jaw clenched as his grip tightened around his mug. “And you dare hold the information from me?”  

The man rolled his eyes. He sat back in his chair, throwing his leg over the table. “Go East of the Misty Mountains, you will find Mirkwood.” The man ignored his questions and pointed at his hair. “You will find its rider, a woman with strands of hair that match yours.” 

“Now you give me this information? At no cost?”   

“You cannot scare me, Daemon Targaryen. There are many things worse than dragon fire.”  

Daemon rushed out of the inn feeling frustrated, he was played like a fool. Another reason to despise this place.  

He pulled his hood over his head as the rain poured heavily down on him.   

He always knew his older brother was obsessed with omens and prophecies, but Daemon was able to believe in one of Visery’s dreams. a Targaryen had found their own path to safety, escaping the calamity that took their home.  

“The Targaryen dynasty will rule beyond Westeros.”  

He was stuck in his mind for hours, keeping himself busy until he found Caraxes still deep in his slumber. Daemon took a breath before he spoke softly in High Valyrian, running his hand over his long and slender neck.   

“Vēzot, Caraxes.”    

Daemon flew to the East of the Misty Mountains, it was a trip of two days, three before he found Mirkwood. A kingdom surrounded by woods, isolated from the rest of the world.   

Caraxes landed just feet away from the narrow bridge, but his neck was long enough to reach the gates where two guards stood.  

They remained still as they felt Caraxes’s hot breath and saw him bare his teeth.  

Daemon sat up tall in his saddle, he relaxed one wrist over the other. “I demand an audience with your lord!” He exclaimed. “Step aside and you shall live to go home to your families.”   

Caraxes grumbled when the guards did not move or say a word. Daemon clicked his tongue after another minute of silence. He wanted to take his brother’s words into consideration. How he must learn to control his anger, how this world was unlike Westeros. 

Talking was getting Daemon nowhere since he was met with silence. “It is a simple request that I am sure you can fulfill, I have no need to burn your kingdom but turn me away and I will.”   

But it was a failure.   

Yes, they reacted, drawing their bows, and shouting in their tongues. It was not the reaction he was hoping for...  

“You have chosen your own fates.” Caraxes pulled back and opened his jaws. “Drac-”  

Suddenly, the gates creaked open, another Legolas stood at the entrance, walking forward with his bow in hand.  

“You seek and audience with our King.” Legolas stated, looking up at Daemon with a stern expression. “But first, you must hand over your weapons. I shall not let you approach the King armed.”  

Daemon's eyes narrowed, his hand itching to draw Dark Sister and so he declared.   

“We must obey by their rules, it’s their land but it won’t be for long.”    

Dameon gave a curt nod and huffed. He dismounted Caraxes to stand before Legolas. He drew his sword along with its scabbard.  

Legolas shouted orders the guards to come forward, his eyes glued on Daemon. They came forward, taking everything out of his hands, Dark Sister, and his cloak.  

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but he knew it gained him access to Mirkwood.  

Legolas was sure there were no more weapons on him. “The King awaits.” He turned his back, walking back into the kingdom with Daemon behind him.   

He took one final glance, watching Caraxes whistle again until the gates shut.  

Daemon did not hide his amazement at the inside of Mirkwood, he made his expressions clear and kept his composure but remained carefree. He was surrounded by guards, but he walked like he owned the place as his head stayed high.    

Then, it was just Legolas walking with him, and it was not long before he was brought in front of the king.  

Thranduil sat on his throne, one leg over the other. His finger tapped the arm rest as he looked at Daemon with a lack of concern. 

“My Lord.” Daemon addressed. “It seems you’ve been expecting me.”   

Legolas took his place by Tauriel’s side. She whispered in his ear, something making him huff in anger and shaking his head.  

Thranduil stood from his throne, his hands clasped together. “Of course I have, you made yourself quite known.” He stepped down the steps. “I received word from an acquaintance, he said your dragon was like a serpent. I wondered what they called your dragon back in Westeros.”  

“You’re aware?” 

“I’m quite aware.” Thranduil responded. “You’re home called Valyria, dragons that you ride, and you Targaryens... I’m only aware of the name after her relative stepped foot on Middle-Earth with a clutch of eggs and managed to sire many offsprings.”   

“Where are they?”    

“All of them killed each other, it’s difficult to say what happened but (Y/n) appeared with said egg hatched.” Thranduil slowly circled Daemon. “I cannot speak to what happened to the rest of the clutch but now she’s here and you’re here for her.”   

“I intend to bring her home.”   

Thranduil stopped at his left side, shaking his head. “You will not take her home. She knows no other home than here, Mirkwood.”   

Daemon wanted to punch him, stab him, have him burned to death. But he knew better than to do anything disorderly. “She does not belong here. She belongs with her family, with the rest of the Targaryens.”   

Thranduil’s eyes flashed with anger as he got in his face. “I have raised her since she was a babe, she is my ward, my own. I will not allow you to disturb her home and peace.” He took a couple steps back before waving Daemon away.   

Tauriel attempted to grab his arm, but Daemon shrugged her off. “She has no place here!” He shouted. “Where is she?!”   

Thranduil walked back up to his throne, sneering at Daemon. “You have no right to demand anything for me.” He gestured for Tauriel to proceed, ignoring the threats and curses coming from Daemon, it clearly had no effect on him.   

Tauriel summoned the guards. “Hold him.” She readied her bow.    

Daemon kicked the elf in the chest, pushing him back. He twisted the other’s arm, grabbing his dagger only for Tauriel to shoot it out of his hands.   

“If you wish to keep your hands, you will come.” She held no room for argument. “īlon līs ȳzaldrīzes mērī.”  He nearly froze in place and Tauriel could see her words confusing him. But the guards grabbed hold of his arms and Tauriel pushed him to walk.   

“We must talk alone.”   

Caraxes awoke, he was curled up near the entrance, grumbling when he caught sight of Daemon surrounded. He shoved their hands off him. “My effects?” Tauriel took them from one and handed them to him.   

Tauriel nodded at the guards, dismissing them. “How did you get here?” She questioned, eyeing his armor and then his dragon.    

His dragon had a saddle too, but it was wrapped around his chest with a three headed dragon.   

“I’d care to explain but I do not.” Daemon threw on his cloak. “Yet I only care to learn where did you hear those words.”    

“There is a Targaryen here.” She confirmed in a hushed voice. “And I fear that darker things may be her future.”  

Daemon's brow furrowed. “Yet why help me?” He questioned, staring down at her.  

Tauriel’s expression softened, sadness forming on her face. “I care for (Y/n), deeply.” She confessed, her voice barely audible. “But I fear the path she is on will lead to tragedy. If there is a chance to changer her fate, I must take it.”  

“Where is she?” 

“I cannot tell you exactly where she is.” She explained. “I received word that she had left the kingdom once again without the King’s permission. But there is a nest, past the Enchanted River. (Y/n) is known to frequent that area.”  

Without another moment’s hesitation, he mounted Caraxes and took to the skies. Tauriel watched as Caraxes flew for a couple moments then descended.  

“The King will not be pleased if he learned you gave out (Y/n)’s location.” Legolas appeared, looking disappointed. “He could kill her.” 

“He will not.”  Tauriel sharply retorted. 

“How can you be so sure?” 

“I would rather (Y/n) perish happily than see her and her dragon fall on the battlefield.” 

(Y/n) drew her sword as Caraxes landed in front of her. Aegar’s upper body hovered over her as he growled at the sight of the two, stretching his wings, ready to defend her. 

Daemon dismounted Caraxes, approaching (Y/n) but stayed at a safe distance. “Nyke emagon daor māzigon naejot vīlībagon.” He said.  

“I have not come to fight.” 

Her breath hitched as her heart quickened. She continued to look back and forth, between Daemon and Caraxes. She kept a tight grip on her sword. “Who are you and why have you come?” She ordered loudly. 

“I am Daemon Targaryen.” Daemon replied. “And I have come to take you home.”  

© Intoxicated-Chan 2024, I do not allow my work to be copied, translated, modified, adapted, or put on any other platform without my permission. 

Taglist ➳ @mrsdurin , @marsmallow433 , @oneiratxxia10 , @sassybutclassy96 ,  

[formulapookie]

rosquez for on a scar pls<3

20. on a scar

Marc is tracing a pattern between all the moles on Vale’s chest, head resting on the older’s arm as he strokes his hair.

This is one of the moments Marc prefers in their newfound routine. The domestic feeling of belonging somewhere that’s not a place per se, but the arms of someone you love so dearly, like Marc loves Vale.

Vale is home to him as much as he is home to Vale.

It’s enough to look one of the two in the eyes while he’s watching the other do anything.

It’s pure love.

Vale watching Marc pace around the house? Love Marc watching Vale cook? Love Vale watching Marc getting ready to go train? Love Marc watching Vale while he explains to him all the different kinds of wines he has in his cellar? Love

Vale is looking at Marc right now, and he wants nothing more than to hug him tight and never let him go again.

He’s divine, perfect body, out of this world face, amazing personality and that god forsaken smile that never fails to brighten up Vale’s days.

Vale’s eyes lock on that scar, one of too many, the one which had Marc almost stop racing, the one he got back in 2020, when he was so high on painkillers and antibiotics he hallucinated Vale being with him, in Cervera, holding him at night when the pain was too much.

Vale hates it.

Not the scar as a thing, but what it means.

They weren’t speaking back then, not even a greeting.

Not even “hello” if they met in the hallways of some hotel they were both in.

And when Marc had gotten injured, and declared he was going to miss the season because he had to get surgery, and because his arm hurt too much and had to undergo rehabilitation Vale hadn't called.

Or texted. Or sent anything to say “I’m sorry you’re going through that, as a rider I know how awful that must be”

Nothing. Complete Radio silence.

The scar reminds him of what he had managed to get of those years, 2020 especially, when he wasn’t there.

Marc didn’t like to talk about it, he hid his scar for the majority of times, either with sleeves or bandages or simply sitting, standing or laying making sure to cover it.

But Alex did.

He told Vale everything, how awful he was for letting his brother suffer alone, calling for him during the night, blindly reaching out to someone who wasn't there, who was probably at some club getting shitfaced with his friends, who was probably making fun of him.

He had told him how Marc, in his less lucid moments, thought Vale was really there, and he would find his brother hugging a pillow, sleeping while hugging it tightly and sometimes telling Alex not to yell because he would’ve woken Vale up.

Vale’s fingers find their place tracing the outline of the scar, slowly, feather-like touches.

Marc tenses up, his hand not moving anymore.

Vale leans down tentatively, slowly, he doesn’t want to do something that will drive Marc away.

But Marc lets him, waits to see what will happen.

He presses a light kiss on the boy’s scar, then locks gazes with him.

There’s tears in Marc’s eyes, while he looks at Vale, because the scar is something they never talk about.

Vale just knows that if Marc is hurting 90% of the time it’s that arm.

“You’re beautiful, every part of you is, even the ones you don’t like, they’re perfect”

Marc can’t keep the tears in anymore, he just breaks down in Vale’s arms, sobbing loudly as Vale hold him tighter than ever before.

It’s not often he sees Marc crying like this: real, deep, hurt.

The last time he had seen him like that was after Sepang, when Vale had doubted Marc ever being a fan of his and had called him other names too.

That night, when Vale was in his hotel room with a bunch of the Yamaha crew and some friends Marc had gone to him, lips red and patchy from Marc obviously biting them till they bled, fingernails bitten and the area surrounding them coloured of a bitter red.

He was standing in front of him, a sad face on, looking up at the man who was supposed to be the love of his life.

“Can we talk Vale please?”

“What do you - CUT IT FOR A MINUTE GUYS MARQUEZ CAME HERE - what do you want?”

Vale remembers his crew getting up from wherever they were sitting and going to the door to see how destroyed that kid looked.

“Can we talk like - without all these people?”

Marc was hurt, Vale could fucking see that, could feel the desperation coming from him.

“Talk or I’m shutting the door Marquez”

“I - why did you say that? About me, my room with your poster - you know they are there. You’ve been to mine you saw them”

Marc had looked for confirmation in Vale’s eyes, but had only found hatred and sick fun.

“If I was ever in your house it was in your wet dreams Marquez, surely I never set foot there”

And he laughed. Alongside with all the others.

Marc had stood there, heart caught in his throat, feeling laughs like daggers in every part of his body.

And he had cried, hot tears streaming down his face as he tried to walk away, shame surrounding him like a cloud.

Marc feels like that right now, ashamed weak, stupid.

Because he hates crying, much more so doing it in front of the man he loves.

And Vale is just holding him, cuddling him and stroking his back lulling him to make him calm down.

“I love you Marc, I love all of you, I always will”

He kisses the scar again, this time it calms the sobs down, Marc hiding his head more in the crook of Vale’s neck, waiting for him to finish.

“I love you too” Vale is happy, happy Marc is as well, because he deserves happiness more than anything right now.

Marc manages to fall asleep in his home, Vale’s arms, and slowly gets Vale back into his comfort zone.

“I am so sorry baby, so so sorry I wasn’t there”

A cut sob comes from Vale.

“But I promise I’m not letting go of you anymore, I want to bring you to the altar”

A third kiss on the scar, softer this time, like a peck, like a butterfly just rested her tired body on Marc’s scar, giving him a little relief.

Semd me a Ship name and a Number and I’ll write a kiss

[arcane-vagabond]

All That Glitters: Prologue

All That Glitters: Prologue

Pairing: Javy "Coyote” Machado x Reader

Summary: Growing up in the untamed wilds of the west afforded you many opportunities that most women weren't allowed, namely that of choice and self sufficiency. One day, your father announces his intention to marry you off, and you take your chance to escape, moving south to try your luck at striking gold. You arrive in the town of Maverick, setting up shop, but soon learn that life on your own is tougher than you previously thought. You catch the eye of a handsome man, but you're determined to rely on your own skills. Only, you may end up needing his help after all...

Content Warnings: References to living in the wild, Mentions of Indigenous tribes, Use of Y/N, Allusions to daddy issues, Poverty living, Sexism, Forced engagement, running away, Talks of gold. I think that's everything, but please let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 1.36k

Masterlist || DGU Masterlist

The mountains of the west are where you called home, and you knew every tree and stone like they were old friends. Or at least, that’s what it felt like to you.

The Rocky Mountains had sheltered you in their bosom from as early as you could remember, the old trees hiding you away from the rest of the world as your father worked, trapping and skinning the different animals that roamed this part of the world. He was an older man, getting well on in years, and you had no doubt he would pass on his trade to you any year now. You practically helped him run the business as it stood, a fact that you were very proud and mindful of.

It had just been you and your father for almost two decades now, your mother having taken ill when you were still young. The shadows of a kind smile and comforting song still teased the edges of your memories, but it had been so long, that you couldn’t be sure if they were real or the manifestations of hope teasing you with ideas of what it was to have a mother. You had been told by all who knew her that you were her spitting image, and to those comments you were never sure how to respond, so you didn’t.

You and your father lived in a remote cabin in what felt like the densest part of the forest. While he went out checking his many traps for new boon, you were stuck at home tending to the chores around your little fortress. Not many people came by your way, but those who did already knew where to look. Your father had friendships among the local Ute tribes, often trading with them for needed supplies. You had made tentative friendships over the course of the years, knowing that it would come in handy one day.

Now that you were older, you were trusted with more, and you prided yourself on keeping a neat home despite the surrounding wilderness. You were hanging the laundry up to dry when the sound of a horse trotting through the thicket caught your attention. Your body stiffened, ready for a potential threat, but you relaxed as you recognized the rider.

“Duncan,” you greeted easily, continuing your task. Duncan was a tall, strong man of about thirty years with strawberry blond hair, earth brown eyes, and sun-kissed skin. The scruff on his face indicated that it had been a few days since he had last shaved, and you weren’t sure if you like it.

“Y/n!” He called with a grin, his horse, Boone, barely coming to a stop at the foot of the small hill before he was dismounting. You supposed he was a handsome man, but you had known him since you were young, your fathers working together in the trade before Duncan’s father took ill some six years back. Duncan had already been well into adulthood by that time, promptly picking up the mantle his father had left behind.

Deep down, you knew your father had wished you were his son rather than his daughter, but you worked tirelessly to prove to him that you were just as capable as any son. You supposed it also helped that Duncan was a near constant figure in both your lives.

“Is your father around?” He asked, looking past you towards the cabin. You pinned the last sheet to the line before picking up the basket and holding it at your hip.

“He should be back soon,” you told him. “Why don’t you come wait inside?”

The rest of the day passed quickly, your father making his appearance just before the sun set below the horizon. You served dinner, listening quietly as your father and Duncan discussed business around the fire. You cleaned quietly, excusing yourself to your bed. The cabin was a one room building, the little privacy you were afforded was hidden behind a makeshift curtain in the far corner. You changed into your night shift, moving to slide into bed when you heard your father utter your name. You paused, glancing at the curtain that separated you from the two men. Padding to the edge quietly, you peeked through the crack between the fabric and the wall. The two chairs were silhouetted against he warm, orange glow of the fire, but you could still see the smoke rise from your father’s pipe.

“I’m getting older. You know that, Duncan,” your father sighed, relaxing further back into his chair. His accent was thick with the weariness of the day, and there were days where even you struggled to understand him.

“Yes René,” Duncan chuckled. “I’m aware.”

“My girl is smart, strong, capable,” your father continued, and your heart swelled with pride at his words, your chest puffing up a little. “But she can’t be on her own when I’m gone.”

You frowned at that, brow furrowed in confusion. What did he mean by that? Had you not proven to him time and time again that you were able to take care of not only yourself but him? You were so caught off guard that you nearly missed his next words.

“She’s too dependent on me,” he murmured, frown evident in his voice. “She needs a man to keep her safe and grounded.”

“What are you getting at André?” Duncan asked carefully, leaning forward onto his knees as he stared at your father.

“Take her for your wife, Duncan.”

Your heart stopped.

“She’s agreeable and a hard worker,” your father continued, a cough wracking through him. “And I’m sure it has not escaped your attention that she’s quite the beauty as well.”

“It hasn’t,” Duncan hummed. “It’s true, she would make a most agreeable wife, but I don’t know.”

“Duncan,” your father chided. “You are the son I never had. Why not make it official? It would do this old man’s heart good to know that my daughter is in the care of someone who will take care of her.”

There was a long pause between the two.

“Alright, André,” Duncan relented. “I accept.”

You watched as the two men shook hands, bile rising up in your throat. You slunk back into your bed, waiting for their conversation to die down and silently making plans of your own.

It had taken you all of one day to find your opening to escape, a singular, small pack holding a change of clothes and your mother’s journal. Duncan had left your home with the promise to return the following week, your father having gone out not too long after. You had left him a note, telling him that you had left and that you wouldn’t be back. There was no point in beating around the bush. The two of you weren’t flowery people. It took you all of two days to make it to Denver, trading a couple of furs for a few nights at the local tavern. You hoped you’d be able to come up with a plan before your stay was up.

“You heard the news?”

You glanced over to the table to your right where two men sat, drinking beer and playing a game of cards.

“What news?” The man with the beard asked in a grunt, throwing down a couple of chips. His friend threw down the same amount, drawing a card to add to his hand.

“Heard they found gold northwest of Santa Fe,” the first man said, scratching at his whiskerless chin. “A little town called Maverick. Sounds like they’re opening a mine and everything.”

“Maverick,” the bearded man drawled, “ain’t that the town with the upstarts?”

“The Dagger Gang, yeah,” the man said. “Anyway, the mayor apparently announced that they’re handing out permits or whatever for mining and panning. Could be worthwhile.”

His companion grunted, revealing his cards as the man groaned. Pulling the pile of chips closer to him, he sniffed.

“Might not be a bad idea to get a move on now before more people showed up.”

You didn’t hear the rest of their conversation, already heading back to your room to make plans for tomorrow.

A/N: And here it is! The start of Javy's spinoff! The plan is to work on my entry for the Galentine's day challenge and then I'll let you guys decide who we hear from next! As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated! Be sure to follow my side account: @sailoraviator-library and turn on post notifications if you'd like to be notified of when I post! You can also follow me on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond Thanks for reading!

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

All right then this is, I mean, that is like some whacked up logic. I mean, how it's so self justified, right? Like, well, how can it be wrong if, if because I'm in love and if I do something out of love, then it can't be wrong, therefore it's not wrong. It's, you know, it's like if, how can it be bad if love can't be bad and I love you, therefore I can do nothing bad. Right? It's like, this is really not healthy. But the show bends to it for the rest of, I mean this is, this is the escalation that we set up now. There's no way out. She has to go, not go to Yale. They have to get married. Like, you've, you've changed the rules of the show. You've said from now on, Cory is, you know, this love is going to defy all the adults. It's going to defy reality and and that, that is just, and it's like, whoa, okay, now you can do nothing wrong. But I, if you're doing it for love. But the point of this episode is that every adult bends like every, and then the whole reality bends. -Rider 

But they, they, they don't bend because they agree. You're right, you're in love, And, you should be together. They bend because the idea that Topanga has lived here her entire life and has grown up here, and it's only one year before she's gonna move for college anyway. And so they end up agreeing kind of like, not because you should be with Cory, but because really it's there it is a lot to ask of a 17-year-old kid to move the last year of high school and uproot their entire life if there is another solution so that she could stay. Not because I think she should stay because you and Cory should be together necessarily, but because it is an uprooting of your life. -Danielle

 The point is that they are empowered through their love, and they are, they are better than the adults. They're better than the world and they're gonna make it no matter what. And that's just, that's a romance. It's a romance story. And they're gonna and, you know, now we've set ourselves up. That's why I thought maybe God, you know, it's kind of shortsighted because now the show has to keep insisting Cory and Topanga and it has to keep digging in deeper in order to rationalize. -Rider

But it gets even crazier because if they're juniors in high school, they're engaged in a year, right? -Will

Yeah. Oh yeah. I proposed at graduation. -Danielle 

They're engaged in a year. -Will

How can it be crazy if you're in love? -Rider

You also notice that your hair your hair keeps getting wetter and then it's dry. And then it's wetter and then it's dry. - Will

It was bothering me the whole time. It's like, just stick with the fact that her hair's dry now. It's been enough time that her hair has dried Please. Or that I dried it with a hair dryer. We do not need to keep going back to having wet hair. -Danielle

So When, I say, your hair's wet. You're wearing Cory's clothes. That's like my next line.So I think that's why they had to like, oh wait, her hair's not wet enough. Go. -Rider

Make it. Her hair's a mess. Something. -Danielle

It was several levels of dampness. -Will

It was so it went, it went back and forth so many times. -Danielle 

It did. It did. -Will

I didn't notice. -Rider

Then Shawn puts two and two together. Your hair's wet. You're wearing Cory's clothes. You ran away, didn't you? She nods and he laughs She gets that from me then.... I love the drive by involvement. -Danielle

Drive by Shawn. -Will

I wonder if there's ever a draft where they tried to keep me around for any of this discussion. -Rider

[eclipse-song]

Can you elaborate on “Gotchard is Showa”? Bc I see the callsigns but I really havent watched much beyond 71 and like. Reimaginings of 71.

Sometimes shit will just happen, it focused on a little GROUP of characters that are all in the action but with only a couple riders, Kajiki is there, the recurring use of the classic Wind Noise.

But is there anything else that sticks out bigtime to you?

I can try! I feel like while yes they do reference the 1971 Rider sound fx and symbols sometimes, I was also saying Gotchard was showa BEFORE all of that. Kajiki being there I feel doesn't do a whole lot to make him showa since I don't see him so much as a Taki stand-in but the heroine replacement (stated to be this by the producers) since he doesn't really go in kicking and punching like Taki did. I also find that Gotchard isn't a show really where "shit just happens" since most of the time anything that has happened has been built up to slowly and mentioned previously.

What stands out in the show to ME as something that feels inspired by many aspects of Showa era Kamen Rider is the story structure that has its own arcs and such but the focus is heavily leaning towards episodic stories that are contained within an episode or 2 and then moves on to the next story. There is an episodic nature about it that ironically also reminds me of Wizard (a heisei 2 series that I could also write a lot of arguments on it being a modern fantasy retelling of the original kamen rider series in many parts-though not all of it) . The tone of the show fluctuates and can go from dead serious to ridiculous comedy within an episode or 2 which resonates well with a lot of the feelings of episodes in the showa era (this may be what you mean by shit just happens I realize now). I feel like this show could work around the time of Black RX or possibly Skyrider/Super-1. There's an experimental feel to it where it's rough around the edges but has a lot of love infused in it. Most importantly though, I think it's how the values of the characters resonate with many of the showa riders. I remember thinking very early on how Hotaro would be a Rider that Hongo would adore and take in under his wing. Hotaro is able to befriend these monsters and there is a kindness in him that is expressed towards his enemies that Hongo only wishes he could have afforded as he viewed many of his opponents as people like him who were kidnapped and transformed against their will. Kazami Shiro in V3 has a small arc in there where he meets a friend who has been converted to believing in Destron as a beacon of hope through propaganda and begins to encourage him and others to leave because he recognizes them suddenly as people who could have been his friend once upon a time. It's this element of love and kindness towards who he is meant to be fighting that I think really resonates with me and makes me think the Legendary 7 would have loved Hotaro.

SO sorry if this is a little hard to read, I just woke up from a nap

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

It’s the Last Wídfara Wednesday! Time to get all weepy for Guthláf!

The 8th and final part of the story, in which Guthláf meets his destiny at the Pelennor Fields and Wíd has to learn how to live all over again. This feels obvious, of course, but just to be absolutely clear with everyone – Canonical Character Death ahead! The loss of Guthláf is obviously tragic, but I did work really hard to make this story not end on a bleak note. I’m proud of it and I hope it works for you! I’m so, so grateful for those who have followed along, stuck with it and given me very kind feedback. You’re the absolute best!

Prior parts can be found here (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7) or all on AO3.

The next days passed for Wídfara both slowly and quickly. There were endless hours of riding – from the muster at Dunharrow to the beacon hill at Min-Rimmon, through the narrow, forested paths of the Stonewain Valley – and there were long, tense nights camped quietly in tight places where little sleep was to be found. And yet, he had only to feel the bruises still wrapped around his own throat to be reminded that they had left Helm’s Deep behind just days ago. To find themselves now deep into Gondor and in a state of readiness for another, even bigger battle after so short a time was a substantial and difficult achievement.

Still, the journey hadn’t been entirely unpleasant. Guthláf’s melancholy at Dunharrow had fully retreated, and he was his usual easy self. He chatted happily as they rode, anticipating the familiarity of an open battlefield and the excitement of representing not just his éored but his king and country on what was undoubtedly going to be the biggest stage he had ever fought on. Wídfara got his own boost when Déorwine promoted him to chief bowman of the éored, filling the role after Arengan had been left in the Westfold to recover from serious injuries at the Hornburg. Wídfara would have given the promotion back in an instant to heal Arengan, but he still felt pride to have been chosen and wondered what his parents would say to know that their son had risen from a scrappy little boy guarding herds in the rural desolation of the Wold to the top archer of the king’s own éored.

He and Guthláf rode together near the front of the company, separated only briefly when Wídfara was sent with a few others as out-riders to scout conditions as they approached Minas Tirith at last. On his return, they crossed out of the Grey Wood side by side, passing through one of the large breaches that had been made in the great wall encircling the fields outside the city. As Wídfara noted to the king himself, an encouraging scent was in the wind that morning, and the light of dawn seemed likely to break around them at any moment as the Rohirrim lined up to make their triumphant arrival to the defense of Gondor.

While they waited for other éoreds to fill in behind them, Wídfara watched Guthláf make his final battle preparations. With his reins tied to Syndrigan’s saddle, he slid his shield onto his left arm and unfurled the king’s banner, a white horse charging across a field of deep green with a glorious sun above. The reverence and care Guthláf showed whenever handling the flag never failed to move Wídfara, and a rush of feeling welled up in his chest, an overwhelming urge to tell him again what he had already heard so many times before. I love you. Wídfara swallowed the words before they escaped his lips, painfully aware of the dozens of others within hearing distance, but Guthláf’s head turned anyway, as though Wídfara’s silent devotion had somehow called his attention. He studied Wídfara’s face for a moment, and the corner of his mouth turned up into a small smile.

“I know, Wíd.” He brushed a hand quickly over his heart. “You, too.”

Before any more could be said, Théoden crossed in front of them, standing in his stirrups and giving his last exhortations. He seized Guthláf’s horn as he passed and blew a great blast that was quickly echoed by many others. With this sign, Théoden and Snowmane sprang forward and the whole army raced to follow, a mass of gleaming helmets and bristling spears. They picked up more speed and sound with each advancing hoofbeat until it seemed the entire field was flowing in one deafening wave that would sweep away anything in its path. Guthláf took a last look over at Wídfara and his lips moved again, but his words were lost to the clamor. And then he was off, shot out to his place at the front with the charging white horse streaming proudly in his wake.

Wídfara urged Cypren to give chase, taking up the battle song of their éored as they thundered ahead, and for a time, everything went exactly as it should. They descended on ranks of enemy forces that hadn’t expected or prepared for their arrival, and they clove their way through entire companies of Haradrim, who fell easily before them. Wídfara rode his charge, keeping Guthláf and the banner always in sight as he shot his arrows, and the morning sun and a bracing sea-tinged wind in his face left him feeling near invincible as he cut his way through fighters in black and red, who had begun to turn and flee.

But in the midst of their rout, a sudden shadow fell.

Before Wídfara could find its source, his horse reared up in panic, and all around him riders were thrown from the saddle or carried off as mounts bolted in the opposite direction. He managed to keep his seat through several bucking leaps, but the fourth forced him off and an errant hoof struck his helmet as he tried to gather himself. He staggered forward one or two steps before sliding to the ground as everything went dark.

When he opened his eyes again, the shadow was gone. He clawed off his helmet and rolled onto his side. How much time had elapsed was beyond his guess, and his head felt cloudy and unfocused. But somewhere within those clouds a single thought soon crystallized. Guthláf.

He pulled himself up on an elbow, the field swimming in front of him, but he heaved a deep breath and slowly his vision cleared. Dead bodies, man and horse, lay all around, along with some kind of winged beast he’d never seen before, now missing its head. He stumbled to his feet and began a frantic search among the carnage, rushing from corpse to corpse, choking back the nausea as he discovered friend after friend. The dizziness in his head and the panic in his chest threatened to send him back to unconsciousness, but he kept scrambling forward until his eyes fell at last on the body of a dappled grey horse that he knew in an instant and all the light and sound of the world fell away. He limped the last few steps around Syndrigan and pulled in a ragged breath at the sight of his deepest fear made real.

Guthláf lay on his back in a wide pool of blood, his unseeing eyes staring ahead. The staff of the banner was still in his right hand, and his left was clutched to his chest. Wídfara collapsed to his knees and seized that hand, and as he wrapped his own around it, his mother’s ring fell from Guthláf’s grip. Something inside of Wídfara broke, and a pain beyond any he had ever known or imagined flooded through him, set loose by the breaking and with nothing to stop it from overtaking him completely.

The front line of the fighting had moved on for a time, leaving an eerie temporary calm here in the center of the battlefield, and Wídfara sat alone at Guthláf’s side for long minutes, seemingly the only living soul in a circle of death. He felt weighted to the ground, his limbs like lead and the blood in his veins gone solid. Everything around him became hazy and indistinct, all but Guthláf’s face. Wídfara couldn’t tear his gaze from that face, desperate to see those pale blue eyes blink back to life, the color to return to his cheeks, the mouth to smile and speak the words that would tell him that this was merely a nightmare. A hallucination of a mind suffering from a recent blow and preying on his greatest terrors.

Into this private agony, a company of riders came, Rohirrim following the Third Marshal and his flowing horse-tailed helmet. Wídfara paid them no heed and, in fact, didn’t even register their presence until one approached to pull the banner from Guthláf’s lifeless hand. As the flag passed before his eyes, unspooling from the ground with a deep red stain soaked into the white horse emblem, another searing pain tore through him, like the burn of an open flame pressed directly to his heart. He slumped down onto Guthláf’s chest, whimpering quietly to himself and hoping only for the flame to consume him quickly, to reduce him to ashes that would have no awareness or feeling. But instead, a small hand appeared on his shoulder and shook it insistently.

“Are you hurt?”

The hand pulled him up by the spaulder, and he raised his eyes to find a small man before him. He was dressed in the gear of an esquire of Rohan but was several feet shorter than an average Rohirrim, more like the size of a child. The man stood unsteadily, one arm pressed awkwardly to his side, and looked over his shoulder at new forces of the enemy gathering in the near distance. “If you’re hurt, you should make your way into the city,” he said. “You can’t stay here like this. The battle will overrun you soon enough.”

“I don’t care,” Wídfara whispered, as much to himself as to the small stranger. He tightened his grip on Guthláf’s hand.

“This man, he was your friend? Or kinsman?”

“He’s my…He was my…” Wídfara broke off, unable to speak the truth but unwilling to say that Guthláf was anything less than he had been. A sob rose in his throat, and he looked down.

The small hand came back to his shoulder, the voice pained but firm. “I don’t think he would want you to die here today.”

Somehow, those simple words pierced the tormented haze of Wídfara’s mind and hit their mark. He knew they were true. If Guthláf still had even a single breath in his body, he would use it to push Wídfara forward. To urge him to be brave and fight his way to safety. I’m asking you to try. To give up now would be a failure of everything Guthláf would have wanted for him or for Rohan. Whatever else he felt, Wídfara knew he couldn’t let his last act be such a betrayal.

He nodded to the small esquire, who turned quietly away, and he took his last, long look at the face of the man he loved above all else. He fought back the urge to take Guthláf’s hand, now growing cold in his, and hold it to himself. Against his heart. His cheek. Anywhere that he could press it like a stamp into wax, hoping to leave behind a mark, something to carry away with him and bear for as long as possible. Instead, feeling the weight of other eyes now on him, he rewrapped Guthláf’s fingers around his mother’s ring, placed the hand gently back on his chest, and hauled himself shakily to his feet.

The rider who now carried Guthláf’s banner gestured in the direction of an available horse, its own rider dead or forced from his saddle. Wídfara mounted up and slipped into the company just as the host began to move again. All around him were cries of ‘Death!’ and the ringing of blades being drawn as they charged toward the re-formed lines of the Southrons ahead, and Wídfara urged his horse forward, following the bloodstain on that banner wherever it would lead.

The rest of the battle meant little to him. He fought hard and without fear or sensation of any kind. Something in his mind shut down, the parts of him that felt and thought going numb and leaving only the part that guided his limbs through the motions of duty. The same was true when the battle was over, when he was then marched out to the Morannon under the combined banners of the Men of the West, and when they marched back, victorious over all. The unsettling numbness only ended when they came within sight of Minas Tirith once more and he caught his first glimpse of the burial mounds that had been raised, the new hills of earth and stone where somewhere inside Guthláf would rest forever. And then he wished for the numbness again. He would have gone to his knees and begged for it, for anything that would dull the razor-sharp edges of the hurt that sliced through every part of him.

Wídfara spent the days before the host’s return to Rohan in quiet misery. As they waited for the orders of their new king, his éored camped just outside the gates of Minas Tirith. His fellow riders used the time to soak in the majesty of the city, still wondrous even after so much destruction, and to distract themselves from their own grief with the thrill of new experiences. They walked the streets, freely accepting the heartfelt congratulations and thanks of the Gondorians who had long prayed for the arrival of the Rohirrim, and they drank to their own health and good luck. But Wídfara could enjoy none of it.

The city was dull and colorless to him, as though he viewed everything through a veil that removed all the vibrancy and loveliness from the world, and he took no pleasure in the warm welcome he received when he chanced out of camp. He bridled at the people’s insistence that a glorious victory had been won when he knew himself to be drowning in an all-consuming loss. He was repeatedly told, in breathless and enthusiastic terms, how fortunate he was to have survived, and he could only stare blankly at these smiling, well-intentioned faces and wonder how anyone looking at his wretched existence would conclude that he still lived.

The return to Rohan did nothing to ease his pain. He had never known Edoras without Guthláf, and memories of him dwelt in all corners of the city. Every place he went, everywhere he looked, he somehow expected to see Guthláf there. He could see Guthláf. Laughing in the tack room at the stable. Chatting in line for sweets at the central market. Stretched out and smiling in the blankets of Wídfara’s own bed. So present and so absent all at once. Each time that he looked up with the expectation to find Guthláf in front of him or had the reflexive impulse to share a thought or feeling with him, the sharp and swift correction of reality chipped away another small part of his spirit, which he felt growing ever thinner and more fragile.

He took to spending long hours curled up in his room in the dark, alone except for Guthláf’s dog, Slaga, who would accept no other guardian. He ignored the regular knocks on his door and the calling of his name, even when the voice doing the calling was Elfhelm himself. He longed for his mother, who alone could perhaps have given him the comfort he needed, but she was so separated from him by distance and expense that he had no way even to tell her what had happened. Everyone else he kept at arm’s length, avoiding them or making excuses and slipping away as needed rather than struggling through a conversation that he didn’t know how to have.

He left his room only when called by duty or to occasionally retrieve Slaga, who developed a habit of slipping away from the barracks to take up a watch at the stables, patiently waiting by Syndrigan’s old stall for Guthláf’s return. The sixth or seventh time it happened, Wídfara decided to leave the dog there and allow him to wait it out in the barn. Two days later, he was awakened in the night by scratching at his door, and when the little dog slunk in and curled up sadly in his lap, the extinguishing of the final hope for Guthláf felt like a whole new loss to mourn.

Wídfara’s primary duty in those first few weeks was to attend the funerals that began soon after their return to the city. Though their fallen riders would remain forever in the fields outside Minas Tirith, the new king set aside official days of mourning to honor their dead at home, and funerals without bodies were held in cities and villages across the Mark. The losses in Théoden’s éored had been particularly heavy, so many having fallen victim to the same force of evil that menaced Théoden’s own last moments, and for a time it seemed the stretch of funerals in Edoras would be endless. There was death on a scale that hadn’t been seen since the Long Winter of Helm Hammerhand’s reign and an equal number of lingering injuries and traumas.

Wídfara attended every funeral of his éored, forcing himself to remember each man specifically even as there was only ever one man he wanted in his thoughts. He listened to the moving remembrances and the painful tears of parents, friends, and commanding officers, and he sang as various dirges and hymns were offered to honor the fallen and to call on Ácith to escort them to the halls of their fathers. But most of all, he watched the widows, grieving openly and fully, as they accepted the traditional offering of gratitude in acknowledgment of their suffering. A senior rider spoke each sentence of the pledge, repeated by every remaining member of the company.

“Dredda, we thank you for sharing Déorwine with us…We are humbled by the sacrifice that you’ve made…We pledge to you that it was not made in vain…In his life and in his death, he made Rohan a stronger and prouder kingdom.”

“Serugimm, we thank you for sharing Harding with us…”

“Eadhild, we thank you for sharing Herefara with us…”

“Wenebyrd, we thank you for sharing Fastred with us…”

“Luftmeda, we thank you for sharing Herubrand with us…”

He heard the words so many times that they ran through his sleep at night, haunting even his resting mind. And each time he said them, and each time he followed them by taking his place in the line to offer an individual expression of thanks and support to these bereaved women, he fought to keep the jealousy from his heart. For all the pain the women felt, they at least had the solace of occupying a recognized role. No one questioned a widow’s mourning. No one wondered why tears were always moments away or begrudged her a day where she couldn’t stand to see other people’s happiness. But he had to keep those same feelings in himself obscured beneath a veneer of acceptability, a false show of grief that would match expectations for someone who had lost a friend rather than an irreplaceable part of his own soul.

He felt keenly the alienating loneliness that Guthláf had foreseen back in their tent in Dunharrow those weeks ago. The burden now lay on his memories alone to keep all knowledge of their love from being wiped clean from the world, washed away like footprints after a rain. There was no one else who knew that Guthláf adored Wídfara’s dimples or that it had delighted Wídfara to discover that Guthláf was ticklish behind his knees. No one else who knew the silly things they laughed about just between themselves or the ways they each liked to be touched. No one else who knew that Guthláf was desperately nervous to make a good impression on Wídfara’s mother if they could ever meet, or that Wídfara dreamed of taking Guthláf someday to see the ocean and to wade together in its warm shallows.

Just one other person around him who understood and acknowledged all that he had lost could have helped pull Wídfara from the furthest depths of his grief, to wrest him back toward the light that glinted on the surface above his head. But he had only the cold, nameless currents of the deep clawing at his feet, tugging him further down into the dark unknown.

Guthláf’s funeral was the éored’s last and also its largest. All the city seemed to be in attendance – riders from all the éoreds of Edoras, the regulars from Guthláf’s favorite tavern, the women from the market where he always bought the cakes and treats that were his weakness, the young boys who idolized his riding skill and had followed him around the stable like a mythic figure from history. Had Wídfara been able to think clearly, he would have been moved to see the outpouring of affection for Guthláf, but it was all he could do to remind himself just to continue drawing breath, to find a way to live through yet another phase of this ongoing nightmare.

The ceremony was held by the barrows outside the city gates, and a gentle breeze wafted the smell of apple blossoms across the rows of hay bales and other makeshift chairs. The scent reminded Wídfara of his first night with Guthláf, when they had shared a bottle of apple mead, and he wondered if he would ever again be able to think of those happy memories without feeling as though he was pressing on an open wound. He made his way to a seat near the front, friends of his and Guthláf filling in the spaces around him, and kept his head down, allowing the curtains of his loose hair to obscure any view of the tears sliding over his cheeks and off his chin.

The service began, and Wídfara worked to maintain his calm by silently counting his own breaths as rites and traditions unfolded around him. There were songs and short speeches, and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, acting as representative of Gondor at all the war-related funerals of Edoras, offered a blessing on behalf of the Gondorians and their king. Cups of mead were passed from person to person as the names of Guthláf’s ancestors were recited and their care sought in welcoming him to the halls of his forebears. A bier was placed in his family’s barrow where his body would have lain, the frame empty but for the banner marked with his blood that had been recovered from the rider who bore it through the remainder of the war.

Finally, Elfhelm rose to speak, taking up a place on a small podium at the front of the crowd.

“As most of you likely know, Guthláf lost the family of his birth in the Great Fire of 3006. Just fifteen years old, he found himself suddenly without parents or siblings or even grandparents. And when a tragedy of that nature happens, there are two ways a person can react. They can keep the love they had for those they lost and hold it all inside, until eventually it curdles into anger and bitterness. Or they can take that love and let it out, finding new ways to use it and new people to give it to. And that’s what Guthláf, a man of many talents, was the very best at. He gave all of his love to us. To his friends, his éored, his country. And we loved him back.” Elfhelm’s voice trembled, and he paused for a moment to collect himself before continuing. “His first family was cruelly taken from him, and that might have broken a lesser man. But he worked hard to build a new family for himself. He was like a son to some of us. A brother to many. A treasured friend to all. And much more than that to one.”

Those last words caught in Wídfara’s ear, and he looked up from the handkerchief he had been twisting back and forth in his hands. Elfhelm’s eyes seemed to be on him, though he immediately turned his gaze as he continued.

“Guthláf never married, but that doesn’t mean he was alone. He kept that part of his life private, but it’s almost impossible to hide love when it’s been found at last. You can see it in someone’s eyes and in their smile. In the way their gaze is constantly drawn to the object of their devotion. In their instinct to protect that person and their labors to make them happy. He was in love, I can tell you that. And it feels only right to me that the sacrifice and courage of the one he loved so well be recognized here today, in keeping with our traditions.” His eyes swept across the mourners, stopping again briefly, almost imperceptibly, on Wídfara as they went. “If such recognition would be welcome.”

A wave of dizziness hit Wídfara, and he pressed his boots into the grass in an attempt to steady himself. Elfhelm’s words had been simple enough, but he struggled to make sense of them nonetheless. He could only discern a single meaning, but it was one that couldn’t be right. He stared up at the marshal, seeking some indication of whether he had misunderstood, but Elfhelm now studiously avoided looking in his direction. Wídfara’s mind raced, rearranging Elfhelm’s words and pulling them apart, looking at them from different directions and angles. And yet he kept arriving back at the same conclusions, no matter how unbelievable: Elfhelm knew their secret. He accepted it. And he thought that Wídfara could now acknowledge that secret to everyone else.

Of course he had long dreamed of the chance to do just that, to claim openly what had always been his in private. They both had, though only Guthláf had been brave enough to ever imagine it was possible. Why should they care if we love each other? I don’t think they will. Not the ones that matter, at least. Now, it seemed, there was a chance to see him proved right and to put an end to the secrecy and hiding for good. An end to acting like the most cherished part of Wídfara’s life was something to be ashamed of. The idea was powerfully tempting, and he was certain Elfhelm would never intentionally lead him into harm. But a lifetime of fear and caution couldn’t be simply shrugged off in an instant, and he found that his feet wouldn’t move as much as he might want them to. Instead he sat, caught between terror and hope, paralyzed with indecision.

And then he felt a hand on his arm, just a light squeeze. It came from Arengan, seated on his left. He smiled gently at Wídfara and inclined his head up toward the podium. Another light nudge came from the right, where Freogan sat, and then more hands briefly clapped onto his shoulders from the row behind. Quiet, encouraging words were whispered from seats a little further off. He turned slowly only to find other expectant faces looking his way, somehow already aware of what he and Guthláf had always feared to share and watching him now with both kindness and pity.

A sharp, clear certainty took sudden shape in his heart, spoken in a beloved voice. These are good people, and they can bear an unfamiliar idea. He could do this. He would do this. He rose slowly and crossed the small distance to the podium where Elfhelm stood. A murmur of shocked confusion rippled through parts of the crowd, but Elfhelm silenced it with a stern glance. Then he smiled at Wídfara, put a strong arm around his shoulders and gestured for everyone to stand. Hundreds of people rose, leaving only pockets of quiet resistance still in their seats.

“Wídfara, we thank you for sharing Guthláf with us…”

A wall of voices echoed back Elfhelm’s words – voices of fast friends and of teary-eyed strangers, those who knew and loved Wídfara and those who just wanted to honor what Guthláf had known and loved. Wídfara heard each one as a precious gift, another soul to stand alongside his in honoring the truth of Guthláf’s life and the role that he had played in it. Tears streamed down his cheeks, but for the first time since that awful day, they weren’t solely tears of sorrow. Amidst his grief there was also relief for himself and pride for Guthláf and gratitude for Elfhelm and those who now saw him as he was. The enormous weight that had sat on his chest for weeks eased ever so slightly, not because his grief was lessened but because, at last, the burden of it was shared.

More than anything else, Wídfara felt his overwhelming love for Guthláf. Of all the kind and supportive faces looking back at him now, Guthláf had brought nearly every one into his life. He had made the first introductions, smoothed away the shyness, lent Wídfara his own good favor by making him a part of all that he did. It had always been Guthláf, easing his way at every turn, riding at the leading edge and signaling the direction so that Wídfara could follow.

All of this washed over him as he listened to the rest of the recitation and then as a whole column of people lined up to offer him individual words of comfort and support. He cried and smiled, and sometimes both at once, as he spoke to each person, some of whom were surprised but understanding and others who professed to have long known or, at least, suspected. To talk so freely and openly about Guthláf — the whole Guthláf — brought a warmth and fullness back into Wídfara that he wouldn’t have thought possible only an hour before, and he stood a little taller and a little stronger with each person to embrace him.

At last, at the very end of the line, came Elfhelm once again.

“I would have understood if you had decided to keep silent,” he said, “but I’m glad that you didn’t. You deserved the recognition, son. Both of you did. He was a good man, and he wanted this acknowledgment for you. If anyone gives you any trouble, you just let me know. I won’t stand for it.”

“Thank you, Marshal. I know that’s not nearly enough, but I can’t find any other words right now.”

“I know, son. You don’t have to worry about that.” Elfhelm wrapped his arms around Wídfara and thumped a big fist against his back. “All I need to hear is that you’re alright.”

Wídfara took a long, deep breath and brushed a few tears from his cheeks. “I will be,” he said. And for Guthláf’s sake, he would make it true.

Random/self-indulgent notes:

It’s canon that Éomer & co. were ignoring Merry while they were dealing with Théoden’s death, so why couldn’t he have been talking to Wíd during that brief time???

Ácith is a Rohirric name (“Ever Young”) for Vána, the wife of Oromë/Béma. Flowers bloom in her wake, and so my Rohirrim believe that the consistent appearance of simbelmynë on their graves is evidence that she personally comes to escort their dead to the halls of their fathers.

All the names of the fallen from Guthláf and Wíd’s éored come from the Mounds of Mundburg song at the end of Chapter 6 of ROTK. (Guthláf’s name is also in the song, 1 of the 3 specific references to him in the LOTR text.) Of course, the wives are invented.

Is it cheap grace to present many of the Rohirrim as accepting of Wíd and Guthláf being gay? I don’t think so. There is plenty of textual evidence that the Rohirrim are more progressive than their overall culture reflects, and they readily accept change when it’s presented to them. No one but Háma thought to put Éowyn in charge, but they loved the idea when he suggested it. No one let Éowyn join the army, but Elfhelm (and presumably a lot of his men!) actively chose to let her stay when he found her there. Éomer didn’t realize what life was like for women in Rohan, but when Gandalf explained it, he didn’t argue or get defensive – he listened and reevaluated.

So I think this is canonically defensible. They had a culture where there was no acknowledged place for queerness, and that allowed a lot of fear to develop in the silence. But some of them could see there was something between Guthláf and Wíd (despite best efforts, they were occasionally spotted coming and going from each other’s rooms at odd times; neither showed any real interest in women but were clearly devoted to each other; both were seen going to pieces at some point when the other one was at risk), so some folks were used to that idea before anyone ever dared to speak it out loud. And others, even if they had no clue, could still roll with it when they found out because they already loved Guthláf and/or Wíd as people and they were open minded enough to see that this didn’t really change anything. Throw in a universally respected dude like Elfhelm signaling his own support, and that brings even more people along. Plus, I’m not writing tragedy porn here, so I needed a note of hope to end on!

(Also, in case anyone is curious, do I think Guthláf told Elfhelm he was gay? Yes, I think he saw Elfhelm late at night in Dunharrow, Elfhelm asked him what was wrong, and Guthláf blurted out everything to his beloved mentor. And then I think Elfhelm said, “duh,” because it had already been obvious to him and he had only been waiting for the guys to feel comfortable saying something. So Elfhelm was not at all surprised – or bothered, because Elfhelm’s number one canonical character trait is to support other people doing their thing. I think Elfhelm told Guthláf that he’d happily back him up if/when he and Wíd decided to go public.)

Thanks as always to @quillofspirit for the lovely Rohan-fied dividers!

@emmanuellececchi @hobbitwrangler @konartiste @sotwk @dreambigdreamz

[keelt9]

Chapter 1

Hide And Run 

Masterlist

“Ghost rider 1, ghost rider 1.” No matter how hard I tried still my hands seemed to hold a fucking popsicle slipping between them, it supposed I know what to do, but with the sounds inside of the plane combine with the bellowed voice of Riley make all my actions a complet mess. 

“Y/N! EJECT.” 

“Miss? Are you alright?” The taxi driver asks me as he moves my arm, I open my eyes and realize we are parking in front of my parents house; 19 months and the same nightmare come from time to time.

“Sorry, I’m ok, thanks…” I opened the door not before paying the 15 dollars from the airport to home. I walk through the little garden which my mom built along all these years. She starts it like some kind of stress reliever. She says every deployment or mission from me or my father it’s a new plant in the garden; in my father's case only he and God knows how many missions he had and for me 17 seems a nice number.

“My little butterfly.” My mom said, hugging me in the main door and dad appeared behind her. 

“Sky.” The short name for <Skyhook> I get that call sign in the navy, when she splits away, she puts her hand on my cheek, and I smile with my lips pressed. 

“It’s nice to have you here.” She says and pulls me inside of the house.

As the rest of the day passed without any uncomfortable talks or strange looks, until we finished the dinner and dad and I were doing the dishes. 

“Maybe it is too soon.” The last month was the hardest since the accident and my dad knows that better than anyone; I left the plate in the cabinet, holding it a little bit more than normal. 

“Someone returns in less than a month.” I stop but I force myself to continue. “It’s just a simple test, dad, let’s be honest, with the background I have, maybe I'll fail.” He grabs me by the shoulders and looks straight to my eyes. 

“Y/N think it a little bit more, ok? Just a couple of weeks more.” I take a deep breath, and nod with my head, honestly that idea has been surrounding my head since the big week was scheduled.

-

3:46 hours and counting, is the time my watch the same I’ve been pushing my legs to the limit, but my mind is working at 100 per hour, tomorrow my first test begins, the navy just gave me a one more week, quote <We need you in the air, not in the ground.> I shake my head and continue running.

I was so immersed in my own thoughts when the F-18 dived off along with a little scream for the kids in the park that made my heart stop and flashbacks straight like gunshots in my mind. 

“Mayday!” My fast breathing, the drops of sweat on my face. “I can’t stabilize…” My hands trying to hold the control, the sounds of the overworking in both engines. 

I cover my ears trying to deafen the sounds and when I get to control myself, my watch marks a high rhythm in my heart, the beep helps me to recover, I blink and I see a little girl coming close to me. “Miss, are you alright?” She doesn’t stop liking her ice cream, making me laugh. 

“Yeah, don’t worry, go somewhere fresh or your ice cream will melt faster.” My voice just murmured. It’s a hot Saturday and the summer has just begun, she nods and runs to sit on a bench covered by a tree.

I stop the timer and walk to my father’s car parking in front the main gate of the park, from time to time I lift my sight to the sky, I remember the first time I was in a plane, not a commercial plane, not a light aircraft, but a navy plane, the freedom I felt and the power I thought I had.

For the first time in almost 2 years, I realized that this week would change all I’ve work for more than 8 years, what terrifies me it’s know, in this moment I don’t even sure if continue it’s the right choice. 

The next morning, I woke up around 5 am; the test begins at 08:00 hours at least I have to be in the base around 07:00, I get ready, and at the moment I get down I see my parents getting ready for breakfast. 

“No, it’s not for you.” Dad says before I even complain, they stand up for my test just like they did when I was 6 years old and it was the first day of school. 

“I have an important meeting; I must be ready.” He didn’t even lift his eyes from the newspaper, my mother shakes her head and offers me a cup of tea. 

“Good morning by the way.” I greeted them, my mother giggled when I subtly pointed out his lack of greeting combined with the awful way of hiding his real intentions.

-

“SKY! Hi!” Jill screams when I enter the building. I have known Jill Green (Panther) since we entered the training at Top Gun, something you must know about Jill, she is a cheerful girl, in all the extension of the word.

“Hi, Jill. How are you?” She ran so she could walk along with me. 

“Missing you, it’s not the same since you’re not here, but I heard you have already scheduled a test, isn't it amazing?” I smile, she always makes me smile. 

“Well, let’s find out.” 

My feet were tapping intensely when the vice admiral Beau Simpson opened the door and made me enter his office. 

“Lieutenant, good to see you, please take a seat.” I obey and sit from time to time I apart my sight from him. 

“Well, it’s time, like we already inform you, 1 month of constantly test on the ground and, of course, in the air, after the month, we evaluate you, if you pass, you’ll be deploy in a blink of an eye, if you’re not, well, we have a big problem.” I gulp, he put his hands over the desk. “Sky, you were born to be in the air, one of a kind, just focus…what happened years ago, you must let it go.” I turn my face. “It’s not easy but you’re a strong girl.” With my lack of answer, he stands and takes me to another room.

“The first proof it’s really treating, a psychological one, following for multiple physical ones, strategic, mechanicals and logical.” He stops at the front door and looks straight into my eyes. “Lieutenant, you have been out for more than a year, some tests will pull out the worst and the best from you, what you need to know is, nothing you’ll be going through it’s impossible and you always prove to us that.”

At the end of the first day, all seems to be go a little bit better than expect, with a good mood I was walking to the parking lot where my mother’s car is waiting; she insist at least I should take it for going to the base, she felt more comfortable if she knew I have to be focus to the road instead of the memories been here could bring me back; my steps froze in just a few meter of distance of the entrance, when I see all Dagger Team enter to the building, I meet some of them years ago, with someone I’m really close, but met them right now make my heart beating fast and be really nervous.

I resolve it with the most childish choice, I hide behind the car waiting for them to enter inside the building. 

Great star Sky, hide and run.

[teecupangel]

Ok so Desmond having Ghost Riders abilities would cool be right? But! What if his bleeds also have those abilities? As in his bleeds appear like that one memory in Revelations where Altaïr used those ghost(?) assassin's and stuff

Oooohhhh. I know Ghost Rider has more abilities but all this gave me an idea of using the Penance Stare as some kind of Eagle Vision mutation that only happens to the bloodlines that would lead to Desmond.

And their version of the Penance Stare is that they’re able to keep their target in place so they can assassinate them.

That’s because their version of the Penance Stare is incomplete, their Isu genes not enough to fully use the Penance Stare.

For a centuries, the Penance Stare is considered to simply be a mythical ability that can paralyze someone who has stared into the eyes of an Assassin with an Eagle Vision.

Some even try to rationalize it as just the target seeing an Assassin and being frozen in fear.

Then…

Desmond starts to Bleed and he received the Penance Stare.

He could feel it. There’s something missing in the stare even as he used it to stop Cross from moving or speaking.

There was something missing.

Even when he used it together with the Apple to keep Vidic in place while the Apple controls the guards to shoot him.

There was still…

Something missing.

But he didn’t found an answer.

Because the world needed him to die in its place.

And he did as was required of him because the alternative was simply too much.

So no one was more surprised than him when he woke in an autopsy room.

And that’s when the Penance Stare finally showed its true form.

But it wasn’t Desmond’s stare at forced the doctor who was about to dissect him to fall to his knees, begging forgiveness as all the pain and suffering he inflicted on the innocents start to bombard his very mind, forcing him to relive all the pain and suffering he had caused before.

No.

Desmond could see them.

The stares…

… of his Bleeds standing all around him.

Staring at the doctor as they silently judged him.

.

.

So in this idea, Desmond can’t do the Penance Stare, it’s his Bleeds who surrounds him like ghosts haunting him. No one can see his Bleeds but, if they do, they are subjected to the Penance Stare.

Desmond has no control over who is able to see them, other than the fact that the Penance Stare seemed to be targeting people with ‘sins’ in general which is bad since the Assassins aren’t sinless so Desmond is forced to not show himself to any of his friends and the other Assassins in fear of hitting them with the Penance Stare by mistake. This means that there are many Assassins who are suspicious of his strange man saying he’s Desmond but something’s wrong with his Eagle Vision and Bleeds and it’s dangerous to meet with him face to face.

So now… Desmond is left more or less alone, trying to find more information about where Juno is right now and what she’s trying to do while…

Well…

Accidentally (or maybe not) taking down Abstergo personnel and Templars who have ‘sinned’.

[bubbles-for-all-of-us]

I have been wanting to binge some Xaden x you stories but there seems to be none! Thank you so much for writing Late Night Hours!! If you ever choose to write another one, would you consider a healer x Xaden?

-🖤🖤

So glad you enjoyed that story. I loved writing it. 🤍

My kind of girl

Was it an awful idea? Yes. Was it against all restrictions? Yes. Was this not at all how Xaden thought it would go? Hard yes. He didn’t even understand how it started. What brought it all on? He had visited many healers. Had been patched up by so many of them. He never given them any more attention that was needed. Done and forgotten afterward.

But that particular day most of the healers had been out on some sort of training. Spirits only knew what healers could train for but as if all odds were against Xaden, Garrick had a particular taste for blood that day and not even an hour into training, Xaden was clenching his wrist. The skin already blossoming with purple and reds.

“You should get that checked before you start crying”, Garrick chuckled, making Xaden growl, “Suck a bag off…”, “Manners”, Imogen chirped in, “We have a jar of coins remember? For every d and p that comes out of your filthy mouths”, she pointed a warning finger at the two males. “Mommy is mad”, Bodhi chuckled, earning a slap on the back of his head from Imogen.

So Xaden did go even if he was convinced that it was nothing. He still found himself rounding the corner to the healer's wing. Just the moment he kicked open the door his whole body suddenly stalled. It’s as if his brain shut off for a moment before it kicked start again at the sound of a book hitting the floor. The most beautiful eyes looked back at him. Xaden had seen a handful of pretty females. Had a pleasure to interact with them in more than one way but this. You. You made practically every single one of them look like average women.

“How can I help?”, you quickly bent moving to pick up the book. Your cheeks were already pink but that didn’t surprise Xaden, healers rarely left their wings. Rarely interacted with anyone but their patients. Xaden simply lifted his hand upward. He knew how it usually went. Most females clung to him. But you simply nodded, moving around the room and picking up different salves. “I will make sure you’ll be able to fly by the morning”, you muttered after sitting the rider down.

Oddly enough Xaden found himself unable to not look at you. He always liked his girls on the tough side. The more they snarled at him the more he was interested. Nothing was more attractive than riding leathers. But here he was mesmerized by the loose curls, a grayish gown, and even the colorful scarf tight around your head was beautiful to him.

“You’re new”, Xaden’s words were groggy because he had stayed silent for the past couple of hours. The tone was rather intimidating. But you didn’t flinch only blinked a bit faster. “Yeah…”, you muttered, “Only a couple of days here”. Your soft voice warmed parts of Xaden that had been ice cold for yours. He frowned not sure as to what was happening. “And you’re all alone here with only a couple of days of experience under your belt? I wouldn’t trust you to run this smoothly”, it came out more as an accusation than anything else. Making you pull back, “I can handle this. I can handle myself”, and oddly enough Xaden didn’t doubt that.

There was something different about you. Something way more intriguing. Something that caught Xaden’s attention. You also weren’t big on chatter. Nor did his broad shoulders seem to intimidate you much. You didn’t stop to hack at him and that rubbed Xaden in way that he hadn’t felt in a while. Your movements were calculated. As if it was second nature. Well, it very clearly was. It seemed like a dance. One practiced so many times that now it was easy to do it without being able to see. The same way fighting was for Xaden.

“If you won’t move it much today it will be good as new tomorrow”, you turned back, getting straight to cleaning your surroundings. “That’s it?”, Xaden questioned looking down at his bandaged wrist. One that felt perfect as it was now. But how did you manage to do it all so quickly? He usually sat here for ages while different girls fussed over him. “You want a kiss on the forehead too?”, you huffed, making the sides of Xaden’s lips curve upwards. “Do you offer that to everyone?”, he pushed on wanting to see just how far he could take this. “No, only to the ones who are as tall as they are stupid”, you crooked your head to the side, offering Xaden a mocking smile before continuing your way around the medical room.

“Ahh now that’s a low blow, baby girl”, Xaden gently caught your arm, turning you back to face him. Your eyes darted up to look at him. A look of surprise almost immediately replaced by annoyance, “You don’t scare me”. Yet your voice came out barely a whisper. You might not be a scared little girl but the guy in front of you sure was at least twice your size. A light shiver ran down your back. He could easily pick you up with one hand and just…

“Then why are you trembling?”, now it was him smirking once more. Satisfied that he managed to rile up a reaction from your body. But you swiftly pulled your arm out of his grasp, “I suggest you go, rider, before you find yourself unable to”, you pointed towards the door. Glad that there was some distance between you two because your heart was beating so fast you were convinced the male would be able to hear it drumming against your ribcage.

“Feisty little thing you are, huh”, Xaden whistled crossing his arms over his chest, “Unlucky for you, I like my girls prickly”. You lifted your head. Chin held high and fuck did Xaden’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of your delicate features shifting with that sheen of annoyance. “Unlucky for you I know at least forty-five ways to kill you and believe me you’re giving me ideas as we speak”, you nodded towards the door once more. Hoping that he didn’t see your crimson cheeks as he turned around. Xaden shook his head as he reached for the handle, chuckling under his breath. Chuckling… when was the last time he had chuckled? Maybe Garrick hit his head harder than Xaden initially thought. The rider ran a hand over his face but right as he was about to close the door he halted, throwing you one last look, “That pink on your cheeks suits you, sweetheart”. He simply heard a gasp before a cloth was flying right at him but Xaden managed to close the door in time. Frustrating grumbling audible from within the room. He surprised another smile before his cold side clinched around his throat once more. What the fuck was he doing? And why did all of a sudden you felt like his kind of girl? One that he had to win over.

[bisquicklite]

101 quick prompts: Kiss for Luck

:3 What's got two thumbs and finally found the motivation to answer my asks for the beautiful sexy folks in my ask box?

They were in the middle of saying goodbye- for the second time that day- when Osha was struck with the urge to kiss this handsome, brave, possibly-slightly-mad knight. This in itself wasn't unusual, as she was often struck with spontaneous fancies.

Not necessarily of the romantic inclination, in any case. Not in the past months since her abrupt career change from chocobo jockey to adventurer. Not since she was so abruptly dumped by her last beau.

"Well, hello again!" Osha greeted brightly from her seat on the back of her loyal, but restless, chocobo, Wing-Ding.

She had been heading out to the next leg of her journey when she spotted Lord Haurchefant from across the fort's yard. He had smiled widely at the sight of her and jogged over, and looked full of intention to send her off with yet another fond farewell. The thought that he would be so inclined sent the butterflies in her gut aflutter for the umpteenth time this visit.

"Fancy seeing you here!" Haurchefant greeted once he was close enough. He stood close enough to place a hand on Wing-Ding's neck for some gentle scratches, which did not go unappreciated, and went on with barely veiled disappointment in his pretty blue eyes, "I suppose you'll be making your way to Whitebrim then?"

"Aye, I've already sent Alphy and Cid on ahead. And I would already be on my way, but someone needed to be bribed with treats before she let me put her barding on." Osha said this with false annoyance, patting her mount affectionately. She didn't particularly mind the delay. Had it been up to her, and there weren't currently realm-threatening matters that she needed to attend, she would have happily lingered at Camp Dragonhead.

Coerthas had started to grow on her in the short time she had been there.

Wing-Ding gave a small kweh of indignation, and a small shake of her feathered head, as if to complain about being coerced into roaming the frozen wastelands, and how nice it would be to a more temperate location. Like La Noscea, perhaps, with its many farms growing all sorts of tasty treats, and general lack of ice and snow.

"And I do not blame her one bit!" Harchefant cooed, speaking more to Wing-Ding as he reached out to give the chocobo more thorough scratches up her neck. "If I had to choose between running around in this weather or cozying up in a nice, warm stable, I know exactly where I would like to be!"

Wing-Ding gave a throaty wark in agreement, her head tilting back to enjoy the attention and the fact that someone was talking sensibly. If the chocobo had it her way, she would still be snuggled up in a loaned pen, her rider tucked under her wing, as they often were when they were afield.

But Wing-Ding settled for this delay they were granted, and the affection from the practiced hands from the nice knight her rider had gotten so attached to.

Osha couldn't very well argue, she was far too distracted being enamored with Haurchefant. She had always been a sucker for those who were especially kind to animals, and adored how her chocobo seemed to enjoy the knight's attention as much as she had. How Wing-Ding eventually bowed her head to Haurchefant's eye level, clearly enjoying when he moved to gently rub at her thick sharpened beak, all while the knight cooed about what a lovely, pretty bird she was. Osha adored seeing her chocobo, who she knew to be capable of great violence and bravery in battle, treated so softly. Especially as the bird was often suspicious of anyone but her closest allies.

"You know, Wing-Ding doesn't generally like most folks, but you seem to have won her over in just a few days." Osha said on the back of a chuckle, "If anyone else tried to do that she'd likely take a finger as a warning."

'That' in this case being Haurchefant's fingers loosely clasped in Wing-Dings beak, the chocobo nibbling at the leather of his gloves in a way that could be called 'curious' and 'playful'. He looked back up to Osha, shining a bright smile at her, "Well, then I'm honored to be in her good graces." The knight then leaned in towards her to ask, quietly, "Has she really taken fingers?"

"Well, no," Osha had to hold back her laughter, then leaned closer to whisper as if sharing a secret, "but she does get awfully nibbly."

They shared a chuckle, while Wing-Ding seemed none the wiser to the slander on her good name.

"I suppose I shouldn't keep you further." Haurchefant started, after the moment had a chance to linger. "I fear I've already delayed you long enough."

"Aye, Cid's ship isn't likely to find itself."

Neither of them moved to immediately leave.

It struck Osha suddenly that it was entirely possible that she might never see him again. That her adventures might not take her back to Coerthas. Or, worse, that she would die sometime soon fighting to protect the realm.

Not that she had been doing a very good job of that the last week.

So, obviously, Osha was not going to let an opportunity go to waste.

Perhaps, she mused, it would be just the sort of thing to help turn her luck around.

"Before I go, I wonder if I might ask one more favor?" She started, not allowing the man time to properly respond, but felt encouraged with Haurchefant perked up to full attention. "I'm aware you Ishgardians are a bit... Conservative." Osha tried her best to avoid sounded awkward, or worse, judgemental, "With public displays of affection. But I was hoping I might have a kiss? For luck?"

Harchefant's eyes lit up at the request, his cheeks and ears flushed pink and the knight himself stammered over his response before finding his feet, "I- Oh, of course! Nothing would make me happier than to send you off with such affections! If there were more time, I would shower you with kisses!"

Osha found herself grinning. The knight was terribly endearing, tripping over himself before resuming the flirtatious nature of things that had been established in the days prior. The way he looked at her now, full of affection and a beaming smile, made her stomach flip.

It was an easy feat to maintain her balance and lean far enough to kiss him. The kiss itself was a far too brief press of warm lips, where Osha had a hand leaned against his shoulder, and Haurchefant had a hand cupped her face, worn leather against her windbuffed cheek.

They managed to part without toppling her off her bird. A feat that even impressed Osha with herself, for how she felt she could swoon.

The pair said their goodbyes properly this time. Haurchefant gave an all too flourishing blow that drew a girlish laugh from Osha, and then she was off. Her heart felt lighter than it had in days, and she felt ready to face the challenges that lay ahead.

She didn't realize she was going in the wrong direction for nearly a malm.

shoutout to @raynshyu Thank you for the ask! :D

[erenmusic]

Live Review of Splintered Sunlight, Grateful Dead Tribute band, at the Machunk Opera House

This was a show I saw almost a year back, but I remember it like yesterday. My whole family is filled with deadheads and I've been accustomed to them for most of my life, This show and Band, Splintered Sunlight is one of the best dead cover bands out there and they play in New Jersey all the time!

so to set the stage, I was out in the Poconos and we found tickets to this show. I had seen Splintered Sunlight play before in Asbury Park and Long Branch, in much bigger venues than this one, sometimes even standing outside the show and listening to them because we didn't get tickets. But this venue was just amazing, in a little town up in the mountains inside of an Opera house, it was raining and the concert started around the evening, It couldn't have been cooler. eventually after everyone got in we sat down and the music started playing and as you can see since I somehow found a video of this so you can really see how the lighting and stage was set to the tone of a good dead show. The first set started out with Missisipi Half-Step Uptown Toodeloo Which Is one of my favorite songs from the Dead so It got me right into the mood for the concert. In classic Dead fashion I had also found some materials to enhance the experience. So after a long time of the first song going, right when I was almost about to get bored, Franklin's Tower starts playing, and man was the guitar and keyboard combo just magical. The ''Jerry'' of the group, Buchy really gets the feeling of Grateful Dead right and especially his voice and how he plays the guitar really reminds me of my favorite era's of Jerry playing. Also Franklins Tower is usually played in tandem with Help on the way and Slipknot, so I was really pleasantly surprised when they just switched right into it. after they ended Franklins tower, most of the rest of the set was them playing songs that were too Obscure for me. I honestly hadn't heard of many of the songs or at least couldn't recognize them properly (Will probably be called a poser for this) except Cumberland Blues which made me switch right back into the groove. Ive always loved the energetic feeling and the vocals on that song( I gotta get doown! I gotta get down!). The set ended shortly after that and there was a slight intermission. I went outside the venue and bummed a cigarette from a guy and we talked about the show for a bit before going back in. Shortly after that, the Second set started. After a bit of tuning their instruments and a warm-up song, In the Midnight Hour, they got right into China Cat and afterward, I Know You Rider. By this time I was already standing in the front dancing (You can actually see me in the video lol). they did a really good job with China Cat this night, I know you Rider was also one of the best versions I have ever heard live, the Keyboard player was really on his game in this show. I remember just closing my eyes and dancing. I am normally very self-conscious about being watched while having fun, but the combo of I guess the materials and the feeling of the concert allowed me to let go of the thought of people seeing it. I was having a great time and I kinda got lost in the music after a point. then after a couple more songs, they got really really heady. A very well done Drums and then an ambient piece right after it was the most psychedelic the concert got and it was really an experience I haven't had anywhere else yet. I was very zoned out and kind of dancing and moving, swinging around on autopilot but then eventually towards the end they started The Wheel which just has the greatest hook. (Won't you try just a little bit harder) and Not Fade Away I was just blown away by the energy it gave me. I was jumpy and I was feeling the music so much more but then very quickly they stopped and got really heady again before finally transitioning into a version of Hard to Handle by Otis Redding which was just icing on the cake of an already amazing show. Some of the best Dead Cover Bands you will ever see, Check out Splintered Sunlight, and don't gatekeep them, the Dead is still out there, you just have to find them.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

Can I request that #4 as well, only it’s the Empire Kids instead?

4. Protecting other characters from harm even when they know they'll get hurt

Beau has a job to do, and she takes that job seriously. Get in the monster's face, pop pop, take the hits so the others don't have to, so the others can work their magic from afar. She likes this job, likes getting into the sweat and the blood and the thick of it, likes the throbbing bruises that tell her she's succeeded. Her training gives her the abilities to outmaneuver and outlast even the wiliest opponents, and using that to the Nein's advantage is just so satisfying.

Until she gets distracted. They're here in the Lebenda Swamp, at the behest of the Cobalt Soul, and they're trying to take care of this nest of grotesque, many-tentacled swamp monsters, and there's just so much going on at once. The thick of it is everywhere, and as fast as she is, she keeps getting snatched up and waved around like these monsters are children playing with dolls. She manages to avoid most of the teeth—razor-sharp and simply too many to count—but it's hard to hit these things in their fleshy underbellies from thirty feet up in the air.

She manages to wriggle herself free, slipping from the slimy tentacle and crashing to the ground harmlessly, but she can't book it for the monsters' center mass because Jester is half-conscious on the ground beside her. She kneels next to her friend's head, rooting around in her side pouch for a healing potion. "Fuck, come on, Jes," Beau mutters, trying to tip Jester's head up to administer the draught.

There is a telltale whistling in the air behind her. She doesn't have to look to know its source: a tentacle, slim and deadly fast, is whipping toward her, and if it strikes true, it'll knock this potion right from Jester's mouth and probably crack Beau's spine into two for the hell of it. She tenses her muscles to leap away, but before she can, there's a grunt and a howling yelp, and she turns her head to see Caleb of all people, gripped tight around this tentacle like he's going for the full eight seconds at the rodeo. Beau watches in horror as Caleb, clinging on for dear life, sends some kind of sizzling, acidic burning into the monster's flesh as he's flung about through the air, and for his trouble, he gets slammed back-first into a thick cypress tree. He tumbles to the ground in a heap as the tentacle, now free of its rider, moves on to other goals.

"Shit shit shit!" The potion bottle is empty, and Jester is stirring now. "What..."

"Get up and follow me!" Beau, who can run easily twice as fast as Jester, she's aware, tears off toward Caleb's unmoving body. She rolls him over, and she can practically see the twittering birds dancing around his head. "Caleb, are you with me?"

"Ja, okay," he says faintly, clearly dazed.

"JESTER!" she shouts over her shoulder, worried that their one healer—honestly, fuck Caduceus for not wanting to leave the Grove for this—not making it in time. "Hey, you don't get to die on me, okay? Do you know how much fucking paperwork I have to fill out if you die on a job for the Cobalt Soul?"

"Sorry." His eyes roll back in his head.

"I'm here!" Jester crashes to her knees and grabs Caleb's face with both of her hands. She closes her eyes in concentration, and a few moments later, Caleb's own eyes are fluttering back open.

"Sheisse..." He coughs with a groan. "That...looked more fun than it was."

Beau could strangle him. "What the fuck were you thinking? You're basically made of tissue paper and sugar glass. That thing could have killed you."

He shrugs, then winces at the movement. "You've taken quite a beating yourself, and you needed to get Jester on her feet again."

"Aww!" Jester presses an obnoxious smooch onto his cheek. "So gallant! Beau, tell him he did a good job."

"You're a fucking moron."

"Close enough." Jester hops to her feet. "I'm going to go hit that thing with a lollipop. You two catch up!"

Annoyed as she is, Beau puts her hand out over Caleb, and when he puts his own in it, she hauls up him from the ground. Jabbing a finger in his face, she grunts out, "You stay back, you hear me? Don't be a fucking hero."

He raises his hands in surrender. "I will be a coward from here on out, I promise."

"Good." She spins around to march back into the fray, but before she can, a hand on her wrist pulls her back. "Beauregard."

She turns, scowls at him. "What?"

"It was worth it."

And the annoying part is that she knows he means it. Rolling her eyes, she pulls her wrist free. "Stay hidden or I'll feed you to one of those things myself." And then she stomps off, hoping she never comes any closer to losing a friend again.