A week ago you said to me “do you believe I’ll never be too far? If you’re lost, just look for me, you’ll find me in the region of the summer stars”.
The fact that we can sit right here and say goodbye means we’ve already won, a necessity for apologies between you and me, baby, there is none.
We had some good times, didn’t we? We had some good tricks up our sleeve.
Goodbyes are bittersweet but it’s not the end, I’ll see your face again

anonymous asked:

Do you have a take on Ryan's tragic backstory? (I know you said you actually have a nicer background for him but i thought you might have a dark version too!)

 Anonymous said: What are some of your head cannons for FAHC Ryan?

Ryan didn’t set out to be what he became. Few children dream of becoming devastation. It’s a trope that is thrown around in all kinds of media – redeemable bad guy, killer with a heart of gold. How quaint. Like most things, the real life version is so much darker.

There’s something bleak and awful in a world renown mercenary who still feels for every victim. Something inescapably tragic in finding satisfaction in an act so personally distasteful. Because Ryan’s never been cruel, exactly. Would never dream of torturing an animal, of hurting a child. Doesn’t even enjoy the majority of the dirty work he’s surrounded himself in. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t enjoy any of it. Doesn’t get some level of dark gratification from his own competence, from the fear he’s sown, the reputation he’s nurtured, the safety he’s crafted from blood-soaked screams and scorched white bones. There was a time when the Vagabond was truly as dispassionate as they say, but since joining the Fake AH Crew the mercenary certainly lived up to the gang’s notorious affinity for flare; Ryan always was a bit theatrical, and the only thing worse than an apathetic killer is one who can see the morbid humour in it all.

Ryan’s criminal career actually begins years before the Vagabond crashed into being. Started like so many others; young and bored, too clever for his own good and desperate for a way to prove it. He drifts into a group who wanted bigger, wanted better, wanted a life society told them was forbidden. It would be easy to say he got caught up in the wrong crowd, pulled along in their wake, but it wouldn’t be accurate. Ryan has been many things but never meek. Never a blind follower. Ryan who could never settle for simply trusting what others tell him, never believing in absolutes he hasn’t tested for himself. Not when he could find another way around, a way under, when he could take the problem apart and find a solution no one else ever expected.

So he joined, he fit in, he rose and he flourished. Ryan wasn’t a killer back then, criminal yes but not a mercenary; they were thieves mostly, would posture and swagger and inflate their own egos but they kept away from the big gangs. At least at first. Because sooner or later things are going to go south and it wasn’t pretty when they did. The group fractures, those who can flee back to their old lives, or into the relative safety of bigger crews, and those left behind have blood on their hands and a bounty on their heads.

Taking a life isn’t quite as difficult as Ryan had anticipated. Awful, of course, and not something he would do without necessity, but the time for scruples has surely passed and if death is what it takes for the last dregs of his gang to live then Ryan will paint the streets red. It’s wrong, he knows. It’s bad, immoral, everything people aren’t meant to be; it’s wrong and Ryan does it anyway. Figures morality is all well and good but won’t help at all if they’re all dead.

For a while it works, their group is small but it’s solid, together they were magnificent. Not that anyone cares about all that, not when the story everyone knows comes after. Comes, of course, with the birth of the Vagabond.

It’s no real surprise that the prominent story surrounding the origin of the most notorious mercenary in the country is as dark and unforgivable as the man himself. A tale of betrayal, of protecting his identity by wiping out all who knew him before the mask, making a name off of the death of those he once called friends. It’s chilling, horrifically fitting and almost entirely untrue; the crew dies, yes, treachery as the hands of one of their own but Ryan is not their Judas.  

The man who traded away their lives for the right price was Ryan’s best friend in all the world, close enough to call brother, someone he trusted so blindly he’d let himself be beaten half to death before he even thought about retaliating. The only crew blood on Ryan’s hands was, it turns out, the most undeniably clean-cut case of self defence, not that it matters in the long run. Not when it plays out in the dark, out of sight, without witness. Not when he’s the only one who walks away, the one who dons a mask and buries his name, retreats from humanity and loses all semblance of mercy. Against all odds Ryan managed to survive. The man he had once been did not.

The story takes on a life of its own and the Vagabond does nothing to stop it; he is, after all, a killer. People should fear him, should run and hide and pray he doesn’t darken their doors. He killed a man who he loved dearly; what line was there left to cross? What sin could be thought too great?

Free from distraction the Vagabond throws himself into his work, takes job after job and sets to building the most terrifying image possible, a reputation full of atrocities which grow with every telling. There are no weak spots for his enemies to target, no useless emotions dragging him down; they say he’s heartless, say he’s inhuman, call him evil, call him corruption, call him nightmare. Eventually Ryan grows used to the way people shudder when they see him, confident in his talents and comfortable with his image. He finally acclimatises to the way mirrors reflect nothing but a cold black skull, and perhaps he couldn’t quite call himself happy but he isn’t exactly displeased with his life.

It becomes cathartic in it’s own way, a sense of satisfaction born from devastation, a sort of peace found in ruin. It makes him his own kind of damaged Ryan knows. Makes him unfixable, maybe. Or maybe it’s that thought in and of itself that condemns him, self awareness of his own desecration, a self fulfilling future of irredeemable wrongness. Either way he knows there’s no going back to how he was. Either way he knows, deep down, that he isn’t sure he wants to. Isn’t sure he’d take back soft, harmless Ryan even if he could, even with the nightmares, the fear and self doubt, the guilt. The glaring absence of guilt.

Ryan isn’t ashamed of what he is, of who he became. He can track his path directly, has run his choices over and over in his mind and comes to the same solutions every time; the Vagabond has always acted with intention. Ryan has always done what he needed to, what he wanted to, always evolved and advanced and overcome. So he isn’t ashamed, but he’s not always proud either. Not always confident that a life spent doing what is necessary rather than what is right is a life worth preserving.  

It’s easier now, in the island of misfit toys, the family of selfish entertainment and bloodstained choices. Easier to justify the savagery of necessity when it is more than just his own life he is protecting, more than just his personal goals he is chasing. In the FAHC Ryan has found the acceptance he never knew he wanted, rekindled emotions he’d have sworn were beaten out of him in a dark alley all those years ago. Like stitching together a ragged wound he’d borne for so long he’d forgotten how to live without it; the scars would never truly fade away, still twinge on the worst days, but all of a sudden he’s faced with a life free of constant misery.

There is no way to repay them for that, for showing him a world where death and joy do not cancel each other out, soothing his conflictions without changing who he has become, for kinship between the equally wicked. Ryan knows they believe he’d die for them, and he would. Would jump right in with eyes wide open, just as self-aware as when he let’s Geoff make a show of his obedience, let’s Jack drag him out looking for ridiculously specific vehicles or let’s Jeremy tag in on a job he could have handled alone. As when he slows down a new trick Michael’s covertly trying to replicate or resigns himself to indentured servitude when Gavin plays him like a puppet; affection clearer in action than he could ever conceptualise in speech, trusting his team to understand.

What they don’t seem to understand is the fact that, if they needed him to, he would do so much more than die for them. To die is nothing, is brief sacrifice, but Ryan would ruin. Would create and destroy and conqueror. Were he asked to he would tear down the whole world around them, set it alight and shelter them from the blaze; a level of devotion that scares even himself when he considers it late at night, beyond thankful for their ignorance. Well, Geoff probably knows, something dark and thoughtful in his eyes when he looks at Ryan, something deeply confident in Ramsey when he commands the Vagabond. Assurance that no threat is idle, no harrowing claim is merely theatrics, and that knowledge alone should be enough to send Ryan running, to remind him of what happens when he lets down his guard, but it doesn’t, not anymore. Not since he recognised the clear display of trust in all that conviction, relishing in the opportunity to prove himself worthy; eyes alight with dangerous promise he now merely looks back at Geoff and has faith.

It’s not perfect; no matter how happy he is with his crew Ryan will still lose himself inside his own head sometimes, a place no other can follow, no other can ever truly understand. For all he is the ghoul in the nightmares of so many others Ryan never could quite extinguish his own demons. After all this time he still goes back and considers all his choices, still asks himself endless questions, gives endless answers, constantly assessing his place in the world, his counts and tallies, his debt. It’s how he reassures himself of the truth.

Did he make mistakes?


Does he have regrets?


Does death haunt him?


Did he choose this?


Is he monstrous?


Would he do worse?


Does he love them?


Did they destroy him?


Does he love them?


Will he destroy them?


Does he love them?


Is it worth it?


Are they worth it?


Is he worth it?


Is he worth it?


but can we talk about how he gave him his match worn jersey from his first PL goal!!!!

let me set it up for you. this was not some publicity visit arranged by the spurs PR team. this was not some carefully crafted moment set with a boom mic and proper lighting. this was a family desperate to make their sick son’s dreams come true reaching out to dele’s family. this was doubt that the busy footballer would actually take the time to stop in on his day off between travelling back to England after a taxing cl game and other obligations already arranged for that day.

this was dele looking in his wardrobe that morning and wondering what he could possibly bring to someone so young and so sick other than his own presence (as if that wouldn’t have made it everything anyway!), and seeing something he’s cherished for over a year and probably would have for the rest of his life. something priceless to him. did he even hesitate?

2 days. 2 days between little Tony’s parents reaching Dele’s and Dele showing up next to his hospital bed and spending a few hours playing FIFA and leaving behind something of sentimental value to both of them, and not just the memories. 

It’s hard, sometimes, so unbearably hard for Ryan to stay.

There are days and weeks and months when he doesn’t think about it, where this crew is everything he needs, everything he could ever want, and nothing on earth could tear him away. But then there are those moments, terrifying and bleak and inescapable in a way the rest of the crew will never really understand. 

It’s a paranoia that seeps through, ideas he can’t stop himself from imagining. The way he thinks about the ease with which he could snap Gavin’s neck, soft and vulnerable, already tucked underneath his arm while the movie plays, explosions more than loud enough to cover any sound. The way the ever growing bounty on Geoff’s head is burnt into his brain, not temptation so much as reminder, this wanted man who doesn’t even stop to think about the danger of falling asleep in Ryan’s presence. About how easy it would be to mess with the explosives Michael gets him to hold, how no one would ever suspect anything but a faulty timer, a tragic accident. How Jack has him check her parachute when she doesn’t have time, blind faith that he would never let her fall. The unprotected slope of Jeremy’s back, walking ahead down the tunnel, utterly unconcerned by the loaded gun Ryan carries, unaware of the way his spine is in the sightline even with the gloom.

They’re not fantasies, there is no secret wish to hurt his crew, this mismatched collection of disturbing affection, it’s just the deep unshakable knowledge that he could. That nothing and no one could stop him if he were so inclined, not with how unsuspecting they are, how trusting.

They’ve forgotten, he knows, inexplicably forgotten all the ways that they are different, the ways he is not the same. This pack of junkyard dogs, who are scrappy survivors, downright vicious when they want to be, but not savage. Feral, maybe, but not wild like Ryan is wild, the wolf they have welcomed into their midst without truely understanding what that means. What he is. What he will always be. They’ve let time and familiarity blind them, dangerously desensitised by fondness, like they can no longer see his ruin. 

It’s not like it’s easy to miss. It’s not like outsiders don’t notice immediately. Maybe that sense of unknown dread, bone-deep wrongness setting off primitive alarm, is what has the Vagabond’s reputation spreading as far and wide and feared as it is. There’s something heavy and inescapable in being a real life bad example, being the one thing every man, woman and child is taught to avoid. To be known as pain, as violence, as death, to be inevitable betrayal before you even open your mouth. A relationship that ends in bloodshed before it even starts. The kind of stain that never washes out. 

Ryan has never really resented that part of himself before - he made his choices after all, created the Vagabond and relished in his rise; he’s only got himself to blame, but all of a sudden it feels like it has cost him something. Like all the guilt he refuses to feel has reformed into a different kind of punishment, an awareness that he cannot keep the best thing that has ever happened to him, that he’ll have to leave before this, too, is tarnished. Maybe he can play lost pet for a time but the wilderness in his blood is always calling, the lonely cry of the hunt keeping him up at night, relentlessly pulling him back no matter how hard he tries to resist. Ryan knows, in those moments, that this can’t last. That no matter how much he wants to stay eventually he’ll have to break away again and leave them all behind.

Except, whenever it comes up, whenever it’s all too much and Ryan is just secretly working out what he has to pack before he leaves, his crew goes and smacks him over the head with their feelings on the matter.

Those are the days when Gavin will look up at him, smiling so soft and sweet and terrifyingly harmless that it takes Ryan a second too long to recognise the blade pressing up between his ribs, or into the hollow of his throat or the base of his spine, freezing with a startling shot of adrenaline even as Gavin pulls back, eyes alight with wicked mischief as he laughs and skitters away, singing gotcha over his shoulder like catching the Vagabond unaware is a petty party trick.

When Geoff will take one look at Ryan and send him away on a long job, or pull him off what he was doing and keep him close to base instead. It’s incredibly frustrating; Geoff offers no explanation or remorse and the orders rarely align with what Ryan wants to be doing, but one way or another they always seem to be just the thing to make him shake off the restless jitters.

When Michael drags Ryan out to practise close combat and drops him to the ground over and over, defies Ryan’s greater size and usual physical dominance in a hurricane of fists and flashing teeth. The way he laughs and jeers and riles Ryan into true annoyance, into drawing blood, and still sends him crashing down as often as not, an oddly comforting display of bloody competence. 

When Ryan turns that cold detached gaze on Jack and finds her already looking back, eyes narrowed and calculating, thoughtful. A simple look that sends the same flare of shocking panicked fear through him as he gets when she lets a jet plummet from the air, laughing wild and reckless, ruthlessly jolting Ryan back into himself.

When Jeremy invites himself along on one of Ryan’s less savoury jobs, matches him hit for hit, threat for threat, nudges Ryan away and takes over when things get truly nasty. The way he leans into Ryan’s side and looks for critique when it’s over, as calm and friendly as ever, like this darkness isn’t the thing that defines them.  

This is Ryan’s crew. His pack of dogs demonstrating just how clearly they hear the call of the wild, how violently capable they are of keeping up. The FAHC, who fight tooth and nail and no regrets, who’ve dug in their claws and don’t plan on letting go, who’d go toe to toe with a wolf without an ounce of fear just to prove he’s already home.

It’s unspeakably hard, sometimes, for Ryan to stay, but leaving would be so much worse.

Day 16 and I’m still miserable and bitter without Glenn Rhee.

Can y'all please stop ranting about the 2.5 age gap between Yurio and Otabek. Like please, and if you’re going to rant about it DO NOT tag it in the “otabek x Yurio” tag please. Those of us who understand that because it is not a sexual relationship and understand that it is not canon sexual (making it legal) would like to go through the tag and look at fan art and cute fluffy things. We don’t want to hear your opinion. Sorry, but if you think it’s disgusting, that is your right. We don’t have to agree with you though and there is nothing stopping us from continuing to ship it.

Fanart of Emma, Henry and Regina was the runner-up - people responded with ship hate. Anti-SQ stuff.

Fanart featuring every major character was the winner - people responded with ship hate. Anti-OQ, anti-CS, anti-Robin, anti-Hook.

In both cases, tagging the artist. Insulting the artist. Keeping it classy, in other words.

My own work has won and been a runner-up, and the same thing happened. Ship hate. Hook hate. And for the record, no, I have never ever made any such comments, regarding any ship, myself. I’ve not seen any such comments from the artists in question here, either.

Can we stop acting like the other side’s the only one who does it? It’s not. It happens every time. Every time I look at the fanart Adam posts there’s hate in the comments. Every time.

This one wasn’t even SQ vs CS, it was two pictures with family as a theme (which I think is a big reason why they got picked). But people honed in on the ship thing anyway. They got personal towards the artist, even.

Stop acting like your own side can do no wrong and is full of sunshine and rainbows because it’s not. Stop parading this crap around as if it’s “proof” of anything. If a couple of idiots’ anti-SQ comments on the first post is proof that all CS fans are whiny entitled crybabies then surely the same logic should apply when a couple of idiots make anti-Robin/OQ/Hook/CS comments on the second post, right? Wrong. On both counts. Grow up.

This is nonsense. The only thing it does is cause more divide and more hate and I would think, maybe, after what we just saw these past few days, we could all agree that we need less of that. And no, posting insults on people’s art on Twitter isn’t activism. You’re not cool, or progressive. You’re just an asshole.

If you have to engage in ship wars and other immature crap, do it somewhere else. Don’t do it on people’s art, gifsets, graphics, or other thing they poured a lot of time and effort into. Don’t use people’s creations for that. Go be a bitch somewhere else.

Kara felt like a zombie when she got home from Alex’s place. She was exhausted, emotionally and physically, but none of that mattered compared to how worried she was for her sister. She’d never seen her like this, so broken and scared. It terrified her in more ways than one, but she knew she had to be strong. It was her turn to be the rock, the shoulder, everything Alex had always been for her growing up and over the past year especially. If anything, she was just glad she could finally return the favor.

She dropped her keys on the table, removing her coat before shuffling into the living room and plopping onto the couch. Alex would be fine. This was good. Difficult, but good. She wished she could find Maggie and rough her up, or shake some sense into her, either way, but Alex made her promise she wouldn’t, and she was never one to break a promise, even those she made to herself.

But right now, a little voice in the back of her head threatened one such promise. Her chest burned, throat heavy with confusion and unspoken words and all the things she knew she had to keep inside because this wasn’t her story. It was Alex’s story, and for once she wanted her to have something of her own. For as long as Kara could remember, she had been making everything about herself, prioritizing her own needs and fears above everyone else’s. She felt selfish, but beyond that, she felt lonely and lost, even as her fingers reached for her phone and began scrolling through her contacts.

Everything in her told her not to. Everything in her told her not now. Why now? she thought, but before she knew it, she was pressing the screen, pulling the phone to her ear, holding her breath as she bit at her cuticles and listened to it dial.


“Hi…Ms. Grant,” she squinted, face turning beet red as she pulled a pillow into her lap.

“Is something wrong? Don’t tell me: Evelyn deleted all my archived files. Not to worry, I have a backup flash…thumb…thingy in the drawer under my…”

“What? No, Ms. Grant, that’s not…”

“Is the building burning?”

“W-what?” Kara stuttered. “No…”

“Someone accidentally printed a slur? A photo leaked…”

“No, no, nothing like that I just…wanted to say hi. See how you’re doing.”

“Oh,” she could hear Cat swallow. “Hello.”

“How…” Kara grimaced at the reaction. “…how are you?”

“Fine,” Cat sighed. “Though it’s a little late to be making small talk, don’t you think?”

“I…” Kara’s heart fell. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”

“Don’t be silly,” she spoke a little more softly. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”

“Well you…could have called too, you know.”

Kara wasn’t about to be guilted, especially when she wasn’t the one who left.

“Yes,” her voice lowered another octave. “I suppose…I could. So, how is it working under Snapper’s reign of terror? Or have you managed to win him over yet?”

“It’s not…that bad,” Kara admitted. “I think he’s beginning to trust me. And I’m definitely learning, a lot, but…it still isn’t the same without you.”

“Mmm,” she heard the sound of ice cubes clinking as Cat took a sip of something. “Of course it isn’t. I don’t expect things to be perfect, but this is the way it has to be. For now.”

“Does that…” Kara tried to keep her voice steady. “I mean…have you thought about what you want to do, or…when you might be coming back?”

“It’s only been four weeks.”

“I know, I just…”

“These things take time,” Cat insisted. “It took decades to build one empire, I can’t expect to snap my fingers and have another one magically rise from the ashes in a matter of…” she hiccuped “…four weeks. I’m not a witch, despite what some may think.”

“I…no one thinks that,” Kara shook her head, smiling a little. She’d missed this, all of it.

“What are you doing up so late?” Cat finally asked. “And why did you really call me? Have you been drinking?”

“No, Ms. Grant, I told you…” she sighed. “I just…wanted to see how you were. I…I missed you.”

The line was silent. Kara felt like her blood might shoot straight through her skin, her pulse was racing so fast. Maybe this was a mistake.

“I miss you too,” Cat told her, a bit coldly. “For someone who hasn’t been drinking, this sure sounds an awful lot like a drunk dial.”

“I think you’re projecting,” Kara dared, burying herself further into the cushions. “Why is it that everyone thinks alcohol will solve their problems? Because I can tell you from recent experience that it does not.“

“You don’t drink,” Cat huffed. “You never drink.”

“I do…sometimes!” she defended. “I did, recently, and let me tell you, it was not great.”

“What?” Cat gasped a little. “How…how did you get home? Why didn’t you call me?”

“It’s fine,” Kara quickly assured. “My sister came for me and I…didn’t know I could.”

“Of course,” she breathed, and Kara melted. “You can always, always call me. God knows you’ve put me in my fair share of late night rides across town.”

“That’s…good to know.”

“So…” she could almost feel her smirk on the other end. “Kara Danvers, drunk. I wouldn’t mind seeing that.”

“Well…” she fumbled, skin flaming, the ache in her stomach starting to creep lower. “That’s…really what I called about, actually. I mean…not for you to see me drunk, but just…”

“Spit it out, darling,” Cat teased.

“I um…” Kara couldn’t believe how quickly the conversation had turned, how natural it all felt. “Thanksgiving is next week, and I know you usually work because Carter’s with his father and you don’t really mind being alone, but…if…if you did, this year, since you’re not at work, I…you’d be more than welcome to come to my place. I mean, other people will be here too…Alex, Winn…but I would really, really love it if you came. No pressure, I just…wanted to throw it out there if…you did.”

More silence. For once Kara was glad Cat wasn’t there. She was sure she would have heard her heart knocking at her chest like a fist at the door, powers or not.

“That’s incredibly sweet,” she finally spoke, voice just above a whisper. “But…I don’t think I’ll be back in town by then.”

“Oh,” Kara exhaled. “Sure, yeah, that’s fine. I just figured I’d offer, you know? Just in case.”

“Thank you,” Cat sniffed. “Really…it means a lot.”

“Of course. Where are you, exactly…”

“Here and there,” Cat answered quickly. “And I should really be going.”

“Okay,” Kara swallowed. “Well it was…really nice talking to you, Ms. Grant. I…I hope it won’t be too long…before we see each other again.”

“Me too,” Cat sighed. “Goodbye, Kara.”

“Goodnight,” she breathed, and then, she was gone.

Kara curled up in a ball on the sofa, pulling her knees beneath her, squeezing the pillow hard, refusing to sob.

This was not her story. This was not her time.

She lie awake for hours, sniffing back tears, smiling up at the ceiling, thinking about Cat and all the adventures she could be having, thankful for the sound of her voice, for her kindness, even if she hadn’t said as much as she’d hoped. One day, she’d be back, and by then maybe, just maybe, Maggie would get her act together, Alex would be happy, and maybe then, it would be time.