#how to stop the tyrant's blackening

[pauliana-winter-simp]

Well *ahem* I still root for Marchmond but, I'll give Zeinen a chance

[sorryseraphim]

She would greet it like an old friend if emptiness could devour her entirely.

Hunger and exhaustion finally took over the sadness that consumed her for the last three days. She stirred lightly from her bedroll, which Helene had purposely moved out of everybody's view after their return from the dank and horrid abode where the Netherbrain resided. 

She had isolated herself from everyone else when Enver died three days ago. 

The memory of his sudden death replaying inside her head tormented her even in sleep, that she had stopped closing her eyes to avoid them. But even when she was awake, she could still see how his body slumped to the ground, his face blackened and twisted, forever contorted into a scream.

How she stomped her fist in vain across his chest, hoping it would restart his heart, but to no avail. She had screamed, trashed even when they tried to take her away, cradling his lifeless body, desperate for even a tiny bit of evidence that she could save him. They stowed her away along with the tyrant’s once warm body, just before the brain tried attacking them.

Helene had wailed, tears streaming from her cheeks, raining down Enver’s unmoving face, but he wouldn’t be able to hear or see it. She had lost her voice three days ago; she might also lose her heart entirely in the following days or so. 

Astarion almost never left her side the first day she had begun her grieving. He had tried to console her, brought food she had barely touched, and even cried along with her, hoping she would notice how every time her voice cracked from trying to speak or began crying again, his frozen heart would shatter too into a million more pieces.

And yet, she remained cathartic, oblivious of Astarion’s effort: her silence echoing across the camp, the unusual quietness putting a lump to everyone's throat as their leader remained in a state of despair.

On the third day of his death, Helene finally had the courage to approach one soul she trusted the most from camp, just as the campfire started crackling during supper, startling everyone around her as her ghostly figure, ashen and still in her camp clothes from three days ago, started walking towards Jaheira.

The old Harper caught her as she slumped by the entrance of her tent; Helene's eyes were bloodshot, her crimson orbs darker than usual, looking up at her like a child looking for an answer from a God, clinging for dear life.

“Why… why does it hurt?” 

“Have you never known hurt or pain, child?” Jaheira whispered as she stroked her hair, brushing her trembling lips as tears started threatening to spill again. 

“I thought I knew pain, but I don't know what this is. I can't get rid of it. Please help me get rid of it.” Helene struggled to speak, her chest heaving as the weight of grief started to suffocate her lungs once more.

Jaheira’s hand cupped her cheek, looking at her with those stern eyes that had seen far more sorrow than hers, reflected through the wrinkles on her face, her unwavering tenacity shared through wisdom. “You had hoped. A selfish decision at that, given the gravity of his crimes, and yet you still went behind everyone's back to accept his request. And that hope now shattered before you, is your punishment.”

“I just want this to end.” She pleaded, uttering the same words over and over, clinging to the Harper’s arms, tears soaking her shirt as her eyes gave out once more. The rest of the camp convened around the mournful scene; none dared but the pale elf to come near Helene, who was now a wallowing mess, her face buried against her palms as Jaheira let Astarion take over and wrap her in a cape, his arms around her as he showered her with comforting words, drowning again from despair. 

“My dear, you will be fine. No one will hurt you again while we’re here. While I’m here.” Astarion shushed above her weeping, arms clinging onto his neck as he carried her frail body away from the crowd, concealing her away from everyone’s gaze once more in his tent. She was still sobbing as he laid her down, tucking her with the cape, gently brushing the hair out of her face. 

“I’m sorry,” Helene whispered between the hiccups, her voice scratchy from screaming and wailing that hadn’t yet recovered. Astarion let out a pained smile, still brushing her hair with his delicate fingers, a gesture that used to calm Helene when the Urge struck now served as futile at the moment of her grief. 

“I know.”

Her heart went heavy at the realization that he had now realized the depth of her betrayal. How she had traded her newly built life with Astarion for the one she had once shared with Enver, rescinded by a miscalculation of their plan—-her plan— now fell to pieces. “I’m sorry if I–” 

“I know. Rest, my sweet. I will still be here when you wake up tomorrow.” 

Rolling to her back, her sobs started to subside, blending with the evening quietness until there was no more sound coming from where she lay. In the dark, she chased what little light spilled inside the confines of the tent, stretching her hands to gaze at her fingers where two rings had now slipped. 

One signet ring with a single ruby on it, Enver’s gift to her many years ago he had relived inside her head one night she probed his mind, memories flooding and overwhelming her to chase and want her old life. 

The other was her very own gift: a golden ring band she once bestowed to him as a symbol of her promise back then to be his, and only his. 

The gift returned to her, but not her memories. And most certainly, not Enver now that his soul is trapped under the lord of tyranny’s hands, impossible for her to reach. 

Her old life, now forlorn and voided of ever returning.

[danmeiconfession]

Ik I'm late but Reply to: https://www.tumblr.com/danmeiconfession/739733352626749441/why-are-we-fighting-over-who-in-svsss-is-morally

Anon, it isn't about who rly is morally right in svsss. It's about how you stan your fav who is immoral. But hate on SJ, who only did 1 thing wrong; which is singling out LBH, might I add a PROTAGONIST, and abuse him. Cos if LBH wasn't a protag, no one would've care if he abused him or not. Cos I've some examples in svsss who did abuse children but got away with it.

SY is a lazy, 2nd Generation young master, neet and an internet hater. He bullied SQH to change his original plot, then had the audacity to hate on it. After transmigrating, his only plan was to survive, not to change LBM or the plot. He was okay if LBM DID turn out as a tyrant, as long as he is alive with his LIMBS INTACT. Had 3 yrs to prepare for LBM's abyss arc and stopping LBM's blackening fully. But instead, he DID NTH but to lazy around the Peak, coddling and spoiling LBM, giving him an assurance that demonic cultivation is okay in CQMS and when the time came, accused LBM of being a demon and pushed him in abyss after stabbing him. LBM wouldn't have turned out the way he did, if SY didn't pull that shit. He isn't a good teacher. He emotionally abused QJP disciples, abandoning them, getting irritated if anyone starts crying but coddles LBM if he did the same. He had also abused BZP disciples indirectly, using LQG to beat up his disciples ONLY COS they were bullying LBM, not any other QJP disciple. He still continued to abuse SQH, a fellow transmigrator. He is also a groomer, might I add, he was grooming LBM into a tyrant, who'll listen to him, tho he didn't know he was unintentionally grooming LBM sexually as well. And his biggest crime is till the end he is impersonating someone else, ik he didn't have a choice but he could've come clean that he isn't who they all think he is.

LBM is an obsessive freak, manipulating SY into having his way, he tortured SY just cos he 'thought' he got rejected by his shizun. Beat up SHL, used some innocent cultivators to satiate XM's hunger, tried to SA SY and last but not the least, tried to merge the 3 realms and killing n no. of innocent ppl with it.

Okay, LBG makes my blood boil, he is the worst out of all the immoral Gays out there. He is everything SJ was accused for! He is a mass murderer. He did genocide, he is behind the destruction on 3 realms, killing so many innocent humans and cultivators alike. He is a rapist, raping innocent women in 2 digits. He is fucking abuser himself! He abused and tortured SJ for years. Turned him into a human-stick! Just bcos he couldn't handle some whipping, which was a simple form of punishment in ancient China. He wasn't even abused to the extend SJ did, but had the audacity to cry about it to everyone, about how horrible his shizun is. He had also tortured SY and tried to rape him. And had to look pitiful when SY rejected him. Only cos SY was a nicer version of his shizun.

LQG may try to be a righteous man, but trust me he isn't. No righteous man will belittle anyone. He looked down upon sex workers. Belittled SJ, who he knew nth about. Abusing his own disciples, abandoning them whenever he felt like it. In Jinlan city arc he kidnapped civilians so MQF could experiment on them. Pls don't tell me it is morally right to you.

YQY's biggest crime is his silence. He was silent when PLs were accusing SJ and spreading rumours about him, when he knew about SJ. He never stopped those rumors from spreading. He never stopped the PLs to shit on SJ. He kept his silence. He was silent when SJ warned him about SQH. He NEVER listened to SJ, whenever he tried to warn him about smth and then SJ had to deal with the outcome. He was silent when LBG came to accuse SJ of his crimes. He NEVER opened his mouth. He never asked his martial siblings to get along with SJ, but expected that from SJ. He knew his brother but still believed the crimes against him.

SQH, og or airplane doesn't matter, is a mass murderer. He killed innocent young cultivators in IAC. He was conspiring with demons against his own kind! The only difference between them is, airplane was a little bit kind. Cos he didn't unleashed, dangerous and deadly monsters. He tried to help SJ when LQG accused him of backstabbing or gave him an advice for future Lingxi Caves event. He isn't rly that kind either. PIDW ended the way it did cos he got corrupt. He started licking his benefactors feet. Og did everything on his own volition. He never cared for anyone in this world.

MBJ, just like SQH, is a mass murderer. He is the mastermind behind the demon invasion in IAC, killing innocent young cultivators. He also abused SQH constantly.

Looking at your fav none of them are morally right but when it comes to staning one of them only SJ gets the backlash and says, "Stop staning SJ, stan SY he is kinder version of SQQ," "uwu LBH/LBM/LBG is a traumatized little meowmeow. He ended up like this cos he was abused in the past," "YQY is a traumatized little guy, he scared to loose everything in his life!" "SQH is forced to do everything!" And last, "LQG is a righteous cultivator, he'll never do anything wrong!"

.

[gust-jar-simulator]

I was writing practice drabbles and this one got away from me. Enjoy a vision of what could have been.

Prompt: Hyrule, Beautiful Delirium by Blackbriar

Characters: The Chain (Linked Universe)

~🌞⏳🍂⌛️🌞~

Death, perfect and whole in its victory, blanketed the cracked earth.

It would be one thing if there were corpses, or flies, or even a rancid breeze. But there were no leaves for a breeze to caress. No bones for the bloodless sun to bleach. No vultures, no keese scudding across the thin asphyxiated blue of the sky.

The Chain was half starved by the time they found the castle, ragged as scarecrows in a barren field. They’d stopped wasting breath on conversation miles ago, and the bloodless corpse of the capitol demanded silence like a tyrant did highway tax.

It was hard to imagine that this was Hyrule, once, that civilization had once built fat and flesh on the dusty skeletons of forgotten storefronts, dry fountains, and listless banners. On some of them, faintly, the crest of the royal family fluttered like a dying pulse.

There were no signs of war. There were no signs of anything. No monsters, no guards, no toys dropped in marketplace dirt. Just silence. Just dust, and air dry enough to leech the moisture from their lips.

It was so much worse, then, when the eight of them caught fae laughter in the shadows of the castle foyer, childish and bright.

Time, with the sharpest ear for it, heard the ripple of water under the echoes. “Just one voice, though,” and his brow furrowed.

“One’s enough for answers,” Legend muttered. “Let’s figure it the fuck out so we can go.”

Four hadn't stopped looking ill since the portal dropped them, but even he nodded. Twilight sneezed, too loud in the quiet, and booked it after Warriors’ suddenly determined march.

It would've been easier to split up. It also wasn't even in question.

And it was Warriors, in all of his determination, who found the throne room with its lone occupant first.

The high, skirling notes of a flute broke off with a curious hum, and an idle splash. “Guests? How strange. I suppose that’s what happens when you leave the door open.”

Warriors paled and tried to back up, but couldn't with the press of the other seven at his back. It was hard to explain the urge to hide them all, cover their eyes and shut their ears. It wasn't a Lost Woods sort of danger. Not entirely.

Just something wearing the shape of a boy in a castle turned mausoleum, with eyes the bloodless gold of a solar eclipse. It smiled, tilted its head, and the gutting wound across its throat smiled too.

“Can I help you? You seem…”

Their eyes caught on the pool of blood spreading from the foot of the throne, and the way calloused feet splashed in it. Thin shoulders dripped with haphazard finery, a too-big cloak on corpse-pale shoulders, blue veins starker than scars. Gold necklaces, a woman’s bracelets. For a brief, insane moment, he almost had tusks, grown so long they curled back into his brain.

But they blinked, and there was only a boy, or something pretending to be one on an abandoned throne.

“...tired,” he finished, eyes too gold in the gloom. Blood splashed around his ankles, a child in a puddle.

“This isn't a fairy fountain,” Time breathed.

Dust glittered in the light from the windows, glassless and hollow like sockets in a skull. Blackened nails and blue fingers spidered over the notes of his instrument when he smiled. “It is,” it answered, “as much as it isn't. But you should probably go, heroes- this isn't your story, not now.”

The sucking chill of a portal wrapped around their shoulders, their throats, hooked somewhere deep in their guts, as familiar and confusing as ever. Warriors took a step forward, away from the hungry maw of time at their backs, frowning. “What do you mean, not our story?”

“Wars,” someone hissed, but he didn't pay attention. He wanted to know. He always thought he wanted to know, did Wars.

The corpse-blue boy laid a delicate hand on his chest, and smiled like the bloodless sun.

“There’s nothing left for you to save. That’s all.”

Something brighter than gold gleamed in the back of his hand, embedded like diamonds in rock, and Warriors was left staring at the holy gleam of the Triforce before darkness ripped him back into eternity.

[waaanderingluna]

🥀 𝕻𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕸𝖆𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝕿𝖞𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖙

[shizumae]

Manhwa Recommendations [23]

Taming the Marquess

The Siren / Becoming the Villain's Family

The Heiress's Double Life

Let's Hide My Little Brother

Not-Sew-Wicked Stepmom / I'm Only a Stepmother, but My Daughter is Just So Cute

Finding My Father's Son

Rewriting the Villainess

Your Eternal Lies

Preventing the Making of a Tyrant / How to Stop the Tyrant's Blackening

like or reblog if you read

click here for -> part 22 | part 24

[solena2]

This is a continuation of my last analysis on this topic, where I explained why I hate the popular analogy of Tommy and Theseus.

That can be found here. I recommend reading it first, as I included a summary of what Theseus’ story actually is, (as opposed to Techno’s… abridged telling) so if you aren’t familiar with the myth, that post should help.

It’s also really detailed and I worked hard on it, so you should read it for that, too.

It’s not absolutely necessary, though. I’ll give slightly less context for this one, but the parts of the myth I’ll be talking about are pretty well known (thanks, Rick Riordan), so it shouldn’t be too tough to figure out what I’m talking about.

Without further ado, here’s why I think Wilbur is a better Theseus analogy than Tommy.

First of all, I’ll again be largely ignoring the early parts of the Theseus myth in order to focus more on the stuff with Crete and what came after, as the early bits of the myth don’t really apply well to any Dream SMP character, since they’re largely about using cleverness to defeat evil monsters and that’s… not really a story beat that happens on the SMP.

So we start in Athens.

Wilbur Soot joins the SMP and almost immediately starts a country. Dream declares war (contrary to common belief, he was the aggressor), and wins.

L’manburg is still granted independence, but they’re a vassal state and Dream still has a lot of power over them.

I’d compare this with Athens losing a war to Crete, resulting in them remaining an independent nation but being forced to send tributes to Crete every seven years.

It’s not a perfect analogy, but it lets me cast Dream as king Minos and honestly that’s too perfect a chance to pass up, given they both share the fatal flaw of hubris- being self centered pricks who think they’re equal to gods, though the consequences manifest differently.

Stuff happens, Schlatt gets elected, none of it is really relevant to the analogy so I’ll trust you to remember what happened. This isn’t a perfect comparison, after all. The Dream SMP has far too many inspirations for a single parallel to cover it all.

What is relevant: Schlatt is the Minotaur, here.

The seven year tribute comes due, Theseus volunteers.

Wilbur and Tommy are exiled from Manburg, with plans to return.

Theseus shows off when he gets to Crete, and his charisma gains him allies.

Wilbur and Tommy are slowly joined by almost all of Manburg.

Ariadne offers Theseus a way through the maze without getting lost.

Fundy comes to Pogtopia with the Diary of a Spy, revealing that Wilbur doesn’t need to worry about the morality of killing Schlatt anymore because Schlatt is likely to die soon whether they interfere or not.

Ariadne is abandoned alone on an island after giving up everything to help Theseus.

Fundy is still a traitor in Wilbur’s eyes.

Theseus takes his ball of string and enters the labyrinth, prepared to kill the Minotaur.

Wilbur and co attack Manburg, planning to kill Schlatt.

Theseus kills the Minotaur.

No one kills Schlatt, but in his final moments no one is closer to doing than Wilbur, angered by Schlatt questioning Fundy’s manhood.

Theseus forgets the white sails to signal his victory, sailing home with blackened ones instead. His father throws himself off a tower out of grief.

Wilbur’s won, but he’s lost sight of his vision for the country he founded. Though Schlatt is dead, he still can’t see L’manburg ever going back to what it was.

He goes to the button room, and Philza confronts him. If Phil knew the whole story, knew why Wilbur felt what he felt and why he did what he did, maybe things would have gone differently.

But the ship’s sails are black.

Phil kills Wilbur.

What kills Theseus, in his myth, is when he loses sight of himself. He starts with a very clear policy: whatever someone tries to do to him, he’ll do to them in kind. Someone tries to kill him? Well, more fool them, then.

But then he starts just hurting people for fun, hurting people because it makes him feel powerful, because he thinks he deserves to be groveled to.

He kidnaps Helen of Troy, tries to kidnap Persephone, drives away his family, kills his son-

Wilbur doesn’t follow quite the same path, but the resemblance is there.

He starts out nonviolent. He’ll solve his problems with words, not a sword. But that doesn’t work. Dream declares war. Eret betrays L’manburg, and L’manburg is violently slaughtered.

Wilbur loses trust, becomes paranoid.

He’s president of L’manburg, and he cries in his pillow because if he shows even an iota of weakness, Dream will just snatch L’manburg right back up. (Or so he fears)

He runs for president, and loses.

And he thinks- if L’manburg has become this, become Manburg, a cruel place ruled by a tyrant- that’s his fault, right? It’s his country, he should have done better, should have made it more resistant to this.

He loses sight of the hope and camaraderie the nation was founded upon. If he doesn’t trust anyone, how can he believe in a place built on trust?

If he’s not the hero, he must be the villain, he thinks.

And Theseus loses himself.

And Wilbur places eleven stacks of TNT.

And even then, the analogy doesn’t really tell you anything, because Theseus’ story ends with exile and a cliff, and Wilbur’s keeps going.

Because in the end, we can draw all the comparisons we want, but they don’t mean anything unless we let them.

We are not bound by the limitations of myth. There are no fates on the SMP, weaving lives into stories, and life goes on after the climax.

Wilbur thinks, if he is not the hero, he must be the villain.

But Wilbur is a person, not a moral. He’s more complex than that.

They all are.

SO STOP WRITING HIM AS A TWO DIMENSIONAL VILLAIN I’M GOING TO COMMIT CRIMES HE’S NOT JUST YOUR SCAPEGOAT SO YOU CAN PRETEND DREAM HAS ANY CANONICAL MORAL COMPASS WHAT THE F-

[shyrose57]

Tubbo’s Ghosts.

(Time leaves ghosts and Tubbo has been around for oh so very long)

-----------------------

Tubbo has ghosts. 

He always has, he thinks. They’ve been part of his life since he was little. 

The oldest comes from Greek times. The youngest from only three hundred years ago.

They never tell him their names. He doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t mind. He just gives them nicknames instead. They are not the best, but he is seven when he comes up with them, and there are no protest.

The oldest is named Toob. They have red-pink hair that’s curls hang over pointed ears, and pale green eyes that always hold a glimmer of madness. Toob wears a white chiton, with a pale red sash around their waist. A brown cloak(himation, they call it) hangs over their shoulders. Toob doesn’t often speak, but when they do, they tend to ramble. He doesn’t understand much of what they say. He never has. 

(Toob has no outwards wounds. But their chest is still)

Next is Drubbo. He has dark brown hair, like Tubbo’s, and equally dark eyes, hard and cold as ice. Like Toob, he wears a chiton, though it’s much more worn. A belt hangs around his waist, and sandals cover his feet. Plated armor covers his chest, tied by rope in the front. A sword hangs at his waist. Drubbo is normally quite formal, and he doesn’t talk to Tubbo much. Sometimes though, he will start to sway and giggle, as he trips everywhere.

(In these times, blood spills past his lips and he chokes out delirious laughter until he stops moving completely)

These two are often together, despite how they always seem to argue and squabble. Sometimes though, they both get very quiet, eyes fixed on the horizon. 

Neither Toob or Drubbo much like the talk of gods. 

Big Crime is younger than them both. He has shoulder-length blonde hair, always tied back in a loose ponytail, and hazel eyes. His clothes are very fancy, but worn and dirty. A dark green tailcoat, a white blouse. Fraying trousers, and falling apart boots. He glares a lot, and doesn’t seem to care about the law. In fact, most of the time, he advises ignoring it. He says most of it’s stupid anyway. 

(There is a rope around his neck, and the skin around it is bloody and raw. His feet never touch the ground)

Subbo is the youngest of them all. Their hair is red-brown, and their eyes are a vibrant amber. They have the prettiest hat, lined with flowers, an oversized shirt, and green trousers tucked into battered brown boots. Subbo is there with him the most often, and despite their kindness, always seems so sad. Even their laughter is tinged with an echo of grief. 

(Burn scars wrap around their body, and sometimes, their form flickers, blackened to ash and bone)

There are more of course(so many more, he swears he will drown beneath them all), but these four are the ones around most often. 

He used to think that was nice, that stability. At seven, when things were always uncertain, and his father always tipsy, that certainy was a lifeline. 

Even when his dad left him, alone in a wet box, telling him to wait for somebody to find him, they were still there. They shielded him as best they could from the cold, even with their flickering forms. They told him stories to distract him from the hunger. They trailed flowers and leaves along the ground to lead people to him. 

That was nice, once.

Nowadays...

(Technoblade recounts the story of Theseus as he releases the Withers, a cruel grin aimed at Tommy. 

“You want to be a hero, Tommy? Then die like one!” He snarls out, and Tubbo-

Tubbo wants to move, wants to run over and help, and stand at his friend’s side, and fight. He wants to help. But there are cold fingers digging into his shoulders, and Toob laughs above him, sharp and bitter.

“Theseus,” They murmur, words a cold breeze along his neck, “was no hero. Not to the people he hurt.” 

His skin breaks, and they see and grin.

“Run, Ariadne. Run, Pirithous. Run, before you are abandoned. Run, before you are trapped.”

“Run,” They whisper into his ear, blood dripping down his shoulders, “before you have no more use to him.”)

(”Tommy Innit, you are hereby exiled from L’manberg. Dream, please escort him out of my nation.” The words are cold and heavy in his mouth, and if he could move his body at all, his hands would be shaking. 

But he cannot. 

Drubbo puppets his body with chilling ease, standing tall and unfeeling under Tommy’s heartbroken gaze, and the cabinet’s disbelieving stares. 

He is a leader. A general. As he steps out of his body, leaving Tubbo frozen as he watches his best friend be torn away from him, he leans down.

“You cannot sacrifice the safety of a nation for the comfort of a friend.” The words are cold, and heavy. 

They are a blade, hanging at his neck, sharp and painful as the people scream at him, compare him to a tyrant. They are a blade-so unfeeling. Yet entirely necessary, when it comes down to it. A needed defense.

They are a blade. They prick his neck, and make him want to cry)

(Nukes, he feels are a bit much. Hasn’t there been enough violence? Hasn’t there been enough explosions? 

Big Crime scoffs at him from where he’s inspecting the weapons. 

“When will you learn?” He asks.

“What do you mean?” He answers. The ghost shakes his head, looking down at him with hard eyes.

“You think after awhile, you’d figure it out. Like ‘blade said, violence is a universal language. It’s the only one they speak. So you need to speak it too.”

“I don’t want to.” He whispers, shuffling at the snow. 

“It doesn’t matter. You will die if you don’t.” 

He hates that he is right. He hates that it is true. 

He hates that he still wants to hesitate, even as Tommy’s and his life hang in the balance)

(”It’s over.” He looks softly at his friend, a soft grief in his heart. It is not his own. Tommy looks distraught.

“We had some laughs. It was fun. But, y’know-” He shrugs half-heartedly.

“All good things must come to an end eventually.” 

“N-no-what-what am I-”

“I didn’t think this would be-my, my coming to an end, if you will.” He laughs. It is a sad sound. Tommy grabs at his shoulders.

“What am I without you?” He looks desperate. Distraught. So very lost.

Tubbo smiles. Subbo weeps beside him, lava tears disappearing before they ever hit the ground. Their sorrow fills his heart, and echoes in all of his words, as they cry and wail for the child that is smiling at his death. He doesn’t mind, but Tubbo isn’t sad. He’s just tired.

“Yourself.”)

Tubbo has ghosts. He always has, he knows.

It took him a long time before he understood what that meant.

(His is a weary soul, and there is still so much to do before he can rest)

[monstrouslyobsessed]

𝔪𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱

this masterlist of links will be updated as time goes on. 

—heed the tags —if there’s a link missing from all masterlists (including this one), let me know —format will be updated and tweaked over time. —headcanon may or may not be included in this list in the future.

enjoy!

—inktober masterlist

—beastfolks masterlist

—monster characters

—beastfolk characters

adoxi;;

ns;fw;;slithering in when you sleep

ns;fw;; and jealousy makes a snake

ns;fw;; grief

ravish you

—interactions;; feeding

—interaction;; ideal darling

—interaction;;ns;fw | may i have some clothes please

—interaction;;ns;fw | please fill me

—interaction;; don’t touch me anymore

—interaction;; names

—interaction;; loving the pregnancy

—interaction;; transparent outfit

inktober;; lovesick

i’san | mr.insanity;;

anywhere. everywhere

slowly driven to the insanity

—interaction;; ideal darling

—interaction;; stop touching me

—interaction;; 5 seconds

red;;

ns;fw;; blood in the water

I’m only one allowed to touch you

ns;fw;; teeth mark

—interaction;;ns;fw | what have you done to me

inktober;; spike

inktober | ns;fw;; calm

cerelos;;

ns;fw;; runaway bride

ns;fw;; his empress, collared

inktober | ns;fw;; drool

lucien;;

ns;fw;; his sacrificial lamb

savored

I’ll kill all of them, for you

inktober | ns;fw;; lost

ns;fw;; lesson in subtlety

prototype tyrant;; 

ns;fw;; the prototype

nsfw;; above all the rest

inktober | ns;fw;; humiliation

the butcher;;

ns;fw;; bloodstained

inktober | ns;fw;; missing

the starmaker;;

into the night

inktober | ns;fw;; poison

lady hyena;;

ns;fw;; her pretty pet

inktober | ns;fw;; petplay

other characters;;

androids;; a single act of kindness

drider;; trapped in the spiderweb

w-nd*go;; isolation

crow demon;; murder of crows

owl harpy;; little gifts

grizzly werewolf;; ns;fw | hunting his prey

wolf pack;; ns;fw | a pack of wolves and their lamb

alien;; ns;fw | dear specimen

werejaguar;; stalked

castlevania’s trevor belmont;; everything’s wrong with me

dream demon;; never wake up again

hellsing’s alucard;; ns;fw | drenched in red

drider;; f/f | itsy-bitsy spider

ghost;; ns;fw | the ghost’s bride

doctor;; the illness that plagued

shadow monster;; f/f | subject 131, the unknown abnormality

elf priest;; and love me not

demon priest;; i’m your god now

—sequel to demon priest;; dead dove do not eat!

breath of the wild’s lynel;; ns;fw | gentle roars into the night

mothman;; ns;fw | like a moth to the flame

krampus;; ns;fw | not every christmas wish is a miracle

nn;; ns;fw | with blood comes cleansing

dragon;; ns;fw | a holy knight, defiled

ff7′s sephiroth / jenova;; nsfw | mother’s vessel

—part 2;; nsfw | broodmother (wip | cancelled?)

revius and zedrik;; ns;fw | crime and punishment

octopus merman / the witch;;ns;fw | poor unfortunate soul

other interactions;;

castlevania’s alucard;; future plans

concepts;;

dolls;; eyes

immortal;; reincarnated

angel;; blackening wings

fairy?;; welcome home

anubis;; awaken

god;; stay here forever

shapeshifter;; i’m everyone you’ve ever been with

werewolf;; empty bed (warning: text may be broken in your browser)

telekinetic demon;; within your mind

ghost;; never leaving you

spider goddess;; ensnared

grim reaper;; how long is an etenity

headless horseman;; my little mouse

serial killer;; i spy with my little eyes...

cthulhu;; the end

eel mermaid;; in the cage

unknown alien;; battle royale

unknown monster;; unescapable madness

immortal lady;; soulmates

lizardman;; cannot hide from me

fox-headed creature / kitsune;; a debt to repay

imaginary friend?;; don’t look

beast gods;; the hunt

sentient house;; the shut-in

toy store’s dolls;; our successor

vampire brothers;; naive dear

cannibal cook;; the way to your heat is through human meat

ice spirit/husband;; your folly

fox demon-possessed husband;; under his skin

6 armed snake god;; ever so faithful

the disembodied;; heart still beating under his fleshless ribs

the biblical angel;; vile affection

musings;;

fantasy species;; ns;fw | fate of the isekai’d humans

centaur couples;; ns;fw | between two giant bodies and the breeding pillory

slime;; ns;fw | advice for the travelers

artworks;;

mine;; adoxi sketch

mine;; cerelos sketch

@exhausteddrawer;; adoxi, red, and isan sketches

mine;; refined cerelos sketch

@exhausteddrawer;; adoxi flower sketch

@exhausteddrawer;; i’san sketch

@lewingz;; lucien sketch

mine;; adoxi for 300th followers

mine;; pyramid head and his darling (censored n sfw!)

mine;; the doctor celebrating acepride

@exhausteddrawer;; adoxi’s flower crown

mine;; lucien v salvatore

mine;; eyeless jack

mine;; adoxi doodle

mine;; lick it hondje

mine;; happy halloween!

mine;; lady hyena doodle

mine;; ns;fw; lady hyena

mine;; the starmaker

mine;; happy birthday vanya!!

mine;; papa bull

mine;; beastfolk sketches

mine;; father fox

mine;; rabbit hybrid sketch

mine;; angry red and his darling

mine;; lady hyena and lioness admiring their (shared?) darling

mine;; revius and zedrik

mine;; the witch

updated;; nov. 27, 2023

[pauliana-winter-simp]

I wish from the bottom of my heart that this adorable boy, Marchmond, becomes Raynen's lover. (But I know he won't be T v T)

[the-river-person]

Okay, now my interest is piqued. What does the emperor do in his daily lives and how is he perceived by those around him? (Both in his close inner circle and the general populace)

Well let's see. In the original game, Grillby is quiet and stoic. He rarely speaks and the character "Red Bird" generally translates for them, though it's revealed at the end of the Pacifist route that they're making up what Grillby actually says. And we learn that Grillby can actually talk, he just doesn't want to. I suspect that while Red Bird does make some of it up, they're probably fairly on the mark or not saying anything that Grillby himself wouldn't be fine with people thinking he said. Because he is literally standing right there and doesn't seem at all inclined to tell Red Bird to stop. But as Emperor? I suspect the Burning Emperor (as I'm now calling him) doesn't do public appearances much at all. He's revered by most people as a Hero from a war that not even their grandparent's grandparents were old enough to remember. A silent powerful protective figure who guards the Claustra Alliance. He's probably depicted in his full imperial armor for all official portraits. And whenever its necessary to address the public with an official imperial decree or announcement, he has a Master of Ceremonies or some other public officials to do it. I don't think he'd address the public for anything less than a full emergency. Though I'm willing to bet he does make various public appearances, just without speaking. He could show up at the theater or opera type thing. Maybe for grand openings of particularly important events or buildings. But lets his officials talk for him. (I sort of imagined a Mettaton who is just as energetic and in the spotlight as the original, but much more formal and regal, as the Imperial Master of Ceremonies.) Funnily enough, that would make a lot of general ire from the public about problems in their society that stem from or were supposed to be dealt with by the government, all fall on to the officials who speak for the emperor, rather than being directly on Grillby himself. Its really hard to hate someone you hardly know anything about, who only is ever mentioned as the wise and protective emperor, a hero, a savior. Functionally they know that imperial decrees come from him, but just because people know information, doesn't mean they've really spent time considering it or realized its implications. A lot of government would be left to the Ministers of the Cities. People like Minister Sans who oversees finances and trade for his city. But he's still a tyrant, even if he's quiet. You've got to watch the ones who seem nice, who seem reasonable, who seem like they've got your best interests at heart. They can be dangerous because they're not loud and making an obvious show of being terrible. Despite leaving the day to day running of things to Ministers, the empire would have a tight grip on the Cities, using the threat of the "Corruption" to not only keep its people inside the cities, but also to impose ever more strictures under the guise of safety measures. The Empire can impose taxes and tariffs on all kinds of things, quietly adding them on one at a time over a long period of time until one day people wake up and wonder why they're slowly being driven into poverty while the rich don't seem affected at all. I suspect the Imperial Court, wherever its located, has somewhat of a different view of him. Of course they don't all know everything he has planned or is doing. But they'll have seen what happens to anyone who crosses him or dares to oppose him. Nobles relegated to outposts or lavish mansions far from the center of imperial power in the worst areas. Made to oversee dead end projects, or set to finish impossible tasks and then punished for not achieving those. And if you go too far, you can be executed for treason. The Emperor wouldn't even have to say a word, just a gesture would do. So the court both adores and worships him as the Hero just like everyone else, but they also fear him because they live with the reality of the power an emperor can hold. His direct cabinet of officials will probably know him better. Be in on his plans, or perhaps have come up with many of those plans

themselves.

Well what I had in mind was either that the Corruption was created intentionally. Perhaps Grillby was one of the people involved in its creation. Or maybe he didn't find out about it until long after he took power. But my thoughts were that the Corruption was originally made to stop the war, to frighten humanity so much that they'd rather side with Monsters to survive rather than imprison them and then perish from this terrible thing. And then later it could possibly be used for a means of control, or to retain power. It could be an actually sickness that spreads and was created in a test tube, or it could be the result of a kind of weapon that must be continually used on the land when nobody is around to see the cause. Then official pictures are shown of the areas overtaken by the Corruption, blackened plants and greying soil. So the corruption is real, but what exactly it is and how it works is a lot harder to figure out. Certainly it doesn't spread the way the imperial government claims it does, since the Warrens don't have any of the stifling strictures that the Cities do and they're not overrun. Also scavengers clearly wander the wastes and badlands looking for stuff they can repair and sell, like old technology. I suspect that the device Frisk accidentally stole from Aaron is some kind of severely outdated communication device. I was thinking a Portable Ham Radio, or a NOAA Emergency Radio. Something that hasn't been used in centuries. By Frisk's description of the screen and the buttons, I'm going to guess that this type of technology isn't available to the general public. As to who or why people are disappearing, I'm not certain. It could be the fault of the Imperial Government or someone in it. Or it could be an entirely different group that's doing it, taking advantage of a bad situation to hide their activities and plans. Whatever it is... its not good. And finally, yes. Mistral is being purposefully cryptic. I mean, Sans is already that way to start off. But the first person Mistral met out in the Multiverse was Ink, who probably impressed on him and Majiscule the need to not interfere with the course of events in each Universe, to not mess with their Order. He can interact a little, but he's trying very hard to let Frisk and Azzy figure things out themselves based on information they already had and just hadn't put together. As far as this world is concerned, he doesn't exist.

[hiimei]

@handofsmite said: obsidian - for a traumatic memory.

This was a nightmare. It was a memory that often haunted his dreams when he made himself sleep.

Betraying the New Sun wasn’t originally in the cards, however, Shouta somehow got passed the brainwashing that had changed the nomu into the Blood Moon, and brought him back to his senses. What was done to him made Hizashi furious—more furious than his original nomufication. Ripping him away from his humanity again, making him an obedient monster once more—a different one, maybe, but one all the same.

They had stood outside, quietly talking to each other about their plan for Hizashi to keep his facade up and Shouta offering him calm encouragement. Hizashi admitted the the was afraid of what was to happen if the tyrant truly found out, but his partner was his rock. Hands squeezed each other in an attempt of comfort and strength before Shouta shoved his hand in his pockets. Hizashi could feel Shouta lean against him in an attempt of reassurance, and he nodded.

The door was slowly pushed open, the blonde walking towards his ‘Master’, hands clasped behind his back. “What do we owe the honour, my lord?” He questioned, posture straight. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his chest. He wasn’t surprised that the other man was suspicious, but he kept the act up.

Toshinori—The New Sun—the man that made the blonde his humble servant after vigorous torture was sitting at his desk, hand resting under his chin as he stared out the large windows and unto the city. He was clearly agitated with the way his leg was bouncing, though he gave the fellow blonde a nod when he turned to face him. “My Moon,” He didn’t get up, remaining to stay seated. “I’m glad you could join me. I know you’ve had a very busy schedule as of late.”

Shouta felt as though none of this was his business--And why would he? He was quiet as they entered the tyrant’s office, a tired expression on his features that was very much mixed with disinterest. He refused to say anything just in case. He knew what the man was capable of.

Multicoloured eyes glanced to Shouta, a worried flint flickering in his eyes before he brought his gaze back to Toshinori. He took a deep breath, bowing respectfully to the man he called his ‘master’, a sharp toothed grin plastered on his features. “Of course. I’m not one to disobey, Master.” He mused, standing straight once more.“Though—I am curious to know why you called for myself, and...” his tone turned into one of disgust as he gestured to Shouta. “Him?”

The villain hummed in return as he moved to stand up. “Well, I thought that both of you might be able to help me out with a little rumor I’ve been hearing about.” Toshinori’s hands moved to lean over his desk as his hands rested against it. “I have heard a great many things and I would hate to be the last one to find out about something so...Important.”

There was a glance shot at Shouta from the blonde nomu before he focused on Toshinori, a brow raised. A Rumor...? He brought a hand to his chin up in thought...No. No no. It had to be something else. There was no way... “Really?I haven’t heard anything as of late.” He could feel his anxiety bubble in his chest, but he still kept his calm demeanour. “What was the rumour, exactly?”

Icy blue gaze felt as though it was burning into the two of them as the villain tutted. “I’ve heard that you and...This one, here,” He gestured to Shouta. “Have been passing on information that heroes otherwise shouldn’t know.” He clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “Judging by the relationship that you two currently have, I would assume that’s rather farfetched, correct?”

“With all do respect, My Lord--That’s absurd. Where did you hear that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Keep the act up, Hizashi. He closed his eyes briefly and exhaled sharply, a hand gesturing towards Shouta. He had to keep this up—he had to remain...believable.

“You don’t actually believe that I would work with him, do you, sir? I can’t stand him—and vice versa. What benefit would I gain to helping out the heroes, anyway? The only goals I have coincide with yours.”

Looking at Shouta, he could tell the other man was staying quiet. He looked half uninterested and half annoyed. He shifts a little, scratching his head. Hizashi keeps his facade up--But this was bad. Someone was spying on them, and they both knew that in this current moment. They knew that if there was any notion of this being the truth...it could get them both killed. Shouta is relieved that Hizashi wasn’t like this anymore...That there was no longer any truth to this bullshit. He huffed, narrowing his eyes at Hizashi and keeping the facade up with him.

“I have ears everywhere, my Moon. I thought you would remember that.” Toshinori’s gaze trailed them from side to side as he stood up and snaked his way between them, looming over the both of them. It made Hizashi...nervous, especially when he moved to lean down to be eye to eye with the nomu. “If your ideals stil coincide with my own, then I will give you an order that is easy enough to follow.” He stood up straid, casually pointing to Shouta.

“Kill him.”

Multicoloured eyes watched Toshinori move, body tensing slightly when the taller man loomed. He could only think of one snivelling rat that could have said something...That could have been spying on him...He would get back at that skeletal freak later.

“Of course I know that—“ he paused, eyes widening slightly at the command. Shit. No. No no no. He couldn’t—

The spirals in his eyes thickened, hands twitching before his claws flexed, head turning to look at Shouta. He wasn’t going to have a choice in this...His body was literally moving on its own.

“Run.”

The command was uttered and Shouta was told to run. The command made his eyes widen and his attention snap to Hizashi, his heart rate increasing, he knew commands couldn’t be avoided. Shit. His face twisted in several different emotions before he gave Hizashi an apologetic one, hands gripping his capture weapon as he jumped back. The Erasure Hero activated his quirk to target Hizashi’s speed quirk—at least it would buy him time.

Hizashi trailed behind him—absolutely unwillingly but due to the command system that was set up in his brain, he didn’t have a choice in anything. His teeth were clenched tightly as he cursed to himself, hatred for the tyrant bubbling in his veins. If only he could be attacking him instead—but no. The man in red still had his hold on the blonde nomu—no matter how much he would try to fight it. “Son of a bitch.” Hizashi spat these words at Toshinori before his body moved from a walk to a run—though his speed was cut thanks to Shouta. The last thing he wanted was to fight his lover—let alone kill him. Toshinori was a twisted man.

Lips parted on their own to let out a quirk powered scream in Shouta’s direction as he continued after him, the blonde mentally cursing at himself. His heart felt heavy-it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He DIED protecting Shouta in the first place. Was that going to be in vain, now? He growled when he heard the intercom system go off, Toshinori’s voice echoing on the walls as the blonde continued to give chase.

"We have a runner. Don't interact with him or his pursuer unless you see him trying to leave the grounds. And, Himei, make sure not to bloody the body too much. I'm going to need it later."

Need it? The thought made Hizashi sick to his stomach. He had a feeling he knew what the tyrant wanted to do with Shouta and he absolutely refused. Not that it mattered, anyway.

Shouta’s gaze was off of him now and he could feel a spark within his body. His speed was back—he could feel it. Hizashi stopped for a brief moment, glancing up as he saw the capture weapon come at him which he easily dodged now that this speed was back. Lips parted to scream—nothing. Black claws gripped the capture scarf and he used his inhuman strength to pull, stepping forward—and in the blink of an eye those blackened claws reached over and sliced down Shouta’s right eye, and then they were tightly gripped around Shouta’s throat.

His heart felt so heavy in his chest as his hand squeezed, hearing Shouta grunt as hands moved to Hizashi’s in an attempt to pry it off. However, he was much too strong now. Hizashi knew the tyrant was watching this—probably with a stupid grin on his face. Watching the both of them squirm—putting Hizashi through this torture. It made his blood boil.

But the look on the nomu’s face was sad. There was so much pain and regret as he watched someone he loved squirm in his grasp, desperate to breathe as he continued to squeeze. There was hesitancy—something that didn’t normally happen.

A pause. The intercom came back on.

“Himei. What are you waiting for?”

‘Don’t call me that. Don’t say it.’

“KILL HIM.”

His hand squeezed tighter and he moved to slam Shouta into the ground, kneeling over him and looking down at him with those sad, multicoloured eyes. He didn’t want to do this. His hand squeezed tighter.

“I’m sorry. I—I don’t wanna do this, Sho—“

“I know.” He heard Shouta gasp his words. He could tell by the look in the other man’s eyes that he didn’t blame Hizashi for this. That it wasn’t his fault. And yet something solidified for Hizashi as the light in his lovers eyes slowly went out and his breathing stopped.

Hizashi was a monster. Through and through.

He knelt there, staring down at the corpse of his lover and his best friend, tears slowly dripping onto Shouta’s skin and clothing as the nomu slowly retracted his hand from his throat. A hand moved to dig into dark hair, the other wrapping around his torso as he held the other close to his body. He trembled, teeth clenched as he listened to the voice on the intercom once more.

“Well done. It seems you do still listen, hm?” Oh, how Hizashi wanted to rip out that man’s tongue the more he spoke. He paused as he heard the shuffling of feet, blinking a few times and looking behind him only to feel the body ripped out of his hands. “Hey—HEY, GIVE HIM BACK—“ Hizashi moved to grab him from the henchmen, only to be grabbed himself. An attempt to use his strength was proven futile from another strength based quirk holding him back. The blonde hissed and squirmed, doing his best to reach for Shouta’s body as they were oth dragged off in seoerate directions.

“SHOUTA—!!” Hizashi screamed, voice cracking in panic as he was dragged off, his last image of Shouta being his corpse carried off.

Hizashi knew what was going to happen.

And he dreaded it.

Blogs mentioned // @handofsmite & @shoukyo

[kyubicled]

< [INDEX] >

"The War of Three Kings--known as the Dragon-Hunt to the North, Robert's Rebellion to the supporters of the Baratheon regime, or the War of the Usurper to Targaryen loyalists--was not directly instigated by a single occurrence or action. Rather, it was what many saw as an inevitable conclusion began at the Field of Thunder, where King Torrhen the Defiant and the legendary Spartan defeated Aegon, showing the whole of Westeros how even the might of the dragonlords were rendered meek by the otherworldly might of the Forward Unto Dawn. It was not apparent during those first years, when Aegon sat the Iron Throne. Indeed, though many had thought the sudden and crushing halt of the Dragon's advance would give rise to rebellion and sedition from his conquered territories of the Southern kingdoms, Aegon's reign on the Iron Throne was astoundingly peaceful. It is widely believed by scholars that it was indeed fear that kept the South in line, as many believed that disunity among the Andal kingdoms could very well render them vulnerable to invasion and subsequent conquest at the hands of the reinvigorated and undoubtedly mighty North. Rather than risk being made prey to the triumphant Direwolf, the lords of the South instead pledged their fealty to the wounded Dragon, though it's three heads had now only one still living. It is also likely inferred that Aegon himself was shielded by the presence of his new Northern queen, Wylanna Stark, the daughter of King Torrhen, whose hand sealed the Pact of Ice and Fire after Aegon's prior defeat. While their marriage proved to be fruitful, and even inferred to have eventually become a happy one, trouble would begin shortly after Aegon's death, the first in a long list of grievances between House Targaryen and House Stark.

While Aegon himself had decreed his son by Rhaenys, Aenys, would inherit the throne after him, there was considerable tension in the court over the matter, particularly due to the controversy caused by Aegon's issue. The Faith had viewed Aegon's marriage to his sister-wives as a blasphemy only begrudgingly tolerated due to the sheer might Aegon wielded, and therefore considered his issue by them, the future kings Aenys I and Maegor I, as less legitimate to the throne as Aegon's issue by Queen Wylanna; despite the fact she herself was detested by them due to her staunch faith in the Old Gods of the North, which she had passed on to her children. To further complicate things, her only son, Prince Jon, was seen as the ablest of all Aegon's heirs; although known to be stern and humorless, he was nevertheless seen as a balance between the genial but indecisive Aenys and the powerful but brutal Maegor. To the relief of the realm, Prince Jon himself held no public interest in pursuing the throne. He chose instead to support his half-brother's claim, publicly bending the knee and swearing fealty to Aenys in a display of great humility and subservience--a decision likely due in no small part due to the known friendship between them.

Unfortunately, Aenys, while gentle in rule and a patron of the arts, proved to be a less than able ruler, indecisive and hesitant for fear of offending. This left him incapable of stopping the enmity between Jon and Maegor, which only worsened over time. When the Faith Militant Uprising began, and Aenys suddenly died of cramps, Jon hastened to quell the dissent sown by the Faith Militant, leaving the capitol with a small host, but in his haste did not give pause to be appointed an office of regency over Aenys' heirs. This Maegor exploited when he unexpectedly returned from the Free Cities with an army of his own, quickly seizing control of King's Landing and declaring himself the rightful heir of Aegon, seizing the Iron Throne in direct opposition to the laws of succession, which stated that Aenys' son, Aegon, should inherit the throne. When Grand Maester Gawen protested this, Maegor beheaded him with the Valyrian sword Blackfyre, and held the royal family hostage. When Queen Wylenna refused to acknowledge Maegor as anything but a usurper, Maegor had Balerion the Black Dread bathe her in dragonflame, before swallowing her whole.

Outraged and mad with grief at the news of his mother's death, Prince Jon immediately declared for Aenys' son, Aegon, and called upon the lords of Westeros to war against Maegor's usurpation of the throne. His maternal uncle, King Rodrik Stark, immediately declared war against Maegor as well, vowing to not rest until House Stark's Valyrian sword, Ice, had run through Maegor's blackened heart, and his sister's death had been avenged. Thus began the Second War of Ice and Fire. When Maegor challenged any who opposed his rule to fight him, Jon immediately answered, challenging Maegor to a Trial of Seven, and was joined by Ser Damon Morrigen as well as five champions of the Faith to battle Maegor and six of his Kingsguard. In the ensuing melee, Jon and Maegor both immediately sought each other out, their long-standing enmity climaxing in a brutal, raging clash of blades between them. It was only when Blackfyre shattered Prince Jon's sword and clove him near in two that the White Dragon fell, but not before he dealt terrible wounds upon the Red Tyrant. Maegor alone survived the Trial, falling into a coma after the last blow was dealt, and woke only just in time to learn that, as it is said in the North, Winter was Coming.

King Rodrik raised an army of forty-thousand Northmen to march south of the Neck, and was joined by Prince Aegon with forces loyal to his cause. Maegor, meanwhile, mustered the royal army and marched north to meet him, each king intent on finishing his father's work of crushing the opposing side once and for all. The Dragon and the Wolf would run the rivers of the South red with the clash of their armies, and the years of fighting between them would be remembered as the Red Winter. While the Northmen had superior warriors, armaments, and tactics, and Aegon possessed the dragon Quicksilver, their supplies were stretched thin from the long march, and the Northerners did not have the vaunted might of the Spartan as they had when King Torrhen had led them, allegedly because the Spartan refused to stir from his timeless slumber for a war that was, ultimately, a squabble of houses fighting for the throne. Maegor's host, meanwhile, had greater numbers and a knowledge of the terrain, as well as supplies that could more readily be replenished from the surrounding countryside. While Rodrik and Aegon won many victories against Maegor's forces at first, their allied forces became weaker and weaker with each engagement, until Maegor ultimately defeated them at the Battle of Darry, where Quicksilver was slain with wildfire, killing Aegon with him. The Tyrant Dragon and the Wild Wolf met in personal combat as the battle raged around them, Rodrick wielding Ice and Maegor Blackfyre. Maegor, tormented by the wounds the late Jon had prior inflicted upon him, could not match the Stark King's ferocity, and would have perished there had his men not riddled Rodrick with crossbow bolts, killing the King in the North even as he held Ice aloft to deal the killing blow. With their sovereign dead, the Northmen retreated back to the North, utterly defeated.

Maegor, arrogant and bloodthirsty in his triumph, then declared he would finish his father's work and take the North, vowing to raze Winterfell to the ground and snuff out House Stark. And many believed he would, for his victory over the Starks had seemed so complete that his army could likely march unopposed at the very place his father had been defeated. But, much like his father, his arrogance would be his undoing. For in his pride and in his cruelty, and in his intent to see the North burn, and the Faith bent to it's knees, he awoke that sleeping giant that he had overlooked--that enigmatic warrior whom he believed would not oppose him. King Rodrik's young son, the newly crowned King Benjen, came in tears to the Forward Unto Dawn at the news of his father's death and their army's crushing defeat. The boy, no older than ten, pleaded that the Spartan rise to defend them, for all other hope had seemed to die in that dread hour. Many thought the boy king craven for doing so... until he reemerged with the Spartan and his companion, the Maiden of Light, at his side. The cries of a humbled and frightened child had triumphed where the pride and strength of a great warrior had failed, and the North rejoiced, their once-shattered morale rekindled by the return of their savior. Instead of rallying the remnants of the Stark forces under his banner, though, the Spartan insisted they be disbanded and sent home, solemnly stating he himself would suffice to end the tyranny of Maegor.

As Maegor marched northward, he and his army found Moat Cailin guarded by a lone warden--the Spartan himself, wielding the legendary Hammer of the Smith, and the fabled thunder weapon called 'Sniper Rifle'. Maegor, in hopes of restoring Balerion the Black Dread from his crippled state and into his former glory to face the Warrior Made Flesh, had allegedly used the blood of his own kin and the burnt body of Quicksilver in some dark sorcery. Regardless of the veracity of such reports, it was known that on that day, Maegor did indeed mount Balerion one more, the first time the great dragon had been ridden since it's defeat at the hands of the very enemy Maegor now intended to face.

But what followed was not the final triumph of the Tyrant King over the champion of the North. What followed was a duel immortalized in song, chronicle, and shows alike. Taking his thunder weapon in hand, he shot two deafening blows to the Black Dread's wings, forcing the monstrous beast to remain aground. Then, lifting his great war hammer, the Spartan did battle with the Black Dread, his weapon landing thunderous, crashing blows into the great dragon. Balerion's flames, black as night and hot enough to melt steel, failed to so much as singe the Spartan's legendary armor, his spear-like claws, sword-like fangs, and battering ram-esqe tail all too slow and lumbering to land a single blow against the Master Chief's otherworldly speed--Just as it had failed to do so to his great war machines so many year before. After felling many terrible strikes against the dreaded wyrm's body, the Immortal Last Hero landed one last, terrible blow into the drake's spine-crowned skull, felling the Black Dread one and for all. Maegor, still somehow whole, charged him in madness and fury, holding Blackfyre aloft--only to be casually hurdled through the air with a single fell blow from the Spartan's gauntleted fist, obliterating his skull in an instant. So ended the reign of Mageor the Cruel--or perchance, the Fool, as the Northmen still mockingly call him--a reign filled with blood, terror, and tyranny.

Following the death of Maegor, the Spartan made his way south, where he was justly received as a liberating hero by the whole of the realm for ending the terrible rule of the Tyrant Dragon. The smallfolk and the Faith rallied behind him and many shouted him to be named king. But in yet another astounding move, the Spartan and the Maiden of Light both instead helped to ensure that King Aenys' last living son, the future King Jaeherys I, was received his rightful place on the throne. They only remained long enough to help the young ruler secure peace for the whole of the realm, with the Luminous Lady leaving instructions of guidance for him to follow in his duties as king, before they both returned to the North, and back into their deathless sleep.

King Jaeherys was quick to restore relations with the Starks and the Faith, and would be remembered as perhaps the greatest ruler of the Targaryen dynasty, and together with King Brandon, helped to rebuild Westeros from the years of bloodshed of Maegor's reign, and bringing about a golden age of peace and prosperity for the whole continent. His own rule would be heavily influenced by the writings the Aglow lady left for him, helping to institute great reforms and innovations across the breadth of his domain."

--Maester Benjamyn, A History of House Stark and the Spartan, Volume II

[skiyoomii]

“Born to Run” - S. Hirugami

Summary: 

This is the story of a purple girl who lives under a tyrant red mother and a boy who is crumbling with the pressure of his blackened family to conform to their beliefs.

They were going to find their way out together.

They were born to run.

----

About 4k words | Contains Post-Timeskip Spoilers! | Not edited 

----

Sachirou Hirugami was a shy child.

Despite growing up in a full household, filled with other children, all older than him, he never felt comfortable talking to those from outside his family.

He knew that there were children his age that lived on the street, went to the same school as him, and even shared the same class as him. But, he just couldn’t bring himself to go over and make friends.

He thought his family was enough, that he was enough.

One day, his mother came home in tears and proceeded to dress all her children in the color black.

Sachirou never liked the color black, or rather the shade of black. They drilled that into his head during art class, but he didn’t care.

Black was the absence of color. Black is the mysterious color that is filled with the unknown.

Sachirou hated the unknown. He needed an answer to everything. Every answer he was given by his parents or older siblings was always followed with a why. It annoyed his family to no end, but he had no intention of stopping.

Everything had an answer.

But, his father said that black also represents strength, seriousness, power, and authority.

Black is a formal, elegant, and prestigious color.

He didn’t know why he was wearing it to a funeral.

-

They first met when they were five. It was actually at her father’s funeral.

They were neighbors, so he had to attend seeing that his mother knew them.

Sachirou’s eyes met the neighbors for the first time.

Her eyes were captivating. It was as if she held the world in her twinkling eyes.

From then on, Sachirou decided that he was not going to hide from the stranger next door anymore.

-

He remembered feeling how her name flowed from his mouth for the first time after she introduced herself to him.

She had a beautiful name and he liked how it felt coming from his mouth.

He watched and listened as she said his given name from her lips, he felt oddly satisfied as his name came out.

She offered to lead him away from the chattering adults and older children.

Sachirou didn’t hesitate to take her hand.

The girl next door reminded him of the color purple.

The color purple combines the calm stability of blue and the fierce energy of red.

Purple is the color of royalty, nobility, luxury, power, and ambition.

It represents creativity, wisdom, dignity, devotion, peace, pride, mystery, independence, and even magic— although magic isn’t real, no matter how much they pretended it was.

The girl next door reminded him so much of the color purple.

Purple is dark and rich, a baritone sax bellowing jazz.

She became his escape from his chaotic household with her soft hands and soothing voice that led him away from his troubles.

No matter how small those troubles were.

She moved with all the grace a five-year-old can have as she swung from the swings to the wood chips that covered the ground at the park nearby.

She led him through the bushes, catching the summertime cicadas that were scattered around.

She led him through the cold creek that was flowing beside the park.

He was the one who led her back to their houses so he could show her how to play volleyball, just like his father and older siblings had done for him.

--

At age ten, Sachirou and the girl next door sat side by side on the swing set that was in the same park they frequently visited.

He watched helplessly as she put some stolen plasters from the local convenience store on her fresh wounds.

He asked where she got them from and she simply shrugged and said from her mother, then proceeded to go on a mini tangent about how her mother is the worst, though she never stated why she got hurt.

Her wounds were red.

Red is the color of extremes.

It is the color of passionate love, violence, danger, anger, and adventure.

Red is the color of fire and blood.

The color that was currently decorating his best friend’s skin.

Sachirou didn’t like it.

Parents don’t give their children wounds that bad out of passionate love or adventure- so that really left violence and anger.

What was her mother angry about?

The girl next door is probably the most perfect person on earth to Sachirou.

Everything about her mother screamed danger to Sachirou, even to the point where he made himself scarce whenever he went to knock for his friend.

Sachirou didn’t like the color red. More than he didn’t like the shade of black.

Her mother reminded him of the color red.

So, he didn’t like her mother.

With a quick snap from his friend, Sachirou was removed from his thoughts and turned to face the girl beside him.

She wore a stupid grin on her face and held out her fist to him.

He automatically bumped his fist against hers.

Thank you.

He didn’t know why she thanked him. He didn’t do anything to help besides cover her body so she could successfully steal the plasters.

He didn’t even get a chance to help her fix herself up, only sat not he swing beside her and barely listened.

Sachirou did not ask this time. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

All he knew is that he didn’t want to see the color red on her skin again.

But, it’s a hard world that constantly asks you to live with a lot of things that are unlivable.

-

Ever since her father’s funeral, it became a mini ritual for the duo to go to the park and play by the creek.

It becomes their escape from the clutches of their families.

From the color red and the shade of black that tied them down.

One last vestige of freedom, the one place they can break the rules and feel like individuals rather than conforming to the thoughts and ideals of their parents.

The creek reminded Sachiro of the color blue.

Blue is the color of the sky and sea.

It is depth and stability.

Blue symbolizes trust, loyalty, wisdom, confidence, intelligence, faith, truth, and even heaven.

The creek was the place where they can be themselves and trust that it won’t spill their secret words to their families.

As they dipped their feet in the crystal blue waters of the creek, they lifted their heads to the sky to bask in the warmth of the sun.

The sun was a broad myriad of hot glowing gases at the heart of the solar system that the human race lived in.

It made him feel so small in a comforting way.

Like his problems were so… minuscule.

When he brought this up to his friend, whose skin was still littered with the color red, she gave him a hearty chuckle, and wholeheartedly agreed.

Just remember to never compare your problems with other peoples. Your problems are your own. Don’t negate the fact your pain is real.

He brought his head down to meet her gaze.

Sachirou found himself stuck in her mesmerizing eyes once more.

After a few moments, he reminds her to take her own advice.

They left the creek and took the trek back to their homes.

Back to the colors of black and red that controlled their lives.

-

At age 14, Sachirou offers to run away with the girl next door.

Instead of immediately accepting or declining, she asked why. Just like he did— still does.

The color black was suffocating him— slowly but surely.

He was struggling to make decisions by himself, he felt his anxiety taking over, his overactive mind went racing most times, and the one thing that he was supposed to love felt like chains weighing him down.

He felt like he went too deep, deep into the ocean. He is kicking and trying to keep himself afloat, and it’s hard to breathe, but he is just trying to keep his head over the surface.

He wasn’t the best with putting his thoughts into viable words, but he could tell that she understood him enough.

She responded by telling him to remember that he can just float.

It sounded like a simple solution, but he would feel like he is drifting, all alone.

Despite what he thought in his earlier years, Sachirou did not want to be alone anymore.

She reminded him that he would never be alone while she was around.

A lack of communication is a form of pain. Because to be alive, to be human, we need others. We don’t need just to be seen, to be perceived: we need to be listened to too.

She didn’t want him in pain. Yet, as he looked at the various shades of red that were scattered across her skin, he felt his heart clench painfully.

He wanted to call her a hypocrite. He wanted to just yell at her for being stupid and not relying on him as he relied on her.

He just wanted his only friend to be okay.

His plans of running away were put in the back of his mind for now.

-

Sachirou had to walk home alone on a certain day because his friend was needed by teachers.

It definitely gave him time to think with his overactive mind.

Sachirou’s family is a volleyball family through and through.

His parents, brothers, and sisters all went to famous schools.

Due to his family’s influence, he started the sport as well, thinking he’d become a player who could stand on the world stage.

It was a child’s dream, yet it was real life for a few in his family.

Sachirou was blessed with a good physique and dexterity, so he had fun playing. 

Volleyball was the flicker of white in the darkness of his family.

He never hesitated to go to the middle school with the strongest team.

He wanted to get better.

He wanted to spike it in.

He wanted to get aces.

He wanted to have good receives.

Everything is connected in volleyball.

His life became volleyball.

Sachiruo’s only escape was the girl next door.

She was the thing that let him keep his sanity.

The pressure of his family to not screw up, to not lose overgrew everything else.

There only became one explanation for not getting results, and that is not working hard enough.

Corners should not be cut.

And what used to be the white to his black life, slowly turned grey. It slowly but surely kept growing darker.

Everything is connected in volleyball.

Sachirou got frustrated at his mistakes.

He got annoyed with the connected mistakes.

He looked down at his calloused hand and pictured the red that was stained to his friend’s skin.

He pressed his hand against the stone wall that went along with the sidewalk and roughly dragged his knuckles across the stone, leaving a trail of red behind.

  He didn’t stop until someone- now his second friend- Kourai Hoshiumi, roughly tugged his backpack away from the wall, thus moving him as well.

Kourai was on the same team as him.

Kourai was a ball of orange.

Orange is a combination of yellow and red and is considered an energetic color.

Orange calls to mind feelings of excitement, enthusiasm, and warmth.

Orange draws attention.

Kourai draws attention.

Kourai is the color orange just as the girl next door is the color purple, and just like the girl next door’s mother is the color red.

Having the human embodiment of the color orange cringe at his now reddened hand made the thoughts that were rested in his mind come forward.

Salty tears went down his face and he finally admitted that the thing that used to be white is now black.

It felt nice to talk with a new person that wasn’t the purple girl next door.

The orange person had such a straightforward way of thinking that Sachirou couldn’t help but follow along.

That maybe he just had his fill.

It’s not like that all the muscle he built up will just vanish just because he wanted to quit.

You can always quit.

Sachiruo’s new friend (color) left it at that after he was satisfied that the red on Sachirou’s hand wouldn’t grow any larger.

The girl next door’s previous words made sense to him now.

The black and the unknown didn’t seem as suffocating now.

-

Sachirou draped a blanket over their shoulders as they sat side by side on a dry log, letting their feet dangle in the crystal blue waters of the creek.

He spoke to her about what transpired when he met the color orange just the other day.

She scolded him for the red that now stained his knuckles.

But she praised him for learning that it was okay to just stop.

He smiled down at the girl beside him and watched as she took his reddened hand in hers as if she could erase it from his skin.

Sachirou asked her what she wanted to do in the future.

The girl only looked up at the sky as if it would give her the answer.

She answered him with a shrug before turning the question around on him.

Sachirou pursed his lips and looked in front of them, staring at the vibrant green trees that surrounded them.

Green.

Green is the color of life.

Green is the color of renewal, nature, and energy.

It is associated with meanings of growth, harmony, freshness, safety, and environment.

It is the color that helps alleviate anxiety, depression, and nervousness.

Maybe that’s why he felt his heart rest as he turned back to her with his answer.

Sachirou always liked animals.

Animals are said to help lower blood pressure, reduce anxiety, and decrease depression.

Interacting with animals increases levels of the hormone oxytocin.

Oxytocin is known as the ‘love hormone’ or ‘cuddle chemical’ because it is shown to be an important factor in human behaviors including recognition, trust, and anxiety.

Animals reminded Sachirou of the color green.

Green was one of Sachirou’s favorite colors.

Animals were one of Sachirou’s favorite things.

Animals were green, just as Kourai was orange, the girl next door was purple, and her mother is red.

A veterinarian.

That’s what he will do.

No more volleyball.

No more blackness from his family.

The sport of volleyball, which used to be black, slowly grew lighter, from black to grey.

Now all he has to do is figure out how to erase the red that was on his friend’s skin.

--

At age 16, Sachirou Hirugami finally stood up for what he wanted.

After he had been thoroughly convinced by the color orange and the color purple, Sachirou confronted his blackened family about the matter.

His parents were disappointed, yet Sachirou couldn’t find it in himself to care about it.

His lack of concern overpowered the disappointment of his parents.

After an awkward dinner that night, Sachirou whisked the girl next door away to the creek so he could spill everything that was bottled inside.

He immediately frowned once he saw the harsh red that was battered along her skin.

He used the freshwater from the creek to rinse off the very fresh red wounds.

Sachirou released the thoughts he has been thinking about for the last ten years of his life.

He finally burst out and called her a hypocrite.

He asked why she never relied on him the way he relied on her.

He grabbed purple by the wrist and tugged her into his body, wrapped her up in his arms.

Sachirou watched as tears came down from her eyes.

That moment reminded him of the color dark blue.

Dark blue represents integrity, knowledge, power, and seriousness.

Importance, confidence, and authority.

A color that reminded him of black, but its not quite there.

The seriousness of the world around them.

The power that their families held over them.

The newfound knowledge on how to break the chains that tethered them to the ground.

The importance of each other’s presence and how they fixed each other.

Two people trying to find the way home.

They wanted to run with each other and never stop.

A purple girl who lives under a tyrant red mother, and a boy who is crumbling with the pressure of his blackened family to conform to their beliefs.

They were going to find their way out together.

They were born to run.

-

Pink represents joy, sexuality, passion, sensitivity, and love.

Pink signifies romance and friendship.

Pink is what Sachirou felt once he recognized his feelings towards the girl next door.

Pink is what was shown on his face when he talked to Kourai about his feelings towards his best friend.

Pink went well with purple.

Orange stood by the side and watched as pink and purple fell into a nice magenta.

Love is a quiet emotion that in time becomes part of the oxygen you need to breathe, and so though you may not be sure that it’s there, any form of removal and the emotions begin to choke.

Love is what Sachirou felt towards the purple in his life.

He didn’t really know when it started, but infatuation turned into a deep yearning and that turned into a burning passion of pure unadulterated love.

Meeting her was fate, being her friend was a choice, and falling in love was bound to happen.

Purple was the one who painted his world with the colors he loved so much.

Purple was the one who keeps him shielded, defending him from the brutality.

Purple was the one he would die a thousand times over for.

He feels her pain raging in his soul, and it turns the red in his veins to a nice light pink.

The blue helped him and purple come together.

Sachirou chose purple.

And now as he explained his feelings towards purple, purple chose him.

-

Sachirou planned to go to University in Tokyo.

Tokyo was far from Nagano, where they lived.

245.5 kilometers or 152.5 miles to be precise.

Tokyo would be their new creek, their new blue.

As said before, blue represents freedom, justice, perseverance, vigilance, peace, prosperity, and patriotism.

Tokyo would be all those things to them once they leave high school.

Tokyo would also represent green.

Green is the color of life, renewal, nature, and energy.

Growth, harmony, freshness, safety.

Tokyo would become blue-green.

Tokyo is the renewal of their lives and the newfound freedom they would get once they left Nagano.

Purple wanted to be a writer.

She would go to school in Tokyo and work for a degree in English and Journalism.

Sachirou would work for a degree in Medicine.

They would work with each other to accomplish their dreams.

Sachirou thought purple would be a great writer. She had a way with words that just made them stick in his brain.

Her words reminded him of the color yellow.

Yellow is exciting without being loud or angry.

It is a warm, soft color, like a baby chick, or the warmth of sunlight in springtime streaming through a window, warming up a patch on the carpet.

If her words were a physical thing, he would ask if he could sit near them on a cold day.

Yellow is the color that stands for wisdom, intellect, logic, memory, concentration, will-power, and communication.

Her words matched her very well.

Purple goes well with yellow after all.

Sachirou would need her yellow words to get him through life.

He would take purple and her yellow words to the place where blue and green shine most.

He would take them both away from the red and black that suffocated them for so long.

He would run with purple until he dropped.

They would never look back.

-

At the age of 18, Sachiro and the girl next door sat side by side on the brown log that was by their creek.

The little promise in his pocket felt very heavy as he traced it through his pants.

He eyed the red that was still on purple’s skin.

It was getting smaller, but it was still there nonetheless.

Purple eyed him because he was so quiet.

He shakily grabbed her hand and opened it gently.

He placed the promise that was in his pocket into her hand and turned his head so he wouldn’t have to see her reaction.

Purple grinned up at him and grabbed his chin, tenderly forcing him to face her.

Her twinkling eyes were filled with tears, not the sad kind, but the happy kind.

She slid the ring on her finger and admired the tiny amazonite jewel that sat so neatly on top of it.

Amazonite was a blue-green stone that represents truth, honor, integrity, hope, and trust.

The stone is said to provide comfort after an emotional upset.

Sachirou hoped he could be amazonite to his purple.

Purple reassured him that he was more than just amazonite to her.

Purple said he was everything to her.

He silently agreed that purple was everything to him as well.

That day, Sachirou promised himself to purple, and purple promised herself to him.

He had to thank the human personified version of the color orange for helping him pick out the promise for his purple.

-

March; the season of goodbyes.

In Japan, the school year ends in March and begins in April.

The loneliness of saying goodbye and hope for a new start begins in March.

Sachirou associated the month of March with Aquamarine.

Aquamarine has an affinity with sensitive people.

It invokes tolerance of others and overcomes judgmentalism, giving support to those overwhelmed by responsibility.

It was one of Sachirou’s favorite colors.

Sachirou got together with his purple and orange.

He didn’t waste time and immediately gave the second button of his uniform to purple.

It was a tradition for lovers to give the 2nd button of their school uniform to their loved one as a memento.

Purple was his loved one, so it only made sense.

Kourai laughed at the pink that dusted their cheeks, only for them to turn around and laugh at him once a girl strolled up to him and blatantly asked for his number.

Kourai was going to Tokyo as well.

Kourai was not going to college.

Kourai got offered a position on a Division 1 professional volleyball team in the V-Leagues.

The Schweiden Adlers.

That team has the colors white, orange, and dark blue.

Sachirou thought it suited his friend very well.

Kourai would fly to tremendous heights on that team while Sachiro and purple worked their brains into dust in college.

Kourai threatened to kill them both if they didn’t stay in contact despite going to the same city.

Kourai wasn’t simply a good friend. He was the orange that became a part of Sachirou’s soul, just as purple had.

Purple and orange complimented each other well. Just like purple and yellow.

Purple and orange were the colors that dominated his life now.

Orange is the wind that howls and purple is the gentle center of the storm.

Purple and orange gave consistent love, patience, and warmth to Sachirou.

Purple and orange kept him bound yet free, they let him fly yet kept him grounded, they made him drunk in laughter yet kept him sober.

Orange is the intense, glamorous sparks of fire and hot energy.

Orange is leaving the windows down on a car, and having the radio is on so loud that your ears are bleeding.

Orange doesn’t notice the speed limit, yet they still have a clean driving record.

Purple is the soothing, serene sounds of chatting, venting, and laughing.

Purple let him spend hours on end just being himself. No mask was needed to hide behind. Not a mask of happiness, not a mask of coping, just himself. He could be honest and get heartfelt advice.

After all, purple and orange compliment each other.

And March is the season of goodbyes.

Goodbye to the black and red and clouded their lives.

Goodbye to the red that stained purple’s skin.

Goodbye to the black who drove their son to the point of self-harm.

Goodbye volleyball.

Goodbye Nagano.

END

----

AN: Ahh! Thank you for reading! If you have any questions, please let me know <3

[partyinthemysterymachine]

On Purpose

Harry wiped his hands on the dish towel. He leaned back on the kitchen counter and took his time rubbing his fingers dry, pushing the damp terrycloth fabric into the webbing, and rotating it over his knuckles. There was a man seated at the table that he wanted to watch fiddle with his smartphone. It’s been three years since they got home, took off their jackets, and packed them away into a box that went directly into the furthest corner of the closet. Those three years have been a hell of a bumpy hayride for the Mason family of two and the Sunderland of one. Honestly, Harry wouldn’t trade it for anything.

His hands were clean and dry. He tossed the bunched up towel back and forth, and inclined his head. “You good over there, babe?”

The wrinkle of his nostril answered that question. Harry smiled wide and warm. “What’s got you in a tizzy now?”

“I think I deleted my email,” James mumbled, distracted. “I dunno what I did.”

“You deleted your email,” the aging patriarch repeated, dumping the terrycloth on the granite top island. “From your phone or from forever?”

“Phone first, forever second,” he replied, the frown wrinkling his brow deepening. Harry strolled over and bent over the back of the chair, laying his arms around James’s neck. He tucked his dark head against the side of the one of blond and snuggled into his lover’s pale, and perpetually cold skin. James’s head was forced to tip to the side by the enthusiasm of his partner’s lion-like nuzzle, yet he had no intent to fight it. From there, Harry observed his frustrated swiping and fumbling.

He pressed a little kiss to James’s cheek and extended his arm, pointing at the phone. “Hold up, stop stop,” Harry spoke against him. “Go into setti— no, babe, go back. .. go back.. okay. Scroll down to ‘Mail.’” James felt the little frown pressed into his face. It caused his own to bear a soft smile. “Uh.. scroll back up. .. scroll down? Uh.. okay, what the hell did you do with— hang on.”

James patiently did as he was told while Harry patted his legs, then maneuvered his phone out of his pocket. All the while, he chose to tuck his face into James’s neck. Then he sighed and nuzzled up on his partner’s cheek again, wrapping his arms around him to hold the device out for both of them to see. “Okay. Let’s see here.”

He wasn’t so sure if he’d get over the strange initial discomfort he got when Harry unlocked his phone to a picture of Heather trapping James in a bear hug. She got caught mid-laugh, and he noticeably embarrassed, though his shy smile and the affectionate way he looked up over the camera at the person behind it always settled that discomfort pretty quickly. James liked that memory a lot, though getting to have it as a visual memory meant even more. He wondered, as he often did, if Harry knew what he’d captured.

It’s the little things that mean the most.

The picture was only there for a second, the settings menu being all there was to see now. Harry lifted his chin a little off his shoulder, moving the phone a little further down. “Maybe I should have my reading glasses for this.”

“Then go get them.”

“No. I don’t wanna move.”

“Put your accessibility settings at AARP member.”

Harry incredulously inclined his head, staring at his boyfriend’s profile. “Excuse me?” he inquired a younger man whose deadpan wasn’t holding up like it used to. James tried to withhold his smile, but it was no use; the only thing he could hold back was his laugh. A partial grin crept onto Harry’s face. “That voice sounds like James, but what I’m really hearing is Heather.”

It was war to keep the smile from becoming a full blown grin, but there’d be no sure victory from trying to keep it out of his words. “You might want to call an audiologist, then. Or tell your psych. You saying that worries me a little, Harry.”

James flinched and uttered an ‘ow!’ from the righteous flick at his ear. “Stop hanging out with Heather. She’s a bad influence on you.”

He leaned slightly to the side to look at handsome tyrant-in-training at his shoulder. “Why? She just says what we’re all thinking.”

“You’re a brat,” Harry told him matter-of-factly. “And she’s a brat. And he’s a brat - we’re all brats, hey!” he chanted under his breath at his ear, making James shake his head and return his attention to their little project. There were many reasons why he and Heather liked to complain about Harry, and this ranked in the top twenty of the endless list. “Okay, so,” the middle aged annoyance continued, “you should have ‘mail’ here under ‘passwords and accounts,’ and that kind of shit just doesn’t up and disappear, so.. what’d you do with it?”

“I don’t know, Harry,” James replied. “I thought it’d be a fun prank to see what I could delete from this phone and forgot to consider that I might not be able to get it back.”

“Look at you, Mister Technology Wiz,” Harry mocked. “I knew you were smarter than you let on.”

“I like to keep you guessing. It gives me a sense of superiority.”

“Wow, no shit?” He smiled at the soft chuckle from the former conduit and pecked another kiss on his cheek. “Okay. Restart your phone. If it’s still fucked up we can take it in to the Apple store and get it checked out. If you somehow unintentionally jailbreaked your phone, I’m gonna fucking die laughing.”

James held the appropriate buttons and watched the screen blacken. “Okay. Still want the cookie jar, or did you change your mind?”

“Nah, still married to the cookie jar idea,” he confirmed. “Just put it on somewhere on the counter to horrify guests when they come over.”

The phone lit up and James punched in his passcode. “We’ll keep it unsealed and put some cookies in for you to munch on in the afterlife.”

“Oh, James,” Harry sighed dramatically, smiling down at the picture he’d chosen as his wallpaper. It was a simple snapshot of Harry’s work desk. The yellow lamp light illuminated his spread of books, papers, and his open, but dark laptop, and cast dark yet peaceful shadows where they were meant to be. He’d known about that picture for a while. James has had it since he learned how to set a custom wallpaper on the same day he got the phone. Every time Harry saw it since, he nearly burst with the strain of resisting the urge to drown his boyfriend in kisses. “It’s like you know me.”

It’s the little things that mean the most.

“Not willingly.”

“Preaching to the choir. Okay, let’s see what you’ve got now.”

James leaned his head on Harry’s for the rest of their futile tinkering. Eventually he checked out of the the whole business and nudged his forehead to Harry’s warmth. He smiled ever so softly at the gentle caress on his neck from Harry’s heavy hand, and the kiss planted on his brow that followed. His eyes slid closed when it became evident that Harry had decided to work with one hand and left the other where it’d landed, lazily brushing sweet touches over his throat and behind his ear.

There was no solution to the email problem, and they’d both lost interest in it awhile ago. Now Harry folded his left arm across James’s chest, holding the sleeping phone to his shoulder as he combed his fingers up through blond hair that no longer smelled of lake water. He nestled his nose into the plainly styled cut and closed his eyes. James, in general, was a plain young man; always had been, always will be.

He loved that about him.

The dull thunk of the smartphone being set on the table didn’t affect him. In fact, he smiled so blissfully when James’s cool hands loosely found a place clasping his arm and hand that nearly all the lines of age on his face deeply creased. James felt it in his hair how happy that smile was. He loved to see it. He loved to feel it. It made his heart do Olympic gold medalist acrobatics, as it did now knowing it was there at all.

But lately within the last year, while his heart still leapt with joy to see that genuinely adoring smile on a daily basis (truly, he couldn’t recall a day where he didn’t see Harry beam like that at some point), he’d realized how many more lines there were. February had passed a few months ago. Harry’d turned fifty-three this year. And no, it wasn’t that he thought fifty-three was anywhere near being a senior. James had trouble explaining it to himself. All he knew is that his heart had begun to hurt while it celebrated seeing that look on Harry’s face.

The hurt was different than the way it hurt because he was loved, and because James loved him, too.

He idly stroked his thumb back and forth on Harry’s hand. The pressure against his head meant another kiss. James reached up and took Harry by the back of the neck, pulling him down as he tilted his head to get a proper kiss out of him for once.

You can’t say that to me, Harry! James had angrily spat at him at the time. I don’t want to hear it! Okay?! Just don’t— even start to even fucking think it—

Why? implored the distraught, heartbroken man. Why can’t I say I love you? I’ve said it before, James, and if you really want me to I won’t say it again, but I’m just— I’m trying to— I just want to understand why—

Because I can’t fucking hear it. I can’t fucking hear it from you. It drives me fucking insane.

But.. why?

His shivering, barely beating heart had sunk like an anchor from the pure agony that dripped from that simple word. Why? Why, he’d dare to ask? Why? James had hated that question from Harry Mason since day one. Today, that goddamn question made him burn so red hot that he wished that Red Pyramid Thing would come along and skewer him right through.

Because I don’t want to fucking hear it, Harry!

James had suddenly lost all that fury in a single breath. In one swift blow, he’d murdered a tired man who he’d caught smiling at him countless times already; who liked to take his hand and kiss his fingers; who liked to talk to him even though he had no obligation to respond; who fought with him, for him, and had almost given his far more precious life for his safety; a man that held him just because he wanted to.

I just.. I can’t take how sincere you are when you say it, he’d tried to explain, as weak and deflated as Harry looked. It’s like you really mean it, and—

I do really mean it. I love you. I don’t think I can even apologize for it.

But you shouldn’t, Harry, James had protested. You really, really shouldn’t. I can’t have it. I can’t deal with it.

Why shouldn’t I? the grief-stricken author had asked. Is it because of what you are? Is it because of what you did? Because of how depressed and hopeless you are, how sometimes you’re barely functional and a drag and kind of a shitty person and you hate yourself so goddamn fucking much that you can’t imagine why anyone would even care enough about you to pick a piece of lint off your shoulder? Is that why?

The had words hit home, and from Harry, wounded and shamed him to the point that he’d pathetically hung his head and stared at the floor.

“Sorry we couldn’t figure out the case of the missing mail,” Harry slurred on James’s parted lips. “Maybe we can ask Heather to figure it out later.”

A smile and a light breath from the other man was caught between another slow kiss. “You find a new way to disappoint me every day.”

“I have to get creative.” Harry’s palm pressed firmly into the back of his lover’s head to briefly strengthen their kiss. “Because I know you like it.” His nose was often described as a beak for the way it curved, and James thought it handsome, especially when it touched his own sloped one in what was known as an Eskimo kiss. “And what sort of bullshit would that be to disappoint you for me being unable to find a new way to disappoint you?”

That’s just too fucking bad, James. I’d say sorry to disappoint you, but I’m really not fucking sorry at all.

“Mm. But wouldn’t that have been a new way to disappointment me?”

“Oh, shit.”

What do you think this is? Tell me honestly, really, I’m very interested to know what you think. Because I’m going to tell you my side of things, so listen up, okay? This is not going the first or last time I’m gonna tell you this, either. I’ll say it every goddamn hour and every fucking day for the rest of my life even if you ever start to believe me. I’ll say it until the sun goes down for the last time and even then I’ll figure out a way to keep saying it to you.

Are you listening?

“Mmhmm.”

I love you. I am choosing to love you, because loving you is something I want to experience no matter the outcome. That’s it. Full stop. I know what you are. I know what you’ve done. I know who you are, even just a little bit, and I swear to fucking god, James, I love you. I’m not brushing off all the bad shit you’ve done or what kind of monster you think you are. You’ve done some pretty terrible stuff. I’m not forgetting that.

But even knowing that, even despite that, I have seen it for myself that you want to hear me say it. I hear it when you say my name. I feel it when you do something as little and thoughtless like grabbing my sleeve, Harry’s voice then broke and thickened, trembled with the beginning sobs of a desperate, begging heart. James covered his eyes behind his hand and had tried to clench his jaw to beat back an intense, once-foreign feeling that wouldn’t allow itself to be repressed any longer.

Harry loudly hummed and encased James in a strong bear hug about his shoulders as best he could from behind him. James’s exaggerated groan that sounded a lot more irritable than he actually was, which was not at all, got somewhat stifled against the author’s hairy, meaty forearm. His older boyfriend then transformed his hum’s pitch to match his groan, and together they raised their voices, swiftly building a challenging crescendo, a duel of lung capacity and stamina.

You never have to say it aloud, James. I know. You tell me all the time. You tell me all the time and yet you still think you don’t deserve to feel that way or have anyone give a rat’s ass about you. I love you because you’re you. I’m aware of everything you are and did and all that crap, and I love you.

Do you fucking understand me, James Sunderland?

James won the battle.

Harry forfeited with grace and maturity. Of course, that meant that when James decided he’d like to get up, the Mason patriarch used his bulky weight and strength to try to keep him in the chair and make it as difficult as possible for James to escape.

“Get— ugh, Harry! Get off me. Come on, don’t be a sore loser.” That groan he emitted at Harry’s decision to tighten his arms was a mite more sincerely annoyed than the last time. “God, come on. Why are you such a pain in the fucking ass—“

“Do unto others as you would have done unto you.”

Disgust distorted his face as the fact sank in that such a well-respected piece of ancient wisdom got turned into a crude double entendre. “Oh, aw, what the fuck— that’s gross, Harry. And blasphemous. And before you say it, yeah yeah, pot calling kettle black, whatever, don’t wanna hear it, I know, now let me up, old man.”

“Mm, mean, but not yet,” Harry both scolded and vetoed with a kiss to his ear. James sighed and sank his bodyweight onto the chair, still holding his boyfriend’s arm in both hands. He dropped his head the slightest bit back onto Harry’s soft shoulder.

He was wearing that cable knit sweater he’d gotten him last Christmas. It was a handsome, rusty orange, like if autumn were a color. Heather had laughed and called it a ‘dad sweater.’ Even though Harry agreed with her, and James sheepishly acknowledged the accuracy though he hadn’t intentionally chosen it with that in mind, he had actually blushed when Harry pulled off the navy blue he wore and donned himself in knitted fall.

Do you fucking understand me?

Harry wore that sweater often.

James smiled.

He didn’t reply.

“Hey. Harry.”

Listen to me again, James:

“Mm?” he mumbled on his pretty, pale neck.

I am choosing to love you. Because loving you is something I want to experience no matter the outcome. You need to internalize that. Someday, I want you to believe it.

“I love you.”

I want you to believe that you are so goddamn worthy and deserving of my love. I’m going to love you, or die trying.

James closed his eyes to soak in the emotional, radiant smile against his skin, and tightly squeezed Harry’s forearm to try to replicate the fiercely adoring way he wrapped him up in his embrace, even though the couldn’t at the moment hold him like he wanted to.

Everything I do, James - protecting you, caring for you, loving you, I do it all, and I do it fucking all--

“On purpose?”

His eyes opened, his head turned, and lake greens met deep, earthy browns. James loved the color of Harry’s eyes; perhaps even more than Harry claimed to love the color of his, too.

It’s the little things that mean the most.

“On purpose.”

[vagabondprophet]

Rerun

Is there any new sorrow

Any tragedy with taste

Not familiar?

I this not  a ruinous rerun

Of cataclysms long forgotten?

I hold fast that fear the true contagion

Is a guest that I invited,

Now with vast foundations

So deep seated as to be enthroned.

A cruel tyrant

In land I thought my own,

How foolish

How woefully daft to think

I could stop the flow

When dread rises like a tide.

Wayward son and smoking gun

The leak in the boat

The cavity in the tooth,

The dearth of generosity

You’ve noticed in humanity.

I had not innocence ensnared

Nor purity tarnished

But rather a darkness 

I sought to blacken,

A soot I dressed with yet more ashes.

Sit now by the fire and listen

Of tales when moonlight glistened

My fingers looked like claws

Baying at the moon I thirsted for the blood

And in my beastly desperation 

You pulled my name from the mud

For a chance of something better.

In this pandemic of the soul

With all the maybes ahead

That may be above my head

I know my strength is that of an anchor

And it’s only by your virtue

I can hope to reach the sky

And that by your vastness

Fear is kept beneath my feet.

- Vagabond Prophet