#because now he has to deal with the consequences of living in this story

[waitineedaname]

a svsss/hlvrai crossover au. is this anything.

[helenanell]

Contempt of Court || Challengers

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Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader 

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.) 

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late. 

 (This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

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For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

 As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked. 

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers. 

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

 You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more. 

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months. 

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer. 

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you. 

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace. 

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you. 

Another thing to fail at. 

Another thing to lose. 

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition. 

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree. 

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it. 

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent. 

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it. 

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away. 

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights. 

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained. 

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly? 

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

 You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.” 

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?” 

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully. 

“Nike.” 

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you: 

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

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( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’ 

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot. 

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ” 

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack. 

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

 As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.” 

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway. 

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice. 

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened. 

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

 But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying. 

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse. 

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final. 

You would never forget his answer: 

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy.  He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable. 

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

 You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour. 

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’ 

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile. 

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer. 

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.” 

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors. 

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply. 

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation. 

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago. 

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in. 

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have. 

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?” 

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum: 

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!” 

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door. 

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call. 

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.” 

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby. 

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( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be. 

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign. 

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded. 

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well. 

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art. 

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him. 

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating. 

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court. 

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face. 

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal. 

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans. 

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?” 

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” 

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours. 

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold. 

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.” 

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.” 

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

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( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile. 

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk. 

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

 You want to tear it off the wall. 

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him. 

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.” 

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation. 

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.” 

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult. 

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute. 

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?” 

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him. 

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( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.  

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

 Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad. 

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off. 

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline. 

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating. 

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach. 

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter. 

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted. 

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit. 

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house. 

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue. 

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you. 

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes. 

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that. 

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.” 

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.” 

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.” 

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?” 

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

 But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm. 

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.” 

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you. 

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist. 

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond. 

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever. 

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

 But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious. 

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.” 

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.” 

“Get out.” 

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water. 

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself. 

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace. 

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank. 

“What are you doing?”  

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars. 

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin. 

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water. 

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt. 

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water. 

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge. 

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do. 

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.” 

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.” 

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism. 

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air. 

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

 He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you. 

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own. 

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet. 

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches. 

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines. 

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear: 

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.” 

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

 His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound 

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him. 

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

 You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight. 

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight. 

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him. 

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene. 

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided. 

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap. 

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.” 

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art. 

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real. 

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes. 

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water? 

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands. 

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.” 

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.” 

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin. 

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him. 

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?” 

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten. 

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.” 

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you. 

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver. 

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his. 

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall. 

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin. 

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

 Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first. 

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.” 

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up. 

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”  

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away. 

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts. 

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly. 

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?” 

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up. 

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him. 

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond. 

Not the night sky. 

Just a pond. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell. 

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete. 

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes. 

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this. 

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality. 

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good. 

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

 It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side. 

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief? 

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember. 

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond. 

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says: 

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.” 

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly. 

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away. 

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.” 

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal. 

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows. 

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut. 

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone. 

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside. 

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart. 

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself. 

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement. 

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move. 

“That was the plan.” 

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?” 

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?” 

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out. 

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you. 

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board. 

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?” 

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in. 

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him. 

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest. 

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him. 

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.” 

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself. 

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum. 

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there. 

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one. 

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle. 

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh. 

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear. 

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?” 

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk. 

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet. 

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return. 

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place. 

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin. 

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs. 

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. ��I want you to ask me to fuck you.” 

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers: 

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.” 

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.” 

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth. 

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.” 

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you. 

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further. 

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin. 

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead. 

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel. 

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you. 

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh. 

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again. 

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you. 

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied. 

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck. 

“I think I got my answer.” 

“Shut up.” 

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier,  his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.  

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions. 

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you. 

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head. 

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.” 

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.” 

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

[artytaeh]

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

THEODORE NOTT— a popular slytherin, an introvert at heart, despite his reputation as a womanizer. theodore nott, who has a big, terrible communication problem.

with the pure terror of displaying his vulnerable emotions, theodore smokes cigarettes to force his emotions to disappear with the wind; bites his inner lip and cheek until his mouth bleeds, so no tears threaten to make way to his eyes.

when theodore nott cries, he stares blankly into the wall. he doesn't sob— sobbing would make him even weaker, more vulnerable, less capable and definitely useless, in his father's eyes.

silent tears are the epitome of theodore's sadness, because other than that, his sadness, stress and troubled thoughts are never known. hidden by a mask of stoic expressions.

theodore nott is 'stupid' smart. if he wasn't a slytherin at heart and soul, then he'd be a ravenclaw, or at least that's what the professors comment amongst them. theo enjoys reading, and would easily spend his afternoon on a silent, vacant corner of the castle, devouring a book in few hours.

he lies, saying that it's simply because knowledge is a good weapon. he'd be saying the truth, if theodore confesses that he reads this much, because whether be it fiction or not, he can escape his thoughts to fully concentrate on the book's contents.

theodore nott is knowledgeable, theodore nott is a good, straight-A's student. theodore nott is quick-witted; you wouldn't want to banter with him, because usually, he gets the last word with a victorious, cheeky smile— an insufferable cocky grin.

and yet, shamefully, theodore nott has no idea how to verbalize his feelings.

every good liar is like this, he'd argue. in exchange of spilling the most atrocious lies with a straight face and nonchalant tone, theodore finds it awfully hard to tell the truth.

ask him what's wrong— you can do that, sure. now, if theodore will answer you, that's another story. and to give you a genuine answer, if he doesn't snap? then an angel must have fallen down its altar.

then, if he can't verbalize or trust anyone, not even mattheo riddle or lorenzo berkshire on a good day— what does theodore nott do, to deal with his full mind and empty heart?

theodore nott destroys.

he destroys other living beings,

being the first one to join mattheo riddle, with a smile on his face, when his best friend snaps at the smallest hint of disrespect. throwing a (not really) deserved punch at a guy that honestly, if you ask him afterwards, theodore has no idea what he done wrong.

when lorenzo scolds mattheo for starting a fight and reprimands theodore for indulging it, the slytherin simply shrugs. he's "looking out for his bro", he says. that's only partially true, as much as he deeply cares for mattheo.

everytime that he starts fights, like a rabid dog. theodore doesn't really know when he stopped being il dolce ragazzo of his madre. when he became a dog that bites without thinking about barking first. "so much for claiming to be the logical one," — lorenzo muses.

... he destroys himself.

which would explain the concerning amount of muggle, wizarding, flavored, all shaped packs of cigarettes he owns. there isn't a brand that he didn't try, at least once— the more harmful, the better.

smoking until his lungs become as black as his heart, as his dark thoughts. smoking, until he drops dead with his worries. smoking, until theodore nott becomes a better man (something that he doubts he could do, for he was born a broken man— born from a couple that should have never crossed paths with each other).

consequently, damaging his hands. skin that becomes calloused and slightly scarred from the cigarettes. knuckles constantly bruised from throwing punches at gryffindors or smartass ravenclaws.

so, theodore nott starts believing that he's unlovable. that loving him— oh, that would be torture. pure masochism, that he wouldn't wish to anyone, not even the witch he dislikes or rolls his eyes at the most.

and that becomes a creeping fear of his. oh, theodore is terrified, when the thought of becoming like his father plagues his mind.

to think that he'd become such a disgusting man, the man who brought so much pain to his mother, that killed the only person who truly loved him.

what would his mother say, if she saw him like this?

would she be disappointed, would she be ashamed to even spare a look at him? would her beautiful porcelain face become a frown, would she walk away, disgusted?

theodore consumes three more cigarettes on that thought alone.

... or would she give him a sympathetic look, gazing at her dolce, bravo ragazzo with those tender eyes of hers? a shade of blue, that theodore was fortunate to inherit.

a sad smile makes its way to his lips. because now, even for a brief moment, theo is himself again. he's not a casanova slytherin, he's not the heir of the nott family. theodore nott is simply his mother's little boy, her teddy.

in honor of such bittersweet memories, theo drops his cigarette and doesn't smoke for at least 24 hours.

theo doesn't know how to deal with comfort. genuinely tender touches, fingertips grazing his skin so lightly—

of desperately needy, lustful touches, he knows. he knows them very well, from all those times he slept with a woman, ruined her for the next guy. from the times a slytherin girl gripped and pushed his hair, needing, begging more of his mouth on her; or when a gryffindor got so lost in pleasure that she left the mark of her nails on his back; when a hufflepuff senior clenched her fingers on his torso, hips and shoulders, screaming for more, deeper, faster; that time when he found a way to shut up a particularly insufferable ravenclaw know-it-all by fucking her mouth, and when he felt the back of her throat on him, the stubborn ravenclaw gripped, scratched, protested on his thighs.

of harsh, violent, cruel, merciless touches, everytime mr. nott decided that a disgusted, disappointed gaze wasn't enough to educate his son. when those knuckles adorned with rings curled into a fist, and theodore was beaten into discipline. all those times he started fights and consequently got hit by a punch or two, even though theodore is a good fighter, and makes sure that even if he does get hurt, the receiving end is in worse state, in need of more than one night in the infirmary wing.

⋯ ⋯ ﹒ 🪻 ’

... but comforting, meant to soothe, gentle touches? oh, theo is terrified of them. rather than flinching away from a fist coming his way, theo looks like a scaredy cat when fingers come to brush his hair away from his face, with all the love and care of the world.

theo doesn't know those touches. to be fair, yes, he was acquainted with them once— but that was long, long ago, when his mother was still alive. a life ago, really, because sometimes theodore wonders if he's the same teddy he once was, under the protective but loving arms of his mother.

so at first, theo panics when you hug him, when you physically bring comfort to his broken, damaged heart.

but then?

then, after he gets a taste of how heavenly it feels to be held by someone he loves? then, theo embraces the fact that he is indeed a touch starved man. then, theo completely and shamelessly melts under your touch, relaxing in your embrace, wishing to never leave this safe haven.

( or maybe he does. a little voice on the back of his mind, menacingly suggesting that this safe haven, this loving harbor — you — might disappear into thin air by the cruel hands of his father, the same he did with his mother. )

but before his truly prodigious brain dares to overthink once again— your hands comb through his hair, brushing it back along with his worries, massaging the scalp and melting the troubled thoughts away. that's when theo closes his eyes. that's when he, finally, is in peace with himself.

and if you'd ask him; this is when and where theodore nott is the happiest. this is when theodore nott is teddy again.

౨ৎ these voices in my head screaming ♡ ͡

run now. i'm praying that they're human . . .

🪻 ; . . . fandom : harry potter.

— my motivation? it's a silly little drabble, about my favorite slytherin. theodore nott deserves love, seriously.

the headers + gifs + icons aren't mine. credits to the respective creators ! 🌷

[flowerandblood]

The Fall from the Heavens (11)

[ canon • Aemond x Strong • niece female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, violence, swearing, descriptions of wounds, physical and verbal aggression ]

[ description: A cool distance turns into friendship and more when two children see that they can find refuge and understanding in each other. However, naïve dreams collide with the reality in which every event has consequences and what once could have been love becomes a dark, newly painful obsession. Angst, sexual tension, obsession, violence, madness, very dark Aemond. ]

The story in this series is an alternate reality from the oneshot Stay and love, leave and die, in which Aemond reads the letters his niece has sent to him over the years. They are the same characters and it shows what would have happened between them − I have changed the background story from their childhood slightly for the sake of the plot.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

After what had happened, after what he had found out, he ordered his most necessary things to be moved to her chamber. Seeing the look on his face and his fury, his mother dared not say a word on the matter, sensing that he already knew what she had done with his grandfather's blessing.

She had forced his betrothed to drink moon tea without his knowledge, without his consent, knowing that he would never allow it to happen, that if it turned out she was expecting his child he would marry her immediately without asking their opinion.

He thought with regret and remorse consuming his soul and heart that he should have done it right away, but now it was too late.

His moment of hesitation had cost him everything.

For the first two days, the only thing that came out of his niece's mouth was a quiet babble; she was still asleep, and when she woke up, his sister fed her with warm soup.

Helaena was the only person besides the maester and himself that he allowed to be in her chamber.

His mother, grandfather and Cole were not allowed in by his decision – he had vowed to them that if they crossed the threshold of her quarters, neither he nor Vhagar would aid them with their participation in the war they had unleashed at their own request.

As it turned out, his threat worked.

He realised that he was indeed a rider of the greatest dragon living in the world and could use that as a negotiating card, that they needed him and the alliance he could provide for them.

Storm's End.

He only left her alone when he needed to deal with something urgent, always asking Helaena to stay by her side then.

He trusted no one but her.

To his surprise, his brother-king showed a surprising understanding and a kind of compassion he had not expected from him.

He did not mock or joke about the situation during the meetings of the Small Council, and asked if her health was improving, personally giving his permission for him to be able to stay with her day and night even though he was not her husband, against the wishes of their grandfather.

The power they had was turning against him and Otto felt this, his daughter was also no longer so willing to listen to him seeing what tragedy the decisions he was putting into her head had led to.

She had completely broken down after the day following his niece's attempt to take her own life, because word from Dragonstone reached them that Rheanyra had lost her child.

In him his mother tried to find understanding and words of comfort, but he did not speak to her or look at her, unable to forgive her for her betrayal.

He had hoped that as a woman she would show more sensitivity, more caution.

His niece lived as if half asleep, waking and falling back into a dream, not understanding who she was or what was happening to her.

As night fell he would pull off his tunic and boots, staying in just his chemise and breeches, lying down behind her back, embracing her, entwining their fingers, sinking his face into her fragrant hair, inhaling her addictive scent.

She purred then sweetly, involuntarily recognising him, her head tilting back, letting him place soft, warm, wet kisses on her long neck, his large hands tentatively trailing over her body covered only by her thin nightgown, trying to draw on the time he had left until it reached her what had really happened.

His cock throbbed hard in his breeches as she whispered his name, pressing against her buttocks; he sighed quietly then, rubbing against her but not bringing himself to fulfilment, punishing himself in this way, recognising that he did not deserve relief.

He wanted to burn with her.

After three days he was awakened by her quiet hiss; he flinched and opened his eyes, sensing that she was trying to get up. She stared at her wrists wrapped in a fresh bandages before looking at him and he already knew.

Her lips pressed together, her brow arched in pain and disbelief, her eyes glazed over with tears of helplessness, anger and disappointment, her body began to twitch.

"− my love? −" He whispered, but she turned away from him, laying back on the bed and wept. He put his arm around her waist and kissed her neck, feeling the squeeze in his throat, breathing erratically, tears of shame in the corners of his eyes.

"− I didn't know − I swear I didn't know about moon tea −" He muttered, but he knew it was for nothing.

She didn't speak to him then or for the next few days, not even bestowing a single glance on him.

He thought with a sneer that the roles were reversed, that now it was he who begged in his thoughts for her attention, for her forgiveness, and he wondered if she would follow in his footsteps and not speak to him for the next eight years.

He sat in the evenings in a chair by the fireplace, gazing at her silhouette lying on her bed, a book in her hand, her wrists no longer bandaged, her freshly healed wounds still red, dark lines on her skin reminding him of who he was and what he had done to her.

At night he would lie down beside her and embrace her from behind, stroking her hands with his thumbs, and though her whole body tensed and froze when he touched her, she never pushed him away.

It seemed to him that her silence was even worse than her words of condemnation.

The day he was to set out on his mission to Storm's End was approaching mercilessly and she still didn't know it; he had no idea how he should convey it to her, himself discouraged and bitter at the thought of being forced to marry another woman, of living in a purely political marriage, which although he had reckoned with as a child, after his father's decision, he believed he would never experience.

He thought, looking at her face, at the girlish, pleasing shape of her body, about marrying her in secret, but he knew that she no longer wanted him, and no Septon would agree to help him out of fear of the Queen and his grandfather.

A nuptials in the tradition of Old Valyria remained, however, it required a cooperation on her part that he did not expect.

Moreover, guards stood outside her chambers day and night, watching not only her but also him, his grandfather was prudent and seeing his involvement he knew that he would try to act behind his back.

Although he hid behind a stony, indifferent face he felt helpless and tried to find a solution in his mind that would give him more room to act, to lull his family's vigilance.

He decided that, for the time being, he had to act as his relatives wished, so that they would believe that he was going to do what they told him to.

However, he had no idea how he was going to reason with his niece, how he was going to initiate her into his plans when, for obvious reasons, she was no longer going to participate.

He finally decided, experiencing a kind of revelation, that he would write her a letter, just as she had done to him all these years.

He saw her lift her gaze to him from the piece of embroidery she had just worked on, a bird from the crest of the Arryn family, her relatives on her grandmother's side, as he moved towards his secretary's desk, from which he pulled out a quill, ink and parchment.

Her expression of who she was, who she identified with, whose side she stood on.

He didn't give a fuck.

He sank the sharpened quill into the ink and stared at the blank sheet of parchment for a moment, wondering what it was he actually wanted to convey to her, and then he began to write, for the first time in his life openly expressing what he felt.

He thought it was liberating in a way, his words flowed like a river from his mind and his heart.

My Rhaenys,

I set out on my journey to Storm's End to quench my grandfather and mother's thirst with a sense of injustice. It occurs to me that only now am I able to understand what you have been going through all these years, experiencing from me only the silence I deeply believed you deserved at the time.

I'm sure you think the same of me now, and you're not wrong, because I myself am unable to comment or justify what happened through my hesitation, which cost me everything.

I thought it is easy to see what is right and what is wrong, to choose the proper path, but after my father's death it became apparent that none of this was the case, and my mother's and my grandfather's decision set it out for me, against my will, and although I tried to stand up to it, it seems to me that the consequences of their actions have sunk me like a wave that carries me onward, away from the safe harbour that you are.

I want you to realise, my niece, that one word from you is enough for us to slit our lips and hands upon my return and drink our warm, mingled blood, sealing at last our destiny once and for all.

I, unlike Aegon the Conqueror, want you in my bed every night.

I don't think Lord Baratheon's mind can contain what we read about as children and that he would accept that his daughter would be merely a second, and moreover, unwanted wife in my life. Union with him may give us an army to wage war on, but my union with you may in my mind end it with the birth of our child, a descendant of the Greens and Blacks.

I am not, and will not be able to accept, either as your uncle or as your husband, Jacerys, Lucerys or Joffrey as heirs to the throne for reasons that are well known to you, and which neither the marriage nor the threats of your stepfather and your mother can change − we both know full well that they do not and cannot have rights to the crown.

However, Aegon's and Viserys's rights to it are strong, unassailable even by me, and although as your uncle I have no personal interest in your mother or her offspring sitting on the Iron Throne, as your husband I would be willing, as part of a truce, to agree that it should not be Helaena and Aegon's children who inherit the throne, but my half-sister's and my uncle's or, if both sides in the conflict were to be at least partially satisfied, ours.

I have spent the last few days reflecting on what has happened and on what I think would be a solution that would satisfy me, but it has turned out that there is none. Unlike my brother, I don't delude myself that your mother will bend the knee, any more than any person with any dignity or pride would.

We all have to sacrifice something.

He looked at what he had written being filled with awe at how many words were in his mind, how many thoughts he was afraid to say out loud, that one could perhaps even consider a betrayal.

His words to her, to his childhood friend.

He huffed at the ink, wanting to make sure it wouldn't smudge, and rolled the parchment into a scroll. He rose from his seat with a creak of wood, feeling her surprised gaze on him as he placed his letter on the small table beside her bed, and then left, informing his guards that in his absence no one but his sister was allowed to cross the threshold of her chamber.

He changed with the help of his servants into his rider's attire, his leather cloak and gloves reminding him of how long it had been since he was riding on Vhagar, absorbed in all the events of the past weeks.

Rhaenyra gathering her forces around Dragonstone, her wrath that reached all the way to the Red Keep announcing that she would take back everything she had been robbed of.

Her daughter and her throne.

He thought about this, heading for the hill near the keep where his dragoness rested, no longer fitting into the Dragon Pit, like he didn't suit anywhere, didn't belong anywhere.

His journey to Strom's End was unpleasant and tiring; he had the feeling that the heavens were trembling with rage, that he was defying, though not of his free will, his destiny, the storm around him and the rain made him see little and he had to be very careful, gliding between the peaks of the mountains.

When he finally saw the high stone stronghold on the edge of the cliff in the distance he pressed his lips together and thought he would choose the most annoying and unpleasant of his daughters, not to experience a single bit of sympathy towards her when she realised what fate awaited her.

He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of his beloved, his Rhaenys, and felt his heart beat fast, elated at the thought that she had surely already read his letter.

He thought it was amusing that as he flew to choose his future wife, all he could think about was how much he wanted to marry someone else.

He was welcomed in the fortress with honours. Lord Baratheon with his wife and daughters awaited him in the great circular throne room lit by torchlight, all around them he could hear the thunders being muffled by the thick walls.

"My Lord." He said lowly, looking up at the tall man seated before him, his bushy eyebrows furrowed as if he was judging him as a candidate for a husband for his daughters.

He struggled to contain the grimace of amusement that pressed across his face.

"My Prince. At last you have honoured us with your presence." He said drily, with an impatience from which his lips involuntarily curved into a wide smile. He could see in his gaze that he did not like it, however he clearly cared as much about this agreement as his mother, for he decided not to make any further remark.

"Let me introduce you to my daughters." He said in a low, throaty voice, pointing with his hand to his side, his gaze lazily directed towards them.

They each had dark hair, tied up in elaborate hairstyles apparently meant to add to their elegance and refinement, braided in the back and smoothed in the front, their simple gowns, though sewn of the most expensive materials, looked faded and grey to him, their eyes dark as were their eyelashes and eyebrows.

They were not repulsive or ugly, yet he felt nothing at the sight of them.

The emptiness that taken over his mind was astonishing to him compared to what overwhelmed his body when he saw his niece years later then, when she had watched his duel with Ser Criston, when he saw her bare shoulders, her long, loose, wavy hair, her sweet, puffy lips, her big, bright eyes.

He shuddered, reminding himself of her beautiful soft bare body, of how wonderfully tight and warm her fleshy insides were, of her sweet, shy moans of pleasure as he opened her wide on his fat cock again and again with confident thrusts of his hips.

His manhood throbbed in his breeches so hard at the thought that he swallowed loudly and grunted.

He nodded and approached them slowly, measuring them with his gaze. Only one of them dared to lift her gaze to him – he noticed a barely visible amused smile on her face. He raised his eyebrows seeing this and thought that she liked to coquet and mock men.

Perfect, he thought.

These were the kind of women he despised the most.

"What do they call you, my Lady?" He asked in a low, deep voice that echoed around them.

The girl straightened up proudly, clearly pleased that she had caught his attention, her gaze travelling over his figure from top to bottom, she was just deciding, apparently, whether she thought him handsome.

"Maris, my Prince." She said softly, her voice low, not as melodious, girlish and light as his niece's.

"Hm." He hummed under his breath and shuddered as he heard a guard walk swiftly into the great hall.

"Prince Lucerys of House Velaryon, heir to Driftmark." He announced loudly, and he turned, feeling his heart begin to pound like mad, his lips tightening into a thin line as he caught sight of the silhouette of a black-haired boy, completely drenched from his journey.

When Luke spotted him at the other end of the hall he froze completely, pale and terrified – he felt a wild satisfaction at the thought that he knew he didn't stand a chance against him in a battle neither on the ground nor in the heavens.

He watched with a wide grin and a sneer as little Lord Strong in a trembling voice tried to persuade Borros Baratheon to support his mother's claim to the throne in accordance with his father's oath, and laughed aloud when it became apparent that he had come up empty-handed.

"Go home, pup. Tell your mother she won't call on me when she wishes like some dog." Growled Lord Baratheon, clearly self-satisfied that he could dismiss him with such ease, leaving him with nothing.

He felt like going after him, forcing him to fall to his knees before him and then gouge out his eye, to experience a wonderful sense of justice and atonement at last, but he refrained, recognising that his Rhaenys would never forgive him for that, so he merely looked away and sighed contentedly, grinning to himself.

"Was it not he who took your eye, my Prince? Are you going to let him just walk away?" He heard Maris's amused, mocking voice behind him and looked down at her with a gaze from which she lost her earlier confidence, her smile gone from her face.

"I have made my decision, my Lord." He said in a cold, indifferent voice. "Her."

Though Borros Baratheon's wife had insisted that he stay in Storm's End and not return to King's Landing during such a violent storm, he had replied that he would leave immediately.

Lady Baratheon looked at him then, tightening her lips, clearly wanting to ask something, hesitating whether she should do so, but in the end she could not bear it.

"It has come to my knowledge that Rhaenyra Targaryen's daughter, and your would-be betrothed, is your prisoner, my Prince." She said reluctantly, watching him intently, as if she wanted to see anything in his face that could tell her if he still had feelings for her, if this girl was any kind of threat to her daughter.

He looked at her with an intense, indifferent gaze until she turned her face away, swallowing loudly.

He hummed under his breath and left without giving either of her daughters a single glance.

As he left their stronghold he noticed with surprise that Luke was standing in the distance in the rain, quivering all over, looking at him. For a moment they did not take their eyes off each other, all around them lightning and thunder making the ground beneath their feet tremble.

"I want to see my sister." He called out to him in a shaky voice, forcing himself to be confident, and he snorted, turning his head away.

He wanted to humiliate him, to press his face to the mud and remind him that he was a fucking bastard, but he hesitated.

He licked his lips at the thought that if he allowed them to meet perhaps she would forgive him, believe that he was not her enemy, that for her he had not carried out his revenge, for her he had not killed, but had brought to her the man he despised so deeply.

His expression of goodwill.

"Fly after me, my Lord Strong, if you dare." He sneered and moved towards Vhagar, climbing the ropes to her back, settling into his saddle all wet from the rain to take to the skies with her a moment later.

He looked over his shoulder and spotted the figure of a small dragon among the dark clouds; he thought in the back of his mind that his nephew had been a fool, that he had been guided by his emotions rather than reason.

He decided to take him to Vhagar's lair, and then to one of the back entrances to the Red Keep which he used when he wanted no one to notice his disappearance.

After a few hours of travel, he landed on the hill and slid off his dragoness onto the wet grass, watching impatiently as his nephew took his place a piece away, looking at him apprehensively as soon as he jumped down, catching the hilt of his sword. He smirked mischievously at the sight.

"Don't be ridiculous, nephew. Fighting you would be a little challenge. Come." He hissed impatiently, turning and moving ahead, cold and wet just as much as he was.

"How do I know it's not a trap? That she's alive?" He heard his trembling voice behind him, full of fear and uncertainty, from which he sighed heavily, rolling his eyes, hoping his niece would appreciate how much he had sacrificed for her, how much he had put himself at risk for her.

"If I wanted to kill you or imprison you, I would, my Lord Strong." He said indifferently, stopping him with a gesture of his hand, seeing the guards walking along the wall above them, looking around; he only moved on when they were out of his sight.

They went inside through a small wooden door covered in ivy, which opened with a loud creak; he looked at him with disapproval, his eyes large, his face pale, he breathed loudly through his mouth, knowing he was a fool.

That if he took him hostage their mother's hands would be tied, deprived of her two children and two dragons she would have to bend the knee.

He contemplated whether to do so, whether it would perhaps end the whole war, but he decided that this one, and only one time, he would do something not for himself, not for his family, but for her.

Proof of how deep was his affection towards her.

"Wait here and be quiet." He growled and moved ahead leaving him behind, passing into the pits beneath the Red Keep itself.

He climbed the cramped side servants' staircase to the corridor into which her chamber was located and came upon the surprised guards, who awoke upon hearing his footsteps and stood at attention.

"Bring me my dry garments and inform the servants that I will take a bath." He said lowly, one of them nodded and immediately moved ahead, intending to obey his order, but the other remained in his place, looking at him uncertainly.

"Has she eaten anything today?" He asked him, and he shook his head, swallowing loudly, terrified apparently that he would blame him for such a state of affairs.

"Inform the cook to prepare some warm soup for her."

"Now, Your Grace? It's the middle of the night…"

"He is to prepare her fucking warm soup, I said." He hissed, the man nodded and also disappeared after a moment around a corner.

He walked into her chamber, and she pulled up in bed with a scream – he saw that her face was red with tears and he felt a squeeze in his throat that perhaps it was because of his letter, that perhaps she still loved him.

However, there was no time to think about that.

"− uncle? − what are you − stop −" She cried out horrified, not understanding what was happening, what he wanted to do, when he took a plain grey hooded coat, pulled her violently by her arm and forced her to stand up, putting it over her shoulders and head.

"− no −" She mumbled, but he pulled her forcibly out of her chamber; after what had happened to her she was still weakened and her resistance was having no effect.

"− I don't want to − you won't make me − I'm going to scream −"

"Be fucking quiet. Don't you want to see your little brother? Hm? I thought so." He growled, gripping his fingers tighter on her arm and heard her quiet squeal of discomfort, however, no more words left her lips.

They walked down the same path he had entered, walking for a while in complete darkness – he knew she had walked barefoot, that she was cold and uncomfortable, but they had no time.

They had to get back before the guards informed anyone that she was not in her chamber.

He let her go as they stepped out into the narrow corridor at the end of which Luke was standing, heard her draw in a loud breath and stop in mid-step, not believing what she was seeing.

They both looked at each other as if they couldn't believe it was really happening, completely shocked.

"Luke!" She cried out and ran towards him pulling the hood off her head – they threw themselves into each other's arms, both bursting into sobs like little children.

He stared at them impassively thinking about giving them a few minutes and then bringing her back and taking her in her bed, his cock swollen and hard, he hadn't experienced relief in days.

"A-are you all right? Did they hurt you? Why do you have a bruise under your eye? What is it?" He asked in a trembling voice taking her wrists in his hands, noticing the freshly healed cuts on them.

Luke looked at him accusingly, but she shook her head, grasping his face in her hands, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs, smiling broadly, happy and full of energy, as if awakened from a deep sleep.

"No, it was an accident. Nothing serious." She lied, and he lowered his gaze at the thought that he hadn't spoken a word to Criston Cole since that day, since he found out what he'd done, and the only reason he was still alive was because his mother had begged him to show mercy.

"Please, Aemond." His mother mumbled in a trembling, terrified voice, holding his shoulders, seeing his cold, angry gaze directed at her sworn protector.

"I'm not going to ask a third time, Cole. Did you hit her?" He hissed through clenched teeth, feeling that the bones in his jaw were about to burst with rage, his hands closed into tight fists, his chest rising and falling rapidly in uneven, ragged breaths.

Ser Criston lowered his gaze and swallowed loudly, standing with his hands folded behind him, clearly embarrassed.

"Yes, my Prince. I admit with shame that I lost my temper. I called her an undignified name and slapped her." He mumbled, not daring to look at him; he felt his lips part in a wicked grin that had nothing to do with contentment.

"Did you do it before or after you made her drink moon tea?" He asked in a mocking, matter-of-fact, sharp tone, and saw the glances that Cole and his mother exchanged, horrified that she had already told him everything.

"− Aemond, she cannot carry your child if she is to marry −"

The Queen began but her voice stuck in her throat when he locked her cheeks between his fingers in sudden, violent gesture, digging his fingertips into her skin, Criston Cole twitched not knowing what to do, her pupils dilated in shock and fear.

"I was the one who wanted her to run away with me. For her to give herself to me. I promised her I would marry her. And I fucking meant it!" He growled like an animal and shook her head as if he wanted her to finally realize what he was saying, felt tears of helplessness under his eyelids as he looked at his mother in despair, her gaze changed, she drew in air loudly, her eyebrows arched in pain.

"My Prince, for gods sake, it is your mother!" Exclaimed Criston Cole, and he let her go, panting hard; the Queen took a few steps back, breathing heavily, looking at him in disbelief and pain, holding her hand on her chest, trembling all over.

She did not recognise him.

"Return with me to Dragonstone." He heard Luke's quiet mumble and furrowed his brows, returning with his mind to them; he felt his heart begin to pound like mad, terrified that she would try to run away with him, his hand slipped involuntarily to the dagger fastened to his belt.

He swallowed loudly at the thought that he should have followed his instincts from the very beginning and just kill him.

"N-no. No." She said horrified, seeing in his gaze what he was thinking about, what he was prepared to do; she stroked her little brother's shoulders with hands trembling with fear, smiling again, wanting to comfort him.

"But you go. Tell my mother that I am faithful to her and that I love her very much. Can you do that for me?" She asked softly, her voice breaking as she spoke her last words.

"I won't leave you here. I will never…"

"You will leave. I'm begging you, go now." She muttered, releasing him, but his hands refused to let her go.

"Please."

"I can't, you have to understand me −"

"Time's up." He heard his own low, cold voice, saw her terrified look – she nodded quickly, wanting to be obedient and gentle, wanting him to remain calm, not to do anything under sudden rage.

"Go, Luke." She said.

"I'll set you free, I swear." He mumbled and let go of her hand, escaping at last, disappearing into the rain.

They both let out a loud, terrified breath and looked at each other uncertainly, his hand letting go of the hilt of his dagger. He felt some kind of deep, wonderful relief.

She stayed of her own free will.

He licked his lower lip in satisfaction at the thought that she herself didn't know what she thought of it all, her cheeks red from emotion and tears.

"How did you find him?" She asked quietly, looking at him uncertainly, as if she didn't know what she could expect from him. He hummed under his breath at her question, lifting his chin in a gesture of superiority.

"He came to Storm's End as an envoy." He explained matter-of-factly, approaching her slowly with his heart pounding faster and faster, feeling like his cock was about to explode if he didn't finally touch her.

She swallowed hard at his words, lifting her gaze full of pain and regret to him, her eyebrows arched in a clear sense of helplessness; he thought with delight that he was not indifferent to her.

"Have you made your choice?" She asked quietly, and he smirked, feeling that somehow he had regained his advantage over her, that she was jealous of him.

"Yes."

"Then I'm afraid you can no longer sleep in my chamber. It would not be appropriate." She said softly, not taking her eyes off him, and he felt his heart stop, his lips tighten into a thin line.

"After what I did for you? What I risked for you? This is how you thank me?" He growled, stepping closer to her, feeling burning rage and disappointment that she didn't throw herself happily around his neck, that what he'd done wasn't enough. She furrowed her brow, looking at him with fear and disbelief.

"I'm grateful to you, gods, I really am, but if you think I'm going to be your whore, you're wrong." She mumbled with pain from which he felt a squeeze in his throat, his body trembling with disappointment and rage.

"I don't want you to be my whore. I want you to be my wife." He hissed through clenched teeth, gripping his dagger, which he took out in a swift, sure movement. She squealed as he gripped her cheeks violently in his hand, her fingers tightened on his wrist trying fruitlessly to free her from his grasp, her eyes opened wide with terror as he pressed his blade against her lower lip.

"Don't move. Don't fucking move, I said." He growled when she cried out loudly and clenched her eyes shut as he slashed her delicate skin, a thin trickle of blood dripping from the red wound.

He passed his dagger into her hand, clenching it in her palm; he looked at her pleadingly, sliding his fingers into her hair, pressing his forehead against hers in a gesture of desperation.

"− I can't take it anymore − we both know it was always going to end like this −" He muttered stroking her cheeks, her hair, her neck, her shoulders with his hands, feeling that he was in some kind of frenzy.

"− kill me or marry me −" He said in a trembling voice; she drew in the air loudly, her gaze hot, helpless, terrified, full of pain, resentment, desire, regret, anger, exhaustion.

He looked straight into her eyes as her trembling hand lifted his blade, first stopping on the line of his neck, then grasped his cheek in her fingers – a low, surprised groan of delight broke from his throat as he felt the cold, astringent taste of steel on his lips, then the burning pain of sliced skin.

He looked at her dreamily, feeling that what she had done had aroused him even more, that he was about to throw himself at her and rip off everything she was wearing.

He watched her face as he took his dagger in his fingers and with a sure, shallow movement slit the skin of the inside of her hand. She hissed quietly, clenching her lips in discomfort, tears of horror, emotion, sadness and relief running down her cheeks.

He breathed loudly when he observed her as she did the same, creating a burning wound on his hand from which his warm, sticky blood dripped.

He clasped their bleeding palms together, holding the dagger beneath them onto which drop by drop flowed their mingled blood.

There was something at once frightening and divine about the sight, as if in a mysterious and only known to them way the gods of their ancestors had bound them together for eternity.

He lifted the blade up and licked it with a gasp of contentment as he gazed at her face; he hummed with delight as he felt that forbidden, tart taste.

He repeated the act and this time he held the blade to her lips; he felt his cock throb in pleasure in his breeches as her glistening, pink tongue ran over the bloody steel before his eyes.

He released the dagger from his hand and clung to her with his lips, both of them moaning loudly in pain, discomfort and pleasure, not caring about their wounds, realising that this was what their love had been.

Something so painfully fulfilling.

As much as he craved it, as much as he wanted to spend hours with his face between her thighs, he needed to feel her first, her hands helping him quickly unfasten the clasps of his coat and tunic. He untied the material of his breeches and tilted it aside, releasing what was beneath them, his manhood painfully hard and swollen, its tip wet with his own moisture.

He pulled her nightgown up over her thighs and grabbed her in his arms, lifting her, her legs immediately closing around his waist, her hands entwined in his hair and pressed his face against her puffy, sweet mouth.

He groaned low into her throat, meeting the tip of his tongue against hers, licking her and sucking her lips; they both clamped their hands tightly on their bodies as the fat head of his cock began to push against her leaking folds from below.

"− let me in − let me in, sweet wife −" He muttered between the loud dance of their tongues, teeth and saliva. She squirmed loudly as he slowly slid into her with a sigh of pleasure, her insides and thighs wet with her moisture, making him open her wide with one sure thrust of his hips.

"− Aemond −" She cried out sweetly as he began to root into her with thirsty, desperate thrusts, their whole bodies twitching and vibrating, her hands roaming over his cheeks, hair, neck and back, her throbbing, hot, weeping cunt clenching around him and sucking him inside, refusing to let him go, forcing him to pound into her with more brutality.

"− fucking mine −" He hissed out, tightening his fingers on her soft flesh, leaving a trail of blood on her skin and nightgown, slamming into her violently with his cock, thick and swollen with almost painful arousal.

He was panting loudly along with her, sensing that he was embarrassingly close to his peak, his thighs slapping again and again against her buttocks with a shameless splat of her moisture, her scent, her closeness, her whimpers filled his entire mind, leaving only bliss.

"− g-gods, uncle −" She mewled, tilting her head back, moaning like a whore and yet like a saint, sweet and loud, as if she was surprised at how quickly and suddenly fulfilment shook her body.

He felt her juices running down his thighs, soaking his cock; he sighed with some kind of relief when he finally let go, filling her to the brim with his warm seed, her walls squeezing him greedily.

"− fuck-fuck-fucckkk −" He gasped clenching his teeth, stunned by the pleasure and fulfilment that enveloped his body, his muscles suddenly soft, his body numb.

He fell to his knees with her and heard her squeal in terror, her legs and hands embracing him tightly; he rooted into her for a moment longer with sloppy, slow thrusts of his hips, wanting to savour the fact that he felt her again.

That she was his wife.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

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[sweet-honey-fruit]

In relation to my last post, I want to clarify some misinformation surrounding Dottore. I see a lot of it, and as someone who hyperfixates on him, I want to attempt to clear the air. Cause I feel like some of the hate towards him (and his fans) are based around misconstrued info.

Warning for spoilers!

Let me tell you the bad things he has done:

He has unlawfully experimented on living beings. Children, women, and men have been a victim of his. He even had a deal with the last Knave to send over the "rejects" from The House of The Hearth for experimentation.

Allegedly, he faked being a certified doctor as a way to experiment on patients at the Elezar hospital. Not cool man.

Also alleged, he killed a young woman on a picnic date and framed it to look like the tigers did it

Honestly he's probably done more but we don't know his entire story yet

Now that that's out of the way, let's go through the misconstrued information I often see.

"He unrightfully experimented on Scaramouche!" I know some people might not want to hear this but, those experiments, were a mutual agreement. Harbingers, as hinted at in voice lines, are not allowed to harm one another.

To back up my claim: Arlecchino has a voice line on Dottore that says "If he was not my fellow harbinger, I would have expedited their happy little reunion long ago." With context clues we know she's saying that if they weren't coworkers, she would've killed him so him and the previous Knave could dance around the flames in hell together.

With that we can conclude that the abyss experiments, the god experiment; Scaramouche agreed to it all. He wasn't forced to do any of it, because by harming another harbinger without an agreement, it would have caused dire consequences.

"He experimented on Collei!" While Collei was taken to The Doctor for "elezar treatment" it wasnt him who experimented on her. It was whoever this bitch is, as shown in the genshin comic

Blame that guy. That's the guy you wanna attack.

"Dottore killed Scaramouche's friend and caused his second betrayal!" You are correct on that, except there's a very important aspect of that that people gloss over. Dottore says "Jester, I have completed the task you gave me. Creating a gap and infiltrating Inazuma's inner workings."

He killed Scara's friend because Pierro gave him that task.

Kinda insane that he followed it up with "heh, what fun it was" but that's just a little quirk of his /j

All in all, he is a menace to society, I'm aware of that. People are allowed to hate him, just please hate him for the right and factual reasons!

Collei and Scaramouche fans (like to clarify: not all) love to infiltrate my inbox and go on rants about what Dottore did to them, yet most of it is incorrect (and in some cases, hypocritical). At least come at me with correct information.

He's a harbinger who has done bad things. If you have a favorite harbinger, there's a 100% chance that they also have done something horrible. They're harbingers, they've all done some horrid shit, that's basically their job. But they're also fictional horrid shit, so let's all hold hands and love our fictional criminals as a family.

[rayroseu]

THIS COMMENT FROM THE SCENE OF MALEFICENT REVERSING AURORA'S CURSE 😭😭😭😭😭 OOOHHH BOOK 7 REFERENCE YOU'RE SO REAL AGAIN

It reminds so much of Malleus ofc.... I know there'll be a scene of him regretting his actions/his overblot.

Right now, he doesn't realize it because the core of his "curse" is a blessing... it is a blessing to live in your dreams and have a long happy life, but the "curse part of it" (I think) is when you reject this blessing that he's giving, and he forces you to take it, and when he realizes that at that point, where everyone wakes up and resist his blessing and he forces them back to sleeping again bcs he has to and its just a cycle from there...

he comes to a realization that he's not protecting/governing/taking care of them (he uses so many verbs to his actions lmao), he just gets angry at them, fights them, and hurts them (because he doesn't understand why people would reject a gift "so perfect" in principle.), then Malleus will realize he's no longer acting in kindness but rather in evil. 🥲🥲🥲

AAAAAAA i hope. 💔 Book 7 is also Maleficent-inspired btw and the point of that movie is to humanize Maleficent as an "purely evil villain" from Sleeping Beauty. And, while I don't doubt there'll be a scene alluding to the defeat of Dragon Maleficent, I still feel like he'll be redeemed at the end lol (so like... Book 7 won't be just be about Malleus will be beaten for his bad deeds and he'll learn and regret it lol) I wanna see Malleus admit his mistake and grow past it 🥲✨✨

It feels like whenever he makes a mistake so far, it has traumatic consequences where the damage cannot be repaired or he'll forever be burdened by unintentional mistake (like people getring hurt by his powers), but if the story lets Malleus redeems himself, it feels like its telling Malleus the lesson that things you have worked on can be destroyed and it will never be the same, but you can still work towards it again, like the saying "not all things that are lost are permanently gone".

Also speaking of lost--- In the past, I used to say Book 7 is Malleus "first experience of lost" but I don't think so now lol If you think about it, it feels like Malleus has always been experiencing lost ... No parents, Limited presence of Maleficia, Lilia is separated from him, People almost dies just by dealing with him (remember the Lilia quote from the frozen castle incident: "The people you are eating with right now are the people you have almost lost"), Yuu is leaving him, ... Like every decade of this guy's life feels like there's a parting 😭😭😭🔥

So its not his first time experience lost, rather he just had enough from experiencing it repeatedly 😭😭😭 But again even if things are lost (even to death), Malleus can still visit it again lol even if its changed, like how there'll come a day where Lilia will die but his memories are still in the world and Silver, -

I feel like thats also a nice way to connect to the fact theres an ongoing theme of things being lost but still their presence persist like how Meleanor's Lullaby is not recognized by Malleus that its his mother's song but Malleus still sings it, and how Dawn is forgotten as well but his behavior and personality reflects a lot with Silver (even though hes not the one who raised him).

[midnightsnyx]

girl at home | mat barzal | part 3

pairing: mat barzal x fem!reader summary: you’re eighteen when you find yourself pregnant after Mat leaves for hockey. nearly eight years later, Mat finds out about your daughter and you have to deal with the consequences of not telling him about her.

warnings: not edited, mentions of pregnancy, alcohol, some cute fluff and as usual, as much angst as i can fit into a chapter <3 word count: 2.2k authors note: OK well not gonna lie, i cried writing the ending. i keep saying happy things are on the way and they are we're just slow getting there, ok? anyway i hope you all like this chapter & if you wanna, feed my writing soul and give me some feedback <3 i do have a tag list if you'd like to be tagged, there is a form below or you can leave a comment or dm me & i can tag you in the next part. thanks for all the love on this little story <3

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Co-parenting with Mat is interesting to say the least. Although, you’re not sure if you can even classify it as co-parenting because Nora still has no idea who Mat really is. She just knows that he now tags along with the two of you most places you go and she’s thrilled. Her questions for him are endless, asking about anything from hockey to what living in New York is like. She’s always been inquisitive, but this is a whole new level, even for her. 

You have mixed feelings about this because while you are happy that they’re getting along, you’re worried what will happen at the end of the summer when Mat has to return to New York. There’s no way you and Nora can follow him, and co-parenting between Vancouver and New York? Impossible. 

You’re sitting with Mat, both of you watching Nora play with some other kids on the playground. He’s been quiet but you can tell there’s something on his mind. Even though it’s been eight years, you still know Mat like the back of your hand and you know when he’s trying to decide whether or not to bring something up. You’re curious though, so you bump your knee against his and raise an eyebrow when he turns to you. 

“What’s on your mind?” you ask and he smiles sheepishly. 

“I was wondering if I could see some baby pictures,” he says quietly, and then adds, “of Nora,” as if he needs to specify. You were wondering when he was going to ask because his parents and Liana have already asked to see and asked for copies of all the pictures. Mat has been a little more reserved about most of it though, not asking questions about your pregnancy or for pictures of Nora as everyone else had.

“Yeah, of course,” you tell him, pulling your phone out and adding him to the shared album that his family is already in. 

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and you watch him swipe through pictures, pausing at certain ones although you can’t see which. You’re a little nervous because there are ultrasound photos and pictures of you throughout your pregnancy. You don’t know how he’ll react, because he still hasn’t really expanded on his feelings about you not telling him about her other than what he said at the coffee shop. He’s spoken to his parents, you know that much from Liana, but he hasn’t said anything more to you.

“She looks like you,” he eventually says, “got your nose.” 

“She has your eyes,” you counter and he smiles. 

“Yeah,” he whispers and before he can say anything else, Nora plops down on the bench next to him and peers at his phone.

“Hey! That’s me!” she exclaims, pointing to the picture of her from Halloween last year.

“Really?” you pretend to be surprised, smiling when she rolls her eyes dramatically. 

“Yes, mama. See? You said my eyes look like my dads.”

Mat tenses next to you. You’re sure he’s going to say something but instead he just smiles at Nora. 

“They’re pretty nice eyes,” he agrees, ruffling her hair before she ducks out of his reach with a giggle. 

“Mat, come push me on the swing!” she begs and he lets her pull him towards the swings without hesitation. You can’t help but grin at the pleased smile on Nora’s face and the way Mat does exactly what she wants without complaint. You know he would’ve definitely been the easygoing parent when Nora was younger and it makes you upset when you think too much about it because he should’ve been there for all her milestones and firsts. He should have been there when she crawled and then walked for the first time. He should have come with you when you dropped her off on her first day of Kindergarten and pretended he wasn't crying with you. 

There are so many firsts that he should have been next to you and it’s slowly eating away at you because you took that away from him.But it was the right thing to do. 

At least, that's what you tell yourself when you go to bed every night.

. . .

“So, how’s it going with Mat?” Jaxon asks, taking a sip of beer and giving you a knowing look. You regretted talking to Jax about your struggles the minute he started asking you the questions you didn’t want to hear. Your best friend is a little too observant sometimes and it always backfires. 

“Fine,” you say shortly, staring into your wine glass. Nora is staying at your moms tonight, so you decided to invite your friend over, hoping to get some advice that would help you feel better instead of feeling like you’re being interrogated. 

“Right,” he drawls, “that’s why you sent me a cryptic text and haven’t said anything else since “beer or wine?” right? I could be home with my boyfriend right now but you seemed like you were going to spiral and we all know exactly how that ends.” 

“Things are fine,” you grumble. “He’s been absolutely perfect with her.”

“Alright, then what’s bothering you?” 

“It’s just, I feel guilty, okay? Mat’s being better than I ever hoped to even think about and I feel like I shouldn’t have taken away his chance to be in her life before she was even born,” you say in one breath. “I keep thinking about the things he’s missed, and I feel like-”

Jax cuts you off before you can say anything else, holding up a hand. “Look, you did what you thought was best at the time. Was it necessarily fair? No. You can’t go back though, and you’re going to drive yourself insane if you keep thinking like this. You can’t change the past, but if he wants to be in her life now, and you’re okay with that, you need to make peace with your choices.”

Your shoulders deflate at his words, and you drink the remaining wine in your glass. He’s right about all of it and you hate that. You hate that he’s right and you hate that you can’t accept it.

“I need more wine,” you mumble, standing up and making your way to the kitchen. You don’t usually drink, definitely not since Nora, but you let yourself indulge every now and then. Besides, Jax has always been a bad influence. 

You’ve just finished pouring the glass when there’s a knock on your door. You look at the time on the microwave and frown, unsure who would be knocking at eleven o’clock on a Friday night. If anything was wrong, your mom would have called and you don’t have many friends that would make a late night visit. 

Abandoning your wine, you walk to the door and open it and come face to face with Mat who looks nervous and definitely like he would rather be anywhere but here. 

“Uh, hey?” you say but it sounds more like a question. He doesn't seem to be drunk and you don’t know what else would warrant a late night drop in. 

“Hey,” he says and just because you have the best luck, Jax decides that now is the right time to follow you to the door. 

“Your phone is ringing, and it’s your mom,” he says, freezing when he sees Mat standing there. He looks uncomfortable, and when you turn to Mat, all you see is fury. 

See, the problem is, despite nothing romantic going on between you and Jax, relationship talk wasn’t something that you and Mat had brought up. He didn’t bring up his girlfriend, and so far, nobody besides your mom has been around when Mat was with you and Nora. Also, throw in the fact that you’re sure Mat has no idea who Jax is, it’s easy to make assumptions. 

“Nevermind,” Mat says shortly, “I’ll leave you to your night.”

You grab his wrist before he can leave, wanting to clear all this up even though it shouldn’t really matter if you were dating someone. 

“Wait,” you say and he stops but keeps his back to you. 

“Nora woke up and wants to talk to you,” Jax says, breaking the silence and you hesitate, not wanting Mat to leave but knowing you need to talk to your daughter. He seems to sense your dilemma, because he hands you your phone, slips his shoes on and squeezes past you and Mat, calling out "I'll call an uber”, before walking down the hallway of your apartment building. 

You feel like an awful friend, and you’ll definitely be making it up to him but you pull Mat inside, shutting the door before holding the phone up to your ear. 

“Nora?”

“No,” your mom says softly, “I’ll put her on now.” 

You thank her quietly, waiting until you hear your daughter's voice. She’s sniffling, and tells you about the bad dream she had, asking if you can come pick her up. Your mom is trying to comfort her on the other line but it’s no use because she’s set on coming home.

You glance at your wine glass sitting on the counter and curse yourself because this is exactly why you try not to drink. 

Mat, as if he is reading your thoughts, says “I’ll go pick her up and bring her here.”

He still looks irritated but his expression softened since he heard Nora. You wouldn’t take him up on his offer but you know how much your mom hates driving in the dark so you just nod, watching him shake his hand out of yours and your face heats up when you realize you hadn’t let go. 

“Be back in twenty,” he says before leaving. 

“Mat’s on his way to get you, sweetie,” you tell Nora. “He’ll pick you up and bring you straight home, okay?”

She sniffles again and says a quiet, “okay,” before presumably handing the phone back to your mom who you tell that Mat is going to pick her up. She doesn't say anything, but you know she wants to. You realize she probably thinks that he was here with you and your instinct is to correct her but you don’t bother. You thank her and apologize, before bidding goodbye with a promise to let her know when Nora and Mat make it back home. 

You clean up while you’re waiting, dump your glass of wine down the sink and start making the couch up so Mat can just sleep here instead of going all the way back to his house after making the trip to pick Nora up. 

It’s not long before you hear the door open and close quietly and you look to see Mat carrying a sleeping Nora inside. 

“She fell asleep on the drive here,” he explains. “Didn’t want to wake her.”

You nod, pointing him in the direction of her room before sitting on the couch waiting until he comes back. You want to have whatever conversation the two of you need to have even though you know it won’t be a good one.

He’s quiet when he walks into the living room and hesitates before sitting on the couch next to you. You both sit in silence for a minute until you sigh, dropping your head into your hands. 

“Jax is a friend,” you mumble. “But even if he wasn’t, you have no place being mad about it.”

“I wasn’t mad,” he argues, “I was caught off guard. I didn’t know you were dating because you hadn’t brought it up.”

“I’m not dating,” you repeat and he sighs.

“I know.” 

Another minute of silence before you raise your head and look at him. 

“What about you? What happened to your girlfriend?” you ask, even though you know she left. 

He shrugs, “she left. Said she wanted no part in raising a child. Not that she would have had any place in Nora’s life if I had a say.”

“Of course you have a say,” you say. 

He looks at you with an unreadable expression on his face. You forget sometimes how good looking he is and it’s probably the alcohol that makes your brain fuzzy but all of a sudden, you just miss him. It’s not just physical attraction either, you can’t help but remember how considerate, loving and caring he was when you dated. You were both young, but it always felt like the two of you would be together forever even though you always knew in the back of your mind that he would have to leave one day and you wouldn’t be able to follow him. 

Despite doing your best to forget about him, to get over him the past eight years, the love you felt for him never went away. 

“Do you ever think about us? About what could’ve been?” you ask quietly.

“Always,” he says gently with a softness in his eyes that you’ve only seen directed towards Nora since he came back into your life.  

“Me too,” you whisper. 

He hesitates before lifting a hand and brushing a piece of loose hair that’s fallen in front of your face, tucking it behind your ear. His hand lingers for a moment, fingertips just barely brushing against your cheek. Your eyes close and you let yourself have this one moment, one minute where you can imagine that you’re seventeen again, laying on your bed with Mat’s arms holding you, whispering empty promises about forever to each other. Just kids in love, thinking forever was possible.

But you’ll never be those kids again.

tag list: @literatureluster @dasiysthings

if you asked to be tagged & it didn't work send me a dm.

[genericpuff]

bit out of nowhere but LO Hades reminds me so much to Bojack Horseman idk how to explain it

Oh we've talked about this extensively in the ULO chat circles n such, especially when it comes to the most climactic scene in the show, the second interview:

The entire tone of the show showcases a very bitter reality with a lot of celebrities and people in power. There are some messed up things that happen throughout the course of the show, but they always feel like they're being used for comedy or brushed under the rug with comedy, because the show is, after all, a comedy. But I feel like that was the point, because it's not until the final season that everything that happened throughout finally catches up to Bojack, and suddenly... it's not funny anymore. There's no punchline. It really reflects just how much people in power don't see their abuse or wrongdoings as "big deals", sometimes they even see it as "just some funny thing that happened", all while the onlookers and victims of their behavior and abuse either become so acquainted with it they don't even see it as abuse anymore until they finally break away from it (Diana, Todd, Princess Caroline, etc.) OR they fight to be heard while the media tries to snuff them out. So then when the consequences finally catch up to them, there are no laughs to be heard, as much as the perpetrator in question may try their best to pass it off as "not a big deal" or believe they shouldn't be held accountable because "it happened a long time ago".

Anyone who sees Biscuits Braxby as the villain here is missing the overall point - Bojack has been responsible for literally ruining people's lives on several occasions, and has never been held accountable.

And yeah, I see a lot of that in LO as well, but the issue is the framing of the story isn't making it clear if it's actually going to have its "Come to Jesus" moment with Hades and Persephone, or if it's just gonna keep celebrating them as the heroes.

There were no consequences for Hades pulling out Alex's eye. They played the resolution out for comedy.

There were no consequences for Persephone turning Minthe into a mint plant. They played the scenario out for comedy literally by the end of the very same episode and then well into the next one.

There were no consequences for Persephone cornering Tori at his job. The entire thing was played up for comedy.

There were no consequences for Persephone raiding Leuce's home. She was rewarded with sex from Hades and it was, you guessed it, played up for comedy.

Just like with Bojack Horseman, we don't see Hades or Persephone treat these situations as seriously as they ought to. They ultimately don't care how other people feel or how they may be affected by their own actions, they only care about themselves. Just like with Bojack, we see Hades enter sexual relationships with women who are in a much weaker position than him, women who stand to lose far more than he would if the relationship went south.

(I need you all to realize that Hades is literally blackmailing her. He is trying to pay her off with a management position or some kind of severance and framing it in such a way to manipulate her into thinking it's 'better' for her that she take the deal, all for the sake of getting her out of the picture because he's with Persephone now. This is blackmail. And the narrative wants us to root for Hades here.)

Shit, I would argue Bojack is still a better character than Hades and Persephone because we 1.) see how the consequences of his actions do affect him on a deeper level (through his anxiety and self-hatred which he spends a long time wallowing in, making his situation worse, rather than seeking help for) and 2.) he actually does eventually start to seek help, but unfortunately there's only so much one person can do to fix themselves when their actions still haven't been brought to justice and their mindset hasn't truly changed; which is what we see in the final part of the show when, despite Bojack's attempts to be a better person, the Sarah-Lynn case catches up to him, and in his final moments up on that stage with Biscuits Braxby, we see his true nature come out - he thinks being an addict should absolve him from what he's done to others.

Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Except replace "addict" with "traumatized" as many of Persephone and Hades' actions are swept under the rug with "they went through trauma so it's fine". Despite the fact that other characters who have also been through trauma aren't given that same grace (Thanatos, Demeter, Minthe, etc.)

You could also go a step further and call out how the fans themselves will defend their actions as "but they're gods!!! gods were terrible all the time in the myths!" but isn't it funny how myth accuracy only ever comes up when it comes to defending Hades and Persephone? Meanwhile you'll never see anyone bring it up when it comes to Apollo SA'ing Persephone, or Hades having an emotional affair with Persephone, or any of the other number of things that Rachel rewrote for her 'retelling'. It's not funny haha, it's funny yikes.

I can only imagine how the fans feel seeing Hades and Persephone called out must be similar to how first-time viewers like myself felt seeing Bojack be put on the cross by Biscuits Braxby - "you're being an asshole, he's working on himself!" "leave him alone!!!" "the media is making a monster out of him!" "he's really not THAT bad!"

But he is. They are. And unlike Bojack Horseman, I unfortunately can no longer have the good faith in believing Hades and Persephone will have their comeuppance, or the people they've hurt will get their retribution. I have no hope that Persephone will see that she's the Sarah-Lynn of the relationship, a girl who was groomed into an abuser at the hands of an abuser, who had no chance of doing better because the person she fell for pulled her down to his level. I don't have any faith in Rachel whatsoever that she'll manage to end this story with any message besides "it's fine for Persephone and Hades to be who they are, because they're rich and powerful and really horny for each other!"

And Hades doesn't think he has any power over women.

[ranna-alga]

I cannot stop thinking about Arthur and Mary and how truly tragic their love story is.

We know that a big reason why they couldn't be together was due to unfair circumstances. Despite Mary seeming internally conflicted about it all, it seemed like, at first, neither of them were willing to integrate themselves into each other's lifestyles and the consequences of that (Mary leaving her family behind and Arthur deserting the outlaw lifestyle), or at least in the first mission with Mary. But on the second? Mary takes back her word, almost impulsively, and says she is willing to run away with Arthur if it means they can be together. Despite the love and loyalty she has for her family (which mirrors Arthur's for the gang), she knows her family life will only continue to make her depressed, and being with Arthur makes her realise what she actually wants out of life.

And based on the implications of Arthur's words ("I want to. More than anything, I want to."), he may also be willing to even abandon the outlaw lifestyle. But he knows he likely can't. The one thing he fears the most is for the woman he loves more than anything else in the world is to be subjected to the violence that he is all too familiar with; he can deal with it if it's inflicted on himself as someone who grew up in such an environment, but Mary? He wouldn't forgive himself if something happened to her, especially when he likely already has an extreme amount of personal guilt for the deaths of Eliza and (especially) little Isaac, how he wasn't able to protect them.

But even at that, he promises to try. He's just as willing. He's willing to protect and look after her. He says they both need money, and he's willing to get it himself if it means they can abandon everything they once knew and start a new life on some newly-bought land. And what's so particularly painful is that you can just see the disappointment behind Mary's eyes at the mention of money... How, no matter what, money is always at the forefront of his mind, even if it seems valid on Arthur's end.

When she said "I'll write to you.", it seemed as if there was some hope left to be had on Arthur's end because at least they both have a chance now, right? But in my opinion, I feel like Mary was already mentally writing the final letter in her mind at that moment, and the time gap between that scene to the moment Arthur receives said letter was Mary desperately trying to put those thoughts into words on paper.

How must she have been feeling upon hearing about Arthur's death?

Imagine the life they could have had if things worked out. If they managed to run away and be happy together. Would their home be similar to John and Abigail's in the Epilogue? Would Arthur and Mary get married? What if they had children and Arthur got a second chance at being a father again, this time not being absent and being there every day, looking after his beautiful family with the woman he loves the most..?

Arthur deserved that life. Both him and Mary. And I think that's what made John and Abigail's ending in the Epilogue so much more impactful. Arthur may have died and Mary may have been elsewhere, but they lived vicariously through John and Abigail by living the lives they themselves deserved but couldn't have.

Hear that noise? That's the sound of my heart breaking.

[aevumgames]

✦ | To light the darkest of paths.

Those Long Dead is a medieval fantasy interactive fiction story, with angelic imagery and themes worked in, and a focus on romance. It is rated 18+ for depictions of swearing, potential sexual themes, violence, and death. More warnings may be added as development goes on.

Three generations.

That's how long it's been since this kingdom was conquered. In a time of great upset, the First Queen led a rebellion against reviled rulers and oppressive laws. Waging war with unmatched cunning, she rallied many powerful soul mages, known as angels, to the cause. From that conflict, the kingdom of Calcherth was born, built on the bones of the old empire. The First Queen ruled with great compassion and wit, but not all sins are forgiven with time. For the deaths she had caused during the war, the First Queen was murdered by the very people she had endeavored to lead.

The loss of its ruler did not spell the end of Calcherth, however. The coup was quickly suppressed, and the First Queen's son took the throne in her place. Now, many years later, the scars on Calcherth's short history have faded, and advances in soul magic improve lives for many within its borders. However, those same advances are viewed as a threat by Calcherth's neighboring kingdom, and many fear war is on the horizon once more. To make matters even more dire, the Second King has suddenly passed away, leaving his youngest son to succeed the throne long before he is old enough.

The effects of these events are so far-reaching, that even you are beginning to feel them, far to the southwest in the remote town of Lest. You are the child of a retired knight of the kingdom, who traded in his sword for the deed to Lest's tavern. The Fool's March, your father has named it, and the humble, but beloved tavern has been the center point of your entire life. But now, with rumblings of war, your father plans to pick up a blade once again, heading to the capital to enlist and leaving you behind in your childhood home. With him no longer by your side, what will you do when a threat to the entire kingdom comes for you? What will you do when you find out you may be a soul mage, yourself?

Medieval Fantasy setting with angelic imagery and themes, and a focus on romance.

Adult characters, with the main cast being mid twenties to early thirties.

Customizable MC. Select your first name, last name, pronouns, appearance, orientation and manifestation of powers.

Five romance options of varying gender and personality, who you can interact with as you choose.

More to come as development continues!

Kaine Breckem (he/him) - The blacksmith's former apprentice, who your father took in and hired at the tavern a few years ago. A kind, but mischievous individual, Kaine cares about others a great deal, but that doesn't stop him from being full of snark. Kaine can be your closest childhood friend, or someone you unfortunately work with; the choice is yours to make. Regardless, he's rather protective of you... but who will protect him when he needs it?

Vermillion "Millie" Lousat (she/her) - A descendant of a noble family, Millie has extensive education and combat training... and is also quite the social butterfly. It doesn't matter if it's the docks or the Gilded District, if you want connections somewhere, Millie has them. She wears her heart on her sleeve and doesn't care about the consequences. Maybe you'll catch her eye, somewhere amidst the mass of other's trying for her affections?

Leon Calcherth (he/him) - Technically a prince, Leon is the standoffish older brother of the Young King, Caleb, but is no longer considered to be in line for the throne. He greatly regrets the situation this has put his younger brother in, as they're very close. Leon is not easy to get close to because of the way he acts, but maybe the prickly prince has a softer side underneath the thorns?

Milo Lance (they/them) - The commander of the Order of Light, and they absolutely live up to the position. Practically raised in Gilramore's guard barracks, Milo's personality tends to come across as stiff and business-like, but in actuality they simply enjoy being effective and to the point. A truly gentle soul in a warrior's suit of armor, if you can persuade them to let down their guard.

Clementene Fairwreight (she/her) - Celementene is a talented soul mage for the Order, but she is a researcher at her heart; field work isn't particularly for her. A slightly nervous disposition and bad eyesight really only add to her penchant to stay within Gilramore's white stone walls. Her surprisingly daring experiments with magic captivate most of her attention, but maybe she'll find something in you that can capture her focus as well?

Demo last updated 8/8/2024.

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[emotionaldisaster909]

Today’s episode was heartbreaking

We’ve seen so much of Xie Lian’s pain

So much of the fall of XianLe

But now

Will you tell me that it was all his fault?

The “consequence of his actions”?

So what should we blame him for?

For being a child against the most powerful and cruel ancient evil?

The one that lived 1000 years, destroyed all the gods and deceived the entire world?

Or was he too stubborn and not listened to other people?

Well let me tell you

XIE LIAN WAS NEVER WRONG FOR NOT LISTENING TO OTHERS.

Who should he have listened to?

That very evil that told him not to try and help his people?

His guoshi who knew everything and told him nothing but to sacrifice an innocent child in “penance” to that very evil?

Should he have crushed all youngans in one go, kill the poor starving people, led to desparation?

Should he have told his own desperate people that their cure was in murder and watch the inevitable massacre?

The only thing

The only thing that he should have seriously done differently

His biggest, most fatal mistake

He did

BY LISTENING TO SOMEONE WHO TOLD HIM HE WAS WRONG

ONE TIME.

He listened to his father.

The King of Xian Le.

When at the very beginning of it all they had an argument

Where Xie Lian insisted they should melt his golden statues and let the starving homeless people into his shrines

That’s EXACTLY what they should’ve done, but they did not

Because guess what the father said

We can’t. Because we did not build the shrines and the statues.

People of Xian Le did.

Do you want to disregard your people by doing that?

SAID THE KING

Knowing VERY WELL that he is talking about THE ROYALTY OF XIAN LE.

THE RITCH PEOPLE OF XIAN LE.

THE ONES WHO LET HIM RULE.

THE ONES WHO EASILY MIGHT TAKE HIS POWER

AND LIFE AWAY

IF HE DISPLEASES THEM.

But he knows how to PHRASE IT RIGHT to his son who CHERISHES HIS PEOPLE NO MATTER THE STATUS.

And who might very much not know the intricacies behind the ruler’s chambers.

Because Xie Lian

Was

Never

Meant

TO RULE.

He was raised to be a Martial God.

To fight demons and grant wishes.

NOT

TO RULE

A COUNTRY

BUT GUESS WHO

WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO RULE THE COUNTRY????

WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO MAKE SURE A HUGE PART OF IT WON’T STARVE TO DEATH?????

THE KING

And his son had to

ABANDON HEAVEN

To come deal with his mess

You can try blaming Xie Lian for not listening to the prayers from that part of Xian Le.

But he did not NOT listen.

He DID NOT HEAR.

Because the prayers system of “the ritcher - the louder” is inherently corrupt.

And growing up in a wealthy capital

Xie Lian must’ve not even SUSPECTED that there’ll be a part of his country so poor that no offerings would be enough for him to hear the prayers.

He did not know.

BUT THE KING

DID.

There’s no way he didn’t.

Yet does anyone

Does anyone in the book

And outside, anyone of the readers

Ever thought to blame him?

No.

Not even once have i seen this take.

Not even i realised it until recently. Thanks to my dear friend @3luecactuz

And why?

Because Xie Lian tells us the story.

And he himself

Completely believes

That it was all his fault.

When his only real fault was in not standing his ground

Agains the only person

Who held authority in his eyes.

Who was the authority in his life from the very beginning of it.

Who, no matter the future arguments, was the person he loved.

His father.

In the face of the greatest crisis he’s ever seen

Under the pressure to make the right choice for so many innocent lives

He gives in and listenes to a person who he not only inherently trusts

But who objectively had much more experience and knowledge than him

Who’s flaws he has not yet seen clearly enough. And never will.

Because this person raised him to be

Perfect.

And he failed.

Because no one is perfect.

And he believed in it in the wrong time and place. He gave in.

Decided to look for another solution.

And gave the evil orchestrating his demise just enough time to pull the first string.

Of many.

So tell me.

Really, tell me.

Did he deserve this?

Should he have listened more?

Should he have?

Or maybe

Just maybe

He needed someone

Who could have told him

To do what he thinks is right.

[iam93percentstardust]

one of the things that really bothers me about modern franchises, and in particular over the last 5 years or so, is their refusal to commit. what i mean here when i say this is that it's not uncommon for a major franchise to make a decision, whether about the plot or the characters, that should have had huge, world-changing consequences... and then just never address that again or worse, immediately go back and undo it. and i'm gonna pick on star wars and the mcu here because those are the two big franchises i'm into at the moment (and i think they're kind of the worst at this), but i don't want you to walk away from this thinking that this is solely a disney thing. i've seen this happen with game of thrones and supernatural and plenty of other non-disney franchises. spoilers ahead, you've been warned:

in ant-man & the wasp quantumania, scott and hope make the life-altering decision to stay behind in the quantum realm and defeat kang instead of going through the portal to return to their world. this should have been a huge meta decision for the mcu, and when i first saw it in theaters, my immediate thought was wow, what is this going to mean for the mcu going forward? are we going to get a movie/miniseries about scott and hope helping to rebuild the quantum realm? how are cassie, janet, and hank going to react to the losses of their loved ones (in some cases, for the second time)? is cassie going to become the "first" young avenger because she has to take her father's place among the team lineup (and i only say first because as of this moment, none of the other young avengers introduced to the franchise are official avengers yet)? except nope, because less than 2 minutes later, cassie had fixed the portal that had broken way back at the beginning of the movie and brought scott and hope back.

and it felt like such a cheat. i was so disappointed in that theater, not as someone who was invested in these characters on a personal level (because yay, cassie gets her dad back!), but as someone who has spent years investing themselves in the story of the mcu. what was the point of wasting screentime on scott and hope accepting their new lives in the quantum realm if it was just going to immediately be undone? the entire scene could have been cut to scott and hope making it back bare seconds before the portal closed and it would have had the same emotional impact. there was nothing added by making scott and hope (and us) think that there was no way back only to rip the rug out from under us and go "gotcha! you really thought we were gonna give this movie a sad ending? haha! you're so dumb!"

and this isn't the first time the mcu has done this. one of the biggest complaints about endgame was the decision to set it five years in the future with no consideration for how that would actually change the setting of the mcu. characters were brought back to the exact place they disappeared from with no consideration for how things might have changed in the interim five years (like planes that weren't in the air anymore, buildings no longer standing, even just something as simple as a chair being unoccupied). and then the mcu didn't even really have the courage to address how this would have shaped the world other than a few jokes and making the bad guys in the falcon and the winter soldier people who cared about how the world had screwed them over during the blip.

and things like this happen over and over and over again. the accords are put into place in civil war, but by the time we get to she-hulk, they're gone with no explanation because, as best as i can tell, the writers didn't want to have to deal with the worldbuilding that went into the accords. gamora is killed in infinity war, but heaven forbid quill not have an emotional investment in a film he appears for maybe 10 minutes in so now she's back in endgame. steve got to go live in the past with his ex-girlfriend (which is in itself a refusal to commit after the mcu both gave her a different husband and had the woman herself tell him to move on) but we need to establish that messing with timelines is bad because that's what the entire next phase hinges on so actually his ending was predestined and it's only everyone else who can't change time. whoever took this entire town and also wanda hostage and forced them to live out a sitcom fantasy is bad and needs to be stopped but wait, it's actually wanda and she can't be the bad guy yet, we need her for doctor strange 2, so actually everyone's going to defend her now and say that no one else could ever possibly understand her grief. thor has decided to accept responsibility as king of asgard, but we can't use him for any more movies if he's stuck in asgard, so actually he's decided to pass it on to someone whose entire leadership capability is developed offscreen. i could list more examples but this is making me angry, so let's move on to star wars instead.

with star wars, i look at first the oft-quoted meme, "somehow palpatine has returned." yeah, i shouldn't really need to go into detail on how that counts as a refusal to commit but. the last jedi was a study in how johnson refused to commit to anything that abrams had laid down in the force awakens, but rise of skywalker was almost like abrams had looked at the franchise and said "screw you for taking it away from me, i'm going to come up with the most bullshit stuff just to spite you for doing that in the first place. and i'm going to start by undoing the most important plot point of the first trilogy: the emperor dies." and yeah, disney's kind of tried to salvage this by dropping hints into the bad batch and the mandalorian about cloning, but that only really works if you're watching the franchise chronologically and not considering that both of those series came out after rise of skywalker.

and then there's the mandalorian, my sweet summer child, who is, in my opinion, the worst at backtracking their plot points. i'm not entirely convinced that any of the higher ups for this show really knew what they were doing when they started working on it and i'm not convinced that they know what they're doing now. yeah, there's the tie-in to the last season of clone wars, but the mandalorian has managed to walk back pretty much every single major plot point it's had. din is this legendary warrior who can't be beat, but no one will watch this show if he defeats everyone too early, so he's constantly getting beat up (tbf, sometimes some of the fights he loses makes sense like the krayt dragon and the mudhorn, but a lot of them don't. at all). moff gideon is dead, no wait no he's not, now he's imprisoned, no wait no he's not, now he's definitely dead, you can totally believe us this time guys. grogu can use the force and must be placed with the jedi, but wait, the only person still actively teaching the way of the jedi is luke and all of his students will be brutally murdered ten years from now, and we can't have that, everyone will be mad at us for killing off such a cute character and no one will buy baby yoda dolls (and also we have to set up luke's character degradation from hopeful, believes-in-love cinnamon roll to "i'm going to kill my nephew") so in between seasons let's have grogu decide to go back to din (and don't even get me started on how frustrating it is that a casual mandalorian watcher also had to watch book of boba fett to understand why grogu is back). din has the darksaber now which makes him king of mandalore, that's totally going to be important and what the entire series has been building up to, right? wrong! he might have spent the first two seasons making connections, learning about the world outside his sheltered upbringing, and demonstrating the various qualities that would make for a good leader, but the entire third season will be about din realizing that actually he's super unworthy and the darksaber should actually go to someone who... saw an animal in the water.

and it's really, really frustrating as a viewer! because how am i supposed to get invested in any of these plot decisions when they almost always get reversed? why should i care that mj and ned have forgotten peter when ant-man 3 has shown me that they'll remember him the next time they're all on screen together? why should i care that tech is dead when half of the last season of clone wars was about how echo was actually alive? if none of these decisions have any permanence, then where are the emotional stakes? why should i watch your movie if all you're going to tell me is that nothing matters?

[brian-kinney-apologist]

random qaf thought i wanted to share

brian kinney was always a very special character for me personally and one particular thing about his writing still feels very dear to me to this day. brian was an openly gay man who always knew who he was, he didn't feel shame about his sexuality, and basically was living his best life as an out and proud queer man (no excuses, no apologies, no regrets etc etc). AND YET he wasn't out to his parents. it was never his intention to come out to them because he knew the exact reaction they would have. brian wasn't scared of their reaction though, he never needed their approval or waited for them to understand him (at least when we meet him in the show (young!brian is a a topic for another discussion though)). brian knew that his coming out would only resolve in useless drama. he didn't owe his parents anything just because they were related by blood. they didn't deserve to have an explanation or to know his truth. that's the point that the show makes with his character: you don't owe people your coming out. (yes, brian did come out to his parents at some point but with his mother it was purely coincidental and imo he wouldn't have came out to his father if debbie hadn't pressured him into doing so)

usually in tv/films we only see closeted queer people (usually teenagers) whos whole story revolves around them being ashamed of their sexuality, being scared about other people finding out their secret, and they also often behave like bullies themselves (chris hobbs moment). they also often outed by someone/forced to come out and end up having to deal with the consequences of them being gay. and yes, storylines like this have a right to exist and there're probably enough people who resonate with these types of stories. but there're other life scenarios too. and brian imo is a great example for people who had/still have to survive in our homophobic world but who know exactly who they are, who don't really struggle with their identity and who are at peace with their sexuality. off the top of my head i can name a number of characters that fit the first description but brian kinney is the only one who fits the second one. (maybe you know other characters with the same attitude but I doubt that anyone has ever openly said the actual words on tv/in films. brian was the blueprint for sure)

to be honest, it was a revelation for a 16 year old me when I first watched the show that you may be confident, out and proud and at the same time you not explaining your sexuality (or gender identity) to random (or not so random) people (proving to cishet people that you are a normal queer™️ OR on the contrary visibly queer enough) doesn't make you any less valid or a liar or a coward. brian being allowed to chose who to share his identity with not out of fear or shame but out of his own free will was and still a very important message to send to queer people everywhere. so many things that were illustrated through brian's character were so true and were ahead of their time imo. there is no one yet to match his level of queer wisdom on tv (and i doubt ther ever will)

I hope this makes sense because idk how to put it more eloquently. I've been thinking about all of this for some time now and wanted to put it somewhere so here you go

[pinacoladamatata]

I am once again thinking about Solas and how his potential arc this game could go regarding the Veil being up or down and I'm gnawing at the bars of my enclosure [spoilers obviously] I don't like being intelligent/thoughtful on here I prefer to be stupid but here we go

In [yet another] article that came out, idk? today? Mark Darrah says the story "allows us to, hopefully, give a good conclusion to all the varied attitudes toward Solas that are going to be coming from people who love Solas, who agree with Solas, who hate Solas, people who want to kick Solas off of a building – I think that we give you the opportunity to bring that to a close, but then tell a greater story about The Veilguard and about the world as a whole."

and I don't know what to fucking think about this? They obviously know people's opinions are varied and I think it should be obvious that this is not a case where 'one ending fits all'

Because like, he is such a tragic character and I know there's gonna be an option to kill him, calm down, before you start in my inbox with "I WANT TO KILL HIM" like, you will be able to, that's kind of...almost a certainty. Especially for low approval Inquisitor/swore to stop him at all costs. Because if he Won't agree to stop trying to tear down the veil and causing mass destruction, (even after dealing with Elgarnan and Ghilly) then you'll have to kill him. Even trapping him forever isn't really an option because he created the fucking veil, man's crafty, he'd eventually find a way out. Like, If he will not and cannot see reason, then you, the protagonist, will have to end him.

It's the OTHER option that has me spinning because, you could, maybe, potentially, hopefully, talk him out of it. And if you did that, either as a romanced or friendly Inquisitor, or apparenty? Rook? based on this new info that Solas and Rook are going to have a lot of interaction, then he doesn't NEED to die. If he stops wanting to tear down the veil, he could potentially just disappear and do whatever he wants, like nerd out over magic.

And honestly, having him die on both paths is such a slap in the face for "your choices matter" because like clearly they do not if that happens; like what was the point of making me choose at the end of trespasser? If the only difference is 'stop Solas at all costs' leads to a boss fight where you kill him and 'redeem Solas' leads to ? him dying anyway somehow? Like I'm sorry but that is lazy and boring. His redemption should not end in death, he should have to live and deal with the consequences, because that could be so much more interesting.

[because I'll be real, I don't think they're going to let us have the option to tear down the veil/side with him AND have the option to keep the veil up. I think it will be one or the other no matter your choices; Simply because there is too much of a massive difference between world states of 'killed Solas to prevent him taking down the veil Thedas remains status quo' VS 'let Solas take down the veil, Thedas is now fundamentally different in an almost inconceivable way'. Like the setting for any future games depend on this; you would have to create 2 very different games. There has to be some uniformness to the world state, like; the veil remains, but it's thinned or whatever and the people of Thedas are living life more or less as usual if they ever want to make DA5. Would be wild of them do go the route of no matter what you do the veil comes down anyway. Which would be annoying if you swore to stop Solas at all costs and he just... succeeds anyway, even if he dies? Of course, there is Sandals prophecy, which I think is about the events of DA4. And devs have said in the past they had 'something' planned since Origins. "One day the magic will come back - all of it. Everyone will be just like they were" - The veil coming down and everyone gaining magic? Not just elves but humans, dwarves and qunari too? "The shadows will part and the skies will open wide" - Talking about the veil coming down?? Do shadows represent the abyss? "When he rises, everyone will see" - I'm actually convinced this is about Elgar'nan, or, something even worse; like the 'thing' that Mythal locked away, that the "evanuris in their greed could unleash" that "would destroy us all". So I think the end of DA:TV will be either the veil stays in place no matter what, or the veil comes down no matter what, which is, idk, interesting? Because again, they can't have both- that just gets too messy for the setting for the next game. They could have the veil come down no matter what, but, you would need to have a "better option" as Varric and Solas put it. Which, let's say for narrative purposes, this option exists and we tell it to Solas and he goes "Okay let's do that instead" and it results in a world state where the veil is 'down' but not in a catastrophic mega-calamity way. Even then though, some players are just not going to pick that and also if the veil comes down; what the fuck are we guarding it for???? I think it might come down temporarily. Maybe we have to make a new one? a better one? we have our fade tamagotchi fen'harel who happens to be the only fucker who knows how to make a veil too. Could this 'better veil' alleviate some of the problems Solas had with the old one? If there was like a set door way that allowed people and spirits to pass safely? One that didn't cause so much discord between spirits/people? Is our Veilguard a Fade TSA? I can dream. But who knows. Either way, I think we're only getting one endgame worldstate regarding the veil.

So; OK, back to Solas and how the fuck that could end. Harking back to that Varric/Solas conversation about the old man living alone. Solas is clearly speaking as though he is the old man, and he can't fathom just living a quiet life when there are literal world ending gods waiting for a weak moment to bust free. He Will not, Cannot stand by and do nothing while he knows his prison is failing. He HAS to at least deal with the 2 evanuris before tearing down the veil bc he doesn't want them to cause harm. He didn't want that before (hence locking them away) and he doesn't want it now, even for modern day Thedas (hence him helping Rook). He's got such a fucking heart under all that armor. He cares about people, he demonstrates it again and again. But my god what if, he finally *sees* that the veil may not have been a mistake, it doesn't need to be torn down, (maybe it has to be remade, better?or just altered?) and then us the protag, no longer has to kill him to stop him from tearing it down?

Like, I am very partial to the "what if love changes everything" trope especially for such a tragic character. Bc he's got death flags left and right; "I walk the dinanshiral" "there is only death on this journey" "this does not end in my downfall" his "dying alone" fear tombstone, and he's lonely he's miserable he's afraid. I'm so worried they'll kill him off anyway bc 'he was always doomed' trope and it would be easier to write, but motherfuck it would just, be SO so satisfying if, instead, there was a path where he wasn't doomed; whether it's bc of Rook or the Inquisitor or a combo of both. I feel like what if, either platonic or romantic; if there was just at least one path where love changes everything.

ofc this is massive amounts of copium and I don't expect bioware to give me anything so cool as "the veil starts to come down anyway and you, Rook, have to rebuild it with Solas' and the Inquisitor's help and at the end you can either kill him or convince him that this world is worth living in"

but hey, i can dream ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[rachetmath]

Pyrrha: Hi you must be Alyx.

Alyx: Yes.

Pyrrha: Well I just want to talk to you about something.

Alyx: I mean sure but what-

Pyrrha: Not what. It’s who. You know Jaune Arc?

Alyx: I mean y-

Pyrrha: You know the Rustud Knight? The one you betrayed? Who you poisoned?

Alyx: Well I can- *attempts to run*

Penny: *blocks her path*Nope. All attempts of escape are at zero right now.

Alyx: You can’t be serious.

Penny: As the current generation would say," Oh yes bitch. Try me."

Alyx: Okay I may have wronged him a little bit.

Lewis: A little? You completely poisoned him.

Alyx: Lewis you are not helping.

Lewis: At least like Jaune I was trying. But you never listen.

Alyx: Look I understand but what’s the big deal? He got back to Remnant.

Pyrrha: Why?! Why did you do it?

Alyx: I mean… well… I… um….

Pyrrha: Alyx, understand, you have two deadly women on both sides of you. If you don’t give us a good explanation well…. I guess we’ll finally see if you can fall from heaven.

Alyx: Well I saw this vision and I didn’t like it.

Penny: Understood, what was the vision?

Alyx: Um… I *whisper* don’t remember.

Penny: You what?!

Alyx: I don’t remember okay?!

Pyrrha: What vision? Who’s vision?

Alyx: I don’t know. The writers didn’t give me anything. I saved him though. That counts, right?

Pyrrha: No. He just survived.

Penny: Plus your ‘help’ could give him problems down the road.

Alyx: Like what?

Me: I mean the fan base speaks for itself. I mean the guy hasn’t been in Remnant for years it’s going to be kind of hard for him to readjust. Not only that he has to recover from years of isolation, PTSD, trauma, and because of you he might as well also be having trust issues. Not only that he had to leave another friend behind. You and the Ever After might as have shattered him

Alyx: Oh Oum.

Pyrrha: Yeah. Oum can’t save you. Penny.

Penny: Way ahead of you.

Alyx: Wait you wouldn’t hurt an innocent black child right?

Pyrrha and Penny: ………..

Me: Alyx you heard the saying, “Equal rights equal fights.”

Alyx: Let’s say I don’t.

Me: No matter your race. No matter your sexuality. No more matter your gender or age. You made a choice to do what you do. And as a result of said choice you must face said consequences. Weither they be good or bad. Basically you may be a kid but you were grown enough commit murder. And as such-

Pyrrha: You have this coming.

Alyx: *crying* I’m sorry. I just wanted to home. Jaune had no idea how. So I did what ever took. And then the Cat betrayed me and I died. Please? Don’t hurt me!

Summer: Come now ladies. I know you’re both upset but-

Pyrrha: Ms. Rose! Shut up!

Summer: I’m sorry? Who are you talking to?

Pyrrha: You are a nobody. You have been irrelevant for a while now. You left your daughters and died. Your daughter ain’t shit. Your team is still disbanded even after you died. You might as well be an afterthought at this point.

Summer: Said the girl who’s only job was to run away.

Pyrrha: I went out in a blaze of glory. I proved myself. What the fuck have you done?

Summer: Um.

Penny: Friend Pyrrha I know I have no rights to talk.

Pyrrha: Damn straight. You suffered more than myself. All you had to do was live. Instead, you traumatized my man. He just got over me too. Why would you do that?

Penny: Okay, I’m sorry. But, he’s going to be fine now. Let’s just let her go. And we pray he gets better.

Pyrrha: Fine. You're lucky Alyx.

Alyx: Thank you. But I am sorry.

Pyrrha: Shut up. Oum damn. If this story continues he better get stronger and kill Cinder. Because this is stupid. I mean how much trauma does one guy need? How he is not a villain? I mean, come on, he can’t be like Yuji, he doesn’t have skills like that.

Penny: Well friend W-

Pyrrha: If you say her name I will end you.

Summer: Okay woah, it’s been nine volumes why are you mad about this?

Pyrrha: One; he deserves better. Two; I prefer your daughter or anyone else than her. Three; she’s fucking useless. And four; it took him being an old man for her to start liking him. Fuck that bitch.

Summer: Well like said, if you stayed alive then-

Pyrrha: If you stayed alive maybe Qrow would have stopped drinking. If you stayed alive maybe your baby daddy wouldn’t be in a state of depression. Maybe if you stayed alive you could help your daughter learn how to control her eyes and be less useless in fighting the Queen of Grimm.

Summer: That was uncalled for.

Pyrrha: Move along side character.

[rye-bread-soda-iceberg]

discussion and a little theory about black swan and sparkle's companion mission under the cut (+ spoilers) aka listen to me yap about the blue thing until I go insane

the First sampo we meet in penacony, specifically the one that follows us as we're hanging out with firefly, is nothing like how sampo himself is

his personality is a poor attempt from sparkle to try and convince us that it's him, but perhaps she's not familiar enough with him anymore to know exactly how he acts. "he" is acting weird and a little bit mean towards firefly for not knowing things about penacony even though she should

I don't think sampo would do that, at least the one we met on jarilo-VI wouldn't

the second (and third) time sampo appears, and this time it's actually him, is during the girls' companion mission

during the entire quest him and black swan play this little detective game orchestrated by sparkle where she writes herself in as a murder victim and has the two find her murderer. it's fun and silly and very chaotic

the entire story unfolds inside a dream bubble created by black swan, and when it's over the giant eyeball guy tells us that even though we recognized the people in the dream, it is still a dream. it doesn't represent reality and could have been tampered with

I don't believe that

anyways so. in this sampo acts a little bit more like the one we know, maybe slightly over the top at times but I think he was putting on a performance to spice things up. he was helping out sparkle with the whole thing in exchange for his mask that she probably stole from him (that we sadly don't get to see) so I bet he really put some effort into that, even begging black swan to not skip the last murder case

But. the MOST important part of this entire quest is.. the end. and the end is definitely not a dream

after the trio finishes talking, the dream stops and we briefly return to the real world before going into a memory. and boy there's some stuff to unpack in here

first of all the way they talk to each other? they almost seem like friends. of course, their views on the pursuit of elation are still different

he is still very polite about it

sparkle doesn't mention anything except muttering "why so serious" to herself

but they do talk like old friends and it's clear that in a sense they may be

after he asks for his mask back, sparkle remarks that it is not like the sampo she knows and then this little exchange happens

it is now canon, as in acknowledged out loud by a character (in this case himself) that sampo Really did orchestrate almost every thing that happened in jarilo-VI

how did he know this was going to happen? how can sparkle guess the reason why he wants his mask back? has he done this before? well clearly, thinking back to all the chaos he unleashes on that planet, maybe some kind of catastrophe has already came to it that we don't know about?

also slightly unrelated but I think he likes living there. he genuinely enjoys living in belobog because if he didn't, he'd find a way to leave

so anyways what we can deduct from this sequence is that:

- this entire quest is most likely a memory, not a dream. black swan deals with memories and it could be possible that she had some slight changes done to it and passed it off as a dream. maybe. and this would mean that it's a real event, that happened before the jarilo-VI story

- consequently, before that sampo and sparkle were on friendly enough terms that he was willing to help her put on a show for black swan in exchange for his mask (of course, he's always willing to do something to get something in return)

so I did say I have a theory

sparkle is the reason for That One sampo eidolon, "the deeper the love the stronger the hate"

she's the only character so far that we are SURE he dislikes, and that's something knowing he doesn't admit that stuff so openly. source: listen to his lines about other characters, he always masks any kind of negative emotion about other people yet tells giovanni that if it were for him, he'd never see her again (still said in a polite way)

so the "hate" he feels, that he still masks by smiling even though his eyes are devoid of any light, as of right now can only be towards sparkle

I believe she betrayed him somehow and maybe doesn't fully realize that

she's childish, really mean, DEFINITELY cannot "read the room" in any way and I doubt she cares about other people's feelings enough, so if sampo who by nature almost does everything to hide how he truly feels about people ever felt betrayed by her, there'd be miscommunication and possibly confusion on her side and feelings of hate towards her on his side

in the main quest, before sparkle reveals herself, she mentions hearing about his deeds on jarilo-VI but doesn't seem to hold a grudge against him. she probably dislikes him as well but perhaps not as much as he does, which also leads me to think she wouldn't understand if she did anything wrong

them not talking anymore would explain why sparkle's rendition of sampo feels off and kind of out of character

this is a theory I had actually already saw circularing on here, around the time sampo and giovanni's conversation in the memory bubble got leaked. but if I'm correct it's not as discussed

sad cause it's very interesting and you know what this also means?

penacony might not be the last we see of sampo

he has so much going on behind him and this just adds to it. he doesn't speak much about his past himself, he is clearly hiding so so many things and hoyoverse wouldn't keep leaving these little crumbs of information behind if it wasn't for a greater purpose

I feel like I say this every time I talk about him and maybe I'm slowly going insane but I'm also very happy cause I want to see what my beautiful man will do in the future

thanks for reading this far if you did and sorry if this is really messy

I just wanted to let some thoughts out!