#to someone who destroys middle-aged men

[ron-do-i-get-to-sing-my-way]

I’ve never felt so punk in my life today. This middle-aged man started talking down to these university students from out of town sitting near me. I was busking and he was going off, saying it was rude to not tip buskers and that they “ought to learn how our culture works” or some stupidity like that.

You bet I publicly denounced that man. Because, what the hell, man? And he turned red, quickly threw change in and fled. Yeah 💪

[robertreich]

From Robber Barons to Bezos: Is History Repeating Itself?

Ultra-wealthy elites…Political corruption…Vast inequality…

These problems aren’t new — in the late 1800s they dominated the country during America’s first Gilded Age.

We overcame these abuses back then, and we can do it again.

Mark Twain coined the moniker “The Gilded Age” in his 1873 novel to describe the era in American history characterized by corruption and inequality that was masked by a thin layer of prosperity for a select few.

The end of the 19th century and start of the 20th marked a time of great invention — bustling railroads, telephones, motion pictures, electricity, automobiles — which changed American life forever.

But it was also an era of giant monopolies — oil, railroad, steel, finance — run by a small group of men who had grown rich beyond anything America had ever seen.

They were known as “robber barons” because they ran competitors out of business, exploited workers, charged customers exorbitant prices, and lived like royalty as a result.

Money consumed politics. Robber barons and their lackeys donated bundles of cash to any lawmaker willing to do bidding on their behalf. And when lobbying wasn’t enough, the powerful turned to bribery — resulting in some of the most infamous political scandals in American history.

The gap between the rich and poor in America reached astronomical levels. Large numbers of Americans lived in squalor.

Anti-immigrant sentiment raged, leading to the enactment of racist laws to restrict immigration. And voter suppression, largely aimed at Black men who had recently won the right to vote, was rampant.

The era was also marked by dangerous working conditions. Children often as young as 10, but sometimes younger, worked brutal hours in sweatshops. Workers trying to organize labor unions were attacked and killed.

It seemed as if American capitalism was out of control, and American democracy couldn’t do anything about it because it was bought and paid for by the rich.

But Americans were fed up, and they demanded reform. Many took to the streets in protest.

Investigative journalists, often called “muckrakers” then, helped amplify their cries by exposing what was occurring throughout the country.

And a new generation of political leaders rose to end the abuses.

Politicians like Teddy Roosevelt, who warned that, “a small class of enormously wealthy and economically powerful men, whose chief object is to hold and increase their power,” could destroy American democracy.

After becoming president in 1901, Roosevelt used the Sherman Antitrust Act to break up dozens of powerful corporations, including the giant Northern Securities Company which had come to dominate railroad transportation through a series of mergers.

Seeking to limit the vast fortunes that were creating a new American aristocracy, Congress enacted a progressive income tax through the 16th Amendment, as well as two wealth taxes.

The first wealth tax, in 1916, was the estate tax — a tax on the wealth someone accumulated during their lifetime, paid by the heirs who inherited it. The second tax on wealth, enacted in 1922, was a capital gains tax — a tax on the increased value of assets, paid when those assets were sold.

The reformers of the Gilded Age also stopped corporations from directly giving money to politicians or political candidates.

And then Teddy Roosevelt’s fifth cousin — you may have heard of him — continued the work through his New Deal programs — creating Social Security, unemployment insurance, a 40-hour workweek, and requiring that employers bargain in good faith with labor unions.

But following the death of FDR and the end of World War II, when America was building the largest middle class the world had ever seen — we seemed to forget about the abuses of the Gilded Age.

Now, more than a century later, America has entered a second Gilded Age.

It is also a time of extraordinary invention.

And a time when monopolies are taking over vast swathes of the economy, so we must renew antitrust enforcement to bust up powerful companies.

Now, another generation of robber barons is accumulating unprecedented money and power. So once again, we must tax these exorbitant fortunes.  

Wealthy individuals and big corporations are once again paying off lawmakers, sending them billions to conduct their political campaigns, even giving luxurious gifts to Supreme Court justices. So we need to protect our democracy from Big Money, just as we did before.

Voter suppression runs rampant in the states as during the first Gilded Age, making it harder for people of color to participate in what’s left of our democracy. So it’s once again critical to defend and expand voting rights.

Working people are once again being exploited and abused, child labor is returning, unions are busted, the poor are again living in unhealthy conditions, homelessness is on the rise, and the gap between the ultra-rich and everyone else is nearly as large as in the first Gilded Age. So once again we need to protect the rights of workers to organize, invest in social safety nets, and revive guardrails to protect against the abuses of great wealth and power.

The question now is the same as it was at the start of the 20th century: Will we fight for an economy and a democracy that works for all rather than the few?

We’ve done it before. We can — and must — do it again.

[fortunekookie07]

X amount of time ago, I got my first request for a story. I am still over the moon about that. And being that Xavier's new memories just dropped, I chose him per requesters prompt.

Potatosugar this one is for you

Moment Forever Lost

Rafayel, just thinking or hearing his name sent butterflies coursing through your stomach. Your best friend, the person you felt closest to in the world. The one you wanted to spend the rest of your life with.

Rafayel, the one existence in this world you felt you could never reach. Not after she entered the picture. How many plans had been rearranged, canceled, or simply forgotten because for Rafayel, she always came first.

When Rafayel told you that she was the one who had rescued him as a kid, and then confided in you that I'm that moment he fell in love with her. Your heart shattered into a million pieces.

After all, how could you compete with that? She was a hero to Rafayel, and he was smitten. The first time you met her you wanted to abandon all hope. She was beautiful.

Perfect, straight, long dark brown hair. A small frame and delicate features. It was like fate had created a perfect girl and then sent her your way to destroy the future you'd wanted.

You had begun to war with yourself internally. Half of you instantly hated her for stealing your place. The spot next to Rafayel had belonged to you. You'd been the one friend who stuck by him since middle school. Rafayel's personality was a bit off putting to most people after all. Even she had found his manners a bit extreme.

The other half of you actually liked her. She was nice, friendly, and very likeable. Her smile alone put anyone at ease. Then there was her talents. As a Deepspace Hunter, her skills were unrivaled amongst her graduating class. She had been named the best and she'd gotten to join the Unicorns Team that took on the most dangerous missions. It was no wonder that Rafayel was smitten with her.

You constantly compared yourself to her. Frustration rising whenever you thought about the goal you once had. Your Evol had never really developed. Making the ground shake around you would not benefit you or your partner at all. Often times you couldn't even control it. Whenever your emotions got out of hand so would your Evol. It drove you crazy to see someone else living your dream.

You hated yourself for having such negative thoughts about someone so kind. She ha never once been cruel to you. Even if she constantly seemed to but in whenever you were spending time with Rafayel.

*******************************************************

Today was your birthday, twenty four years old now. The same age as Rafayel. By a few months, as he constantly reminded you. Proud of being the older, and therefore wiser one.

Rafayel had insisted on going out to celebrate. He'd wanted to take you to his favorite restraint. It was high class and typically only catered to famous individuals and top notch business men and women. It wasn't unusual to see this place booked out for some high tech companies meeting.

Rafayel had persuaded you to come here. He wanted to make you feel important. Not just to him, but for yourself. He wanted to make this a day to remember. He had reserved a table with a fantastic view of the city below and gotten you a beautiful dress to wear.

The color was a deep, dark blue. A sheer outer skirt of intricate lace. The lace went all over the dress and the sleeves. Fitting your figure perfectly. Complimenting all of your best features.

You arrive at the restaurant and walk to the maitre'D. "Reservation for two. Under Rafayel, has he arrived yet?" You ask with a smile. The man looked down at the tablet in front oh him, scanning the list of reservations for the night.

"I'm sorry miss, I don't have any reservations for Mr. Rafayel tonight". The man looked apologetic as he relayed the news. "Oh maybe he made the reservation under my name"? You say with a question and rattle off your own name. The man shakes his head again. "No miss, no reservations under you either". You felt your heart sunk as you stepped away from his podium.

You fish your phone out of the small hand bag you'd brought and immediately call Rafayel. It goes straight to voicemail so you leave a message. "Rafayel, I'm here at the restaurant but they don't have a reservation for us. I'll just wait for you. See you in a few". After hanging up you go to sit on the cushy bench just outside the entrance doors.

Five minutes goes by and you check your phone anxiously. Nothing, no calls or texts. You tuck your phone back into the bag. Couples drift by you once in a while. Some of them glance at you curiously as they walk inside.

Fifteen minutes go by and Rafayel has still not appeared. A sinking feeling in your stomach knots your insides up. This is not the first time you've been stood up, but like a puppy everytime he calls your name you go running back. A burn in the corners of your eyes start as you desperately try not to cry.

You pull your phone out again and call Rafayel once more. It still goes straight to voice mail. "Rafayel where are you? You are coming right? I'm still here waiting for you". Your voice cracks a bit at the end before you finally manage to stave off your tears.

Still wanting to belive that he would not ditch you on your birthday, you continue waiting. Perched on the seat, hoping, just praying, that Rafayel will suddenly appear. Hair disheveled from running and face apologetic, but it doesn't.

For forty-five minutes you sit on that bench and wait. When some of the people who'd gone in for dinner are now coming out you stand up, shame burning your face red. The looks on their faces clearly peg you as having had your date ditch you. You can't take being judged by people you don't even know and run off. The tears have broken free and are streaming down your face.

You don't know or care where you are going at the moment. Just away from there. You stop running after you stumble and realize you've made it to the edge of the downtown area. The restaurant is some thirty blocks behind you. Thankfully it isn't too late and this is a well traveled area. You're able to get a taxi.

Your phone rings as the taxi pulls up in front of your apartment. Rafayel's name and picture flashing on the screen. You send the call to voice mail and pay the driver.

As you're unlocking your door your phone starts ringing again. Rafayel's name and picture showing up once more. In anger you just turn your phone straight off and stuff it into the bottom of your bag. A voice speaks behind you.

"Wow, are you so against taking my call that your abusing your phone too"? That haughty tone can only belong to one person. Rafayel.

You turn and pin him with your angriest glare. "I don't even want to see you right now, much less hear your voice." You spit, hurling all the venom you can muster with your pain and humiliation.

He reaches out to take your hand and you're quick to slap it away. You hide the wince at the loud sound if the smack and the stinging on your palm. His arm is still held out towards you. The back of his hand red with the marks of your fingers.

Tears gather in the corners of your eyes again. "I get that I am not first in your life and that I never will be, but how could you stand me up on my birthday with plans that YOU made"? You ask not looking at him as your voice cracks. He moves in closer and forces you to look at him.

"You are important to me, you're my best friend. I am so sorry about tonight...". You cut him off placing your hand over his mouth before he can say her name. "I don't want to hear it Rafayel, don't say her name. Especially right now". You feel like your soul will shatter if he utters her name now.

He brushes your tears away one handed and you finally realize he's been holding his other arm behind his back. Before you can ask he's drawing his arm from behind his back and presents you with a bouquet. The fragrance hits you before your mind can register what you are seeing.

In his hands is a dozen of the largest white chrysanthemums you have ever seen. The bloom easily bigger than his hand. You didn't even know the flower could get this big. You close your eyes breathing in the scent of your favorite flower.

"I am sorry, this couldn't be avoided. It was an emergency. Let me make it up to you tomorrow. It's the first day of the lantern festival. Let me take you". You look at him in surprise. It was a well known fact that Rafayel hated crowds, for anything. It was one of the reasons why he so often skipped out on his painting exhibits. He didn't care for all the noise either. You'd never been able to get him to go to one before.

"R-really"?!? You ask hardly believing your ears as your heart soars. He nods before replying. "Really, let me take you". You hug him tightly in response. The ruined birthday all but forgotten now.

"I'll pick you up at 6:30 tomorrow". He says when you finally let go. "See you romorrow"! You tell him excitedly before going inside.

Once in the kitchen you search for your flower vases. Finding the perfect one that can hold such a large bouquet, you fill it with water and csrefully place them in it.

You take a deep whiff of the flowers before heading to your bedroom. As you get your pj's on you feel a sense of dread, like something bad is going to happen real soon. You squash it down and force yourself to sleep.

The following day can't pass fast enough. All day long you are distracted, even you co workers notice that you aren't getting much done. Seeing as you are usually zipping through your work it isn't hard to notice.

Finally the end of the work day has come. You excitedly clean up your desk and shut your computer down. Being an office consultant had its drawbacks but the job was easy and the pay was good. Even if it was boring sometimes. It was the safe and stable direction your parents had encouraged you to take after failing to qualify for the Hunter's Association.

After you got home you were quick to jump in the shower and freshen up. You only had an hour before Rafayel would be knocking at the door.

You decide to wear easy to move in clothes. A white dress and sandals with no heel. The dress is simple and cute. Having a halter style top and a point cut skirt that swishes while you walk.

Just as you finish tying your hair into place the doorbell rings. You grab your phone, keys, and wallet then slip them into your small off white knit bag and run towards the door.

Rafayel smiles in the other side and draws you into a hug. "You're right on time"! You say brightly closing thr door behind you after locking it. Rafayel casually takes your hand as he's done many times before and you start walking.

He asks you what you want to do first when the first lights appear just ahead of you. "Let's walk around the stalls and play some games"! You say just as a familiar figure comes into view. Your blood freezes as you recognize her.

You turn and look sharply at Rafayel and stop short. He tries to mask his expression and you can stop the look of betrayal on your face. You jerk your hand out of his. "Did you invite her to come with us"?!? You ask your eyes darting back and forth across his face searching for a denial.

She quickly interjects. "Rafayel didn't invite me. He told me he was going and I decided to come too. I didn't know I was interrupting a date". She says holding her hands up to calm you down. Her face is genuinely sorry and guilt is written all over her face.

"If it makes you feel better I'm meeting up with someone too. I though we could walk around as a threesome. But we can make that pairs. He's my partner from work. His name is Xavier, he's a good guy. Easy to get along with. You might like him". She says with a bashful smile.

Oh, OH there's that look on her face. You recognize it as you'd worn that same expression whenever you thought about Rafayel before. You glance at the man in question. His face is tight and there is a forced smile on his lips.

"There he is now! Xavier"! She calls waving wildly to someone coming up behind you. Turning you see a tall man with ash blond hair and a pair of the deepest blue eyes you've ever seen. "This is Rafayel and his friend". She introduces the two of you to him. He nods and looks you over before nodding with a small smile. "I'm Xavier, nice to met you". He says going to stand beside her.

This man radiates calmness but you can feel a dangerous aura lurking beneath that. As well as a fierce protectiveness for the small woman beside him. She grabs your hand and tugs you into the bustling crowd ahead. "Come on, or were going to miss all the fun"! Her excitement is contagious and your earlier anger had completely disappeared.

It seemed for once that Rafayel had not interjected her into your plans. That happiness was short lived when you noticed he kept paying attention to Xavier and suggesting that he play this and that game with her. Alot of the time she agreed, sometimes she would decline and play with Xavier. Most of the time she would play twice with both of them.

You were beginning to feel like a third wheel and regretting ever having come to this festival. Rafayel was hardly doing any of the activities with you and it stung sharply. Wasn't this supposed to be his apology for ditching you on your birthday?

Finally you could stand it no more and you stopped walking. The only one to notice was Xavier he looked back at you and asked "Are you ok"? You shook your head. "I'm not feeling well, I'm going home". You turned and walked straight back the way you'd come. Ignoring the protests from everyone coming this way and them telling you, you were going the wrong way.

It seemed like it took forever but finally you made it back to the entrance of the festival and you sat down. The tears came again. You just couldn't understand how and why you were so ignored by Rafayel. Your jealousy burned as every scene played back in your head. Rafayel had only played a few games with you and every time had been when she hadn't wanted dtonolaybwith him first. It had only been then, once she'd rejected that he would ask you like a second choice.

Once again you found yourself completely distraught for the second time, for the same man in only two days.

You walked home alone. Mood completely sour and expression dark. Fishing your keys out as you stood in front of your door you noticed your phone. Unlocking it you were unsurprised to find that there were no messages. Either Rafayel hadn't noticed you were gone yet, or he just didn't care. You shut it off and opened the door. Silence greeted you, just as it always did.

"I'm tired of being alone". You say out loud to no one. "I don't want to be in love with someone who doesn't even see me anymore". You cry sinking to the floor and sobbing again. You don't know how long you sit with your back to the front door crying. Your thoughts are jarred when the doorbell rings. You say nothing and listen. The bell goes off again two and then three more times.

Rafayel's soft voice comes from the other side. "Why did you leave without saying anything to me? Why didn't you tell me you were feeling sick in the first place. I was worried". He says and the concern in his tone irritates you. You stand up and yank the door open.

"Were you actually worried? How long did it even take you to notice I was gone??? Did you even look for me? Why did you ignore me almost the entire time I was there? Am I just a doormat to you? Am I supposed to act grateful any time you decide to toss me even a SECOND of your precious time"? You hurl all your pent up frustrations at him as more tears slip down your face.

Rafayel frowns and you can see him getting angry but you cut him off. "I'm tired Rafayel, I'm not a puppy that will keep running back to you every time you call my name. I will not be grateful just because you remember that I exist. I can't do this anymore. Loving you hurts to much and I just can't take it. It's killing me inside". You try to wipe your tears away.

"I never asked you to love me. I told you she was important to me a long time ago. It was your stupid choice to fall in love with me knowing all that". He spots back at you angry now. Not since your days in middle school when you first met has Rafayel spoken to you this way.

"You think she'll come to love you back?!? Open your eyes and look you stupid ass! She's in love with someone else too! She won't choose you"! You slam the door in his face before he can respond and run to your room and throw yourself into your bed. You sob yourself to sleep and wish that you had never met Rafayel. He's finally driven you into that dark place you'd tried so hard to avoid.

In the days that pass you feel numb to the world. Two weeks have gone by and not a single message or call from him. Not that you were expecting any or wanted any. The last message was from him and one of the silly stickers he liked to use.

If your heart wasn't broken and you weren't trying to recover from the severe emotional beating you'd taken, you might care that your phone was so silent for the first time that you could remember.

Several times you'd opened your contacts and went to trash all his messages and then block and delete his number all together. You just couldn't bring yourself to do it yet. Maybe in a few more days. You kept telling yourself that over and over again. You were caught in this vicious cycle. Wanting to move on and finally free yourself from him altogether and being unable to do just that.

You had adjusted to your life without Rafayel in it. A few times you'd seen his writing a message bubble pop up in your conversations but he never sent anything. You still didn't care.

Two months had gone by and nothing. Once Thomas had reached out to you asking why you hadn't been to the gallery recently but you didn't answer that message either. Under different circumstances you might have felt guilty leaving him on read.

After work that day you decided to change your pace for the first time in weeks. You went to the coffee shop you used to frequent. The Cafe style had always been cute to you and the chairs were so comfortable. Just as you put your hand on the door you noticed a familiar figure in your favorite chair.

Rafayel was slouched in the chair, completely unlike him. His wavy purple hair was messy and ot looked like he was neglecting his sleep. Badly at that, if the dark circles under his eyes were anything to go by. His head was perched on his hand and he was tapping the arm of the chair.

As if sensing your gaze he looked up. His eyes went wide and he immediately stood up and took a step in your direction. You let go of the door handle and stepped back blending into the people walking as you hurriedly left. The moment your eyes met you felt a twinge in your heart. You weren't ready to see him again.

The next day at work your mood was positively black, as if a heavy thunderstorm was hanging over your head. Everyone steered clear of you. Only coming to speak to you when absolutely necessary.

The day passed by slowly and you paid little attention to anything around you. By the time you noticed that it was quiet everyone had already gone home. You packed your things up slowly and were getting ready to leave when the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end. There was a strange energy in the room and your senses screamed danger at you.

Just then a strange screech echoed in the room and something hit you out of nowhere. You flew up into the air and across the room just as alarm bells went off in the building. Metaflux! Your alarmed brain screamed at you through the pain as you were crumpled on the floor where you'd fallen. A Wanderer was inside the room with you and you had no way to defend yourself.

Sheer panic overtook you ss you lifted your head and looked behind you at the horrible monster bearing down at you. That was when the tremors started and you screamed as it's blade bore down on you.

Just as it was about to strike you a gunshot rang out. The monster was knocked sideways and it's blade swung off course. Cutting the desk in two, instead of you. The creature screeched as a flaming dagger sunk into its arm. Rafayel had showed you his Evol many times before. You knew that dagger even at a glance.

The screen around you changed suddenly and then you weren't in your office building. "Protofield"! A female voice called out. Finally you could see Rafayel and her. He called your name and tried to come to you but was held back by the group of Wanderers.

"Just stay put we'll rescue you"! She called tone serious. You couldn't exactly move. Pain and fear had you rooted to the ground. You'd read about protofields before but lacking the skills, you'd never been in one.

Gunshots, screeches, grunts, and communication between the pair sounded all around as they fought the Wanderers off. Just as quickly as it had appeared the protofield vanished. The last Wanderer seeming to have been destroyed.

The two made their way over to you, picking across the damaged desks and scattered paper. Rafayel knelt next to you. Assessing your injuries as she made a call on her watch. Relaying the situation back to the Association as well as medical support.

You hadn't realized it yet, but your breaths were coming in short gasps and you were starting to feel dizzy.

That was when the floor started shaking again. This time the tremors were violent. Rafayel glanced around as he stood up trying to hold his footing. "Earthquake"? He asked glancing at he watch. She shook her head as Rafayel looked around some more.

Only you realized where the tremors were coming from. You'd never told Rafayel you had any Evol at all. He'd believed you when you said you were born without one and had never developed one after the Wanderers first appeared.

The shaking got worse and cracks appeared in the windows as it seemed like the whole building was moving. "Danger"! You managed to gasp out feeling like your energy was being sucked out of your body. You lay on the ground feeling dizzy and nauseous. The windows busted out, sending glass straight to the ground ten floors below.

Rafayel took as step towards you just as a violent shudder went through the building and the floor gave way beneath you. Then you were falling. You tried to scream as you fell. Above you Rafayel was falling too. Seeming to have jumped through the hole after you. Groaning metal and breaking glass was all that you could hear before you blacked out and then silence. Nothing but silence.

*******************************************************

Three months later

Rafayel sat at your bedside. He was usually here at this time of day. It was part of his routine now. He'd gotten used to the beeps of the machines in your hospital room. He'd thought back again and again. The Dr's had determined the earthquake like tremors had come from you. When you had panicked your body's natural instinct to protect itself forced your Evol out of control.

The result had collapsed the building you'd worked in. Thankfully everyone else had gone home for the day. His injuries were nothing compared to yours. Bumps, scrapes, and bruises. He hadn't even needed to be checked into the hospital.

You on the other hand, the list was long and scary. Broken ribs, a punctured lung, skull fractures, a dislocated arm, broken leg, the list went on. He had tried not to read all of it.

The Dr's had treated all your physical injuries and you'd had to under go three different surgeries. The skull fractures had caused the most concern for them. A concussion was the least of your problems.

Right now you were comatose. Your body had shut down all necessary functions to try and repair the damage. The extent of damage to your head had been undetermined as long as you remained asleep.

Rafayel looked at you again, glad most of the bandages were gone now. Beeing wrapped in gauze nearly from head to toe was hard to look at. He took your hand again, careful not to disturb the IV.

"Hurry and wake up, I'll even let you yell at me. I don't mind anymore. You can be mad all you want. Just don't sleep anymore. Please". His voice was a weak whisper as he rubbed his thumb on the back of your hand.

For the first time your hand twitched in his and he looked up sharply at your face. He called your name and the heart monitor picked up your increased hear rate immediately.

He waited anxiously with baited breath and then after what seemed like hours your eyes fluttered open. He leaned over and pressed the call button on your bed after informing the nurse you were awake he turned his attention back to you.

"I'm sorry for everything that happened. You were right. I acted like a jerk, and I didn't treat you very well. I knew for a while that my feelings wouldn't be returned. It's not like she didn't tell me about Xavier before. I just didn't want to listen. If you'll just forgive me, I don't need anything else. " Rafayel said in a rush. Spewing everything out that had crossed his mind in the last three months.

Confusion had knit your brows together. You were looking at him with an odd expression. The door opened as the Dr came in just as you started speaking in a raspy voice. Your words had his heart sinking to the floor.

"Who are you?"

****************************************************

Uwahhhhhh I just realized how long this was editing and proofreading 😵‍💫😵‍💫

I really do torture myself, but then again, short stories aren't very common for me. Oh, well.

I do hope you liked this one. It's a no happy end one. Unless you want to pick it up from my ending and make it happy.

[omgahgase]

charthur oneshot

so it happened. again. a pathetic wet kitten of a man with his pretty eyes and gorgeous smile captivated my heart and the result is a semi-coherent fic speed written in the wee hours of the morning. this is for all you charthur enjoyers out there, and for @tortureddpoett for always listening to me ramble in the dms. thanks for withstanding my lengthy headcanons <3

Arthur hears it, but he absolutely refuses to acknowledge it, let alone accept it. 

“I can’t kill all of them silently, so…when they chase me, you go the other way.” 

It’s a simple enough plan, one that’s ten times better than Micah’s bright idea of “Shoot the motherfuckers and book it.” Hell, even Dutch agrees to it, and that’s saying a lot because he’s normally the one cooking up a way to escape a potential shoot out. Or, in this case, a quick way to the Devil downstairs. When Dutch agrees with someone, it can only mean one of two things:

It’s in his favor.

He doesn’t have anything better.

And, considering how there’s four heavily armed Pinkerton’s and only four of their men are in fighting shape—Hosea and Lenny are practically bleeding to death on Bill and Javier, Arthur’s surprised those dirty pigs haven’t picked up on the obvious trail of blood leading to their pile of crates—this is the best they got. 

So, when Arthur thinks about it afterwards, maybe that’s why Dutch had to lock an arm around his middle to he wouldn’t fling himself in Charles’ face and explain why this plan is fucking stupid. He fights, dear God, he fights against him. Javier tells Arthur to shut up lest he gives them away, but fuck that because Arthur would rather get arrested with him than let Charles be hunted so they can bag. Dutch tightens his arm around Arthur’s chest, tries to cover his mouth so he doesn’t scream why sacrificing yourself is, again, fucking stupid, but what barrels up his throat and trips out of his mouth like a sputtering gun spitting out a rusty bullet is a choked plea. 

“You can’t—please—”

But Charles—smart, kind, stupidly brave Charles who wouldn’t put himself at risk for anything other than what he believes in, and goddamnit if Arthur doesn’t love him a little more now than ever—is as sturdy as a bison when he cuts Arthur off. 

“It’s your best bet to escape, don’t fight me on this.”

Arthur almost hoped Charles would tack his name onto the end of that demand, give him some idea that he’s saying it more to him than their band of outlaws who wouldn’t be as destroyed as Arthur would be if Charles gets hurt in this dumb fuck plan. He’s lost almost everyone he’s ever cared for, he’s not about to add his best friend to that growing list. 

(He’s also not about to pay any mind to how his chest constricts at the mere thought of lobbying Charles in anything less than the person who holds his heart, but his brain is too busy flagging down the ice-cold dread spider-crawling across his skin and tampering his adrenaline to something worse than fear.)

The arm around Arthur loosens, if just for a moment, maybe because Dutch can feel how badly Arthur’s shaking, or maybe his age is finally catching up to him and he can’t hold back a grown man dead set on not carving out another gravestone for his beloved. It’s enough to break out of Dutch’s hold, nearly sending him flying into a loaded crate with how hard Arthur pushes him back, and in two quick strides, he’s face to face with Charles. Passionate, gentle, beautiful Charles who looks even prettier in the moonlight and with a splatter of blood across his cheek than Arthur’s ever seen. It’s not his blood, thank God,  and that’s all Arthur can focus on before that rat bastard Micah is putting in his two cents. 

“I say let the man go. He’d be doing us a noble cause, letting us go.” 

Arthur growls, and even Charles is a little taken aback. “No one fucking asked you, Bell.” 

“Well, Morgan, you got any other ideas? It’s not like we got the law on our dicks and our friends bleedin’ out, but, sure. Hold up the line. That bullet in the boy’s guts ain’t going anywhere until we do.” Micah chuckles a dry, humorless laugh that, normally, would’ve had him getting real intimate with the end of Arthur’s pistol. Only now, it’s making the shake in Arthur’s hands turn into a full tremble. 

He chances a glance at Lenny, takes in his blood soaked front and the way he’s almost deadweight, slung haphazardly across Javier’s shoulders. His breathing is getting shallow, his eyes barely open. Hosea isn’t doing much better but at least the shot went through clean, he only has to worry about a few stitches. Lenny, on the other hand…

Charles plants a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder, and the world stops on its axis, if just for a moment. The gang falls away, the Pinkerton’s disappear, every thought that’s ever occupied Arthur’s mind up until the moment Charles touches him, his thumb a soothing little thing on the gooseflesh of Arthur’s neck, melts into a puddle and drips into the waves lapping at the dock’s edge. 

“I’ll be fine.” Charles says it with such assurance that Arthur is damn near convinced right there. But still, he’s gotta voice the words hammering behind his teeth. 

“It’s a fuckin’ stupid plan.” 

Charles grins, a soft, barely there upturn of his mouth that could be mistaken as just a twitch of his lips if Arthur didn’t know him any better. But he does. He knows how Charles wakes up in the morning, eyes groggy and with just enough energy to piss before grabbing his first cup of coffee. Arthur knows how Charles’ hands feel in his, rough and calloused from the reins of his horse, the ax back at camp, how such big and strong hands can craft the most delicate of arrows, string the tiniest bead into his hair. And Arthur knows that once Charles makes up his mind, there’s no going back. There’s no use fighting him on it, no matter how badly he wants to fight. It’s what Arthur’s good at, arguing, butting heads, but Charles, with all the ways he so easily lassoed Arthur’s heart and hitched it to his person, his stubbornness towards never backing down was the first spark against Arthur’s flint as to why he loves this unyielding, honorable, stupid man. 

One of the Pinkerton’s tilts his head in their direction, squints real tight to see beyond the glow of the shack’s light. “Y’all see something over there?”  

No one answers, but the guy is still staring in their direction, and Dutch is getting real uneasy by just standing around with two guys knocking on death’s door and bags filled to the top with cash. He tells Charles to get on with it or else they’re sitting ducks, and Arthur has half a mind to say fuck it and throw Dutch to the hounds instead, but Charles is grabbing Arthur by the handkerchief around his neck and Arthur kinda of forgets everything else besides the way Charles’ chocolate brown eyes dance in the flicker of the overhead lamps. How the scar on his cheek and the plump of his lips has Arthur wanting to pitch forward and know if Charles’ mouth is as soft as it looks. 

‘Not the time to get rejected, cowboy.’ Arthur swallows. He allows himself a few seconds to get his fill before Charles runs off because he’s a selfish prick when it comes to him, wants Charles all to himself if he could have him, but instead, Charles is gearing up to host the worst game of tag Arthur’s ever played. He huffs. ‘This is a stupid fucking plan.’ 

“I know it’s a stupid fucking plan,” Charles agrees, because who else would he be if he also wasn’t smart like that. Maybe that’s another reason why Arthur’s in love with him.

And because it’s a stupid plan, maybe that’s why Charles kisses him too. 

It’s the shortest, roughest kiss Arthur’s ever had. It’s all force and no finesse, no time to get a good enough feel for each other, and their teeth clicked on first impact, but by God is he gonna think about it for the rest of his life. He doesn’t care that the guys are watching and that Bill is flinging all kinds of insults because he’s a bitch who can’t let Arthur live. Hell, the Pinkerton’s could open fire on them now and Arthur wouldn’t bat an eye. As long as his last conscious thought is Charles’ lips on his and Charles’ hand moving to cradle his jaw and Charles Charles Charles. Arthur doesn’t give a flying fuck. 

It’s over before it could get started, and Arthur is left a little lightheaded from the shock of it all. He’s not shaking anymore, the hand twisted in Charles’ dress shirt isn’t trembling, only pulling him closer because Arthur is selfish and he wants the full line of Charles’ everything pressed against him, but Charles pushes him away, breaks their kiss with a breathless gasp. 

“I’ll find you after,” he promises, eyes doing that thing to Arthur’s insides he’s only recently come to realize is just the overall effect Charles has on him. “I swear.”

He’s off after that, and Arthur is left standing there, a little off his center of gravity and more than peeved that their first kiss wasn’t under the stars near a glowing campfire like how he’d envisioned it. 

He walks in front of them, then breaks out into a run. The Pinkerton’s immediately chase after him, and in the midst of Arthur watching the whole thing go down like a prisoner in chains, Dutch turns to him, expression unreadable. 

“That is one of the most beautiful acts I’ve ever saw.” He checks for the clear then motions for them to follow. “Come on.”

They make it a total of five steps forward before Arthur swivels towards the lot of them, gun cocked and voice steely when he says, “Not a fuckin’ word.” 

Javier snorts, hefts Lenny a little higher on his person. “How about five, compadre? Karen owes me twenty bucks.” 

Arthur growls, arms his pistol at Micah and Bill. “I don’t wanna hear anythin’ from either of you, if you say some vile shit about me and Charles—”

“Don’t get your granny panties in a twist, Morgan,” Bill heaves, moving Hosea so he’s not being completely dragged. “We have more pressing matters to deal with than who you swap spit with.” 

“I’ll bitch about it later,” Micah says, which tears a ‘fuck you’ out of Arthur’s throat, “as for now, that boat’s calling my name and those lawmen,” he points over his shoulder to the flashlights coming dangerously closer, “are on our dicks! Let’s fucking go!” 

No matter how much he wants to shoot both of them because they’re not going to let this little moment go and they will be total assholes when they get back to camp, Arthur can’t argue because the flashlights are closing in and Dutch is nearly out of his sight. 

They make it to the boat and sneak below deck to an empty medbay. Dutch goes to find the captain with a little gold in hand, ‘financial persuasion,’ he called it, while Arthur and Javier get to work on Lenny and Hosea. It’s a grueling task, digging out the broken fragments of a bullet from Lenny’s insides, but they manage it without making him take more damage, and Bill only had to knock him out twice to keep the screaming down. By the time the two of them are all patched up and sleeping in the bunks, Micah found some booze and passed out on the floor. Javier wasn’t too far behind him, followed by Bill, and then it was only Arthur. 

With nothing better to do, Arthur goes to the open window facing the retreating glowing lights of Saint Denis. They departed somewhere around the first time Lenny woke up screaming, and now the city is just a line on the horizon. Arthur’s mind drifts to the camp, wondering if the Pinkerton’s are on their trail now too. He thinks about John and Abigail, worried if either of them are alive, scared that Arthur may return to camp to find Jack without his parents. 

And like how he’s been doing for the past half year, he thinks about Charles. Something in him tells him Charles gave those bastards the slip and he’s safe somewhere, probably lost in the bustle of gossiping men and women demanding to know who could’ve robbed the Lemoyne National Bank and got away with it. 

It sinks in, then, like a bolt from the blue. The robbery, the chase. The bags of gold stashed under the floorboards. They pulled their last heist. The money's theirs. 

Arthur lets out a disbelieving laugh that soon into a full, belly clutching bellow of sheer joy. No more scams and schemes, no more running. He can get some land, settle down, be it in Tahiti or otherwise, Arthur doesn’t know, nor does he care. 

What he does know, however, is that when he returns, he’ll find Charles and they can have a proper first kiss, one without blood and guns and life or death situations. He’ll probably ask Charles to go hunting with him, spend the day shooting game and exchanging tender looks that can last longer than the few seconds Arthur always gave himself. They’ll pitch a tent somewhere in the wild, their bed rolls a little closer than before, sharing a meal with a bottle passed between them. 

Then, as Charles describes the different constellations and explains what the stars and the gods mean to his people, bellies and hearts full, hands touching, thumbs caressing over scarred knuckles, Arthur’ll stop him mid sentence because he’s selfish and he can’t stop himself now he’s gotten a taste. He’ll kiss Charles like he means it, words never said but always felt, exchanging between their lips. Hands and kisses softer than what Arthur could ever deserve because he’s only lived the life of an outlaw, only ever knew how to shoot and survive.

But now, with cash in his pockets and a new dream in mind, one where he’s not just a gunslinger, but maybe a farmer, or a horse rancher—a husband. Yeah. That sounds nice. 

Arthur thinks he can be a little selfish, if just this once. 

[forsaire]

Try again

What if Ghost and Soap didn't work out? What if they loved each other more than anything and really tried to make it work but eventually, Ghost's own self-doubt and trauma built a rift between them that was impossible to overcome. And one day, they cracked.

Being reunited 15 years later, maybe the universe had finally given them the second chance Ghost so desperately craved. And with Soap's affectionate eyes crinkling warmly in Ghost's direction, he was damn sure going to seize it.

link on ao3 (with full tags) ~3000 words

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When Ghost and Soap got together for the first time, Ghost felt as though he had finally found the missing piece that his life had been so empty without. They loved each other, they really did, but it wasn’t perfect.

Between their jobs, the constant stress, the long hours, and their own personal issues, something eventually began to break. They both had their own traumas but Ghost’s was especially destructive. It slowly ate away at him, consuming him, controlling him, no matter how hard he fought back against it.

They tried, god knows how hard they tried. They wanted nothing more than to make it work. They thought they could fix it.

But one day, it broke.

Sometimes bridges collapse. Sometimes roads crack. Sometimes houses crumble.

Sometimes love isn’t enough.

Ghost struggled a lot. Not with loving Johnny – that was easy – but with being someone that Johnny could love. The gnarled and intrusive whispers in the back of his head taunted him with how little he deserved happiness. He grew paranoid, distant, and cold. As time went on, Ghost started to push Soap away, scared of inevitably losing him like he’d lost everyone else in his life.

Near the end they fought. A lot.

Ghost wanted to stop, he did, but fear had clutched its sharp claws around his heart, stealing it away from the only man he had ever wanted to give it to.

When it all became too much for them – when the scales shattered and the rope splintered – Ghost didn’t blame Soap for leaving, not for one second. He only wished with Ghost no longer being a burden in his life that Soap would find a better happiness somewhere else.

While he understood why Soap did it, it almost destroyed Ghost when he left. He struggled to see the value in trying to live anymore. But imagining Soap’s face when someone told him the news always stopped him from succumbing to these thoughts. He couldn’t hurt Soap even more than he already had.

So he continued to live.

And the sun continued to rise.

And the days continued to pass.

And before he knew it, Ghost found himself 15 years older.

Then, by happenstance, they were reunited. Enough time had passed that they were both leading their own teams. Unbeknownst to them, one of their higher ups put their two teams together to work on a complicated infiltration mission. The docket had been classified, so Ghost would only know who he was working with once he saw them face to face.

But Ghost heard his voice before seeing his face, a throb in his chest spreading quickly as his heart skipped a beat. It had been so long since he heard that voice – deep, gravelly, and sharp, but also filled with unreserved warmth and care. Could it really be him?

As Ghost rounded the corner, before him stood several men around a large wooden table, their gazes pointed downwards as they focused on the unfurled map that spread across it. Ghost’s eyes immediately locked onto the man standing in the middle, gesturing to a location with a deep furrow on his brow.

It was Soap.

He had changed – they both had. His hair was a bit longer but still sported that familiar mohawk. He’d aged beautifully, slight wrinkles around his eyes and grey hairs that peppered his sides. His lips were still full and his chin still strong and his nose still slightly askew.

He glanced up as Ghost walked in.

Those eyes. Those eyes hadn’t changed at all. They were still as stunningly deep and blue as the ocean, powerful currents that always sucked Ghost in.

Soap froze. His breath hitched. His mouth fell open. His eyes widened.

And Soap, who also hadn’t seen those eyes in years would recognize them in a heartbeat. He’d never forgotten the beauty of Ghost’s eyes, the colour of deep, rich earth that nurtured the vibrant colours of the world to flourish.

As they looked at one another there was a long, excruciatingly long, second of shocked silence.

Then, to Ghost’s immediate relief, a tender smile spread across Soap’s face, the coldness of his life immediately melting away as he was bathed in such breathtaking warmth yet again. It was a privilege he never thought he would get to experience again.

With a quiet mutter to excuse himself, Soap briefly patted the shoulder of the man to his right and started to make his way over to Ghost. Each step closer, one after another after another, the whole time a playful smirk pulling at Soap’s lips.

He relished in the way that Soap’s eyes looked him up and down. He stopped in front of Ghost, just a couple feet away which still felt like too much space.

“L.t…” Soap breathed out. It was like a song made just for his ears.

“I haven’t heard that in years…” Ghost said quietly, somehow stringing a coherent sentence together. He smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Johnny…”

Soap’s eyes crinkled, resembling sunshine, and his head briefly dropped as he let out a breathy chuckle. After a second, he looked up again, staring into Ghost’s eyes unwaveringly.

“And I only liked hearing that name from you. The only one who called me that.”

“Can I?” he said, his hesitant words heavy with implication. Could he still call Soap Johnny? Was he still Johnny? Was he still his Johnny.

“Aye…” he said sweetly. “Only you…”

They stared into each other’s eyes, forever and endless, and gleefully let the memories come rushing back like an old friend.

All of a sudden, Soap peeled his eyes away, shaking his head as if to snap out of it. He took a quick inhale and pointed a thumb over to the rest of the group.

“I’ll introduce you to everyone.”

As they walked back to the group, Ghost couldn’t help but steal glances down at Soap’s hand to try and catch if there was a ring. It was selfish the way his heart fluttered with happiness when he didn’t see one.

And just like that, as if opposite sides of a magnet, the two of them were uncontrollably drawn to one another again, like no time had passed at all. Neither of them could help it. They were planets caught in the other’s orbit. They were the drugs that they were happily addicted to. They were the air of life in the other’s lungs.

As the days passed, their curious eyes wandered beyond, sneaking glances at lips, arms, legs, and any flash of skin. Their smiles were gifted fully in all manners of ways – teasingly, proudly, sentimentally. Their bodies always found one another with small and subtle brush ups along their shoulders, knees, and fingers.

Each touch was just as invigorating as the last.

They continued to grow closer, ignoring a strange look or two from the other members of their teams as frivolous nothings that existed beyond the gaze of each other’s eyes.

For Soap, the smallest of voices at the back of his mind told him to slow down, take it easy, think twice.

But he didn’t want to. It was all so thrilling and comfortable again.

Their evening planning sessions turned to late night joking conversations, a bottle of Scotch being passed between the two of them freely. These conversations quickly turned into flirting. Under the soft glow of the desk light, they would inch closer and closer to each other, their hearts skipping excitedly with each touch or look.

Ghost hadn’t felt so light and carefree in such a long time.

He wanted.

Soap wanted.

And one day, after weeks of this, the two of them turned that want into action.

After a final late night planning session where they spent at least most of the time doing their actual jobs, the two of them walked back to Soap’s room. As they lingered outside his door, the space between them felt thick with was unspoken need.

Soap turned around, his face pinched up in slight hesitation.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” he stated, trying to make conversation, “for the raid…”

“Yeah…” Ghost said, not wanting to think beyond this moment.

Soap clasped his hands together. “And when it’s done… I’m… we’re… shipped off again. You’ve any idea where?”

Ghost shook his head. “I go where I’m needed.”

Something shifted behind Soap’s eyes, disappointment mixed with sorrow. “Right…right…”

A spark.

Ghost raised his arm to scratch at the back of his neck, feeling a sudden need to do something with his useless hands, when a familiar stabbing pain shot through his shoulder. He sucked in a breath and grimaced, lowering his arm to make the pain stop.

“Still that shoulder?” Soap asked, jokingly but still with sincere concern.

With pinched lips, Ghost smiled and rolled out his shoulder.  “Same shoulder for 20 years. Only gotten worse with age. Even lifting my arm hurts it sometimes. It feels like I'm too old nowadays for most things I used to do.”

“Well…” Soap said teasingly, his eyes shifting with need. “Hopefully not everything…”

A flicker.

“Yeah?” Ghost replied, keeping his voice low. “What did you have in mind?”

Soap discreetly raised his hand, wrapping his fingers tightly around Ghost’s belt and pulling him closer. The air crackled with electricity between them.

“Are you sure…?” Ghost asked softly, tilting his head closer to Soap who lifted his chin up expectedly.

“Simon…” Soap whispered, his mouth so close he could feel its heat through his mask. “Don’t make me beg…”

A burning flame.

And that was it.

They tumbled into the room, grasping onto every inch of each other. There was nothing but lips and hands, limbs tangling and taking with need. Their bodies were infinite and Soap’s eyes, giving him nothing but trust and pleasure, were endless.

In an instant, everything came back to Ghost as he relived exactly where to touch and caress Soap’s body that would coax out all of his pretty little moans. Hands traced over old and new scars on each other’s bodies. Soap placed kisses down Ghost’s tattoos which had sprawled up his bicep and crept onto his chest over the years. There was nothing but them.

There was nothing but Johnny.

When they were done, twice surprisingly, they lay in bed together, Soap curled up against his side and Ghost’s arm wrapped around him like they always used to do. With quiet puffs that blew out across his chest, Ghost counted each of Soap’s breaths, wondering if this was going to be the last time he’d ever get to see Soap like this again before they parted tomorrow.

Ghost leisurely trailed his fingers up and down Soap’s spine, expertly noting all of the new marks and scars he knew had never been there before. The metal of Ghost’s dog tag quietly jingled as Soap absentmindedly twisted the chain around his finger.

“Not too old for that,” Soap joked quietly, the smile evident in his voice. “Thank god.”

“No,” Ghost mumbled warmly, “I suppose not. Helps that it was you.”

Soap then lifted his head off of Ghost’s chest and stared at him in wonder, awestruck as if seeing him for the first time. He unwrapped the dog tags from his hand and gently traced the line of grey hairs that had sprouted along Ghost’s temple.

“Counting my greys, are you?” he said jokingly, not-so-secretly loving all of the attention that Soap was giving him.

Soap smiled sentimentally, memories flashing behind his eyes in an instant. “I’m glad to see you like this,” he replied. “You often spoke about how you didn’t think you would make it this far. It’s proof that you did. And I think it’s beautiful.”

With a quick peck to Ghost’s cheek, Soap rested his head back against Ghost’s chest.

Ghost didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t. Come morning, he didn’t think he had the strength to say goodbye to Soap yet again. He clenched his jaw and blinked away the tears that threatened to come out.

“Is…” Ghost started, scared to ask the question. “Is there anyone else…?”

He probably should have asked that before their night together, but he wasn’t exactly thinking with the right head. He didn’t know what he wanted to hear. He didn’t know what would hurt more – Soap walking away alone or towards someone else.

Soap gently shook his head. “There were a few people over the years but…” he trailed off with a sigh.

“But what?” Ghost said, tenderly urging him to speak more.

After a few long seconds, Soap spoke up again.

“I never loved anyone in the same way that I loved you.” Soap’s fingers were gracing the top of Ghost’s chest, turning those meaningless shapes into artwork against his skin. “And you?” It was also hesitant but hopeful, trying not to give too much away.

Ghost placed his fingers underneath Soap’s chin and gently pushed it up so they were looking into each other’s eyes again.

“I never loved anyone after you…”

Soap took a shuddering inhale upon hearing those words. Ghost couldn’t wait anymore. He needed to know. He needed to ask. He needed to scream it out into the world.

His heart started thumping nervously in his chest. He was sure that Soap could feel it. He gathered every bit of courage he had inside, beating down years of shame and regret.

“I…I…” he stuttered, the words tumbling out without any grace. “I’ve missed you so much, more than you could ever know. And I’m sorry… I’m sorry for how I treated you. There’s someone I’ve been talking to for a long time now and they’ve been helping me. I’m not perfect, god knows I don’t think I’ll ever be. But I’m better. I really am.

“The whole time all I wanted was for you to see how I was changing. I wanted to be someone that could make you proud. I hope I am…

“I know what I’m about to ask is a lot, and I understand if you don’t want to, or can’t, or… anything else… but… I’d never be able to forgive myself if I-”

Ghost let out an anxious sigh, letting his thumb that softly caressed Soap’s cheek calm him down.

“I want… I want…” Ghost took one final breath. “Can we try again?” He didn’t care how pathetic he sounded. He didn’t care that he was practically begging. “I’ve never stopped loving you all this time and… and seeing you again just brought back all these emotions again… and… You were the only good thing I’m my life after so many years. You made me so happy. I selfishly want that feeling again. I want you.

“So… what do you think? You and me again? I don’t know what might happen, I guess neither of us do, but I promise I won’t give up. I never want to give up on you again. I promise to make you happy, in whatever way that means now. I’m scared of you walking out of my life tomorrow. But even then, you’re still the love of my life and always will be whether or not we’re together…”

As Ghost spoke, he watched Soap’s eyes soften. He leaned into Ghost’s touch, blinking away the mistiness that had clouded his eyes. He carefully dragged his eyes up and down Ghost’s face, flickering memories dancing behind them of the life they used to share.

Ghost didn’t know if the years had been kind or cruel to him. He so desperately wanted to fight for Soap. He wanted to give him a life he deserved.

Soap let out a shuddering exhale, leaning forward to bury his face into Ghost’s neck.

“Aye…” he whispered with desperate relief against Ghost’s skin. “I do… I want that more than anything…”

Had Soap not been there in his arms grounding him, Ghost would have crumpled into ash. Dizzying, dizzying happiness swirled around his mind. He tightened his grip around Soap, holding him until they were one. His heart was soaring, grateful at the chance to love once again.

All of Ghost’s nervousness turned into giddiness, a happy chuckle bubbling up and singing a beautiful symphony for the whole world to hear.

“I can put in a transfer request…” Ghost murmured, “but… I’m not sure…”

He could feel the way Soap’s smile widened across his skin.

“Murray is leaving in a few weeks,” he stated, his controlled excitement still peeking out. “His wife is having a baby. There will be an empty spot on my team. And I have complete authority over who joins…”

“You sure the rest of the Scots won’t have an issue with me invading?” he joked. It felt so good to joke. It felt so good to hold Soap in his arms.

“They best not. Then they’ll also be having a problem with me.”

Soap lifted up his head again, gifting Ghost with such tenderness and softness. There was nothing on earth like those eyes.

He leaned forward and blissfully pressed their lips together. No longer was Ghost adrift. No longer was Ghost alone. They’d missed so much time together that Ghost wanted to make up for.

When Ghost used to think about their future, he was frozen with fear, scared that he wasn’t worth it, scared that they would never last. But now, Soap’s firm but soft body wrapped in his arms and addicting lips pressed against his, Ghost was no longer afraid.

He was excited for whatever the future may hold, hand in hand, side by side.

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link on ao3

[nerdygaymormon]

Favorite LGBTQ movie and TV quotes

“Um, I do drink red wine, but I also drink white wine. And I’ve been known to sample the occasional rosé. And a couple summers back, I tried a Merlot that used to be a Chardonnay, which got a bit complicated… I like the wine and not the label. Does that make sense?”

— David Rose, Schitt’s Creek, Season 1, Episode 10

“That felt so good to say. I feel like I just solved an escape room I’ve been trapped in my entire life.”

— Fabiola Torres, Never Have I Ever, Season 1, Episode 5

“Look, I’ll be hurt either way. Isn’t it better to be who I am?”

— Eric Effiong, Sex Education, Season 1, Episode 7

“Everybody’s story is different. There’s your version, and my version, and everything in between. But the one thing that all of those stories have in common is that moment right before you say those words when your heart is racing, and you don’t know what’s coming next. That moment’s really terrifying. And then once you say those words, you can’t unsay them. A chapter has ended, and a new one’s begun, and you have to be ready for that.”

— John, Happiest Season

“The good thing about being different is that no one expects you to be like them”

— Ellie Chu, The Half Of It

"When I'm with Brittany, I finally understand what people are talking about when they talk about love. I've tried so hard to push this feeling away, and keep it locked inside, but every day just feels like a war. I walk around so mad at the world, but I'm really just fighting with myself. I don't want to fight anymore. I'm just too tired. I have to just be me."

— Santana Lopez, Glee, Season 3, Episode 7

“Now, there is a long and honorable tradition in the gay community, and it has stood us in good stead for a very long time. When somebody calls you a name…you take it and own it.”

— Mark Ashton, Pride

“So I'm bisexual. So what? It's LGBTQ for a reason. There's a B in there and it doesn't mean Badass. Okay, it does, but it also means Bi.”

— Callie Torres, Grey's Anatomy, Episode 1105

“We’re standing here in Philadelphia, the, uh, City of Brotherly Love, the birthplace of freedom where the, uh, founding fathers authored the Declaration of Independence, and I don’t recall that glorious document saying anything about all straight men are created equal. I believe it says all men are created equal.”

— Joe Miller, Philadelphia

"Yes, I wear foundation. Yes, I live with a man. Yes, I'm a middle- aged fag. But I know who I am, Val. It took me twenty years to get here, and I'm not gonna let some idiot senator destroy that. F*** the senator, I don't give a damn what he thinks."

— Armand Goldman, The Birdcage

"Being gay is your thing. There are parts of it you have to go through alone. I hate that. As soon as you came out, you said, "Mom, I'm still me." I need you to hear this: You are still you, Simon. You are still the same son who I love to tease and who your father depends on for just about everything. And you're the same brother who always complements his sister on her food, even when it sucks. You get to exhale now, Simon. You get to be more you than you have been in... in a very long time. You deserve everything you want."

— Emily Spier, Love, Simon

"The greatest gift we can give each other is our authentic selves and sharing that. Sharing our truth is what will make us strong. So here I am. I am both human and alien. And I am a trans woman."

— Kara Danvers, Supergirl, Season 4, Episode 19

"But I feel more when I look at a picture of Kristen Stewart than I do when I kiss him."

— Elena Alvarez, One Day at a Time,

"You can’t change it. You can’t fix me. Because I’m not broken, I don’t need to be fixed, OK? I’m me!"

— Ian Gallagher, Shameless, Season 5, Episode 12

"Becoming me was the greatest creative project of my life."

Eliot Waugh, The Magicians, Season 1, Episode 1

"Every time someone steps up and says who they are, the world becomes a better, more interesting place. So, thank you."

—Raymond Holt, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, Season 5, Episode 10

"I might be…bisexual, and you guys know I hate labels, but this one feels important right now to own the space I’m in and to make sense of it."

—Kat Edison, The Bold Type

[flowerandblood]

I've been feeling a little overwhelmed and frustrated lately with what's going on because I feel like what people expect from my fanfic (The Impossible Choice) and what I want it to be are two different things.

People would like it to either be a sugared-up story where the use of words, descriptions of places, behaviors and characters is as medieval as possible, BUT everyone who fucks is of legal age in the United States. After all, a 16-year-old in the Middle Ages was a child just like today, right??? RIGHT??? (do I have to remind you that people who were then 40 years old were already looking and feeling super old, and 60-year-olds were considered old men over the grave???), apart from that, Aemond would be best cool angry and making you wet, but also to tell his wife that he loves her, not to make mistakes, so that she doesn't make mistakes, but if she has any suspicions about him, she can cheat on him. Let there be drama, but if a bit of her body burnt, she is no longer beautiful, so why do that??????

It wasn't supposed to be a nice story to read in bed. Maybe I will destroy someone's imagination, but the close-ups from chapters 4 and 5 today would be considered rape no matter what age the heroine was. But they are not for her or for him because of the historical context!!!

If you don't want to feel uncomfortable then why are you reading fanfic set in the Middle Ages where marital rape was commonplace, where the wife is the husband's property and has to fight for his favor and gentleness????

Aemond literally stole her from her house and took advantage of the fact that she knew nothing about these things. Of course, he didn't mean to hurt her, and he was hurt in that aspect when he was 13, but this story isn't meant to be comfortable. Aemond is fascinated by her at first, but on the eve of everything, he wants to break her and make her ease up because Aemond is NOT A GOOD PERSON. He's not in the books, he's not in the show, and he's certainly not in this fanfic.

The only thing that usually makes him make the right decisions is his feeling for her, his affection, the feeling that they belong together. His mother gave him the love he needed and he respects and reveres her so how must he feel about a woman who shows so much respect, love and understanding? I want this story to be logical, full of their feelings and the brutality of the world around them, because the medieval world is a cruel world.

I would like to remind you that undermining the logical decisions of the characters or the logical ideas of the author resulting from good research and knowledge of the era are not constructive criticism, but a dream that this fanfic would be something that it is not.

A sweet story about fucking two adults that you can stick yourself in.

It's not that kind of story. And it's not supposed to be comfortable.

I don't have the strength to post the next chapters yet, although before the next one I was very excited and wanted to show it to you very much. I just lost the sense of continuing this story since people don't understand the main assumptions of the world they read about.

[annagehtdichnenkeksan]

𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓, 𝑯𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝑭𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑬𝒏𝒆𝒎𝒚

part 2 (sorry, English is not my main Language)

Two years passed in which Rhaena and Baela made up all sorts of excuses so that Visenya would not be sent to Kings Landing. Fever, nausea, fainting attacks and exotic sounding diseases cunningly invented by Baela. That was just fine with Aemond. He couldn't care less for the girl. If only the council wouldn't get on his nerves so much. He had to rule a kingdom that was destroyed by war. How could he even think of a stupid woman, if there are so massive problems? He has to come up with something to keep her name out of the minds of his advisors. Maybe he should visit her. He knew that she was born too early, so maybe she is way too fragile to be Queen, Wive and Mother. Aemond will announce that she is just not suitable to be by his side.

Rhaena sprints through the halls of Driftmark. An unusual behavior for the Lady, what leads Visenya to nibble on her lip in concern, while Baela almost laughed at her sister. "He will come" Rhaena huffs and hands the letter to her sister. Who? Who will come here? Baela's eyes darken with every word she reads, while Visenya looks between the two in confusion. "This is an impudence!" Baela shouts through the dining room and pushes her cup of wine to the ground. "She is dangerously ill" the infuriated Valyrian woman points at Visenya who sits on the dining table in all her health. She impatiently grabs the letter "-and he wants to come and look at her as if she is a fucking broodmare" if it would be possible, Baela would spit fire and smoke. "Calm down. He just wants to look at her. Being looked at doesn't mean married" a pitiful attempt by Rhaena to calm her sister.

Visenya don't hear the rest of the argument. Panic and distress claim her body and her mind, while she tries to find a mistake, a clue that they simply misunderstood the letter. With an apology she runs out of the dining room into her apartments. Full of despair, she throws herself on the bed and push her face into the sheets. This old man can't really want to marry her. On the other hand, many young girls have married men even older than the king. Suddenly she remembered her former kitchen maid. The maid was in her twenties, when she was married off to a man thrice her age. His long hair was greasy and grey, one leg limped and he barely was able to bent in front of Visenya because of his massive belly. Visenya can't imagine how anybody can live with someone like that. Not to mention that the woman even had to lay with him. When she was still a child she observed with disgust how the poor woman's neck was covered with blue and green spots, how her cute face became bitter and how her middle become swollen and heavy with children. When the little white haired girl sneaks into the kitchen to nibble some sweets, the woman was always there, groaning while she held her swollen belly and waddled through the kitchen. Visenya swore to herself that she will never be that woman. No bruises, no bitterness and no disgusting little parasite in her body. Never

[hazbinhazbinhazbinreblog]

Gal here with that ‘HS!Alastor did murder someone post’.

So in one of my past post I made about everyones family dynamics, I mentioned how Alastor found his mother dead after coming back home after school during his Middle School days, and how his father went missing a few weeks later.

I also made Alastor living alone in an apartment paid for by his grandfather(On his mother’s side). So, here’s the answers of what happened.

So Alastors father was basically an abusive and manipulative asshole. His father was white, and his mother was Creole(from what I learned)

When his father and mother first met, everything started out great. At least that was what his mother thought, his father thought nothing more of there relationship and only thought of it as a ‘Summer fling’. But then his father got his mom pregnant.

And because his father’s parents were conservative, they made Alastor father marry his mother to uphold there reputation.

One hand, Alastors mother always wanted a family, and thought that that the marriage was an act of love, while his father never wanted a kid, and only thought Alastor as a burden.

It didn’t help that they lived in a more conservative community, where it was mostly white people. And though the community was nice, there was still a majority of people who weren’t….. fond of race.

Because of that, Alastor father thought he would bring there reputation down instead of upholding it like his parents wanted. So fast forward they got married and Alastor was born.

Alastor dad did try to connect with him growing up, but since his dad had certain beliefs on how men should act, they always butted heads.

While his dad wanted him to play sports, Alastor rather spend time listing to his great great grandparents(mothers side) old antique radio.

He wanted Alastor to learn how to fix a car, Alastor learned how to bake and cook.

Alastors mom tried to talk to his dad about just letting Alastor do what he liked, but his father always rebutted back against her. What started small arguments eventually turned into an emotionally and physically abusive relationship.

Alastors mom did try to leave, but his father threatened her by saying that since she didn’t have a job, there was no way she could provide for her and Alastor. The only reason he said that was because if they got a divorced, his reputation will fall.

Alastor became really worried for his mom, especially when he noticed that she started getting physically hurt by his father. But his mother always told him that she would be alright, and that the best he could do for her was smile.

Over the years, the relationship between his parents would become so toxic, that his father wanted nothing more to get rid of the women who he believed destroyed his life(Alastor dad is a bitch). Even though non of this was Alastors mom fault and she did nothing wrong.

So one day, while Alastor was at school, his parents got into another argument. This one though, was horrifying. As it would eventually lead to his father…..ending the poor mother’s life.

When Alastor came home that day, he was expecting his mom making her famous stew….but what he saw was his mother who he loved dearly, dead, belaying on the floor, with his father standing over her……

The next few days were a blur to Alastor. The police tried to question if he had any idea about his mother’s death. But his father threatened him to keep his mother shut, and if he didn’t, he would spread rumors about his mother, ruining her reputation even after death. Not to mention that Alastor was still a middle schooler, and at that age they don’t really know what to do, or even if they can trust anyone to tell. So, he didn’t tell the cops anything.

The next few weeks were hell. Not only did his father start abusing him, kids at school talking bad behind his back, getting bullied, but he also had to go to his mother’s funeral. He only ever cried at his mother’s funeral.

It wasn’t until 2 months passed, that he had enough od his father. He couldn’t care less if his father hit him, what only mattered was that he wanted to get rid of the man who took away his mother. He thought it was a good thing he snuck a kitchen knife into his room.

So one day, when his father was yelling and hitting him, calling him useless like his mother. Alastor snapped. He pulled out the knife, and without thinking, stabbed his father.

Of course, Alastor only meant to stab him, as he knew his mother wouldn’t want him to kill and turn out a murderer like his father. But when he snapped back into reality, all Alastor saw was red…..the source being his father’s unmoving body.

Alastor doesn’t remember much after that, all he knows is that he dragged the pathetic accuse of a father and husband body into the woods, and buried it somewhere.

A few days later, Alastor reported his father missing. While no one ever found out what happened to his father, they came to the conclusion that he perhaps abounded Alastor as he couldn’t take care of a child after the passing of his Wife.

The only ones who knew the truth was Alastor, and the deer plush his mother made for him.

His grandfather from his mother side took him in after no leads came from the search for his father. Over the years, Alastor grandfather noticed that he has mental issues and trauma. So he put Alastor in therapy.

The therapist suggested that Alastor may need a change of scenery, so his father bought an apartment in California and sent Alastor to live there. He would have gone with him, but he had to continue working to afford the apartment. Luckily his other daughter lived on the same town, so at least Alastor has an aunt he could got to for help. Not to mention his little cousin Nifty.

So that brings us to now, Alastor living an apartment alone in California. Been living there for 2 years. Now he’s a junior in high school. One year away from being a senior.

He thinks his mother would cry seeing how much he grown.

I feel like I just went on an insane emotional rollercoaster and specifically would like to say his dad deserved it, intentional or not

[jackiequick]

Hero or Villain?…Anti-Hero OC

Katherine Lang

“I’m sorry, do we have a problem? No? Good. Get out! Cause i will dig up every track you buried til it kills me.”

Full Name: Katherine ‘Katrina’ Lang

Nicknames: Katrina, Kat, Ms. Lang, T

Age: 16-28 years old

Height: 5’4

Occupation: Agent of Red Room, Strikers , SHIELD/HYDRA—whatever the job payment is.

Skills: Technical basic training, disguises, getaway driver, panel controls as in she will order her men to strike you down, research and response center. She is usually being of assistance when needed. She’s also good with guns.

“When everyone knows your tragedy, they treat you differently. Like you’re gonna break or fight them, right? Even if they might be trying to help, all they do is remind you of the most painful moment of your life.”

Ethnicity: Her father is of Dutch descent. Her mother is of Chinese descent. But she grew up in different places across the USA. 

Relationship Status: Single.

Titles: The Lady In Red, Stiletto, The Innocent

Personality: Snarky, quiet, slightly charming, daring, a little cold hearted and utterly willing to do what she believes is worth her benefits. As well as time. Growing to be obsessive and emotional, especially with a passion for getting stuff done. Even if it meant ordering a kill or two.

~~~

-> Backstory

-> Katrina grew up in and out of foster homes. Had at least less than dozens of families take her under their wing, even her aunt as well after her parents died tragically by an explosion in the middle of a highway. She will never know who or how it happened, and honestly, she didn’t care too much to find out.

Especially when a lot of people knew of that unknown tragedy to her lifetime, almost a poster girl for the unexpected moments.

Due to her natural beauty and use of clothing, she appeared to make sure she was as gentle as a flower. Having a guys and even girls wrapped around her finger in early high school years. Ending up as one of the cheerleaders for extra credits, because that’s what she believed her parents and aunt wanted her to be.

However it wasn’t exactly what she desired to be doing. Wanting to fight for what she believes is worthy, see the world development underneath her fingertips, and get a glimpse of the jobs done. Understand it.

Across her 16th year of life, being in the care of foster parents, she was given the odd opportunity to go to Paris. While she was there she visited the Kawatche cave walls, getting a feeling like she meant to be at that old building. As the symbols called her names like a witching tone into her grasp, she felt someone tap her shoulder sliding a envelope under her armpit as they did.

“What do you want?” She asked, not looking at the person, just staring at the walls.

“I heard your little small story.” Said the voice, female, sounding almost crisp and whispery.

“What of it?”

“Public tragedy of dead parents. Foster homes. Good grades. Deeming track record in social life.”

“I was a cheerleader. A preppy gray example of the good girl.”

“That’s what the others want to believe, my dear. Secretly you’ve been knocking back the doors and stealing a few items, getting caught in the mist of a scandal between an old friend who tried to kill you?”

“..she was uh, controlled by some smoke in the school halls. So was i..i took the axe and destroyed walls. But she didn’t kill me.”

“But you almost did. She tried to do the same. Both did some serious damage to the school. Why?”

“..everyone wants something they can’t have. Money, looks, love, be understood..hell, even friendship. Just some controls over something. I guess she was jealous. I wiped the footage clean from security cameras afterwards..It was the past, why come now?”

“Open it.”

She opened it. Spy. The envelope said a few more things but that’s the word which caught her name. Striking expression appeared on her face, as she looked over her shoulder at the women for the first time. She was brunette, tall, lean brown eyes and dressed in gray coat with a black dress underneath. She was stunning with a small lined smile, nodding.

“Spy..agent?” She asked the women.

“Whichever one suits you. We are always willing to take in strays from the litter, my dear.” She replied with a shrug.

“I an not a stray!”

“Suit yourself. I’m just giving you an opportunity to workout your future. You’ll be good at it, i hope.”

Katherine knew that she wasn’t exactly seen right away in people’s eyes. Her past was always a little foggy and she was young, what does she have left to lose? Be the poster girl or something else?

———

Of course she choose the latter. Arriving underground side in Paris, finding the women and agreed to take a peek of the wider view of the world.

-> Over the years, she trained in basic gymnastics and kickboxing aside from the ones she knew already. She was around technical groups, diving in and using her tricks, gently roll of the touch voice, to convey the attention of others. Meeting a few short coming men and women, some even became friends. However, Katrina was never assigned to be strictly Red Room or Hydra material per say, which lead her to flexible with her schedule for trips.

Which also meant, she would go undercover as older allies, wig and custom made costumes with weapons in hand, in teams of two, to take down what threat that needed to be taken care of. Leaving her mark in black heels and a red pressed kiss on a notecard. Coming across SHIELD agents, the rich & famous such as The Starks and Feltons, and other unofficial agents who were neither bad or good.

Katrina never considered herself neither bad or good either, sometimes mad her wonder if she was in the wrong business.

She had undergone preparations and briefing for targets to be taken out. Keeping an eye on her fellow men and women on the field, calling the shots to be taken in their earpieces. Sometimes she doesn’t listen to her own voice in her head, roundhouse kicking or ordering herself to take another step furthermore.

-> Remember in Winter Solider when Natasha showed Steve her scar that was from The Solider who injured her, yes Barnes took the shot to kill the scientist, but Katrina and the others at the control panel were the ones to tell Barnes to do it.

She didn’t want to injure the ex-widow, but one look from her higher ranked member told her to message the order to do as he must.

Get the job done, even if it hurt or annoyed her to do so.

~~~

Recruitment had to be an intriguing part for her. Even though she tends to discuss the situation or disapprove of the recruiting process for others, she would look at her fellow students of the job, for their opinions.

They would just tell her to get the job done and everyone can go out for drinks later. She was actually apart of the group who recruited who willing suggests who said they have nothing else to lose, Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, believing that the job would be worthy of their time.

Seeing the world develop underneath their fingernails and try to understand what can be done.

Those same sentiments struck a tone with her, since they were similar to what she thought was right. In result, she felt somewhat empathetic towards the twins.

She understood them and their willingness to take on challenges, just none of them were taught in the correct manner to do so. Which made it a challenge.

Hell, she found the one with the platinum blonde and brunette roots pretty good looking . It didn’t help that he always flirted with her every chance he got, trying to sweep Katrina off her feet with every interaction. Thankfully she never fell for his charms. But she did blush.

The natural brunette beauty, she was a somewhat kind hearted but odd one like her, always tinkering and wondering around the halls. She sometimes found Katrina in the hallways or computer room of the building, if she was around, to talk. She always found herself holding her hand for comfort on both sides of the coin.

———

Katrina has taken jobs at few organizations, whoever was willing to give her a chance with a good payment. Being honest, she wasn’t always to please with every task she was given to do. A lot of time it the upmost basic stunts like being stealth to grab intel from a community of rich folks, digging up information that was buried in a system and or taking down unwanted eyes for a certain job.

Hell, she has worked for plenty of men and women across the country who have wanted to have her as assistance on a experimental project, even if it pushed her limits or pay rate. Having worked for company’s like Palmer, The Luther Family, HIVE and others over the years.

She didn’t always take the shot though, believing that there was another way to finish things. Or sometimes she faked the person undoing, knowing the boss wouldn’t ask for much, just evidence of some kind.

She sometimes, if the job called for it, saved herself and a few people in the possibilities of something rather lighter to happen in the future. People would call her a vigilante for the work she does, but not exactly a heroic act. But she tried.

~~~

Her looks were a dead giveaway that she’s wasn’t somewhat truly horrible, she had a light side and a dark side to her.

Everyone did.

But Katherine was like any other person in this lifetime, she wants to know what she can and cannot do. Not wanting to get hurt or feel hurt, even though pain is part of life.

She wants to see if she can push her limits and test out the results around her, even if it meant accidentally making the wrong choices or siding the anti-heroic path.

Sometimes it felt good to be a little cocky and act as bad as you can get. Other times it really doesn’t.

But at the end of the day, she makes the decision to take the gold or leave whatever her past is in the dust.

~~~~

-> But the real question, who will find her? Will be taken back to light side and rest in the work she has done? Who will she meet?

That’s what I got, I might edit and add more to her story later on. What did you think?

Also did I use quotes from the actress’s character in the series? Maybe haha.

Tags: @gaminggirlsstuff @missstrawbs2001 @mallowbee4 @halesfavoriteharlot @sherloquestea @rooster-84 @gcthvile @meiramel @thecavalrywife @mandylove1000 @rickb-chaos @yetanotherwells @queenslandlover-93 @buckysteveloki-me @djs8891 @blueboirick and etc

[theforgottenmcrmy]

Scars (Ser Harwin Strong x Reader)

᯽ Please note that this is an overall Part 16 to the series Growing Strong. The masterlist, and part 1, can be found on the pinned post on my profile. Tumblr is being mean and is not letting me post it here. :( ᯽

Pairing: Ser Harwin Strong x Tyrell! Female Reader

Warnings: GOT typical sexism, canon divergence, mentions of death of previous characters, thoughts about characters having previously unalived someone(s), subtle but still there references to miscarriage

Summary: But did you even dare to go back that far? If you did, at what point would you realize that you and Harwin had been puppets controlled by Larys’s strings for years?

A/N: As always, thank you all who have continued to read and support this story🖤🖤🖤 the kind words are really encouraging me to see this through to the end.

I'm sorry for the delay. This chapter's a bit of a doozy length wise, so I hope that helps compensate for the temporary absence. I think I've said it before, but just in case and for reference- I did age up the boys a bit. Luke/Selwin are around 14-15ish, and Jace/Derrik are 16, almost 17. This chapter's a little bit heavy still in regards to the topics, since there was a lot of sh*t that went down last chapter, so please be aware. But it ends with two POVs centered on characters I haven't gotten to write a whole lot for yet, so there's a little change of pace there.

I hope you enjoy, and that you have a good rest of the week/weekend!🖤🖤🖤

To Lord Larys, Master of Whisperers The Traitor of House Strong:

Strength from honor.

Though a viper wears his skin, my brother is dead. You are unworthy of the name Strong, for weakling kinslayers are the most dishonorable of us all.

May the gods have mercy on you, for I will not.

Lyonel Strong shall be avenged.

 King Viserys Targaryen, the first of his name, was dead.

As you stepped out onto the deck of one of Lord Darklyn’s several ships, that was the primary thought that reverberated within your mind.

Almost immediately, you spotted a few of Lord Darklyn’s men- the ones carrying out essential tasks to keep the ship sailing- but, like the rest of your traveling party, most of them were below deck, presumably asleep. Still, you would not be deterred. You wandered about aimlessly, your footfalls creating taps upon the planks beneath your feet, while the hull of a hip as a whole groaned as it cut through the waves.

Above you, the red, white, gold, and black banner of House Darklyn flew proudly. The rippling of the billowing sail joined the rocking waves and the croaking of the hull of the ship in filling the air of the otherwise silent night.

By the time you, Harwin, and the rest of your men had reached Duskendale, the young Lord Gunthor Darklyn had already set sail for Dragonstone. But his wife, the Lady Meredyth Darklyn, was as gracious a host as her husband. She apologized for his sudden departure, but insisted that time had been of the essence. To compensate for this, Lady Meredyth had extended the same protection her husband had offered your children and the rest of your party in Harwin’s temporary absence. Once you had reconvened with the rest of your party in Duskendale, she had offered you the use of one of her husband’s ships.

You had set sail for Dragonstone at once, despite it having been in the middle of the night.

Even now, you were still indebted to Lord Darklyn, as the ship sailed through the Narrow Sea under the protection of his house’s sigil. Any ships you happened across would be none the wiser to the guests currently aboard Lord Darklyn’s vessel. Most of your own banners had been destroyed back in Duskendale- save for two, one for House Tyrell, and one for House Strong. Once the ship neared Dragonstone, the two banners would be flown, but in the meantime, they’d been tucked away below deck. Being intercepted and caught with those in your possession could spell a great deal of trouble for all involved. The banners could be replaced; the lives of you and your traveling party could not.

It appeared that neither House Darklyn’s hospitality or generosity had been overstated by Princess Rhaenyra.

…

Queen Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra was now queen. The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

And King Viserys was dead. No man lived forever, but the implications of his passing had weighed heavily on your mind for many years. Now that the said implications lay right beneath your feet, you found yourself able to think of little else.

But of course, that was not the only thing that plagued your mind. There were the lifeless eyes of Ser Vaemond Velaryon. There was also the man whose face you did not know, but whose blood was on your hands. Several more troubling, if not downright terrifying, things.

…

You were pulled from your near-suffocating thoughts upon seeing the back of a familiar stature across the deck. The figure, donning his cloak, was facing away from you, looking out towards the sea.

Harwin.

You had awoken from a dreamless sleep to find the space on the bed beside you empty, and had suspected to find your husband here. However, that was not the sole reason you had chosen to rise from bed yourself. With all the thoughts plaguing your mind, it was little wonder that any sort of decent sleep had yet to find you that night. You had hoped, perhaps naively so, that a bit of fresh air would help calm you.

You were tempted to go to him, but without much deliberation at all, decided against it. It was best to leave Harwin to his own thoughts, at least for the time being. The horrid realization you had all made only a few short days ago impacted him more than anyone else.

You turned away from Harwin and took up post by the closest railing. With your hands firmly pressing into the wood beneath your fingers, you lifted your chin and looked up to the sky.

It was dark, but littered with a copious amount of stars. The moon, nearly full, provided one of the only sources of light around for several leagues. A few sparsely lit torches provided some guidance for those on the ship, but beyond that, it was nearly impossible to tell what lay ahead.

But you knew what was waiting for you. You may not have been able to see it yet, even if you were standing in the rays of the sun instead of the moon. You knew the predetermined destination that the ship would reach early on the morrow.

Dragonstone.

“Mother?”

You nearly jumped out of your skin, despite the softness of your eldest son’s voice, for you had not even heard him approach. Your skirts rippled from the light wind and from the movement as Derrik came to stand beside you.

“Derrik,” you greeted him as you regained your composure. “What keeps you awake? The hour grows late.”

Derrik shrugged nonchalantly. He looked out and over the dark sea, just as you had a moment before, and refused to meet your eyes. “The same things as you, I suppose.”

He placed his hands on the railing to steady himself. As he did so, you stood up straight, mentally preparing yourself for what was sure to be an interesting, and perhaps challenging, conversation with your eldest son.

“I cannot stop thinking of what happened,” Derrik clarified. “About what could have happened… and what has yet to pass.”

You looked away, joining him in focusing upon the crashing waves as your guilt began to eat away at you once again.

After your near encounter with the Stranger, which was prevented only by the timely arrival of Harwin and several of his own men, you had made for Duskendale with great haste. When you arrived, your sons, who were well aware of the King’s abrupt passing and your obvious delay to rejoin them, were among those who gathered inside the gates of the Dun Fort to greet you.

The only comfort you could take from that moment was that Brynna had opted to stay within the keep with Luciya, and that your youngest had been spared from seeing you in such an alarming state.

“I should have ridden out with Father,” Derrick asserted, his voice suddenly severe. His knuckles whitened as his grip on the railing in front of him tightened with his conviction. “I would have been of far more use than I was in Duskendale, merely sitting around and waiting for you to return.”

You shook your head vehemently. “I would not have wished what we encountered on the road upon anyone, let alone you, Derrik.”

What a sight you must have been, riding through Duskendale and up to the gates of the Dun Fort with Harwin riding beside you, and the rest of your men flanking you on all sides. You could not have prevented Derrik and Selwin, who had joined those gathered to receive you, from seeing the ghastly amount of blood on your dress. But you so desperately wished you could have.

Derrik and Selwin were intelligent; in light of everything else, and the fact that you insisted that you were well and uninjured, it was easy enough for them to infer that something foul had befallen you.

“You’ve said so little about what actually happened… I can tell you do not wish to speak of it,” Derrik inferred, ever astute. “But, when you do wish to speak of it, I hope you know that I am here for you, Mother.”

You smiled sadly, sincerely touched by the gesture. “A generous offer, Derrik. But I would not burden you with it anymore than I already have.”

“You are my mother, not a burden.”

“I have your father I can speak to about it, when I am ready to do so.”

Derrik turned to look at you imploringly. “And who does he have?”

You turned, matching his stern and searching gaze. “He has us.”

Shortly after entering the Dun Fort, Derrik and Selwin had bombarded you with questions. You and Harwin had no choice but to take them straight to the chambers that Lord Darklyn had prepared for the both of you. Your sons deserved to know, no matter how difficult it was for you and Harwin to share, and for them to hear. You had sat them down, and proceeded to tell them the harrowing discovery that had been brought to light. When words began to fail Harwin, you had found them for him.

But you had spared your sons some of the details, for you could not bring yourself to admit that you had killed a man by your own hand. Even now, the dagger with which you had carried out the act was strapped to your side, hidden beneath your cloak. Despite the repulsiveness you intermittently felt about what you had done, you did not dare to go anywhere without the dagger in reach.

Derrik and Selwin may not have been told the entirety of what happened to you and your escort on the road. But they knew the core, fundamental truth.

Their uncle, Larys Strong, had betrayed you all.

“I can’t even begin to imagine what is running through Father’s mind.” Derrik looked away from you. Even from his side profile, you could tell that the look that washed over his face was a dark one. “The thought of Selwin doing something like that…” He shook his head. “‘Tis impossible to fathom.”

The thought of doing such a thing to Derrik’s namesake, your elder brother Derron, was impossible for you to fathom as well. You spared a glance over your shoulder, seeing that Harwin remained where you had seen him a few moments before, with his back still facing the two of you.

Your heart wrenched for him.

Harwin’s own brother, Larys, had attempted to kill your entire family in the Harrenhal fire. He had succeeded in killing their father, Lord Lyonel Strong, that very night. And, for reasons still not fully known to either of you, Larys had attempted to claim your life for a second time. The situation would be immensely difficult for anyone to fully comprehend, let alone someone like Harwin, who had always regarded his family, particularly his younger brother, as very dear to him.

There weren’t words fitting enough to describe what such a betrayal must have felt like.

“My uncle will pay,” Derrik vowed, his tone low and grave. “Justice will be served. Not only for Grandsire’s life, but for the attempts on all of our own. And he will answer for any other atrocities he may have committed, but which have yet to come to light.

How deep did your Good Brother’s foul plots run? …  If Larys had been responsible for the fire at Harrenhal, then what of your brother, Lord Derron, and his mysterious sudden death? … And just where had your cousin Lord Garrett Redwyne, who had never been particularly ambitious, gotten the notion that the lordship of House Tyrell was available for the claiming after Derron’s passing? … And what of the misunderstanding that led to Lord Loreon Lannister accosting you the night before your wedding feast?

But did you even dare to go back that far? If you did, at what point would you realize that you and Harwin had been puppets controlled by Larys’s strings for years?

You nearly gagged.

“Do not allow your thirst for vengeance to consume you,” you pleaded with Derrik instead. “Doing so will blind you to most everything else. This is a dangerous time, and we need to be more present and aware of our surroundings than ever before.”

“Will there be war?”

You regarded him carefully.

Derrik had favored Harwin in looks more than he had ever favored you. But as to who he was, the person within- when you looked at Derrik, it often felt as though you were staring at your own reflection. Despite all the evidence suggesting the very conclusion that he had surmised, a gleam of small, yet indisputably hopeful optimism still clouded his hazel eyes. It was the same optimism a younger version of yourself had once held proudly- before the realities of the harsh world you lived in had forced you to abandon most of it.

Lying to Derrik would do him no favors. But neither would throwing him to the wolves.

You proposed, albeit half-heartedly, “Bloodshed is likely to be the last resort, not the initial course of action. The Queen may yet offer the Usurper generous terms.”

“Which he will undoubtedly reject, no matter how fair they may be,” Derrik denounced bitterly. “And what then? Will blood be spillled?”

Your small smile faded. “Mayhaps.”

Derrik nodded stiffly, and clenched his jaw.

“Nothing will happen to you,” you promised him quickly, wanting to dissuade any of his concerns. “Your father and I would not allow you anywhere near a battlefield.” Let alone one where dragons survey the skies above.

“I’m all but ten and seven, Mother, and a fair swordsman at that. Should war come, I will do my duty to defend our Houses, and our Queen.” Before you could protest, Derrik added, “But it is not myself whom I worry about… It’s you.”

You blinked, not having expected such a declaration from him.

Seeing your confusion, Derrik elaborated, “I worry for you. For Father. Selwin. Luciya. And everyone else dear to me. If the realm goes to war, you will all be in danger… And I am but one person. How can I ensure that all of you will be safe?”

A bittersweet smile played on your lips. You reached out and grabbed Derrik’s hand that was closest to you. “My Heart, it is not your job to protect us. It is your father and I’s responsibility to look after you. Though I am touched you feel so strongly about this, you are too young to shoulder such a heavy burden, so I bid you not.”

“I am all but ten and seven, Mother,” Derrik said for the second time, his patience never wavering.

Ten and seven. You had been so close to his age when you had first come to King’s Landing, all those years ago. That one event had set you all on the path that led you to be right where you were, at that precise moment. An ominously calm moment, on the precipice of something. War? Most possibly. Something far greater, by the way of the reign of the first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms? If the gods had any pity left for you, maybe.

“If anything should happen to you, what would I do?” Derrik wondered despondently. “Who would I be without my family?”

You pushed the dark thoughts down and away from the forefront of your mind. “You would be you, Derrik. You would be the young man your father and I raised. An intelligent, courteous, and loyal young man.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but you pressed on.

“All this talk is premature,” you insisted earnestly, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “None of us can truly know what lies ahead, so there is little use in dreading it. Brace yourself for it, if you must. But do not burden yourself with worries that may never come to pass.”

Derrik mused over your words for a few moments, before eventually giving you a conceding nod.

You felt encouraged that your words had begun to resonate with him, even if they did not serve a dual purpose in alleviating your own worries. “I think you will feel more settled on the morrow, once we reach Dragonstone. We will be under Princess -the Queen’s- protection then. We will reaffirm our loyalty to her cause, and see how best we can serve it.”

“And then?”

… And what then?

You did not know.

Would second-born sons always be meant to bring doom upon their families?

Harwin was reluctant to put any merit into such an unprovable and unfair generalization, but he had truly begun to wonder.

King Viserys’s first born son, though also the second of all his children, was a usurper. The actions of his staunchest supporters and his mindless willingness to go along with them had put the entire realm right on the brink of war. By his failure to reject the ambitions of those around him, he had robbed his elder sister of her birthright. A birthright their shared father desired for no one else but her. He was a fool, and such foolishness had enabled him to become a witless participant in a scheme beyond his comprehension and traitor to the realm.

Harwin’s father, Lyonel Strong, was a second son. Had his uncle, Lyonel’s older brother, not been taken by the Stranger at such a young age, and without heirs of his own, his father most likely would have been alive, even to this day. Regardless, Lyonel would not have been encouraged to produce heirs of his own, and would have never sired a son who would so heartlessly orchestrate his downfall.

Larys. Perhaps the most damning evidence, if it could even be considered as such, for Harwin’s broad generalization. The second born son of a former Hand of the King. The Master of Whisperers for the same king his father had served. Perhaps Larys still served in that position for the Usurper.

But there was only one title that Harwin would ever acknowledge Larys Strong as again.

Kinslayer.

There weren’t enough feelings in the world to adequately describe how Harwin felt about the man who had once been his brother. The man whom Harwin had spent years of his youth looking out for, defending, and the man whom Harwin had always gone to great lengths to reassure that any inadequacy he might have felt was only imagined.

But if there was a primary feeling Harwin felt, it was pure, unbridled anger. As Harwin wrestled with his own thoughts, it was of little surprise that sleep had yet to find him. He’d been on the deck of Lord Darklyn’s ship for a while now, perhaps an hour or two. But Harwin would stay put and breathe in the salty air for as long as he needed to in order to feel something other than the dangerously stormy anger brewing within.

Said anger was now reserved solely for the scum that was Larys the Kinslayer. Not for you, or your children, or for anyone else traveling with you. If Harwin needed to keep some distance in order to refrain from outlashing upon an unintended recipient, then it was a necessary evil. Leaving you alone in bed while he carved some time for himself did not sit well with Harwin, but he would live with it readily if it meant you’d be spared witnessing just how much damage Larys’s blow had done to him.

You did not need a husband who was distracted with a desire to deal out personal justice, or a husband completely devastated by the betrayal of someone he had once held so dear. You had taken another’s life with your own hands, even though it was completely in your own self defense. Harwin was relieved that you had been able to do what needed to be done to protect yourself, but that did not make a difference in how you felt about it.

You need Harwin to be strong, now more than ever.

… So why was he here, up on the deck of Lord Darklyn’s ship, and away from you?

Further internal reflection could wait until later. The closer the ship grew to Dragonstone, the further you and the rest of your family were out of the Usurper’s grasp, and the more at ease Harwin began to feel. It was all a bit ironic, considering what was looming on the horizon.

Harwin turned away from the sea, and made to head back below deck. However, the sight of you and Derrik across the way made him pause. How long had the two of you been up here, whilst he was completely consumed in his own thoughts?

He walked across the deck with light steps, not wishing to disturb whatever conversation the two of you found yourselves in at this late hour.

“... I think you will feel more settled on the morrow, once we reach Dragonstone,” you were saying to Derrik. “We will be under Princess -the Queen’s- protection then. We will reaffirm our loyalty to her cause, and see how best we can serve it.”

“And then?” Derrick questioned.

“We will cross that bridge once we’ve reached it,” Harwin answered.

Despite the softness of his tone, Harwin couldn’t help but notice how you and Derrik flinched at the sound of his voice. It faintly wondered what subject the two of you had been discussing prior to him announcing his presence.

“Good evening, Father,” Derrik greeted him, recovering from his slight startle with ease. “We were just taking in a breath of fresh air.”

“As was I,” Harwin lied. His eyes briefly scanned the area, before finally landing back on Derrik. “Where is Selwin?”

It was a fair question; when it came to your sons, where there was one, the other was usually not far behind.

But in response, Derrik shook his head. “He is doing a much better job at trying to sleep than what I have the patience for.”

A soft smile threatened to break through Harwin’s otherwise brooding composure at the thought.

Upon Lord Darklyn receiving word of the death of the King, both Derrik and Selwin had insisted on riding out with Harwin to find you and the escort on the road. Derrik had been difficult enough to persuade to remain behind in Duskendale; convincing Selwin to do the same had been nearly impossible. Your youngest son had a fire within him that reminded Harwin so greatly of the one he harbored within himself. It was a fire fueled by loyalty and the desire to fiercely protect one’s own. Selwin, like Harwin, wore his heart on his sleeve. He was no lamb in sheep’s clothing, like Larys had revealed himself to be. Selwin was not capable of the treachery that his uncle had devised.

No, Harwin happily amended mentally. Not all second sons are destined to bring ruin upon their kin.

“Let us hope his efforts are not futile,” Harwin suggested. “We could all do with a good night’s rest.”

Whilst we still can. Those were the unspoken words that lingered uncomfortably for a few fleeting moments.

“I shall try and follow his example then,” Derrik agreed, breaking the mild tension. “Good night, Mother, Father.”

“Sleep well,” you told him, smiling lightly when Derrik kissed you fondly on the cheek.

Harwin also mustered up a small smile to give Derrik, and clapped him briefly on the shoulder as the younger man passed him. As Derrik walked away, Harwin turned his full attention to you.

It must have been a skill, Harwin supposed. Or, rather, simply a natural talent. Whatever it was, you looked as beautiful as ever, and effortlessly so, despite the horrors you both witnessed and experienced over the past few weeks. As you stood before him, the moonlight bathed you in a subtle but attractive light.

But when your eyes flickered up to meet his own, Harwin noticed immediately that they betrayed your otherwise serene and undisturbed appearance. Such sadness, stress, and mayhaps grief, lingered in your eyes, the likes of which Harwin had been fortunate enough to seldom see. In fact, the last time you had looked at him in such a way, you had just lost your brother, and were torn between fighting your cousin, Lord Garrett Redwyne, for possession of House Tyrell’s titles and holdings, or simply giving up. You had been seeking answers.

Perhaps you were seeking them again.

“You could not sleep either?” Harwin deduced.

You shook your head, turning to face the railing once again. Harwin stepped forward, coming to a stop beside you. Your arms brushed against one another’s due to the close proximity, but neither of you felt particularly inclined to move or step away.

Harwin looked over at you, but your gaze had returned to the dark waves before the pair of you. The hypnotic swirling movements spanned as far as the eye could see. There was no land, nor anything other to focus on. Only waves. Only darkness.

“Talk to me,” Harwin begged gently.

You clenched your jaw, still refusing to meet his eyes. “‘Tis nothing to speak of.”

“If that is truly how you feel about it, then I shall be gravely concerned for you.”

At Harwin’s poor attempt at a joke, you tore your eyes away from the sea and looked up at him. You gave him a disapproving look, but Harwin could’ve sworn that the heavy look in your eyes was lightened- if only a little bit.

“Please,” Harwin coaxed softly, hoping the break in your reserve would encourage you to continue to lower your heightened guard. “If speaking about it will help-”

“Lord Husband, you have just discovered that your brother conspired to have us killed, succeeded in killing your father, and attempted to take my own life once more. And yet you wish to discuss how I am feeling?”

“Yes,” Harwin asserted firmly, ignoring the twinge of hurt he felt at the use of such formality. “I can not bear the thought of you suffering in silence, My Love.”

You looked away from him once again and shook your head to yourself.

It was hardly appropriate conversation to have over dinner. But there had been some nights, when the memories became too much, too burdensome to contain with the perils of his own mind, when Harwin confided to you about it. Harwin had been Lord Commander of the City Watch, and had served on it for years prior to his promotion. He might not have commanded with the iron fist that his predecessors had, but he never shied away from doing what needed to be done. He’d been trained with weapons at a young age, and had grown up the eldest son and heir of a lord who was expected to carry out justice in the name of the King within the border of his own lands. He’d been knighted, and had participated in many dangerous tournaments over the years.

Harwin had witnessed a great deal of death in his life. And some of those deaths had been by his own hand.

Killing in the name of justice or honor did not make it any easier for Harwin to rationalize or accept what he had needed to do. And, he imagined, killing in the name of self-defense would not make it any more tolerable either.

“There is more blood on my hands than your own,” Harwin reminded you somberly, the volume of his voice softening significantly under the pure weight of his words. “I understand how impossible it may seem to wash it all away, despite the urge you may feel to rid yourself of the memory. If you need more time to mull it over, then take it. But I beg of you, please do not keep it all to yourself. You cannot simply ignore it- I know this, because I have tried. If you never face it, it will drown you.”

You clenched your jaw tighter.

For a few moments, all was quiet. The longer you did not speak, the more Harwin’s concern for you grew. If there was one thing that could overpower his desire to avenge his father, it would be his pure care and love for you.

Finally, you sighed. “Every time I close my eyes, I see his.” Abruptly, you turned, and looked up at Harwin with a pleading, almost pained look. “And when I do not see his, I see Ser Vaemond’s instead.”

Rumors about the unfavorable conclusion of the Driftmark succession petition had reached Duskendale only a day or two after Ser Vaemond’s head was detached from his shoulders, courtesy of Prince Daemon. Harwin knew you would not have been likely to be far from Princess Rhaenyra’s side during the petition, which led him to the inevitable conclusion that you were likely to have witnessed the grotesque act. Another horrendous and, frankly, unnecessary, chain of events that you had bore witness to over the past few weeks, and largely in part to the impulsivity of Prince Daemon Targaryen.

Harwin had many things he wished to say to Prince Daemon. Unfortunately, not many of them were likely to come to fruition, given the man’s recent escalation to Prince Consort.

Harwin could not, and would not, lie to you. “They will likely haunt you for some time.”

You did not look pleased by this, but neither did you look particularly surprised.

“The memories may be foul, but they serve a purpose,” Harwin contended delicately. “They prove that you have compassion. Guilt, even. It stands to reason that, had there been any other way, you might have taken it. But make no mistake, Y/N- there was no other way. Not this time.”

“Will it ever stop?” you wondered, your voice wavering with emotion. “Will I ever stop reliving what I’ve seen? What I’ve done?”

Harwin wished for little else in that moment but to find it within himself to lie to you. What he would do to give you whatever little comfort he could in this particularly trying time. But if it was a false hope, it would not be worth offering at all.

“You will always remember, but the shock will fade with time. You come to terms with it; you accept that it cannot be undone.”

Once more, you did not look pleased nor surprised. Rather, you looked resigned. “... Thank you, Harwin. I do not believe this is the last we will speak of the matter. But your words have helped, if only for tonight.”

Of course, Harwin would have wished for you to feel more reassured than for merely the span of the night, but that was a tall ask. He would not count it as a loss, and would be content with helping to soothe what plagued you in the time being, no matter how little it was.

It felt that the conversation had reached a natural conclusion. But just as Harwin was about to suggest that you both return back to your temporary quarters to retire, you continued.

“And what of you?”

Harwin froze. “What of me?”

“You insult me to think I am so foolish, Dearest. How fair is it for you to offer me words of comfort in my time of need, but to not have the same courtesy extended to you?”

Harwin was given a small start when you suddenly placed your hand on top of his own.

“Please,” you steadfastly bid him. “The revelation that your brother is not who you believed him to be is deeply troubling, but you need not conceal your thoughts about it for my sake. I can see how deep his betrayal has wounded you. Our sons can see it. And I am certain even Luciya can sense something is amiss.”

You were stubborn. But Harwin loved you for it. “... I would not even know where to begin.”

“You can begin by telling me what you wrote to him.”

May the gods have mercy on you, for I will not.

That was what Harwin had written to Larys, amongst other things.

Upon the realization that both scrolls found on two of the men who had waylaid your traveling party en route to Duskendale bore Larys’s seal, Harwin could not have torn them open fast enough.

Larys must have made himself out to be a clever man by having given his men the letters, each addressed to Harwin, and each able to have been sent on by raven once the task was done. Given their varying contents, one would have been selected depending on the course of action his tongue-less men had deemed appropriate to take. While one had conveyed Larys’s deepest sympathies that he had discovered you’d been killed in a skirmish during a robbery gone astray, the other regretfully informed Harwin that you had been taken hostage by the brigands instead.

But Larys was not clever enough. Keeping the firefly pin a secret between Harwin, you, and his steward and castellan, Lord Dannis, had proven to be most wise. Had Larys discovered the connection you and Harwin had made between it and the fire at Harrenhal, he might not have been so bold whilst devising his most recent attempt on your life.

Harwin made the most of the opportunity to write a short, but plain, letter back to his brother. He had not even bothered to sign or seal it, but Larys would not be able to mistake who had sent it.

You had read both of Larys’s scrolls, but Harwin had not shown you what he had penned back to the Kinslayer. The raven carrying the message had departed Duskendale for King’s Landing just as you departed Duskendale for Dragonstone. Larys most likely would have received it by already. Harwin could not deny that the thought of Larys pacing restlessly in the Red Keep as the realization that his wicked schemes had been found out brought Harwin some joy.

“He knows that I am aware of what he has done,” Harwin paraphrased his letter, ultimately deciding that revealing the entirety of his words was moot. Then, another thought crossed his mind, and he grimaced. “But perhaps I was too careless with my words. Keeping Larys in the dark, at least for a few days, might have offered us an advantage against him.”

You gripped his hand more firmly. “No. Let him toil away for now, knowing that justice will be had.”

Harwin had thought, more than once, about sending you and your children onwards to Dragonstone whilst he returned to King’s Landing alone. The thought of barging into the Red Keep and dragging Larys out to face that justice was extremely appealing. But Harwin knew, beyond a doubt, that if he stormed through the gates of the Red Keep, he would not be simply allowed to leave. He was the Lord of Harrenhal now, a lord suspected by many, for more reasons than one, to be unwaveringly loyal to Queen Rhaenyra. The Usurper would leap at the chance to lock him away in the dungeons, at least until he thought of a way he could be use to serve his false cause.

A day would come when vengeance could be served, and Larys would be paid his due. But, much to Harwin’s chagrin, that day would have to wait.

“You should write to your sisters,” you suggested to him. “They deserve to know the truth about Larys.”

Harwin glanced at you anxiously, and his shoulders tensed. With all his mental turmoil, he had yet to consider how his sisters may react to the news. “Do you truly think they will believe me? It will be my word against his. Larys has had us fooled for years, My Love- who is to say his venomous words will not charm our sisters and turn them against me?”

“And what could Larys say to sway them?” you countered. “That you’ve gone mad? You’ve never given either of your sisters a reason to fear you, My Love. I do not believe that would start now. And, should they be insistent on proof, we still have the other letter in our possession.”

Harwin took care to choose which one of his brother’s letters he would return back to him, and kept the most damning one for himself. He’d tucked it safely away amongst his few traveling possessions, where it would remain. The letter, written in Larys’s own hand and which detailed your death, which had yet to actually transpire, was likely to raise some questions at the very least.

“Your sisters deserve to be informed of such a thing in person,” you acquiesced thoughtfully. “But that is a luxury that we cannot afford now. Write to them- tell them the truth, and warn them of what we suspect will soon come, so that their houses can start their own preparations.”

Successfully convincing Lilyan and Eyla that their brother orchestrated the murder of Lord Lyonel would appease Harwin some, but it would never be enough. Even if Harwin could find it somewhere deep within himself to one day forgive Larys of such an atrocity, that was not the whole of Larys’s sins.

The failure to properly execute a plan could not erase the intent of it. The fire at Harrenhal had been orchestrated to eliminate you all. Larys had meant to kill you. He had meant to rid himself of your sons.

And for that, Larys could rot in the deepest pit of the Seven Hells for all eternity.

“That will not be enough to satisfy,” Harwin confided to you in a dark, low tone.

“Once this business with the Usurper has been dealt with, the Queen shall hold them all accountable for their crimes. The Master of Whisperers may receive a trial, but the truth cannot be soiled. Larys will meet his deserved end.”

Harwin paused to allow the deeper meaning of your words sink in.

Larys would die.

But what all would transpire before that came to pass?

Suddenly, a particularly strong gust of wind came barreling through. As you readjusted your grip on the railing, Harwin placed a hand at the small of your back to keep you steady. Once the wind had passed, you shivered.

Without a thought, Harwin unfastened and shrugged off his traveling cloak. Ignoring your feeble protests, he placed it over your shoulders. His hands remained there for a few moments past what would have been necessary to secure the fabric.

“Thank you,” you told him, speaking so softly Harwin had to strain to hear you over the noise of the waves. “But I have little need for two cloaks, and without one of your own, you will catch a chill.”

“If that is the cost for ensuring you will not, then it is a price I do not mind paying.”

For the second time, Harwin felt the conversation had reached its natural conclusion. But then, you took a slow step to the side, creeping your way towards him. He lifted an arm and could not help but chuckle at your thinly veiled attempt to be subtle about it. Once you tucked yourself into his side, Harwin dropped his arm, securing you to him.

You had both been through great ordeals. It was, almost fearfully so, too easy to forget that it had been weeks since you had had a true moment alone. A moment unencumbered by the most recent conversations of traveling, betrayal, usurpation, or war. A moment where the two of you could just be.

“I do not think I have ever felt more relieved than when I realized it was not too late,” Harwin found himself saying.

Finding you amidst a struggle with a mysterious attacker was frightening enough, but you were alive, and at that moment, after weeks of tormenting himself about the extent of your wellbeing, that was all that had mattered to Harwin. The fear of not finding you, or worse, finding you after something grave had befallen you and your escort on the road, still haunted him. 

You burrowed your head into his chest to make yourself more comfortable. “As was I. What use would I be to our Queen if I had fallen into the clutches of the Greens?”

Harwin could not help but be appalled by your words. Did you truly not understand? Though loyalty was admirable, the severity of the situation could not be ignored.

Harwin tightened his hold on you. “You could have died.”

“I know,” you breathed shakily. “It’s just… easier to entertain the alternative.”

Harwin understood that feeling all too well.

You wrapped your arms around his middle. As if it were even possible, you pressed yourself further into his side. “I am truly sorry about your brother, Dearest.”

“Don’t be,” Harwin replied, speaking truthfully. “He may be of my blood, but he is no brother of mine. I still have my family, my true family. And I still have you. That is all that matters.”

For a few minutes, the two of you stood there in a comfortable silence.

“These are dark times we’ve found ourselves in,” you mused joylessly.

Harwin sighed. “Aye.”

“All of this mess, is it worth it? Is all this misery we’ve endured worth whatever awaits us beyond?”

“We are no oathbreakers,” Harwin reminded you, treading lightly. “We chose this path years ago.”

“But what if we chose wrong?”

Harwin was stunned to a loss for words at your suggestion. You had rarely expressed any doubt in supporting Princess Rahenyra, and for as long as Harwin had known you, you had known her.

Eventually, Harwin pondered, “How could we have chosen wrong, if we chose to walk this path together?”

You contemplated his words.

“It would serve neither of us to dwell on the past,” Harwin discouraged, pulling you even closer still. “This path we have chosen might not be easy. But it is what we have chosen.”

There was another choice before you now. Formally pledged oaths and informally reassurances of loyalty aside, the question was a simple one.

Aegon, or Rhaenyra? … The Usurper, or your friend?

“What do you think awaits us at Dragonstone?” you asked him then.

Harwin did not fail to notice your convenient change in rhetoric, but he would not press the matter. “If Lord Darklyn could not delay his own departure to Dragonstone, even for a day or two so that we might have joined him, then the situation must be dire.”

“I should write to my uncle. If war is upon us, he needs to know.”

Harwin understood your sense of urgency. Dragons were one thing, but armies were another. If Oldtown deposed reinforcements to King’s Landing to defend the Usurper’s claim, Highgarden, fixed along the Rose Road, would be in their direct path.

“And you shall,” Harwin assured you. “On the morrow.”

There were no ravens aboard that were available to carry such a message.

Fortunately, you did not disagree. Instead, you gave him a relenting nod. “It seems that a lot of hope has been placed on our issues being resolved ‘on the morrow’.”

“As you told our son- we shall at least feel more at ease.”

You scoffed. “Excellent. Well, now that you’ve put it that way, I look forward to it earnestly.”

Harwin must’ve made a strange face, for as soon as you saw it, your own expression softened. As you turned to face him fully, the sarcasm faded quickly, leaving only empathy in its wake.

You placed your hands on his chest and looked up to him with wide eyes. “Forgive me.”

The corners of Harwin’s mouth twitched as he covered your hands with his own. “There is nothing to forgive, My Love.”

And when you stood on your toes to press a tender kiss to his lips, it was incredibly easy for Harwin to imagine that the two of you were somewhere, anywhere else. Not sailing towards an uncertain fate.

What he would have given to turn back time, if only a month or two. What he would have given to have you and your children back in Highgarden, away from what was becoming an increasingly volatile world. What he would have given to have spared you the horrors you had endured.

What he would give to have the opportunity to knock some sense into himself, to force open his own eyes and take a deeper, more insightful look at his brother.

The path you had chosen to walk together had taken its toll. Most of the wounds had healed, though the scars of them would always remain. But, as Harwin had argued, you had chosen to walk the path together. You would not abandon the path now, not when the end was so near. However strenuous the final stretch of it would be, you would continue to draw your strength from each other.

You pulled away first, but did not stray far. Your next words escaped you in a hushed whisper. “Whatever comes next, promise me that we’ll face it together?”

“Together,” Harwin avowed, knowing no other way.

The sun had just begun to rise over the island of Dragonstone.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon had already been awake for some time, but the lightening of the sky gave him a proper excuse to finally slip from his chambers.

He found who he needed to without much searching; it seemed there were many walking about the castle as of late, even at early hours of the morning. Almost all of them would jump at any chance to be of service. Jacaerys gave the order to his mother’s- well, perhaps now his- steward, and did not dawdle long after giving it, lest it be protested.

The Queen was not to be disturbed.

Of course, his mother had no idea of Jacaerys’s command. In fact, once she learned of it, she was likely to be cross with him. But Jacaerys would willingly subject himself to her scolding, for he felt it was for the best.

The day before had been difficult. Terribly so.

In the morning, they had given the funeral rights before a much, much too small pyre for his sister. Visenya, his mother had named her. By midday, Ser Erryk Cargyll had arrived from King’s Landing to present his mother with the crown of the Old King. It was same crown his own grandsire had worn for six and twenty years, and his great-great-grandsire for five and fifty years before that. By the afternoon, most everyone had gathered in the Chamber of the Painted Table, where strategizing waged on for what felt like a few more hours. Lord Otto Hightower’s arrival on the shores of Dragonstone in the evening brought that discussion to a grinding halt. He’d delivered proposed terms of peace to the Queen, and to the rest of her pledged supporters who had not already received them. No one had felt like reconvening after that.

Three days. His mother had promised the Usurper’s Hand that the Greens would have their answer in three days. In three days, it would be known whether the realm was to go to war.

But until the Sea Snake arrived, or until the scouts his mother had sent to the mainland to locate and retrieve their additional key allies returned, it felt as if all further progress at amassing support for the Queen’s cause was at a standstill. And so far, there had yet to be word on either of those fronts.

No need for his mother to rise any earlier than what she might naturally. If Jacaerys could do her this small kindness, it would be more than worthwhile. His mother was the Queen, and the Seven Kingdoms were hers to protect now. But she had also protected Jacaerys his entire life. Now that he was nearly a man grown, it was high time for him to return the favor.

With the Queen indisposed with sleep, only Prince Daemon might have been able to undermine Jacaerys’s command to leave her undisturbed. It was most fortunate that his step-father was doing… only the gods knew whatever he was doing, coming and going from the castle at all hours, and as he saw fit. Jacaerys could only hope that he wasn’t off threatening even more of the limited few who had already pledged their support. That would be the easiest way to invoke the wrath of the Queen.

There was already tension between them, between his mother and step-father. But Jacaerys could not discern the real cause. Was it the loss of their daughter, the death of their father and brother respectively, or another matter altogether?

The only comfort Jacerys took was, although his step-father was undoubtedly plotting for someone, he could not possibly be plotting for the Greens. The Greens might welcome many of the Queen’s defectors to their side in the days to come, but so deep was the history between the Rogue Prince and the Usurper’s Hand, Prince Daemon would never be one of them.

Finally alone with his thoughts, Jacaerys leaned against the stone barrier of a balcony that looked out and over the sea. With some good winds and a fair amount of luck, vessels bearing the Sea Snake’s banner would sail through the waters by the end of the day.

A small glance at the sky behind him, all the way across to the other side of the castle, proved his suspicions. Nearly a day had passed, and yet the faint white wisps of smoke rose into the pink sky.

What remained of Princess Visenya Targaryen’s funeral pyre still simmered.

Jacaerys turned back away. What he would give to take to the skies with Vermax at that moment. Being on dragonback and looking down at the world, where even something as grand as the castle looked miniscule, had an uncanny way of clearing one’s mind.

But that was not possible. Not today. With his mother taking a well-deserved rest, Jacaerys knew he needed to be on the ground and easily within reach, in case there happened to be need of him. At least he could carve away a few moments of calm peace, before the rest of the castle began to truly stir.

And peace he had, until a small movement beside him gently nudged him from his heavy thoughts. Jacaerys turned towards the oncomer and was surprised at who he saw beside him.

“Luke,” he greeted. He shifted, taking his weight off his forearms, which had been resting on the barrier before him, and rose to his full height. “I did not expect you to be up at this hour.”

“Nor I you,” his younger brother replied, avoiding his gaze.

An awkward tension fell over them.

“Did you sleep well?”

Lucerys’s answer was quick and resolved. “No.”

“Me neither.”

The awkwardness dissipated, and when Lucerys finally turned to meet his eyes, he gave a small smile, which was easy for Jacaerys to return.

“Before too much time has passed, there is something I wished to tell you,” Jacaerys said then, carefully adjusting his tone so as to properly convey his sincerity. “I wanted to apologize for the other day. How I behaved… it was uncalled for.”

Jacaerys was not sure what had gotten a hold of him. He and his brother had been sparring with one another since they were young boys, and none of those bouts had ever resulted as it had two days ago. Never before had Jacaerys knocked his younger brother down to the sand, nor yanked him around, let alone so roughly. Jacaerys supposed that he had yet to recover the involuntary exposure to his uncles in King’s Landing, which had brought out the worst in him. But even if that were so, Lucerys had not been deserving of the treatment he’d received.

“You are a prince,” Lucerys disagreed. A true peacekeeper, he was. It was little wonder mother tended to favor him; Jacaerys would have done the same, if he’d had a son like that.

“As are you.”

“You are the Prince,” Lucerys amended, uncharacteristically stoic. “The Heir to the Iron Throne, future Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Jacaerys countered, “And who was I before?”

Lucyers waited for his response.

“Your brother,” Jacaerys answered, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder. “Whether they call us princes or bastards, whether I am to be a king someday or nothing at all, none of that matters to me. None of that matters, so long the histories remember I was your brother in the end.”

He could tell his words touched Lucerys deeply; the rising sun did little to mask the water behind his younger brother’s eyes. But Jacaerys would not speak of that. By the old gods and the new, never again would he belittle Lucerys so.

“My Prince!”

Jacaerys dropped his hand and turned towards the call.

It was Baela.

There he was, at nearly ten and seven, and just the sight of his recently betrothed had the tendency to make him grin like a love-stricken boy.

“Good morrow, Lady Baela!” Jacaerys greeted her heartily. He did a double take as he took in her appearance. Baela was walking towards them, taking off her gloves one by one. Her silvery white curls, riding cloak, and dress fanned out behind her with the winds that blew in from the sea. She looked rather majestic, but Jacaerys would have rather been caught dead before he dared to make such a declaration in the presence of his younger brother.

Seven Hells, Baela herself might have even thumped him upside the head for it.

“Did you go for a ride this morning?” Lucerys asked her politely, also having noted her unusual state of dress for the early hour.

Moondancer was not the biggest of their dragons, but had recently grown large enough to seat her rider. And Baela had taken advantage of that development as much as her young dragon’s stamina had allowed.

Baela nodded. “I thought I might keep an eye out for Grandsire’s fleet.”

“Any sight of it?”

“No,” Baela answered, the disappointment evident in her voice. “However, I did spot a lone ship, with its course leading straight here. I knew I needed to return at once.”

Jacaerys frowned. The Usurper’s Hand had not been gone half a day, and his mother had told him she would need three in order to consider the proposed terms. Surely the Usurper was not so conniving, nor stupid, to send a single vessel to Dragonstone for the sake of merely antagonizing the Queen? If it was an enemy ship, it would never even reach the harbor.

“What is the banner being flown?” Jacaerys implored.

“The sail was of House Darklyn’s,” Baela recounted. “Was Lord Gunthor expecting more men?”

“Not that I can recall.” Perhaps it was a ploy or something of the sort.

Jacaerys turned with the intention to head back inside, rouse his mother, and inform her of the news. But when Baela reached out a hand to stop him, he halted at once.

“There were two others,” she told him. “They were smaller banners, like what soldiers might carry. I did not dare to fly too low or too close, but I could make out the colors.”

“What were they?”

“One was a golden sigil on a field of green.”

Jacaerys looked to his younger brother, who gave him a knowing look. He looked back to Baela. “And the other?”

“It was blue, red-”

“And green?” Lucerys interjected hopefully. “On a field of white?”

Baela looked stunned. “Yes.”

For the first time in days, Jacaerys let out a small laugh. Upon seeing Baela’s confusion from his understandably bizarre response, he explained, “There is no need to worry, for that is no enemy ship.”

It was plain to see that Baela was not entirely reassured. “There are so many house sigils, My Prince. You cannot know them all.”

“I do not,” Jacaerys admitted. “But I know of two houses whose members were recently due to be hosted by Lord Gunthor. The same two we have hoped would soon reach our shores.” 

Jacaerys turned back to his brother next. Lucerys looked about as happy as Jacaerys felt.

“Go to the Queen,” he bid Lucerys, “Tell her what Baela has seen. I will alert the guards and greet our guests myself.”

“Come here, Lucy.”

The young Lord Derrik Strong smiled as he took his younger sister into his arms.

You had all arrived in the harbor at Dragonstone shortly after the sun had risen. Since the arrival had not been previously announced, there were no horses, carriages, or other means by which to make traveling with everyone’s belongings up to the castle more feasible. The majority of the traveling party had elected to remain behind until such assistance could be procured, while the rest of you were to head onwards on foot.

The walk from the harbor to the gates of the castle was not a long one, at just under half a league. But the youngest among you would not be able to make the walk herself, and leaving her behind with the rest of the party was simply out of the question. Neither you, Harwin, Selwin, or Derrik could ask Brynna to carry Luciya all that way, even if the loyal nursemaid might have done so.

Instead, Derrik took turns with his brother carrying and otherwise entertaining their sister for the short trek. Every now and then, you and Harwin would spare a glance behind you at your children, ready to take over and assist with Luciya if needed.

But you and Harwin had enough on your mind at the moment, and an undoubtedly long day ahead of you. If Derrik could keep his sister preoccupied, it would be the least he could do for you.

You had visited Dragonstone once or twice with Princess Rhaenyra- when she had only been the princess- in your youth. Over the years, you had come to tell Derrik and Selwin many tales of it. But no amount of whimsical words could have prepared Derrik for the sheer grandness of the land before him.

Behind the castle, still some ways ahead, looming tall and imposing, the Dragonmont kissed the sky. The blackened smoke rising from its depths created streaks against what would have otherwise been a clear blue.

The castle itself was fodder for awe due the splendorous architecture. Many dragons, carved from the very stone that built up the island, had been installed in its foundations. They rivaled the size of the few dragons Derrik had seen in his lifetime, but were most likely small in comparison to the other dragons of old.

Unfortunately, the impressive scenery had caused more harm than good for others. It was of little wonder how a babe as young as Luciya could not appreciate the finer aspects of the castle’s design. The dragons in particular seemed to pose a viable threat.

Luciya turned and buried her face in Derrik’s shoulder. He could tell she was on the verge of tears by her audible sniffling, and Derrik reacted hastily, wanting to avoid such an outcome. He patted her lightly on the back, saying, “There, there, Lucy. You have no reason to fear the dragons. They will not harm you.”

At his words, Luciya lifted her head cautiously, but her lip still quivered.

“They are good,” Selwin added helpfully, simplifying Derrik’s words so that she might understand. “They will keep us safe.”

Fortunately, it worked, and their sister did not cry. But once she had buried her head in Derrik’s shoulder once more, she did not lift it again.

Only when they had reached the castle’s guarded entrance gate and had begun to make their way across the bridge did Derrik and Selwin give in to Brynna’s insistence. He managed to hand his sister off to her nursemaid without a fuss from Luciya.

As the small group crossed the bridge, Derrik took a moment to fully appreciate the full vision of the castle. But the closer they drew, the more his eyes trailed downwards. Many guards stood tall at the foot of the castle. Most donned the Targaryen red and black, but there appeared to be several White Cloaks among them. In the middle of them all stood a lone figure, positioned right at the bottom of the castle steps.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.

It had been years, but Derrik would have been able to recognize his childhood companion anywhere.

Prince Jacaerys looked most pleased as they approached. It was a sentiment that Derrik wished to return, but then he caught sight of you.

As you walked, you looked over to the right of the castle steps. A small trail, lined with large slabs of jagged rock, led to a small stone altar. The surface of the stone was lined layer upon layer with what appeared to be hardened wax. On top of the altar, what looked like remnants of a fire simmered with a faint and dull orange glow. Little remained of whatever had been aflame, but even now, small tufts of white smoke rose into the sky.

Whatever the altar before you had been used for, Derrik could tell that you were deeply disturbed by it. Your jaw clenched, your eyes hardened. When you turned back to face the prince, your neck tilted stiffly. Derrik continued to watch carefully as Harwin looked at you concernedly with unspoken questions lingering in his eyes.

The group came to a halt before Prince Jacaerys, and for a brief moment, all was still. Then, in unison, the ladies of the group curtsied, while the men among you bowed.

“Our deepest condolences for the loss of your grandsire, My Prince,” you said to him as you rose back to your normal height. Your voice sounded a bit strained.  “King Viserys was a good, kind man. The realm shall mourn his loss for many years.”

Prince Jacaerys nodded to you cordially. “You are too kind, Lady Tyrell… Lord Harwin.” The look on Prince Jacaerys’s face as he appraised Derrik’s father was indiscernible, but it was soon replaced with a polite smile. “Know that you and your companions are most welcome on Dragonstone. I have already sent horses and carriages to retrieve those who remained at the harbor. In the meantime, the rest of you will be shown to your quarters.”

Prince Jacaerys gestured to a few of the knights around him, who immediately stepped forward and began to address others among the group.

“Lady Tyrell, Lord Strong,” Prince Jacacarys called then, “If you will follow me. The Queen will wish to speak with you at once.”

The Dragonstone throne within the Great Hall of the Stone Drum was second in splendor only to the Iron Throne. Large slabs of black stone, masoned from the same rock that had been carved from the Dragonmont, fixed it to be a rather intimidating structure.

But neither you nor Harwin had more than a few brief moments to admire it before a door on the opposite end of the room opened.

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen stepped out of the shadows and into the small streams of light that filtered into the room. As she strode over to the two of you, she subtly commanded every bit of attention and respect with which her new title bestowed upon her. She was dressed in a narrow black gown, which flowed minimally behind her with each step.

Most oddly, her hands did not come to rest upon her stomach. That gesture had always been a habit of hers whenever she was with child. It was a habit she still indulged in, as you had noted during your short time in King’s Landing over a week prior. Instead, her hands swayed by her side, with her thumbs hidden beneath tightly clenched fists. Naturally, your focus drifted towards inwards, towards her middle.

When you realized how truly thin she looked, you almost choked on the horrid feeling that suddenly overcame you.

The altar. The pyre.

As Queen Rhaenyra came to a halt before you and Harwin, your mouth felt dry, and your gaze fell down to the ground beneath your feet. Harwin kneeled beside you. You tucked your chin and forced your legs to bend as you followed his example.

“My Queen.”

You rose slowly, but were encouraged to move more swiftly when the Queen gently pulled you up to your feet and embraced you. For a moment, the two of you stood still. You knew you ought to have said something, anything. Perhaps you should have offered your condolences on the loss of her father… or perhaps you should have extended your deepest sympathies for the second loss you now suspected she had suffered. But you could not. You did not dare to move or speak, not unless she did.

When Rhaenyra finally pulled away, she kept a hold on your arms. Her eyes shone with a mixture of sadness and relief. “It is so good to see you again, my friend.” She looked over to your husband, and gave him a soft smile. “And you, Lord Harwin.”

Harwin bowed his head respectfully.

“I am glad to see the two of you safe… And what of your children?”

“They are well, Your Grace,” Harwin promised her.

The Queen beamed at his words, though her eyes still shone with something more somber. Seemingly invigorated, she turned back to you. “Come now, my friends. There is much to discuss.”

A/N: Thank you for reading! Please feel free to let me know any and all of your thoughts. I hope you all have a wonder end of the week!🖤

[transguygardner]

Into the GuyLoboVerse: Day 11

Earth 383: Pokemon AU

Pokemon Breeder GUY GARDNER was out on a supply run with his beloved shiny growlithe when Biker LOBO rolled into town. While GUY had his back turned, his growlithe decided to investigate the strange motorcycle. Unfortunately, LOBO's mightyena snuck up on the growlithe. Who then did a flare blitz on the motorcycle. Destroying it. So now LOBO has decided GUY has to pay for it and he's not leaving until he does.

Author's Notes:

Guy's design is an edit of the Pokemon Breeder sprite from Black and White. While Lobo's is an edit of the Biker sprite from HeartGold and Soulsilver. These designs are pretty old (over 4 years old!) and I haven't kept up much with pokemon trainer designs since then so one day I might give them more of an update.

The concept is the classic pokemon journey started because someone fucked up someone else's bike. Middle aged men edition! If I remember correctly the plan was that Lobo was hunting down a rare or legendary pokemon and was going to convince Guy to help him track it down as payment for the motorcycle. Before Guy became a pokemon breeder, he was a pokemon ranger and those skills would be helpful in that kind of journey. Well, I just got an idea for how that would end so now that's definitely what it would be. The end is still a secret though :P

Guy and Lobo's teams were decided between the release of Sun/Moon and Sword/Shield and Lobo's definitely needs at least one major edition (Obstagoon. He HAS to have one but I'm not sure who to cut yet).

Guy has his shiny growlithe, an exeggutor, an exploud, a breloom, a manectric, and a grumpig. All but the growlithe were with him when he did his gym challenge before becoming a pokemon ranger. He switched gears from the Punk Guy trainer class to the Pokemon Ranger trainer class before finishing the Hoenn gym challenge. The growlithe was the first pokemon he raised from an egg after becoming a Pokemon Breeder.

Lobo has a mightyena, a houndoom, an absol, a krookodile, an aggron, and a granbull. At his home Lobo has some lanturns, primarinas, frillish, finizen, and palafin that he doesn't take out on jobs. Obviously there is now an obstagoon in the mix but I still have to mull over who is getting removed from his team. Maybe the aggron?

Here is the initial drawing I did of Lobo confronting Guy after the bike incident and a drawing of Guy throughout his pokemon journey.

[afaramir]

did you guys understand what i meant in my tragedy of the psychic warfare post when i said i will not be your banner. i need to make sure you understood because just the thought of it has been genuinely fucking me up ever since. i just. denethor definitely knows the story of the end of the second age, and more specifically, what banner the armies of sauron carried onto the battlefield. and if you need a refresher, its celebrimbor’s dead body. tortured and mutilated and probably stripped naked (someone fact check me on that one) and stuck on a standard to be carried into battle. and. well. god i cant even say it. even thinking of it makes me visualize it in my head and i genuinely get nauseous. ok just. if gondor falls denethor’s death will not be easy. he has been too much of a thorn in sauron’s side for far too long. and. alright you draw the Logical Conclusion from the facts ive presented while i go and cry for a minute.

now sauron has famously had a lot of enemies, and yet he only did the banner thing once. so you might ask well what’s my rationale for thinking he might do it again? well pure sick deranged angst of course. but i do have AN argument although i do not promise it is bulletproof.

i think that he chose to do it to celebrimbor as a final act of desecration. he’s taken the rings they made together and all of the art of their creation and corrupted them and used that great craft to forge a tool solely of domination. he’s tortured him, personally, to death. and THEN he turns his body into a banner and marches on the last alliance. its an act of specific psychological horror every elf on that battlefield knows exactly who that is, hanging from the standard.

and denethor? well - sauron destroyed numenor, did he not? not directly, but i think he claims it as his victory because otherwise the loss of his fair appearance and his physical form to the alkallabeth would be too heavy of a blow to his ego lol. and now here is this man - nay, this numenorean, who is the first person in centuries who has dared vie with him directly. who not only contests him mentally but HOLDS OUT, for DECADES, where saruman, also a literal maia, greatest of the order of the wizards, could not. who poses a genuine threat to him, while also standing as a bulwark between him and the rest of middle-earth. denethor’s entire existence fucks with him so much. because he thinks oh, numenor was easily corruptible. men are easy to enslave or turn to my will. and then here is denethor, single-handedly proving him wrong. by the end of the war sauron has so many sick revenge fantasies against him in his head. i really don’t think its too much of a stretch to think that bannering him is one of them.

further...i also think part of the thing with choosing celebrimbor is that the final battle was upon them. it was sort of expedient. well i need a banner for this battle and CONVENIENTLY i also have this guy i hate whom ive tortured. and what is sauron going to do once gondor falls? march on the rest of middle-earth. with the lord of its first line of defense, its forlorn hope, as. well you see what i mean. i typed it out and then HAD to delete it.

and oh my GOD he KNOWS. AND HE KNOWS!!! HES SEEN HIMSELF ON THAT STANDARD!!! I FEEL! I FEEL!!!! anyway yeah i picture it and i wish for death!

[belit0]

Unbreakable Bond (part 1)

TW: none (yet)

Pairing: Uchiha Izuna / reader

All humans are born with a guardian angel, yet they can only see them face to face when turning 20 years old.

(Y/N)'s seems a little bit unconventional, because where all protective beings are serene and calm, hers knows only chaos and violence. Hell breaks loose over their heads when they finally meet, and as her angel's purpose gets compromised, it forces an ancient war to take place between the two.

Uchiha clan, but with a twist.

Sooooo, hi!! I decided to come up with a fic exclusively for all my Izuna lovers!! Being part of a community that loves a character with zero visibility in the fandom, makes me take the determination of writing everything I want to read for him. I have been thinking about this idea for quite some time, and just haven't had the time to write. Here, finally, is chapter 1, and there will be lots more to come, cause I'm planning to make this a series for him!! So yeah, I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I do, writing content for Izuna is my first passion. I'll appreciate any type of feedback and interaction you want to give me, and if you have any suggestions, let me know!!

As (Y/N) remembers, her guardian angel was always chaos.

While other people received calm and peaceful solutions to their conflicts, her companion was always violent.

When (Y/N) was five, she had the naive idea to play in the forest behind her house.

Climbing different trees and hiding in the bushes, she stumbled upon a beehive, hidden high up. In her innocence, the little girl wanted to investigate, quickly provoking the honeycomb's owners. The insects proceeded to attack her, but before one of them could even sting her, the tree fell to the ground, severed from its trunk in a perfect slash, crushing them all in the process. (Y/N) landed without any trouble on her two legs, as if someone had picked her up and placed her gently on the ground. At her age, she did not understand what saved her from such a brutal attack and fall, and it was the perfect opportunity for her parents took to explain the spiritual presence that would be with her for life.

At the age of 12, a group of three girls decided to pick on her at school.

They would taunt her purely out of envy, wanting to make her feel less, despised, and ugly. They would say horrible things to her, bully her in the corridors, and abuse her, destroying her self-esteem. One time, the leader of the group decided to physically attack (Y/N). Before the girl's hand could connect with her face, she went flying backward, slamming into a wall and falling to the ground in an explosion of crying. There was a mark on her chest as if someone had kicked her before she could get close. They never intimidated or messed with her again, knowing something powerful surrounded and protected (Y/N).

At 15, she met the first repulsive man of her life.

One of her classmates, hopelessly in love with her, had no better idea than to try to win her over with teasing and harassment. He would insist again and again on his love, pestering and chasing her wherever she went. He didn't understand how repellent and unattractive his attitude was, leading a group of annoying young men who were only dedicated to disturbing girls. One particular afternoon after school, the group of idiots followed her on her way out, berating her in mid-stride. They surrounded her with more than 6 boys, with the main idiot standing in the middle of the circle. Before any of them could do anything to her, they all fell to the ground in coordination. There was blood everywhere, broken arms, mangled noses, and legs contorted at unnatural angles. (Y/N) thanked aloud the angel who must have been around her, and walked out of the scene in shock.

When her first boss, at the age of eighteen, wanted to get handsy with her at work and misuse his authority, the man's house appeared all over the local news channels in flames. No one could explain the cause of the fire, but all his belongings had been destroyed in the blaze, leaving him completely homeless.

(Y/N) was aware guardian had unusual ways of acting, comparing her experiences with those of her parents and friends. No one had ever had such a fiery and violent spiritual companion, crude in his actions and ways of protecting.

Her parents, for example, lived a quiet life with their protectors. Both their angels resided between heaven and the forest behind their house, visiting them and coming when summoned, dividing their time between above and earth. What her friends related was a similar situation. Their companions were not with them all the time, coming only when needed or called by their humans.

In (Y/N)'s case, it seemed to be with her 24/7. It helped her in the mornings to gather her things for school, with books flying from one side of the room to the other and landing perfectly inside her backpack. During work, and in the summer months, the angel would generate a cold draught of air for when she wanted to go out for a break, and during winter, a warm stream of wind to keep her warm.

It was a pleasant companion, a constant presence, someone to always count on.

(Y/N) has never seen her guardian and does not know its name, has no idea if it is a man or a woman, the color of its eyes or skin, or what its hair looks like. She only knows their bond is stronger than anyone else's with their celestial beings.

In a few weeks, she will be twenty and will have to face the physical image of her partner for the first time. To know, finally, who is hidden in that cloak of invisibility constantly separating them.

On a hot summer night, (Y/N) returns from work and walks quietly on her way home, constantly thinking about what it will be like to meet her angel. She has only a few hours left, and soon will be face to face with the one who has been with her since the beginning of her life.

One of her closest friends had her birthday 3 days earlier, living the experience before and being able to tell her a little about it. The girl recounted how she met her spiritual companion, a female angel named Sakura, with pink hair and green eyes. The heavenly entity waited for her sitting at the table, and when the clock struck 12:00, she was finally able to see her. They talked about everything that had happened to the young woman during their years of invisible separation, and at the end of the night, the angel retired to heaven, letting her know she could call her whenever she wished.

The experience sounded calm and serene, friendly, but for some reason, (Y/N) sensed hers would not go the same way.

She arrived at her lonely flat at about 10:30 and decided to take a bath, be in the most presentable condition. When she got out of the shower, she did a short video call with her parents, who were miles away since she moved to study in another city.

When looking at the clock again, it was 11:30.

She ordered some food and it arrived 10 minutes before 12:00. (Y/N) rushed to eat, as if she had to be still and silent as her twenties loomed over her head. She finished her plate in less than five minutes, at the sensation of the last french fry getting stuck in her throat.

Desperate and alone, she began to choke, no less than three minutes before the special moment. She tried to stick her fingers down her throat, running to the bathroom in panic, trying to free her airway. No longer keeping track of time, her only priority was to stay alive and not be killed by a potato. Her vision started to blur, with less and less air in her lungs, while she collapsed to the floor in front of the toilet.

Just when she thought there was no hope, she felt two hands grab her under her arms, lifting her up and pressing into her stomach.

After several pushes, the rest of the unchewed fry flew out of her mouth, as (Y/N) coughed and tried to catch her breath. She fainted before she could see the identity of the one who had saved her, further postponing meeting her angel.

[the-mjolnir-owner]

Now that one week has passed, I’ll post what I thought about the ending of Loki’s series in addition to these. Spoilers under read more:

Pros:

Loki regained the magical look - of a God - and I missed it. I complained about his boring uniform

Loki had a nice magic girl transformation and I wish he was barefoot, what are those shoes?!

And the big ass helmet? A bit too much and Thor’s judging him so hard

At least he's alive and his neck is functioning properly

In marvel you either die or become an eldritch horror

The parallels of Loki saying “for you, for all of us” had me in tears

It mirrored Thor destroying the bridge that meant he wouldn't see Jane again

All the connections to Thor 1♥

Tom and Owen are such great actors

All of Loki’s friends are perfect

Loki 🤝 Thor: taking the full blast of a star thing and surviving to tell

Mobius 🤝 Jane Foster: changing Norse gods for the better

Loki 🤝Thor: sacrificing themselves so that their loved ones and friends could live even if it meant they’d not see them again 🥹

Loki stop crying challenge

God of Stories Loki is a nice title

Is Loki the older brother now? That means that Thor can be the (more) apeshit one?

Thor would be so proud of him and I’m sure he feels/knows there’s something going on, a shift in the atmosphere

Loki's peace will end as soon as Thor finds his way there with a bunch of kids and screaming goats, after all, Yggdrasil needs some rain to grow strong ⛈️and after a storm, the sun always shines ☀️ Cons:

He’s all alone there in his throne, like Odin after Frigga’s death and he plainly said he didn’t want to be alone ☹

Him changing and improving wasn't enough??

Unless I have confirmation that he can come and go as he pleases and not as an illusion, I’ll think he’s in a glamorous cage, but a cage no less

I’m sure that if he had any other choice, he would have taken that chance. They talk about free will the entire series. This wasn't a free will choice

In my delulu heart Loki will only leave his throne in time to see Kang kill Thor 😈

Loki didn’t get to be a co-parent to Mobi’s kids ☹

They ignored Sylvie completely and deleted their kiss?

She was sidelined when the “two adults/men were talking??” I didn’t like her treatment there

I wanted a brodinson meeting ☹

Is Loki the new TVA boss? If he is, he better pay a salary to his employees who are still like, slaves, or how the Grandmaster likes to say: prisoners with jobs

Thor won't believe that his brother is living in a tree like Tarzan

Loki doesn’t look happy there on his throne and I fear he’ll do the thing where he makes illusions to distract himself and lose himself in it the way Frigga warned in the deleted scene, living in his own world waiting for someone to see through his illusions

I, too, wanted the TVA gone

Can't believe Loki didn't introduce his middle-aged boyfriend to Thor, Thor would've loved Mobi

[makima-s-most-smile]

Trigun Maximum 2 Part 1

Time to dive into Vol. 2. (weeks to late, but I get there!)

Trigun Ultimate: 1.1, 1.2, 2.1, 2.2, 2.3, 2.4 Trigun Maximum: 1.1, 1.2, 2.1, 2.2, 3.1, 3.2, 4.1, 4.2, 5.1, 5.2, 6.1, 6.2, 7.1, 7.2, 8.1, 8.2, 8.3, 9.1, 9.2, 10.1, 10.2, 10.3, 10.4, 10.5

Also, why does Nightow has the Shojo-Style from the 80s down to the t? 

01: The return of the blue wind of death

Is he a prisoner that exchanges his imprisonment time for this task? Does he really think that he would work for his whole sentence of 830 years? It looks like the life expectancy is like 50 years max on No-Man’s-Land, with exceptions of course. So many young and middle aged men, but not very many old ones sitting in the pubs. Many children, many orphans and not enough people to take care of them. Those who get older seem to be in the crafts, like… uh… the shoemaker that was killed by Legato… Yeah…

The uniform reminds me of something… gimme a minute…

Ah! Fitting for a “western” the government dudes are dressed in the get-up from the US.Army from the American war. Wasn’t sure which side, but it is the U.S Army side, so they are at least not evil coded. 😀 Looks like something between a Sergeant, a Major or a Captain. But we shall never know which rank he has exactly. But the look fits with the whole genre!

Ah! Yaoi man! I know him! When I found the silly figurine on amazon I thought its head was too small… But I think I stand corrected.

But isn’t he -designwise- like a counterpart to Wolfwood? Hair gelled back, a white, immaculate suit, contrasting Wolfwood’s design of messy hair and a black suit, but they have the same tendency to not fully button the suit jacket up. Another thing, that we see later in the chapter, is a sense of selfpreservation that both share. Though the reason behind it seems different. Wolfwood needs to survive for his purpose, the protection of the orphanage, while Hornfreak just has a normal, human survival instinct. He may actually like being alive, even with being a killer.

The whole fight is interesting. Why did the commander send his men there? What happened? The owner of the property is not in town, so why is he even interested in that place? What does the occupation mean? How did they know? Then Hoppered warning the men about Legato and asking them to save themselves, which makes me ask if the army has any ulterior motives here.

Hooboy, Nightow knows when the reader's imagination is worse than whatever he can draw. We know what happens in the truck… We can imagine that… Not showing it makes it so much worse…

I love how we, the readers, see the impending danger to Home. We get to see the puppet fly, we get to connect the dots. Everyone else is unknowing. We already experience the tension, the foreboding. Which makes Vash staying away from Home so much more sad. He doesn’t allow himself to be welcome and feeling safe, because he knows he is hunted down. It still won’t keep his close ones safe.

02: Resume our Business

No way anyone forces Legato to eat like this! Legato is having a fucking pity party and punishes himself, because Knives was mad at him for trying to kill his brother. He does this to himself. He revels in the punishment. It is a theatrical play of how much he idolises Knives. And it is scary.

Hoppered being the sensible one. Dude, you seem so nice, what are you doing with those people!

Yeah, something snapped in Legato, when Knives punished him. Knives is such a fucking tyrant. “Hey, I punish you violently and over the top for wanting to fulfil my wishes, because I, without communicating it, changed my mind! And that is your mistake.” And Legato has to believe that, because if not it would mean his whole idolisation is wrong and that would destroy this man’s self. I pity him. Knives needs someone who stands up to his bullshit and Legato needs someone who actually cares about him. Both make each other worse!

And… while I like Hornfreak’s speech… As an assassin you don’t give a whole speech that announces that you want to kill your target! Especially since you know he has some kind of power, too! *headdesk* Well, get bretzel’d.

I think it is interesting how he starts by trying to connect to his other gun-ho-guns, but then turns around and distances himself from them by calling them “Maniacal killers”! He gives a whole speech to give reason to his betrayal and excuse it.

BDSM-Knives return! I think revenantghost already said this, but… Knives, if you are the reason people hunt Vash down… It is not the human’s fault that Vash suffers… Knives is fucking delusional... And selfreflection? Never heard of her!

Legato says: “That is his will. And it shall be done.”

And it reads like a fucking quote from the bible.

Acts “And since he would not be persuaded, we fell silent, remarking, “The will of the Lord be done!””

James “Instead, you ought to say, “If the Lord wills, we will live and also do this or that.””

Legato is idolising Knives so hard, he makes him his God.

And to counter this unhealthy behaviour, we have the dumbasses on the next page. Especially Wolfwood treating Vash like an equal human being. I love this whole skit! 

Vash, you had your whole 150 years to learn how to drive anything! How did you survive, walking miles upon miles between the cities under the sun’s heat? You were run out of them so often! How did you get away quickly?

Liar by omission? Wolfwood? Nah! Liar by avoidance! He really just needs someone who does not stop asking and he would break down. But Vash does not do that. No one does!

Well, Rai-Dei literally spelled out that Wolfwood is part of the Gun-Ho-Guns, no denying that. They know each other, Rai-Dei says loudly that Wolfwood is “planning” something. And Wolfwood looks just so conflicted, maybe even near tears?

I am confused what Rai-Dei means by Vash’s “selfish ways”. Is it based on his bushido? The morals of the bushido changed with the eras, like there are different types. Some say to retreat from an unwinnable battle, while others say to stay until your death.

And Wolfwood, you know this guy! I am sure you already know that he is using a fucking blade against guns and fared splendidly enough to become a Gun-Ho-Gun… Wolfwood in this fight feels like fucking Speedwagon.

*snorts* Wolfwood tagging out and Vash calling him a “Demon Priest”. Peak comedy for me!

I love the change from the silliness to dark seriousness, when Rai-Dei nonchalantly tells Vash that they are about to invade his home. I also think it is interesting, how Nightow then pans to Wolfwood, dark-eyed and serious, as if he just made up his mind about something. Most likely that he is not okay with innocents being killed just so Vash feels bad. Again a contrast to Keele, who was willing to kill a random woman so he gets to Vash.

And again, Vash is put into a trolley problem. Kill Rai-Dei to move to Home faster and maybe rescue more of his close people or waste time to keep Rai-Dei alive, but risk losing close people. For many people, it would be an easy decision (if you call killing someone easy), but Vash needs to save every person. If everyone is family and thus equally important, no one is. Rai-Dei literally tells him that he came here to die, but Vash cannot accept that.

03: Samurai Showdown

And while Vash hesitates, Wolfwood deems Vash’s home as important enough to interfere and to get ready to fight Rai-Dei. He hides himself behind his sunglasses, but still gets spotted. And I like that about Wolfwood, that he is able to decide for himself who he is ready to protect and how far he is willing to go.

Damn, Rai-Dei just called Vash not human. Together with his weird fixation on the fight, he comes off as a weird monster hunter. Poor Vash.

Are you talking about them or about yourself, Wolfwood? Wolfwood's selfhate is on the platter here.

I know it is Vash’s ideals, but that he stalls and takes so much time to “Make Rai-Dei cast away his sword” while the people he calls his family are in danger, always reads as so cold, like he has no real connection to them. Like I said, if everyone is important, no one is.

Why is Wolfwood so weirdly fixated that guns are better than swords? Why is he so offended by this? This whole shout feels so out of the place! I stay by my stance that in the two years Rai-Dei talked Wolfwood’s ear off about how much better katanas are and how much more graceful and yadayada and Wolfwood was just so close to ending him after like five hours of that.

04: Wolfwood

Oh, fuck. It goes down! That front page?! Four being the unlucky number connected with death. Wolfwood holding onto the punisher, that reaches out of the panel, but also wraps kinda around him. The way he crumbles the cigarette package in his hand and his forlorn, bitter look on his face, away from us and staring at something off the screen. Chef’s kiss. I hate it *thumbs up*

It looks like a memory of the past. An impression that Wolfwood left after they have already parted ways. He looks so incredibly lonely and burdened here. And at the same time, a shield to somebody.

Hand on the trigger! 

God, this page. The contrast to the wild action the page before, the weird, blurred lines surrounding Wolfwood, Vash, Rai-Dei’s end and Wolfwood’s cold stare with pinprick eyes. It gives you a feeling how quickly everything went down. 

I’ve thought about Rai-Dei’s train of thought. Surely, there is the whole: “I cannot start anew! All the time I’ve used to become this! The sins I’ve committed!” But… it feels more like him acting upon his way of the warrior. If you cannot win the fight, you die in it. Kinda like a version of seppukku or kamikaze, which all kinda rounds back to bushido and societal standards. 

I am sorry, what does that even mean?! The blade is still in its original position? What? No, he took the sword, wrapped his finger around the trigger and was about to thrust it into Vash’s back. This always reads for me as Vash in denial.  Why wouldn’t he have pulled the trigger? I feel like I am too dumb to understand this panel.

This may be a controversial take, but hear me out. Vash’s recurring modus operandi! He gives other people all the agency to act as they like and he reacts to them. Is this a way to unconsciously have no real responsibility for the outcome? It puts him apart from every normal human and puts him more into the position of a mightier being. And, damn, at the same time this must sound completely naive and away from any kind of sound mind to Wolfwood. It is a way of life that is possible only if you have no connection to other people! As long no one cares about him, he can do as he pleases with his own health. But here he is confronted with somebody who cares enough that he killed for Vash and because of Vash’s denial of action. Vash could act in the past as he liked, because he didn’t share his path with someone who cares for him! But now, if he gives all his agency away, not only his opponent may act as he wishes, his partners may also act upon their wishes. Wolfwood’s wish was to save Vash! And I understand why Wolfwood may feel like the deed was pushed onto him by Vash.

Wolfwood hates his way of life and he judges himself harshly. It defines his whole being. At the same time he is in a position of no real agency. To protect the orphanage and survive himself as a former orphan, he needed the power that his position brings. Like we all said, a man between a rock and a hard place. He calls himself a devil! You can’t put yourself down more, especially as a priest. I get that Wolfwood does not really expect Vash to shoot, that he acts out of anger here. But damn, this is a cry for punishment, something, some human reaction from Vash. And Wolfwood does not get it.

I love the detail of Vash having his finger pointedly away from the trigger. 

And while I get that Vash does see Wolfwood for who he really is and not for what kind of front he puts up, this is not the time to put him down a peg. The man just killed someone for Vash, he is hurt like fuck and is lashing out. And what Vash says comes off as pity and judging. It is Vash not understanding humans and especially Wolfwood at all through the lens of his ideals. Which is so fucking weird when he is at the same time spot on about Wolfwood’s inner workings! He goes like half the way and then just stops. There is no follow up from Vash to find the reason why Wolfwood is so determined to play the devil or why his heart cries out. And that is a very big flaw in Vash and how he interacts with people. He gives people all the agency to control the furthering of their relationship (until he runs away). The problem is Wolfwood never learned to open up, from what we can tell, he never was in a space safe enough to learn that. Wolfwood is self reliant to a fault, because he had to. Both of their flaws and past makes it impossible right now for them to understand each other. And that makes me just sad. Wolfwood does so much to understand Vash and Vash stays still.

Thanks, I’ll take that for my nightmares.

Girls, I love you, but you had him! You had him already! But you chose to use all of your vacation days and let him go! 

This whole scene reads so weird, like Keele did not happen. XD I love how especially Milly are like: Yep, we’re friends! And I love how they include Wolfwood, even though they seem to have forgotten his name. Guy left an impression, at least.

Damn, Meryl must be squished with the guy kinda climbing out the window from behind her! But good from her to ask Jessie to check the wreckage out! Saving people is always the right thing to do!

The girl is calling out for Vash. Is she the one with the puppy crush? But calling out for him when your literal ship fell from the sky is weird. I feel for Brad.