#significance of transpiration

[furiousgoldfish]

whenever anything happens I only know few years later how I actually feel about it

[llycaons]

what it is with characters falling through ice and drowning this television season anyway

[burntsaltsblog]

cruelty - billy butcher x reader

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details: butcher is being a real ass, so you decide to run away for a bit <3

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"Well, if ya' tried putting effort into any of these missions, then the rest of us wouldn't have to carry you around like dead weight."

Butcher's words hung in the air before piercing me. I met his gaze, waiting to see if he'd display even a tiny ounce of regret, but his face remained stoic, and his eyes bore into mine unapologetically.

No one said anything, and a tense silence encompassed the group. Everyone was waiting to see if I had a rebuttal to defend myself against Butcher's harsh accusation.

But I had nothing to say. For weeks, Butcher had been unusually nasty towards me, a complete switch from our old dynamic. Instead of his praise that I'd grown used to, he'd hurl nothing but criticism and bitter insults my way. And what made it worse was that he was charming to everyone else. Well, as charming as Butcher was capable of being.

The whole situation was disheartening and confusing because he and I used to be quite close. Yes, we had a significant age gap between us. But those years didn't hinder our ability to connect over our love of bizarre humor and sarcasm.

The rest of the boys assumed that we had had some misunderstanding or disagreement, but nothing of the sort had transpired. I had tried approaching Butcher to coax the reasoning for his cruelty out of him, but he brushed me off, refusing to give me the time of day.

But today was the last straw. I refused to linger any longer in an environment where I wasn't wanted or appreciated. Wordlessly and full of resolve, I turned on my heel and headed for the comfort of my room.

"Kid, wait," MM called, trying to fix the situation, but it was useless. I slammed my bedroom door behind me and slowly sank to the floor.

I didn't bother stopping my tears as they shamefully slid down my face. Through my blurred vision, I pulled out my phone and composed a text to an old friend.  

Me:

Hey, do you still need help this weekend?

I used to be a drug dealer and ran in various questionable circles to support myself before I joined The Boys. But I still had friends from my former life that I kept in touch with, and every once in a while, I'd dip my toe back into the drug scene when they needed help with an extra burdensome deal. And right now, I was desperate for any excuse to get out of here.

Alex:

Have you changed your mind about joining?

Me:

Yeah, I have. It's an out-of-town one, right?

Alex:

Yup. We'll be gone for at least three days, so pack a bag. And you can crash here tonight because we have to head out early in the morning.

Grateful for the impromptu getaway, I packed my small duffle bag with my spare pair of black jeans, sweaters since it was getting cold outside, and other essentials like face wash and my phone charger.

Considering it was just past midnight, I didn't have to wait long before I heard the guys mumble goodnight to each other from the other side of my door before they all retreated to their respective rooms.

I waited five minutes to be safe before opening my door and peering out. The common room in our bunker under the pawn shop was empty, and I took it as an opportunity to sneak out. I tiptoed up the old wooden stairs and breathed a sigh of relief after bolting through the old store and out the door, letting the chilly New York air blow across my face.

The walk to Alex's apartment was short because I was already close to that side of town. And I arrived soon enough with my duffle bag in tow.

"You look like shit," Alex said, opening their apartment door and quickly letting me in.

"Well, hello to you too."

Alex snorted as they pulled me in for a hug before directing me towards the couch I would be sleeping on that night.

"Don't let the bed bugs bite!" They called, heading into their room to rest for the night.

I dumped my bag on the floor and fell onto the couch. It squeaked loudly in protest, and I felt several springs dig into my spine. But I wasn't complaining. Anything was better than sharing a wall with Butcher, knowing the hate he now carried for me. Besides, he snored terribly loud, which the entire group complained about daily.

After some extensive tossing and turning, I fell into a fitful sleep.

༺༻

"Rise and shine, motherfucker!" Alex yelled.

I jerked awake before immediately falling onto the floor. The decades-old carpet did little to cushion the blow, and I groaned loudly as my head throbbed in protest.

I peered up at Alex from my place on the floor and saw them holding two coffee cups. "Want some?"

"Yes, please." I rose gingery before sitting back on the sofa and accepting one of the steaming mugs. I took a small sip and nodded thanks to my friend.

"We need to get on the road in twenty minutes because our first client expects us to arrive at eight tonight. And I don’t want to be late so we can make a good first impression."

"I think the eighteen pounds of coke you're selling them should help win their approval," I said, taking an enormous gulp of the caffeinated beverage.

"Speaking of coke, I need you to help load it into the car. Come on."

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"You gonna answer that?" Alex asked from the driver's seat on our way to Bardstown, Kentucky.

"No. It's probably just spam."

Alex glanced from the road ahead to give me a knowing look. "I don't think any spam caller would ever waste their time calling the same person two hundred times."

"It's not my fault they're dedicated to their job," I mumbled.

My friend chuckled, shaking their head.

I rolled my eyes and finally peered at my phone after ignoring its constant ringing for six hours. Hughie had texted me a wapping eighty-seven times and called me fifty-one times, which wasn't surprising because he did tend to be a phone stalker. I scrolled through his messages, landing on the most recent one sent three minutes ago.

Hughie:

Look, I get that you're pissed at Butcher, and that's probably why you left. But please let us know that you're safe. We're freaking out over here.

I sighed heavily before I forced my fingers to type out a response.

Me:

I'm fine. I'm out of town helping a friend. Sorry to worry you. I'll be back on Monday.

I pondered over the words before deciding to go ahead and send it. It was a little colder and more direct than how I usually communicated, especially to Hughie. But I knew he'd understand.

Hughie's reply came within seconds. But before I could read it, the notification of an incoming call covered my screen. A lump formed in my throat when I saw Butcher's name flashing in front of my eyes. My thumb hovered over the 'accept' button before I shook my head and hurriedly declined the call. I am sure he only called to yell at me for disappearing, and I wasn't in the mood to be reprimanded by him.

"I can drive the rest of the way," I offered, returning my focus to Alex.

"No thanks, I'm good," They responded like I knew they would. Alex was very particular about driving and refused to get into an operating motor vehicle unless they were the one behind the wheel. I respected that, but it still felt like the right thing to do was offer so it didn't look like I was putting the burden of transportation on them.

My phone vibrated, notifying me that I'd received another text, and I reluctantly viewed the message.

Butcher:

I know you ignored my call.

Ok? And the sky is also blue. I'm so glad he's able to notice the obvious. At least there's nothing wrong with him in that department.

Just as I decided to ignore his text, his name lit up on my phone again, signaling another incoming call. I slumped in my seat, and groaned under my breath. Again, my finger pushed the red icon, sending him straight to voicemail. Not even a second later, Butcher began to call for the third time.

"You know," said Alex, "If you answered the phone, they might stop calling."

"I'd answer if it was anyone else. I refuse to talk to this particular person."

"Alright, have it your way," they muttered, changing lanes.

We fell quiet, and the only sound was my phone as it buzzed with a final text.

Butcher:

Please come back.

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"I'd say that was pretty successful," I declared as we pulled into our Kentucky motel the next day. We had just finished our final deal, and while it was a little tedious, Alex's client ended up being happy overall with their purchase and promised they'd do business again.

"Yeah, thank God," Alex replied, cutting the engine after pulling into a parking spot. "I'm just grateful you were there. I think your presence was a great influence. You're still a legend in the drug community," they smirked.

I laughed lightly. "I'm happy to help anytime."

"Watch out because I will hold you to that promise."

We piled out of the car, and I waited out front while Alex headed in to get the key to our room. It was just past one in the morning, and I glanced over my shoulder, staying on high alert.

Alex exited the front entrance and dangled a key triumphantly. After entering our room, we each fell onto a twin-sized bed, and I watched as Alex almost instantly fell asleep.

I curled up on the wrinkled comforter for a few minutes before sitting up and rummaging through my bag for my phone; it had died a couple of hours ago, and now was my first opportunity to charge it.

I had received a text from Hughie asking if I was ok, to which I replied that I was, and I hadn't heard from Butcher since I'd blocked him last night when he proceeded to call me every thirty seconds, disrupting my sleep.

With nothing else to do, I slipped my jeans off, stashed my handheld in the bedside drawer, rolled under the covers, and attempted to sleep.

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"That was fun. We should do it again sometime," Alex said as they pulled up to the pawn shop.

I nodded my head. "Yeah, it felt like old times."

We hugged before I got out of the car and looked up at the one building I wanted to avoid more than anything. Three days wasn't long enough, and I genuinely considered asking Alex if they wanted a roommate. But their jeep was already speeding down the road, so I had no choice but to enter the pawn shop and descend the familiar steps.

"You're back!" yelped Hughie as he rushed forward and wrapped his arms around me. I stumbled back before gaining my balance and returning the hug. "Yeah," I replied lamely.

I nodded to Frenchie and MM before they both turned to Hughie. "You ready?" MM asked, and Hughie replied that he was.

"D'accord, let's go," Frenchie said, and the three of them passed me as they headed upstairs and out of the pawn shop, leaving me alone with Butcher, who stood by the couch.

"Y'alright?"

I ignored his question and headed for the solitude of my room.

"Oi, I'm fuckin' talking to you." Butcher barked, and I heard his boots stomp in my direction. He wrapped a large hand around my arm, spinning me around. "Don't ever fuckin' do that again, ya' hear? You 'bout did me fuckin' head in, running off like that."

Butcher's face was inches from mine, and his warm breath fanned out across my cheeks and neck, causing goosebumps to flare. "I guess you forgot that I can take care of myself," I muttered bitterly as I wrenched my arm from his grasp and pushed the door open to my bedroom. Much to my dismay, Butcher followed me in.

"What's with the fuckin' attitude?" he demanded, crossing his arms. "You're acting like a right twat."

I whirled around as I threw my bag onto the floor, my nostrils flaring. "Oh, so you're allowed to have an attitude, but I'm not?" I glared daggers at him. "Get out."

"No. We're gonna talk," Butcher pressed, standing his ground.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"Well, too fuckin' bad, sweetheart. I ain’t leaving until you tell me what kind of stick is up your bum, and why the bloody hell you fucked off for three days without telling anyone."

"It's a free country, and I'm allowed to go where I please," I shot back. "Besides, I figured I'd give you all a break from carrying my dead weight around. I hear it can be quite tiring."

Butcher's mouth opened before he closed it, taking a beat before speaking, "S’that’s what this is about, eh? The fact that I called you dead weight the other night? No offense, love. But if a comment like that was enough to drive ya' out of town, you've gotten too sensitive."

"It wasn't just that one comment, William. It's the fact that you've been terrible to me for weeks now, and the shittiest part of it all is that I have no idea what I've done to deserve it!" I exclaimed, panting slightly as my shoulders rose and fell. Butcher raised a brow, and I scoffed, flopping on the bed. "Forget it. Now, would you mind kindly fucking off and leaving me alone?"

I turned away, and Bucther sighed quietly. A couple of seconds passed before the bed dipped behind me.

"M'sorry, alright?" he said quietly.

"Whatever, I don't even care anymore," I muttered, picking at the skin on the side of my nail.

"Yes, ya’ do."

My stomach flipped as Butcher carefully reached up and brushed the hair off my shoulder. "I didn't realize I was hurting ya' so much. I thought I was doing what was best."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, turning back to face him. A calloused finger traced my cheek before his hand fell limply in his lap. Even though Butcher never slept more than a couple of hours a night, this was the first time I'd seen him look truly tired.

"I needed to push you away, and I figured a bit of tough love would do the trick." Butcher's hazel eyes met mine. "I realize I may've gone a bit too far."

"But why would you want to push me away? I thought we worked well together." My voice grew softer. "I thought you liked me."

"Oh, love, my feelings for you go way beyond like."

My thoughts became jumbled as I tried to comprehend what Butcher was saying, and I struggled to form a response, but it all ceased when he cupped my face in his hand. I instinctually leaned into his touch, and my eyes drooped, feeling serenity from the simple contact.

"M'sorry. M'so fucking sorry," Butcher apologized again. But this time, I saw emotion in his eyes. "You're the most precious thing in my life, and the last thing I would ever want to do is hurt ya'."

His lips gently grazed my forehead, placing a soft kiss there before continuing. “I'm no good for ya', doll. God only knows I'd fuck up an angel like you. In me own messed up head, pushing you away was the only way I could protect ya'."

"That's not true," I whispered, shaking my head, but Butcher didn't look convinced. "And even if it were true, I wouldn't care because I'm no saint either."

It was quiet between us, and our breaths were the only thing filling the small space. My gaze roamed Butcher's face before it fell on his lips, and I swallowed audibly.

"I want you, Billy."

Butcher looked torn. There was a deep crease between his brows, and his breathing grew quick as the seconds ticked by.

"I'll ruin you." His voice was rough, full of gravel.

"I'm already ruined."

Butcher's resolve began to fray before it split wide open, and his lips crashed into mine.

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not my best work, but i hope you enjoyed it!

-xoxo

[mossy-green-aka-ferrythem]

Thinking a lot about Romina...

Can't get over how she experienced something truly horrible. Even though Hornsent society was corrupt, nothing can excuse what Queen Marika did to them. Even while all the loreheads bicker with shit like "No wonder Queen Marika did what she did!", like, sure there is a reason to it, with how she and her people faced subjugation and prosecution in Hornsent society, but that cannot excuse what followed. Her "purging", her distaste for any and all Hornsent, her sheer disgust for her own children, when they bore horns, and how she abandoned them, the way she banished and severed the horns from the Hornsent, the way she gave them the dirty name of "Omen", everything that she's done, with all the cruelty that follows...

but that's a different story. What really matters here is what I will say about Saint Romina. What really gets me about her is that she really and truly does add so much perspective to the events that transpire. The way her entire world burned down around her, and all she could do is look on in shock, almost certainly traumatized by what she saw before her, all while she held onto a Bud. Her Bud. The Bud that would continue to spread, but never bloom. That Bud that embodied what she would become, her new faith. Her new beauty, being a Saint for the Scarlet Rot...

Rot has always been so interesting in Elden Ring, because you see how it gruesomely withers everything around it, but also gains purchase to life, life that is both twisted and beautiful... the way that Rot is both Life and Decay really does shine with Elden Ring's scarlet rot, I must say!

I am really happy to see that the Scarlet Rot has even more significance now through Saint Romina, and her breathtaking beauty, that leaves me stunned anytime I look upon her...

I absolutely adore her design and story and larger narrative implications of her, but I must profess to a truth about how I feel about her...

I carnally desire her. Her beauty comes in many forms, but I can't help but feel a special sensual desire for her when I gaze upon the whole of her form...

Oh Romina...

[astradyke]

Please write the dissertation on how phil deals with dan's self deprecation :)

hi! i am not certain what exactly you are referring to, but i will be using my best guess that you are referencing what i talked about in this post about a certain minute and a half from a certain video. if that's not what you meant, shoot me another ask! but assuming that's it, well, without further ado...

a deep dive into 19:57-21:26 of What Dan and Phil Text Each Other 2

What Dan and Phil Text Each Other 2 was released December 21st, 2021 on AmazingPhil's channel. this video was released around two and a half years into Dan's hiatus (two years from their joint hiatus). setting aside the several YouTube Originals including Dan as talent, the next upload released on his own channel would be Why I Quit YouTube, released May 2nd, 2022. the sole reason i mention this video is for the contextualization of what was occurring during What Dan and Phil Text Each Other 2-- this video was taken at some point after Dan had learned that his dream show, Dan Is Not Okay, was not going to be actualized, a reality that he described as traumatic.

i want to be explicitly clear that i am NOT intending to speculate on what was transpiring in private, nor am i romanticizing severe trauma. this is a frame by frame commentary post about publicly available content.

the outro to this video begins at 19:52, with a single frame that cuts at 19:57. At 19:57, Phil says: "Bunch has happened with you that we did not text about," to which Dan emphasizes, "That I can't talk about." Dan begins speaking on his own at this point, but you see Phil's face shift as he prods Dan to "talk a bit" about what is going on-- his eyebrows furrow, he's making direct eye contact with the camera, and he seems to be frowning. As Dan talks calmly yet vaguely about the circumstances we later learn about in Why I Quit YouTube, Phil's face shifts from the previously described expression to one where his cheeks puff up, his eyebrows still furrowed-- clearly annoyed. This shift happens as Dan is talking:

"Look, quite a few things, dreams of mine-"

"-got quite catastrophically torpedoed..."

Phil's face is like this for only a second before he relaxes it, though he still looks noticeably unhappy after. There is a jump-cut ~20:12, where Dan now has his hand resting against his face, while Phil emphatically expresses: "Like, Dan has been so close to almost giving you something, and then it's been taken away."

at this point, Dan carefully starts saying that several of these projects might happen in the future-- to which Phil looks a little defeated:

before looking irritated, even more-so than before, when Dan says: "... but I cannot to just wait for them or be gone in the meantime."

again, relaxes again after a few seconds, and only begins to look positive when Dan describes that "somehow, some way, in the new year, I will be back."

... okay, so why did i show you any of that? mainly because i think it is significant to contrast the way that Dan approaches this subject versus how Phil does. Dan is plagued with vestiges of bitter professionalism and a sort of sadness as he tries to allude to the nightmare of his last two years, which makes sense in the context of his indecision over how to respond to what happened. all that Dan has experienced has forced him to constrain his emotional responses, as he has spent two years walking along a very similar edge with his literal dreams at stake. Phil, meanwhile, has a subconscious reaction to what Dan is saying, and without intending to, expresses across his face the shifting emotions that Dan feels unable to show.

to me it mirrors something we see in the I TRY TO GIVE DAN A HAIRCUT!! video. In this video, Dan continuously expresses uncertainty about promoting his book, being repeatedly encouraged by Phil to talk about it-- only for Phil to insert a segment at the end of the video to promote it more fervently. Dan is forcibly holding back, versus Phil openly expresses what Dan feels he cannot do in that moment. when Dan is wading through complicated emotions in order to treat the subject of his recent trauma respectfully, Phil is pantomiming what Dan cannot say in that moment, what he is not safe to say: that he got completely fucked over. Phil is communicating what we would spend five months knowing nothing about, in a way that exposes nothing except the fact that he was by Dan's side, feeling a fraction of his pain, throughout it, and that Dan didn't deserve it. that Dan is not at fault for his own absence.

at 20:35, Phil perks up and expresses that "the world has missed your sarcasm," voicing not only his own excitement ("I'm braced") but also the audience's excitement to see Dan return to YouTube. Dan laughs, before asking: "have they, though?" here, Phil very earnestly says, "yeah!" he is slightly shrugging, eyebrows rising (i couldn't capture a good visual here, sorry). the conversation is quickly hijacked by Dan, who continues to say "maybe this has been good for the world"-- Phil makes an expression here that is convoluted to read, mixed with both irritation/skepticism but also losing a degree of seriousness-- and starts laughing to himself as Dan goes onto say, effectively, that maybe things are better without him there at all. this is a very noticeable part of a lot of Dan and Phil content: Dan makes a self-deprecatory remark, Phil responds very earnestly, and then Dan continues to take it in a joking direction, so Phil picks it up and jokes back.

this feels jarring, at first, because at the time that this video released, i remember being surprised at how dark Dan was being, in a place that was clearly meant to be laughed off but was not executed like his typical cynicism. Phil follows along with laughing about it, because they are professionals and moving along is a quick way to handle something that does not need to escalate to an intervention/argument, but Phil does not joke about this from the beginning-- he is very earnestly assuring, at first, before realizing that Dan is doubling down, and he backs off. and he actually does this a lot across their videos: following Dan's lead.

20:48 is when Phil starts the actual outro of the video. at 20:51, after thanking the audience for watching the video, he gestures at Dan and turns to say: "Thanks, Dan-" to which Dan cuts him off to say, "Thank you for tolerating my presence." Phil continues his earlier sentence, correcting Dan by saying, "for treating us with your presence."

this is done (1) immediately and (2) deliberately. there is no shift in Phil's facial expression, no muddling or joking about what he is saying. Dan, in this moment, is reverting and doubling down on the self-deprecation we started to hear just a moment ago, and Phil is responding to it not by cutting Dan off, or bantering about it, or scolding him, but by very clearly correcting it. Dan is asserting what he believes to be the truth-- this does not read like his regular cynical humor-- and Phil is, in turn, asserting his truth just as confidently: that Dan is, as he said at the very beginning of this video, "a gift" for the audience. That Dan is creating something beautiful, that it's not his fault what is happening to him, and that both the audience and Phil want him.

the outro continues on, and Phil does his promotional stuff, explicitly including Dan in pretty much everything he promotes. here's my best attempt at a screenshot where you can see how close the two of them moved together over the course of this video; this is Phil telling people to subscribe to Dan.

Dan then says, at the very end of the video, that "it has been... a year." Phil doesn't express much facially, but he does say a very clear, "yeah." as Dan goes on to close out the video. in the end cards, Dan's end card says: "DANIEL!" obvious excitement and endearment here.

... okay, that's cool Mare, but you started writing this two hours ago and i don't understand why i needed to read any of that?

this video holds a very different tone to the others in the series, which is possibly why it is not a favorite for many people. it is a funny video, undeniably, but it is very clear in hindsight that this was shot while Dan was in a relapse. which is why it is so meaningful and loud to me that Phil not only brought this series back unexpectedly, but also exhibits this 'pressing forward and pulling them both back' strategy. they laugh about texts, Phil does their joint promotions, and then Dan says something self-deprecatory-- Phil steps up to sincerely counter it, and then pulls them both back as the next jump cut happens. the two of them are in-step, here, matching each other: Dan and Phil alternate discussing Dan's solo work issues; Phil picks up when Dan is trying to make a joke and joins in on it; when Dan self deprecates, Phil takes the same exact sentence and changes a singular word without a visual second thought. they do this all together.

there are a lot of ways to navigate self-deprecation. notably, when arising from a serious internal crisis colored by depression, you can't reason them directly out of it-- it's an immutable truth, to them, something that the world has affirmed. when Dan says that the internet would be better without him, that his presence is merely to be tolerated, you can tell that in the moment of this video's filming he did genuinely believe this. Phil recognizes that any attempt he makes to combat this has to be subtle enough to look over, but clear enough that the audience registers it in their head. it has to be said like it is an obvious truth, because to Phil (and us) it is an obvious truth. and it has to be done in line with Dan, not cutting him off or speaking over him, but by giving him the agency to express how he feels, and informing him, gently, that Phil is in love with him even if Dan is struggling to love himself.

Phil wanted us all to know in this video that Dan was being mistreated, even before any of us knew what that actually meant. even as Dan dealt with the psychological repercussions of this on his own mentally, it reminds us that Phil was there the entire time, Phil saw it and he grieved, too, because if the hiatus showed us anything it is that Phil loves Dan's solo work and his creative mind more than pretty much anything, aside from Dan himself. he also tried to emphasize, at the beginning and the end and even in the foundations of the video, that Dan being there was a treat! not something to be taken for granted! that Dan was something special, something the world desired, and yes that may sound obvious given that we were all there eagerly waiting for joint content, but in the context that Dan was being used for billboards and specials and whatever the fuck just because he could, that he was conscripted into projects and then forgotten about, that his own dreams 'fell through the cracks'... yeah.

a major reason why the hiatus years are so fond in my heart is that they are a clear period of time where you can see Phil's relentless devotion to Dan. he does the most that he can to support him-- he brings him onto a fun joint video, he promotes his merch, he really promotes his book, he coaxes Dan to talk more about solo projects, and he emphasizes that he wants him there. and this is all why this video in particular is so meaningful to me. it's the two of them, unexpectedly for us, bringing back a series where they revel in their insane psychic connections with each other, and it's Phil saying over and over and over again-- this person is with me. i am by his side. i am proud of him, and i radically refuse to take him for granted. he can never go anywhere that i won't follow him.

and that, that is everything.

[jiangwanyinscatmom]

I feel like there is something very sentimental in the way that Wei Wuxian doesn't have anything material kept of his loved ones that he had lost during his life, aside from the tree that he associated with Jiang Yanli. And he keeps that closest to his heart as the most significant point of kindness he ever received and her not looking for him out of any sense of duty herself or for anyone else's sake.

She endeared herself to him out of her own kindness, which is what he idolizes in other people. Very few people in his life willingly reach to stand with or fall with him. The only other one that had was Lan Wangji who is framed in that same instance of the tree rendition where Jiang Yanli once had stood.

He doesn't tell anyone about this, even Lan Wangji, what had transpired when he was a child with Jiang Yanli, but I think it speaks all on its own how he associates those two specifically with safety to finally be as he is without apology or further expectations to be more or less than what he is and be loved for that.

[babacontainsmultitudes]

🤔 Admittedly I was a little disappointed by the reveal (but certainly not surprised the foreshadowing was heavy in this episode lol), but not actually against how Beth (and Will) seem to be playing with it thus far- which is to say that I do think it has a lot of potential, and I suspect there's more to what we're seeing).

;) Big ol' ramble below

Mostly the theory has turned me off until now (at least insofar as I've witnessed it transpire in the fandom at large) because it struck me as so painfully ironic to see Trudy, a 1950s housewife, struggle to exist under the system that she's in, fail to fit the mold assigned to her, and be denied her personhood very literally for it (this being ironic insofar as how it mimics how she would have been treated back then). This and because frankly I just think she's a lot less interesting if she's fully a robot LOL, but I'll hopefully get to that in a bit.

Not that the hints at her mechanical nature and the relevance of Tucker's background were lost on me; I can appreciate why those would contribute to a plausible, fun and I think still mostly harmless theory (now fact). However, minus one or two specific posts I've seen on the matter (namely a recent one suggesting that if Trudy is a robot Beth is probably taking inspiration from The Stepford Wives, :( sorry person who made that post I couldn't find it I wanted to credit yoouuu), I've seen the theory just about exclusively presented in a manner that, rather than explore the metaphorical and political significance of Trudy being partially or fully mechanical, at best disregards the parts of her narrative that are at their core about sexism (among other related things), and at worst negates them entirely (i.e. Trudy only thinking and acting how she does because she's a robot malfunctioning and not because the world itself is causing harm and she rightfully wants something more than the role she was forced into, Trudy not even having any real thoughts and feelings of her own, etc.). I just think it kind of sucks to shove all those important things about her aside and say "actually, there's no person suffering here, she's just a robot" and perhaps worse yet to imply that she does have thoughts and feelings but because they result in Weird™ behavior it must be a problem with her code and not at all relate to what women were subjugated to during this point in American history.

CONVERSELY I don't think Trudy being a robot (or at least partially one) at least from what Beth and Will have presented us thus far, inherently suffers from any of these issues? First and foremost because Trudy definitely appears to possess sentience, thoughts, and emotions of her own, matters which immediately complicate her degree of personhood and don't inherently box her behavior in as a bug in her programming rather than an issue with the world she's been put in, quite the opposite in fact! I think they have a very solid groundwork laid out here to make a strong statement with Trudy's narrative (and perhaps ask the question of what is really malfunctioning here), all the more so since [I pull out a Rebecca Swallows-style conspiracy board] I don't think she's entirely robotic in nature? Actually you should just read Mack's tags in this post cause he has great thoughts on the matter (of which those are just some of them), but if I can direct your attention to one thing in particular, it would be Beth's fact (I *believe* from episode 2) about Trudy never graduating high school because of her essay where she suggested that "perhaps women could one day domesticate themselves", a statement that could of course be interpreted a number of ways but ultimately threatened the patriarchal status quo enough (in suggesting women's independence) to cost Trudy her diploma. Taken on its own this fact appears to contradict the theory that Trudy has always been robotic in nature, because it doesn't really make sense that Trudy would have been set up to go through high school (or school at all really) when Tucker's intention was/is for her to be the perfect housewife. You may then suggest that Trudy's memories of this are fabricated and not actually her lived experiences, in which case firstly perhaps you should reread my earlier point on the robot theory being used to actively negate and otherwise disregard the portions of Trudy's narrative that pertain to sexism and feminism, and secondly it really doesn't make any sense to me that Tucker would implant those kind of memories into Trudy's brain? To be completely honest if she's been a robot from the very beginning (rather than someone who became a cyborg, which is what I'm trying to suggest here), then I don't see why Tucker would program her with actual sentience in the first place (suspending my disbelief here with regards to the possibility of programming sentience to begin with). It seems much more likely to me then that Trudy was not always a robot, and instead altered by Tucker to force her into a role of subordination and remedy her """imperfections""". This option is significantly more interesting to me one, because it implies that Trudy has actually lived a life up until the present, full of its own complexities and strife (and dreams, and real actual memories worth exploring, etc.), and hence is not by any means "just a robot", and second because it amplifies the hypothetical statement being made on the lives of the real living women of the era and how they were treated and seen as being "in need of fixing" for not conforming to gender roles or otherwise acting "out of line" with what was expected of them.

OKAY THIS GOT OUT OF HAND SO I'M CUTTING MYSELF OFF HERE but I wanted to my share my current thoughts what with this ending and where I'm at so hopefully that was at least interesting to whoever has chosen to read through this one okay thank you byyyyyyyyye~

[ghoulsbounty]

From a Previous Life (Pt 4)

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Preg!Reader

Summary: You and the Ghoul quickly learn that your actions—and your words—carry significant consequences.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, pregnancy, doctor examination, sickness/radiation poisoning, arguing, angst, grief, yearning, rejection, slow burn, stubbornness, canon-typical violence, miscommunication, mention of blood/wound, reader throws things.

Word Count: 7.1K

A/N: It's been a while since I posted for this story, part 4 has been kicking my butt! Lots of angst and drama as usual, but the happy ending is on the horizon! I'd love to know what you think 💌

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

After thoroughly scouring the house and filling his saddlebag with every vial he could find in the basement, the Ghoul was adamant that you both leave immediately and put as much distance as possible between yourselves and the grim scene. You offered no resistance; despite the crushing fatigue that weighed heavily on your body and muddled your thoughts, you were eager to escape the horrors of that place. The pervasive stench of blood and decay had seeped into your clothing, becoming nearly suffocating, making it difficult to breathe and causing a deep ache in your chest.

As you left, you couldn't resist the urge to glance back at the lifeless forms of Mags and her family. The scene struck you deeply, like a blow to the gut that stole your breath away. In her final moments, Mags had dragged herself to her son, her fingers interlocking with his as she drew her last breath. That image seared itself into your mind, intensifying your desperation to leave until you were nearly sprinting out of the door.

The house now loomed as a grim testament to the violence that had transpired within its walls. Shadows gathered thickly in the corners, murmuring unsettling recollections you wished to erase from your mind. Each groan of the floorboards and whisper of the wind through shattered windows seemed to echo with ghostly reminders of the atrocities you had witnessed—and narrowly escaped. This sinister ambiance was compounded by a deeper regret: your inability to rescue the Ghoul, resulting in your needing to be rescued by him once again.

The Ghoul moved with a newfound intensity and focus that left your nerves frayed. Normally cautious, almost paranoid about traveling after dark with you in tow, his demeanour had shifted dramatically. Driven by a sense of urgency, he hurriedly led the way outside. "We can't stay here," he growled under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice a tense murmur. "It's not safe. The next town isn't far; we can make it if we hurry." His words were laced with determination, pushing both of you forward into the encroaching darkness.

His usual paranoia had transformed into a fierce resolve. The normally measured pace was replaced by swift, almost frantic strides, and you struggled to keep up. Each step was a battle against the pain and exhaustion that threatened to overwhelm you, but the Ghoul's insistence was infectious, propelling you forward despite the fatigue weighing down your limbs.

"We're close," he assured, though it was unclear whether he was speaking to you or trying to convince himself. The path ahead was cloaked in shadows, the only light coming from the dim glow of the moon partially hidden by clouds. The noises of the night—distant howls, rustling amongst the dunes, the occasional whistle of the wind—kept your nerves on edge, but the Ghoul's presence offered a small measure of comfort despite your earlier confrontation.

You remained silent, too afraid to question why he was so determined to leave the house in such a hurry. You had your own reasons to comply—each step a painful reminder as your shirt rubbed against the scratch on your pregnant belly—but his urgency unnerved you. He was usually the epitome of calm under pressure, but now he appeared almost desperate, causing your own anxiety to simmer just below the surface.

You cast a wary glance at the Ghoul, observing the tension etched into his features. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes flicked restlessly from side to side, meticulously scanning the surroundings for any potential threats. The silence stretched taut between you, a palpable tension hanging in the air. As you approached the edge of the property line, the urge to speak became overwhelming. Unable to suppress your curiosity and growing unease, you finally broke the silence.

"What's chasing us?" you whispered, the question escaping your lips before you could rein it in. His head snapped towards you, eyes narrowing for a moment before he responded, his voice low and gravelly.

"You don't need to worry about that," he murmured. The edge in his tone cut through the night air, sending a chill down your spine. "Just hurry up," he said louder this time, his voice firm. As the faint outline of the town emerged, he quickened his pace, and you struggled to keep up, your backpack bouncing painfully against your spine with each hurried step.

Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the icy air searing your lungs as a sudden, sharp pang shot through your abdomen. Clutching your stomach, you recoiled in horror when your hand came away slick with thick, crimson blood. Lifting your shirt, the dim light revealed the alarming state of your wound. What had started as a mere surface scratch had transformed into a grotesque display of infected tissue, marked by unsettling shades of green and purple. Yellowish pus oozed from the lesion, trickling down your trembling thigh, each drop intensifying your dread.

The sight alone was enough to send waves of panic through you, but it was the accompanying symptoms—the feverish chills, the throbbing pain, and the overwhelming weakness—that truly underscored the gravity of your situation. Your heart pounded in your chest, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the escalating fear gripping your mind as you realized just how dire your circumstances had become.

Dizziness overwhelmed you, a disorienting fog clouding your thoughts as a wave of nausea surged, making your mouth water uncontrollably. The chilling night air felt like icy tendrils wrapping around you, adding to the disorientation. You fought to steady your breathing and quell the nausea, each breath a struggle against the rising panic that threatened to consume you. Your vision blurred, and the ground beneath your feet seemed to sway.

You knew you should tell him about your worsening condition, but you were reluctant to add to his worry. The Ghoul had enough on his mind without your complications, you rationalized, though a niggling part of you wanted to keep it secret just to spite him. Despite his presence and support, the unresolved tension between you lingered, feeding your stubbornness.

"We're almost there," you muttered to yourself, a mantra to keep your legs moving. The Ghoul glanced back at you, his eyes narrowing as he noticed your distress.

"Everything okay?" he asked, his voice tinged with concern.

You forced a weak smile, nodding slightly. "I'm fine," you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. The effort to appear composed was draining, and the dizziness intensified, making it harder to focus on the path ahead.

The town's lights shimmered in the distance, their soft glow promising relief and safety. Each step felt heavier, your legs trembling with the effort to keep moving. The Ghoul eyed you warily, noting the beads of sweat that dripped from your brow despite the harsh coolness of the evening. His hand reached out suddenly, gripping your arm and stopping you in your tracks. You swayed on unsteady feet, his firm hold the only thing keeping you upright. His eyes, filled with concern, searched your face for an explanation you weren't ready to give.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice low and demanding.

You took a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. "It's nothing," you mumbled, but your body betrayed you, another wave of dizziness making you clutch at his side for support.

"Don't lie to me," he said, his grip tightening. "You're not fine. Tell me what's going on."

Your vision blurred again, dark spots dancing at the edges, and you stumbled, the infection's toll on your body becoming undeniable. Each pulse of pain radiating from the wound sapped your strength, making it increasingly difficult to stay upright. Despite this, a stubborn part of you resisted admitting the severity of your condition, not wanting to appear weak or vulnerable.

The Ghoul tightened his grip on your arm as he shook you gently but firmly, trying to snap you out of your daze. "Tell me. Now." He urged, his voice low but intense. He dipped his head to meet your eyes, which wandered aimlessly, struggling to focus.

"I... I'm not feeling well," you stammered to the Ghoul, your voice quivering as you struggled to focus on him through the growing haze of discomfort. His eyes widened as he pulled your hand away from your stomach, revealing the crimson stain seeping through your wet shirt. He lifted the hem, his teeth clenching at the sight of the grievous wound.

His gloved hands moved with a mixture of desperation and gentleness as he examined the area around the infected wound. He was careful not to press too hard, yet his touch was thorough, probing the extent of the damage. The seriousness of the situation was unmistakable in his expression—the furrowed brow, the tight set of his jaw, and the flicker of panic in his eyes. You could see him mentally calculating the next steps, his mind racing to figure out how best to manage the injury in the desolate surroundings.

The cold air bit at your exposed skin, adding to your discomfort, while the distant lights of the town seemed both tantalizingly close and frustratingly far. The Ghoul's demeanour was a blend of determination and fear as he quickly formulated a plan in his mind.

"Is it bad?" you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper, thin with fear. You weren't sure if you truly wanted to know the answer, and even less sure that he would tell you. His eyes flickered with something unreadable and he hesitated for a moment, as if weighing how much to reveal.

He grasped your wrist and began rapidly tapping on the screen of your Pip-Boy, his eyes scanning the information with growing alarm. The glow from the screen illuminated the deep lines around his sunken eyes, and in your hazy state, you thought about how handsome he looked. When he finally looked up, you felt unsteady under his worried gaze.

"We need to go—now," he declared, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. His grip tightened around your forearm, the pressure both reassuring and insistent, as he tried to pull you up. The intensity in his eyes and the firmness of his hold made it clear that there was no time to waste, and your mind struggling to keep pace with the rapid escalation of the situation.

Despite his urgency, your legs betrayed you. They faltered, stumbling and ultimately failing as you collapsed onto the sandy ground with a soft thud. The Ghoul's voice echoed as if from a distance, his words urging you to get up, but your body felt disconnected, heavy, and unresponsive. A visceral wave of panic surged through you, tightening its grip around your chest, making it hard to breathe. The edges of your vision began to blur, darkness creeping in, threatening to engulf your senses like a spreading shadow.

As you lay sprawled on the cold, sandy ground, the Ghoul quickly bent down to your level, his face etched with unease. He searched your eyes, looking for any flicker of awareness, but your responses were slow, your eyelids heavy and fluttering, making his movements appear surreal and drawn out, as if you were both submerged underwater.

Despite the chill that pervaded the air, beads of sweat continued to form on your forehead, streaming down your face as a fever raged within you. In a feeble attempt to find solace, you reached out blindly, seeking the familiar touch of your companion, only to grasp at the empty, chilling air.

Then, a profound dizziness overwhelmed you, like being pulled into a deep, dark chasm. You lost all sense of direction, no longer aware of what was up or down, past or present. The world around you faded to nothingness as you slipped further away, drifting into an inescapable void that swallowed all consciousness.

A faint voice, soft yet persistent, gently coaxed you back from the void's embrace. Wrapped in a dense fog, your mind meandered through scattered memories, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Slowly, sensations began to return as if awakening from a deep slumber; nerves tingled and flickered back to life under your tentative command. The first movement was a mere twitch of a finger, but it felt monumental, the brush of thin cotton against your skin amplifying the moment.

What happened? Where were you? These questions nudged at the corners of your slowly clearing mind. With effort, you drew a deep breath, marshalling the strength to pry your eyes open. They fluttered initially, rebelling against the harshness of light and the strain of waking. Gradually, your vision steadied, focusing upward at a ceiling marred by stains and the passage of time. You lay still for a moment, taking in your surroundings, trying to piece together how you had arrived at this unfamiliar place.

"Thought I'd lost you again," the voice spoke, its timbre resonating with relief and lingering anxiety. You turned your head slowly, your neck stiff and uncooperative, to see the Ghoul sitting in a dusty armchair nestled in the corner of the room. He had one leg crossed over the other, and his hands were clenched into tight fists resting in his lap. His posture betrayed the tension that had not yet left him.

"You seem to have a nasty habit of getting away from me," he added, a faint, wry smile playing at the edges of his lips, softening the sternness that had settled over his features. The combination of relief and reproach in his eyes alluded to the worry he had endured. The dusty armchair creaked slightly as he shifted, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward, his gaze never leaving you.

Your lips parted to respond, but the pain and dryness in your throat silenced you, leaving only a strained whisper. The effort made your vision blur momentarily, and you felt a wave of dizziness threaten to pull you back under.

The Ghoul jumped from his seat, closing the distance between you in two swift strides. He grabbed a glass of water from the side table and held it to your lips. His hand gently rested underneath your chin, helping you tilt your head back into the pillow as you swallowed painfully. The cool water soothed your raw throat, each gulp easing the burning sensation and bringing a momentary relief from the discomfort. His gloved touch was surprisingly tender, his eyes filled with concern as he looked down at you.

"Easy now," he murmured, his voice softer than you had ever heard it. The rough exterior he usually presented was momentarily stripped away, revealing a depth of care you hadn't fully realized before. As you finished the water, he set the glass aside, his hand lingering on your chin before carefully adjusting the pillow behind your head, ensuring you were comfortable.

"Thanks," you managed to whisper, your voice still hoarse but filled with gratitude. "Guess you can't get rid of me, can you?" You joked, your voice light despite the underlying exhaustion. 

A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Wouldn't want to," he replied, his tone gruff but softened by a note of sincerity. A flutter rose in your stomach at his words, and you felt an ache at the growing distance between you as he returned to his seat. Your fingers flexed against the bedsheet, wanting to reach out to him, but the memory of his words in the house still lingered.

The room seemed colder without his proximity, the silence stretching out once more. You watched him, noting the tension still evident in his posture, the way his hands clenched and unclenched restlessly in his lap. His gaze was fixed on some distant point, lost in thoughts you couldn't decipher.

As your eyes adjusted and began to focus, you took in more of the surroundings. You were in a bedroom, worn and slightly dishevelled. The vanity mirror across from the bed was cracked, its spiderweb fractures distorting the reflections it caught. A large, old wardrobe stood partially open, its doors unable to fully close, with clothes spilling out like colourful waterfalls onto the dusty floor.

The walls were faded, peeling wallpaper hinting at a time long past, while the floorboards creaked softly under any movement. A small nightstand next to the bed held your Pip-Boy and the empty glass. The bed you lay in had a wrought iron frame, rusted and showing signs of age, with a thin, threadbare quilt covering you. A faint scent of dust and age hung in the air, mingling with a lingering hint of antiseptic from recent efforts to clean and treat your injuries.

Despite its state, the room had a certain charm, a sense of having been lived in and cared for, even if that care had become sporadic over the years. The small details—a chipped teacup on the vanity, a child's drawing pinned to the wall—made it feel almost homely.

Your eyes widened in a flash of panic as you turned back to the Ghoul, but he cut you off before you could speak. "We aren't back there," he quickly interjected, his voice firm but reassuring, keen to alleviate your fears even momentarily. "We're safe."

His words settled some of the immediate panic, and you took a deep breath, trying to ground yourself in the present. Of course he hadn't taken you back to Mags' house, he'd wanted to get away from there almost as much as you had. Maybe more.

"Where are we?" you croaked, trying to make sense of your surroundings. Your gaze shifted to the window, where thin curtains let slivers of daylight filter through, casting faint patterns on the floor. The sounds of street vendors calling out their wares and distant bird calls drifted in, mingling with the occasional clatter of footsteps and murmured conversations from passers-by.

He shifted slightly in his seat, the gentle sunlight casting a warm glow on his worn features. "A makeshift clinic, managed by an old friend," he explained, his voice calm but laced with a hint of unease. "It's safe, for now." His eyes flickered towards the window, as if to reassure himself of the safety he promised, before returning to you with a determined expression.

He paused, his face reflecting deep thought as he carefully considered his next words. "You've been unconscious for almost two days," he disclosed, his voice heavy with the weight of the vigilance he had maintained while watching over you. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, the lines on his face more pronounced from the sleepless nights.

"You should have told me," he said, his voice a mix of frustration and concern. "How could you be so reckless to keep this to yourself?" His eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away, the weight of his stare drilling into your conscience. The guilt welled up inside you, sharp and consuming, making your chest tighten with regret.

"I didn't want to bother you," you said softly.

He scoffed in response, rolling his eyes. "That's ridiculous," he muttered.

Narrowing your eyes in determination, you pushed yourself up to rest against the pillow, wincing slightly from the effort. The fabric rustled as you settled into a more upright position, your gaze locked onto his, the resolve in your eyes challenging the storm of emotions swirling in his.

"I'm tired of being a burden," you continued, your voice steadier now. The weight of your words hung in the air, the unspoken resentment evident in your tone. The room felt still, the sounds from outside momentarily fading as the intensity of the moment drew both of your focuses inward.

He shook his head, a sneer playing on his lips as he looked at you. "That's not your choice to make," he said, his tone carrying a cold edge. His eyes shifted away from you, staring out the window as if searching for answers in the distance.

The room seemed to grow colder, the sunlight no longer providing its gentle warmth but instead highlighting the tension between you. Each breath you took felt heavier than the last, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on both of you. The air was thick with emotions, and the distance between you felt insurmountable.

A chill ran through you, his words settling like a heavy weight in the space between you. "Seems I don't get much choice over anything nowadays," your voice wavered slightly, but you held his gaze when it snapped back to you, determined to confront him. You could see his jaw tighten, his eyes flickering with a mixture of frustration and something you couldn't quite identify. Each second stretched out painfully as you waited for his response.

"If you've got a death wish, that's between you and that baby," he growled through clenched teeth, pointing at your pregnant belly. "But don't drag me into it. I'm not hauling my ass across the desert just for you to throw your life away at every turn," he spat, his words sharp and biting.

Your breath caught in your throat as his words sunk in. "Glad to see where your priorities truly lie," you said, tears welling in your eyes. Anger surged through you at his insinuation. You didn't have a death wish—far from it. Since the bombings, you had fought tooth and nail to survive and to keep your baby safe, and he knew that.

His words felt like a betrayal. Whether he was trying to push you further away to save face or make it clear that he really did feel nothing for you, his harshness cut deep. The tears spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. "You know I've done everything to keep us alive," you continued, voice trembling with emotion. "I can't believe you'd think otherwise."

His eyes flickered with a brief moment of regret, but it was quickly masked by the anger that still lingered. "I'm just trying to keep you safe," he muttered, but the words felt hollow against the backdrop of your pain.

"I never wanted this!" you shouted, your voice cracking. "You captured me. I didn't ask for any of this!"

The anger and fear boiled over, and your desperate cries filled the room, making the air between you almost suffocating. The walls seemed to echo your words, amplifying the magnitude of the moment. His expression remained hard, but you could see a flicker of something cross them.

"You think I wanted this?" he shot back, his voice rising. "None of this was supposed to happen!"

"You should have just left me out there!" You cried, voice breaking under the weight of your anguish.

"I wish I did!" The raw emotion in his voice startling you as he stood up, his figure towering over you. The intensity of his words cut through your anger, slicing deep into your heart and leaving you both teetering on the brink of something irreversible. His face was flushed with a mixture of regret and pure fury, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes was a stark contrast to the harshness of his words.

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken words and unresolved pain. Each of you grappled with the complex web of emotions that bound you together, the weight of your shared past and uncertain future pressing down heavily.

You wrapped your arms protectively around your belly, your gaze dropping to the intricately patterned bedsheets. The delicate floral design blurred as tears welled up in your eyes. "Get out," you whispered, your voice barely audible, but the sharp flinch of his jaw from the corner of your eye told you that he had heard you clearly.

The words felt like lead on your tongue, heavy and final, as you struggled to maintain your composure. The room, once a refuge, now felt like a battleground. You could sense his presence still looming over you, his conflicting emotions almost tangible in the air between you. The moment stretched, every second amplifying the tension.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you thought back to the memories you'd shared together. Each recollection felt like a dagger to the heart—the lingering gazes, the fleeting moments when you sought solace in his arms, the fragile bond you believed was forming between you. Perhaps it had all been a figment of your imagination, a desperate illusion in the midst of chaos.

The realization struck you like a punch to the gut, leaving you breathless and reeling. The weight of it pressed down on you, squeezing the air from your lungs and making your chest ache. You remembered the way his eyes would soften, the rare, fleeting smiles that had given you hope, the comforting warmth of his embrace. But now, those memories felt like cruel jokes, mocking your naïve belief in a connection that perhaps never truly existed.

The Ghoul sighed, running his tongue over his teeth as his gaze briefly flickered to the ground before locking back onto you. "What are you gonna do?" he asked, his tone softer but still edged with irritation. "Don't be so foolish; you wouldn't last a second out there alone."

"Maybe not, but that's no concern of yours," you retorted, refusing to meet his gaze. "If you don't want us, then we don't want you either." You placed a firm hand on the swell of your belly, feeling the life growing inside you.

A small flurry of movement, a determined kick from within, gave you a momentary pause. The sensation was both a reminder and a source of strength. You sniffed, drawing in a shaky breath, and willed your voice to work as you finally looked up at him through bleary eyes, the tears making everything a blur. "Leave," you commanded, your voice trembling but resolute.

He sighed again and moved toward you with an outstretched hand, but you stopped him mid-step. "Go! Get out!" you shouted, your voice echoing off the walls.

The Ghoul looked at you exasperatedly. "There's nothing for you here with me, do you understand? Dispel any romantic notions you have about me, darlin'. I am not a good man," he said, his eyes pleading with you. "But it doesn't mean I want you in harms way—far from it. Just listen to me, dammit."

His words cut through the air like a knife, sharp and final. "I said get out!" You shouted again, your hand gripped the Pip-Boy on the nightstand, and with a surge of adrenaline, you hurled it towards him. He ducked just in time, the metal device shattering against the wall behind him. Shards of glass and metal scattered across the floor, the sharp sound punctuating the tension in the room.

He straightened up, his eyes wide with shock. The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by your heavy breathing. You sat there, chest heaving, eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. The broken pieces of the Pip-Boy lay on the floor, a stark reminder of the irreparable rift between you.

"Just leave," you said, your voice now a raw whisper. "We don't need you." The determination in your eyes left no room for argument. He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on you, before turning and walking out of the room, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoed through the stillness.

A few hours later, a knock on the door startled you from your sobs. The door creaked open, and an elderly man entered. His features bore the unmistakable signs of ghoulification: mottled, decaying skin and sunken eyes. Despite his unsettling appearance, his expression was warm and kind, a gentle smile softening the harsh lines of his face.

You eyed him warily as he stepped into the room, each movement slow and deliberate, as if he was conscious of not alarming you further. The contrast between his ghastly visage and the kindness in his eyes created a strange, almost disorienting juxtaposition, leaving you uncertain but cautiously hopeful.

"Good to see you awake," he greeted with a gentle smile, his voice carrying a soothing, raspy tone. He moved toward your bedside with a practiced ease that spoke of long experience and familiarity with such situations. His steps were steady and confident, his presence oddly comforting in the wake of the Ghoul's absence. 

He stopped next to you, his eyes briefly scanning the room before focusing on the IV bag connected to your arm. With expert hands, he adjusted the flow, his touch slow and precise. "Your friend said you were feeling better," he remarked, glancing back at you with a reassuring nod. "Looks like the RadAway is working," he commented, his tone imbued with calm confidence. 

The mention of 'your friend' had your eyes darting to the door, replaying the memory of him walking out of it hours before. A sudden dread gripped you as the realization struck: perhaps it really would be the last time you saw him. Why wouldn't it be? You'd told him to leave, said you didn't want him, which was only partially true.

The truth was more complicated. You wanted him. You undeniably craved his affection and needed his approval, but your stubbornness—almost a mirror of his own—kept you from admitting it. He had made it clear that he didn't want you, or at least that's what his words said. Yet, his actions often told a different story, leaving you confused and frustrated.

You weren't going to beg. Pride and self-respect wouldn't allow it, no matter how much your heart ached for him to come back. The conflicting emotions swirled within you, a storm of longing, pride, and hurt. You drew a shaky breath, pushing the thoughts aside as you refocused on the present, determined not to let your vulnerability show.

"Dry your eyes, pet," the doctor said softly, offering you a handkerchief from his pocket. You took it with a grateful smile, dabbed at your wet cheeks until you felt the tears ebb.

"Thank you," you whispered, watching as the yellow liquid filled the tube attached to your arm. "What is RadAway?" you queried, your eyes narrowing slightly with caution as the elderly ghoul continued his examination, his fingers pressing against your wrist to check your pulse.

"It's a medical treatment used to flush radiation from the body," he explained, his voice steady and informative. "It speeds up recovery, especially with injuries like yours." He paused, then gave you a concerned look. "It's essential out here. I'm surprised you don't know about it."

His eyes held a hint of curiosity, perhaps even worry, as he studied your reaction. The weight of his gaze made you acutely aware of your vulnerability and the gaps in your survival skills, but his tone remained kind, without a trace of judgment.

You sniffed and feigned a smile. "I'm still getting my bearings on the surface," you said, your voice small.

His eyes flickered with an unspoken understanding, a subtle nod acknowledging the enormity of adjusting to life above ground. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly in a sympathetic smile, and he placed a reassuring hand on your arm.

"That makes sense," he replied softly, his voice full of understanding. "It's a lot to take in, but you're lucky your friend got you here when he did. He almost woke the whole town with his hollering. I was in the middle of a quiet evening when the commotion started. I looked out the window and saw him rushing through the streets, carrying you in his arms. Poor feller, the colour drained straight from his face with all the worry—well, as much as it can drain from us irradiated folk."

He paused, shaking his head slightly with a wry smile. "He was frantic, you know, practically bursting through the door, demanding help. I've seen people in desperate situations before, but the way he looked at you... It was clear you mean a lot to him."

The doctor's words painted a vivid picture, but you shook your head, dispelling the hopeful image he conjured. The Ghoul's actions came about as a result of you flaking out on him during his urgency to get away from that house. Despite wanting to believe otherwise, you reminded yourself that you didn't mean anything to him.

"He was just trying to get away," you murmured, more to yourself than to the doctor. "I collapsed, and he didn't have a choice."

The doctor studied you for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe," he conceded gently, "but actions speak louder than words. Sometimes, people show they care in ways they can't admit to themselves."

You didn't respond, letting his words linger in the air as he pulled a rusted stethoscope from his coat, preparing to listen to your heart. The cold metal pressed against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of your conflicting thoughts.

As the doctor listened intently, you couldn't help but replay the moments of the Ghoul's protectiveness in your mind. The anguish on his face when he found you at the house, the curl of his finger beckoning you closer, his arms wrapping tightly around you as you lost yourself in his touch. Had you really imagined those moments? The ones before those? They felt as real as the beat of your heart pounding against your chest at the thought of them.

The tenderness in his eyes, the security of his embrace—it all seemed too genuine to be mere figments of your imagination. Yet, his harsh words and actions contradicted those fleeting instances of connection, leaving you in a state of confusion and doubt.

But sometimes, kind words did slip through. You remembered what he had said hours ago, before the shouting: you had told him that he couldn't get rid of you, and his response had been a soft admission, almost lost in the tension of the moment. "Wouldn't want to," he'd said.

You were so hurt by his past rejection, by his constant pushing you away rather than addressing any feelings he may harbour, that you didn't stop to consider, in the heat of the moment, that perhaps you were doing the exact same thing when you told him to leave.

The doctor finished his examination and removed the stethoscope, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of concern and curiosity. "Your heart sounds strong," he said, his tone reassuring. "Physically, you're doing better. But don't ignore what's happening inside here," he added, gently tapping his temple.

You nodded absently, his advice barely registering as you continued to grapple with your emotions. The lines between reality and wishful thinking blurred, and you found yourself longing for clarity in the midst of the turmoil.

"Would you like me to check?" he asked, gesturing to your stomach that you still hugged protectively. You blinked, slow to understand until he mouthed 'the baby.' He was a genuine doctor, or as close to one as you could find in the wastelands. The individuals who had held you captive in the vault were more torturers disguised as scientists than actual healers. However, the risk of revealing your pregnancy was not lost on you, especially after recent events.

His hands stilled as he met your gaze with an understanding that seemed to stretch beyond the typical patient-doctor exchange. It was evident he had a wealth of experience dealing with the unique challenges of the wasteland, a far cry from the so-called doctors of your past who had hidden cruelty behind their clinical masks.

"Yes please," you replied, your voice tinged with apprehension. You hesitated, weighing the risk of revealing too much against the need to know your child's fate. "Is my baby okay? Can you tell me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, yet laden with the weight of your worries and hopes.

The elderly ghoul's expression softened further, and he nodded slowly, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. "Let's take a look," he said gently, reaching for a small, somewhat battered handheld device from his bag. He moved the device slowly over your abdomen, his eyes focused intently on the faint screen.

After a moment, he looked up, a small smile breaking through his weathered features. "From what I can see, your baby seems to be doing just fine," he announced softly. "The heartbeat is strong and steady. You're both fighters, that's clear."

Relief washed over you upon hearing the doctor's reassuring words, easing some of the persistent tension that had gripped you since you regained consciousness. Your eyes instinctively sought the Ghoul's, and your heart dropped at the sight of the empty chair.

"A few more days of rest and you should be back on your feet," the doctor said, gently covering your stomach with the thin sheet. He reached into his bag and pulled out a small bottle of pills. "Take one a day with food, and if you come into contact with any large bouts of radiation, double the dose until you can get some RadAway," he instructed, handing you the bottle.

The torn label read Rad-X, and you turned it in your hand, trying to decipher the rest of the words. The doctor watched you with a patient expression, his gaunt features softening as he spoke. "Rad-X is used to increase your resistance to radiation," he explained, his voice steady. "It’s different from RadAway, but just as important, especially with your...relations," he finished, and your cheeks burned at his insinuation.

You thanked the doctor when he promised to check on you again soon before leaving the room. As the door closed behind him, you sighed and settled back into your pillow. Relief washed over you knowing your baby was healthy, but the sense of being on your own left your heart heavy. The room felt both too big and too small, the deafening silence pressing in on you as you stared at the Rad-X label, contemplating the uncertain future that lay ahead.

You didn't see the Ghoul after that, but a supply of RadAway and bullets appeared on your bedside table. The sight of the neatly arranged supplies made you pause, a mix of surprise and gratitude washing over you. You assumed it was his doing, imagining him sneaking in during the night amidst the few hours you'd managed to sleep. The thought of him moving silently through the darkened room, leaving behind the essentials you needed, brought a bittersweet pang to your heart.

A woman named Ada, who you had come to learn was the owner of the establishment, dropped in regularly to bring you warm meals. They were hearty and nourishing, intended to build your strength, but your appetite was often suppressed by the weight of your thoughts and the loneliness that settled in your heart. Ada's gentle encouragement and understanding smile were small comforts in the otherwise stark and quiet room.

She chatted with you during her visits, sharing stories about the settlement and its inhabitants, giving you a glimpse of the life that awaited you once you were well enough to leave the confines of your room, if you were to stay in town. Her tales painted a picture of a tight-knit community, resilient and resourceful, each person playing a vital role in their collective survival.

"The Ghoul, he's gone," she informed you on morning, her voice gentle but firm. "I do hope you'll consider staying. He's covered your keep for more than enough time." She rested her hand on your shoulder, her touch warm and reassuring. "It's not safe out there alone."

Her words hit you like a wave, the reality of his absence sinking in. The weight of his generosity and care pressed heavily on your heart. Her eyes were filled with concern, reflecting the danger that awaited beyond the safety of this town, and her kindness was a small comfort in the midst of your turmoil, a reminder that you still had allies even in his absence.

"Thank you, Ada," you said, offering her a smile despite the worry inside of you. "But I have to go."

The morning sun cast a gentle glow on her face, highlighting the kindness in her eyes. She nodded, her own smile reflecting a mixture of pride and concern. "Where will you go?"

You eyed the map in your hands, the one you had taken from the Ghoul the day you left to find the vials. Your eyes traced the path that led to the haven, a route marked with careful notations and warnings. The map had become a lifeline, a tangible connection to him and his meticulous planning.

During the last few days of your bedrest, you had spent hours poring over it, mapping out your journey, and planning stops for resting and loading up on supplies. The intricate details on the map showed the effort he had put into ensuring your safety on your journey to the haven, each mark a testament to his care.

It wasn't until that morning, as you packed your bag and ran your hand over the tattered paper, that your resolve solidified. The realization that he had crafted this map specifically for you, considering every possible danger and refuge along the way, filled you with a bittersweet determination.

"I'm going to find him," you told her, your eyes steely with persistence as you adjusted your backpack over your shoulder. "There are some things I left unsaid," you finished, your voice resolute. 

You hugged her goodbye and thanked the doctor for his car on your way out. When you left the clinic, your gun felt heavier on your hip, the burden of not having the Ghoul there for your protection weighing it down.

Navigating through the bustling streets, you kept a firm grip on the map, each step taking you further from the comfort of Ada and the doctor's care and deeper into the unknown. Vendors continued to call out, their voices blending into a distant hum as you made your way toward the town's edge.

As you reached the outskirts of the town, the lively sounds of the marketplace faded behind you, replaced by the vast silence of the open desert. You paused for a moment, breathing deeply, taking in the endless expanse of sand and scrub stretching out before you. The horizon shimmered with heat, the sun high and relentless in the sky.

You questioned whether you were making the right choice in attempting to find the Ghoul. The vast, treacherous wasteland stretched out in every direction, offering countless places for him to disappear. He could have gone anywhere, but deep down, you felt certain that he wouldn't retrace his steps. He would likely stay as far away from Mags' home as possible, avoiding any place with too many memories or potential danger.

Then, the hairs on your arm stood to attention at the familiar sound of spurs jingling on the ground behind you. The distinct, rhythmic clinking sent a surge of recognition through you, and a hopeful smile began to tug at your lips. However, before you could turn around, the cold, unyielding metal of a gun barrel pressed firmly against your temple, sending a chill down your spine and freezing you in place.

Your breath caught in your throat, and your heart pounded in your chest, the sudden shift from hope to fear almost too much to process. The coolness of the barrel contrasted starkly with the warmth of the sun on your skin.

"I'll ask you this just once," a rough voice growled from behind, the command filled with menace. "Where is Cooper Howard?"

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @lothiriel9 @ancientbeing10 @maeplaysbass @moon-trash1507 @rebelmarylou @giggle-shade @skrzydlak

(if you have been removed from the taglist it is because your blog does not show an age)

[fivelasanctum]

Let The World Burn

Five was willing to let the world burn for more prolonged time with Lila. Showed how deeply he was in love with her. Hiding away from the world to be with her and nobody else. That she was enough. Around season three's climax he was already becoming settled in the mindset to let go of trying to save the world. The chaotic struggle is an addiction. Yet after 6 years of going without his chaotic fix with the added temptation to spend time with his best friend (Kemosabe)...he did easily agree. Believe Lila represented temptation to fall back into his 'chaos junkie' issue yet also serving as the temptation of caring about her. Making him backslide with his control and burying his feelings. Even with the aim to save the world, solve the cleanse issue, once lost in the subway his love overpowers that need to fix everyone's problems, including time and the world. Being just a man and embracing the romantic he has always been. Just secretly concealed outside of his time with Dolores. Realizing both he and Lila could afford to be selfish given their situation.

Here Five is hopeful he won't be pulled into another apocalyptic event he would have to struggle to remedy. Even though Lila made the choice to return to her kids (Not exactly Diego) I think their was that hope that they could still be together in reality and not just in their space outside of time. Without the overbearing weight of the cleanse. His family doing something without him for a change.

We know how that turns out. Messy misunderstandings, stress from the chaos of the personal and cosmic issues transpiring. Thinking Lila made her choice made retreat to the subway. Not caring about the world. Saving his family because Lila had become his world. Song's lyrics put it best: "Dead to the world"

Anti Fivela fans had made the argument over how he wasn't in character. He was determined to save the world and his family for 40 years and how this five would never do what he has done in Season 4. I vehemently disagree. As Viktor said, he was old and tired. His rough, long life has beaten him down to the point of him being more numb and aimless at the start of season 4. He wanted retirement desperately even before that. Add to that, in 7 years his love for lila was enough to overpower his previous responsibilities. Technically known her for close to 13 years. Shows the intensity of his feelings for her despite it not be 40 + years to be what's most important to him. More than the world. When his heart was broken he retreated to the subway. Knowing what he was signing up for. Solitude in apocalypse worlds. Just like how he started. Where he formed his psychological scars and ptsd. Only worse since Five seems to feel deeper than other characters despite the walls and masks he projects. Succumbed to despair. For all we knew, he may have been suicidal since he maybe lacks the energy to keep fighting. He made it through again when stuck in the subway most likely because Lila was there with him.

Makes sense his psychological mindset with wanting a solution to fix the world so they all could live, yet hearing all his alternate selves struggle to fight and try to accomplish the goal resulting in failure...coupled with his broken heart made it easier to give in. Dying alone or together...wasn't a prospect that Five was eager for but their was a certain tragic beauty to him realizing they wouldn't die alone even as the world was ending and burning.

While I was making screen captures noticed extra glances they share with each other. Not just in their final moment but leading up to it. Thought it was significant that lila had her gaze locked on him while he was talking and then that same side glance turned more heartbreaking as she revealed her love in her eyes. Letting her sadness show with her tears, much like how she only felt comfortable breaking down with Five in the subway minutes before. Then the last moment when five shows his sorrow and love in his eyes I thought I noticed his mouth move subtly in a ghost of a near smile in acknowledgement and possibly comfort with her holding his hand and understanding the love that was left unspoken.

[allysdelta]

Some long-overdue fan art for @asleepyyy 's delicious Good Omens roleswap AU, Oopsie!Omens. They are cranking out comic pages like an absolute maniac right now, and I can't help but be in awe of both the commitment and the creativity.

Thoughts below:

Oopsie!Omens, for those who don't keep up with the comic, roughly follows the events of the Good Omens TV show, but with one significant change: Aziraphale deliberately takes the fall on the Starmaker's behalf back before the Beginning, so here, our ineffable duo are the demon Azazel and the Archangel Jophiel. So far, Jophiel hasn't learned what exactly transpired, but bless it if this odd little barn owl demon isn't both strangely familiar and inexplicably endearing...

This has been the first roleswap/reverse Omens AU that I have been able to get on board with, largely because our heavenly/hellish pair are recognizably them; Azazel is devout, meticulous, and willing to march into the unthinkable to defend what he loves, while Jophiel is clever, snarky, jaded, fiercely protective, and will let nothing stand in the way of finding the truth.

Besides the above, there are two things I really love about this comic: One is that the artist has taken considerable liberty with the ways that the two appear over time, through mannerisms and costume, and every form they take, whether it's a palette change or gender presentation, is a delight. The other is watching how the comic, from a technical and storytelling standpoint, keeps outdoing itself. The artist was always skilled, but it is sheer pleasure to see how much their work advances with each update.

Did I mention that the comic is also funny? It is FUNNY. Brace yourself for the occasional heart stab, though.

Azazel's hands burn when he attempts to pray to God. The thought of the smoke forming art nouveau-esque swirls was entirely too good to pass up.

The actual art (watercolor pencil, layered over with standard colored pencil) looks a bit more radiant in person. My camera was more interested in the pencil marks than the colors.

Asleepyy, if you're reading this, stay well, don't burn yourself out, and know we'll always understand if you need to take a break!

[minluvrz]

SALVATORE - art donaldson & patrick zwig

cw ; nsfw! smut n handjobs

wc ; 1.7 k

[ notes- i am obsessed with salvatore by lana del rey. the title has no real significance. i also did not proofread this. but anyways, I haven't written in over two years and i actually hate this, but i am so attached to challengers that it's upsetting. take this fic about what happens in the hotel room after tashi leaves! ]

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

The deafening slam of the hotel room door was enough to shake both Art and Patrick from their Duncan-induced trance. Though the room was filled with comfortable silence, Art found his mind racing, trying to rationalize his emotions. He was painfully aware of his throbbing erection, but the source was less than concrete. Making out with Tashi Duncan on a shoddy hotel bed was enough to arouse anybody, but what Art felt was deeper than that.

The slow, teasing feeling of Tashi's lips on his, the scent of her light floral perfume as he leaned in to trail kisses up the column of her neck, Patrick's warmth invading his personal space, the licks of Patrick's tongue against his –

“Holy shit.”

Patrick's voice came out shallow– slightly wrecked as if he couldn't believe what transpired. Which he couldn’t. The Tashi Duncan was just in bed with him. And he had also just made out with his best friend, but that was beside the point.

Patrick looked over at Art, to assess if he too was in the same state. He was met with pink-flushed cheeks and even redder ears. Art was leaning back on his elbows on the bed, his chest rising and falling deeply, labored breaths escaping his mouth. Patrick would be lying through his teeth if he said he didn't feel his dick twitch at the sight. Trying to mask his condition with humor, he spoke,

“Somebody’s excited.” Patrick's signature side-smirk grazed his face as Art turned his head to the left to face him

“Shut the fuck up, Patrick.”

“So what? We’re just gonna sit here until our boners go down?” Patrick reached for the nightstand to grab his box of cigarettes and a lighter. Placing it between his lips, he lit the end and took a long drag. Art's eyes quickly flicked downwards to watch the movement of Patrick's lips against the cigarette, remembering the fleeting feeling of his lips. He painstakingly tore his eyes away and spoke. 

“What else are we supposed to do? Take turns jerking off in the bathroom?”

He spoke sarcastically, making eye contact with Patrick. He breathed out a small cloud of smoke and shrugged his shoulders.

“We don’t have to go to the bathroom.”

Patrick avoided Art’s quizzical glance and continued,

“I mean it’s nothing we haven't seen before. And we did it back in the day-”

“That was once.”

Still, Patrick's hand gravitated towards his crotch. He didn't want to cross a boundary, but the pulsing and sticky mess in his boxers begged otherwise. His other hand passed Art the cigarette to test the waters. 

“Shit man, I mean you do you.” 

Patrick didn’t miss the way that Art’s eyes dug holes into his erection. Taking this as an ‘Okay,’ Patrick's hand finally made contact with his cock through his boxers. He bit his lip to contain the otherwise embarrassing moan that would have slipped out. Art watched the tantalizingly slow strokes he took up and down his clothed dick, feeling his own twitch wildly. He sat up and nonchalantly placed his body closer to Patrick on the bed.

Eventually, Patrick found his pace and his head knocked back against the headboard, a shaky groan coming with it. He kicked his leg out from under him, placing it on Art’s bare leg. The touch set both of their skin on fire, a gasp escaping Art’s mouth. The urge for friction on his dick was becoming unbearable, and he lowered the waistband of his boxers down.

Patrick let out an unabashed, pornographic moan at the sight of Art’s cock and shoved his hand into his boxers to feel skin-to-skin contact. Suddenly, Patrick was reminded of the past, The time at the Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy. When it was pitch black in their shared room, Patrick had to bite back gasps and moans to not wake Art. The time when he showed Art how to jerk off. Whilst Art was thinking about their crush in her all-too-short tennis skirt, Patrick was getting off to the sound of Art’s whines as he finally came.

In real-time, he let out a loud whimper as his hips bucked up towards his fist.

“What are you thinking about?” He plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and shoved it onto a ceramic plate on the nightstand.

 Art's voice echoed in his ear, far too close for comfort. However, he liked it, he liked the uncomfortable stickiness on his hand, the uncomfortable heat radiating off of their bodies, the discomfort of him uncovering his true feelings towards Art.

“N- No way man, can’t fucking say it.” A fucked out grin appeared on Patrick’s features as he leaned his head onto Art’s shoulder. Art’s entire body tensed, but his dick couldn't deny how he truly felt as a glob of precum slid down his length.

His original thoughts about the warmth of Tashi’s thighs and the way her tongue felt against his were replaced with Patrick's. The warmth of his body against his own, the smell of cigarettes, the smell of him. His eyes trailed down to Patrick's hand moving furiously over his cock, squeezing at the angry red tip. Art trailed his hand soothingly up and down Patrick's arm, cooling the fire that he felt throughout his entire body. 

Patrick tilted his head upwards to look at Art, and suddenly everything felt very real. He couldn’t explain why he was in bed with his best friend and jerking his cock, but he didn't fucking want it to stop. 

“You have a nice dick, Art”

“S-Shut up Pat, don’t make this weird.” 

Though his sentence was meant to sound assertive, and dominant, the last few words ended up coming out in a whiney moan as Patrick's hand grazed his upper thigh.

“It’s already pretty fucking weird, don’t you think?” He laughed out, slowing the pace on his cock. 

Art’s rushed breathing and choked-out moans and gasps were the only sounds he could focus on, other than the slick noises coming from his crotch. He wasn’t sure how or when they got this close, shoulder to shoulder, heads leaning back on the headboard.

“You close, Art?

Though he would’ve usually settled on a snappy response, he was far too desperate to be sassy.

“Yes, yes, fuck– I’m so fucking close.”

He turned his head to make eye contact with Patrick, their noses brushing in the process. They were so close, they were practically breathing in each other's air. Fighting the urge to smash their lips together. Patrick instead gripped Art’s wrist, stopping his movements.

The sound that ripped through Art’s chest had them both pause in silence. It was almost primal, in between a whimper and a sob. Patrick almost came right then and there. 

“Fuck.”

Patrick placed his own hand on the base of Art’s cock, and kept it there for a moment, just barely squeezing.

Art’s hips involuntarily chased the heat of Patrick's hands, and then the begging started.

“Please, please, please, I’m almost fucking there– please keep going, I promise I’ll be good–” 

Patrick had to rip the hand on his own cock away as he almost lost his composure. But anyways, who was he to deny his best friend pleasure? 

He started a brutal pace on Art’s cock, squeezing the tip and occasionally digging a fingertip into the slit. His free hand came to push down on Art’s hips to prevent him from squirming too much. Art’s moans pitched higher and higher, and Patrick was sure that they were going to wake up to noise complaints the next morning.

“You gonna cum for me, Art?” Patrick's voice came out wrecked. “Gonna make a mess all over my hand?”

Art couldn’t even find the time to respond as he felt his abs flex and let out a sob as he came all over his best friend’s hand. Patrick kept going, stopping only when Art's large hand gripped his.

“Fuck– that’s enough.”

Art slumped against Patrick's body, taking a moment to catch his breath. Before he could think about what he was doing, he pressed his lips against Patrick's once again. The kiss was fiery, all tongue and spit. Art pulled away, but not before biting on Patrick's bottom lip with a playful tug.

Patrick interlaced Art’s hand with his own and led it to his neglected cock. He moved both of their hands in tandem up and down his length, taking care to swirl their fingers over his tip. Art took mental notes on what movements gained reactions. He whimpers when he digs a finger into the slit of his cock, moans when he lightly nips at his neck, and nearly cries when he rubs his palm in circles over the tip. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum–.”

Patrick closed his grip on Art, forming a tight circle with their hands. He began unabashedly fucking into their hands –  mostly Art’s, and let out a loud groan as he finally came. Art appreciated the warmth of it as it dripped down his fingers, and without thinking, he brought his fingers to his mouth. He licked each of them clean, swirling his tongue around his pointer finger while making eye contact with Patrick.

Without missing a beat, the brunette swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood to his feet. He swiped a sock off of the floor threw it at Art’s face, and grabbed another article of clothing for himself.

“Clean yourself up. I don't want another spilled milk incident.”

“I just made you cum and you're still treating me like an asshole.”

Patrick snorted as he turned his back and walked into the bathroom. He let out a large sigh as he shut the door behind him. The lines of their relationship were starting to blur, and he had no idea what to do about it. He had two options. Pretend this shit never happened, or go to the point of no return. Pushing down the thoughts, he washed his hands and looked up into the mirror. He looked absolutely fucked– to put it gently. However, what gained his attention the most was the red-purple splotches on his neck

“Art Donaldson!” 

He stormed out of the bathroom and returned to find Art lying on his back, playing with cards. He sat up as Patrick gestured to his neck.

“We have a fucking match tomorrow, and you decided to give me hickeys?” 

Art feigned disappointment and responded, 

“You’re a bit of a whore anyways, I thought you’d like it.”

“Do me a favor and shut the fuck up, Art.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

What can I do to understand and psychoanalyze a character better and profoundly?

Supposing you have already developed a well-rounded character (perhaps used a checklist like this), I would say, you can then look deeper into your character by dissecting them in 3 levels:

1. Their individual characteristics, traits, moods, idiosyncrasies etc. You may go through these attributes one by one. Who is your character? What defines them? What are their goals/motivations? How are these goals treated by your character?

2. Who they are within a given context. Who are they when they are alone? How do they behave when they are with X or with Y? When they are at A, do they do things the same as when they find themselves at B? How differently do they behave—if at all? When faced with XYZ situation, what do they do? How do they think and feel in these different contexts and scenarios?

3. Their backstory. What was your character's upbringing like? What significant events transpired? How do these past experiences shape your character now, and moving forward?

Perhaps if you peel back these layers one at a time, you may understand them better and even discover something new. But, ultimately, this is your character. You know them better than anyone else. You hold their future in your hands. All you need to do now is allow the ink to run free.

More: On Psychology More: On Character-Building

[xvxblahhhxvx]

I think Dazai's backstory is really cool in how, despite having more information about it than most other characters, majority of his life is just one giant noodle incident.

Yep, that's the line I'm going with as an introduction to this analysis. Just bear with me.

To start off, for those who don't know, the term "noodle incident" originates from the (amazing) comic Calvin and Hobbes. In it, the whole idea is that Calvin did this unspecified thing in school that involved noodles, but it's never confirmed what exactly happened. It's only referenced in passing, and it is clear that it was not good. Applied to general fiction, the term Noodle Incident refers to an event that is often referenced, but never clearly explained, and what is important is the characters' reactions and feelings towards it. The principle idea behind it is that imagining what said incident could be is way more significant and impactful than anything it would actually be if it was said. It's not the event that's important, but the effects and responses to it are. *for more info, I recommend Overly Sarcastic Productions trope talk video about it*

Now, how this plays into Dazai's life is that, while it is extremely evident that he likely has a horrible, tragic backstory, we never really get to see much of it. The earliest we are introduced to him, he is already suicidal, and he has lost most in hope in existence. These feelings are tempered a bit when he first joins the Port Mafia, but they come back all too quickly. And while you could argue that him being in the Mafia is a large contributor to his depression,the main reasons why he seeks escape clearly transpired before he ever met Mori.

Dazai was already trying to commit suicide at fourteen, which is how he met Mori. Something happened earlier in his life, but we don't know what. Asagiri himself says that he left Dazai's core, the reason he wants to die, vague on purpose. We aren't given many details, and honestly, we aren't given much backstory to it either. The two biggest hints that we get is when he is speaking to Odasaku. First in The Day I Picked Up Dazai, and the second from Dazai and the Dark Era.

We have no idea who or what Dazai is referring to. From all that we have seen, all the backstories and light novels we are given, the only people that we know of whom Dazai actually lost were Ango and Odasaku-for Ango, it was that special friendship, and Odasaku, it was his life. And even so, it isn't much of an explanation, because he was obviously suicidal before he met them, as evident from how he speaks to Odasaku, and losing them wasn't a catalyst for Dazai's depression. (As a matter of fact, it was actually the first step towards improvement, but that's a different analysis).

Yet for how much we don't know about Dazai's life, I think it's done in such a way that it doesn't really matter. It's a noodle incident, in that sense. Because it's not about the events that actually transpired, it's about how that affects Dazai and the way we see him. Don't get me wrong, I would love a full, confirmed backstory, but Asagiri doesn't seem to intend to write it, and that makes Dazai's character so beautiful. It's also one of the reasons why the dark era, especially the light novel, is so tragic. Because yes, you can argue that as far as tragic backstories go, losing two friends isn't near the most awful, especially not in this universe (I'm not trying to play the "which character has more trauma" game, but compared to, for example, growing up in an abusive orphanage, it's relatively not as inherently tragic. That doesn't make it any less horrible though). But the point of the backstory isn't just to explain the reasoning why things ended up the way they did, why Dazai left the Mafia, boo hoo his friend died, but Odasaku and Ango represent everything in Dazai's life, everyone from his past we never got to meet and I'm not sure if we're ever going to. They symbolize all the things in his life that mattered to him, everything he never wanted to lose but did. The last scene in the bar, where the three of them meet up for the last time, Ango leaves, the picture with the three of them laughing and smiling, the whole thing is meant to serve as a microcosm for Dazai's life as a whole. That he feels he's always going to lose everything, and that's why he wants to die. We don't get details, we don't know the specific events, but we're left with the emotions that gives us an important glimpse into this character's mind, more than his life, and that's what makes him such an interesting character that's left open to interpretation and analysis. We aren't privy to the tragedy, but the aftereffects of it. And, almost as if to prove the point, Odasaku dies the next day. Right after Dazai says he always loses everyone, further cementing the idea that there's almost a curse surrounding him, a void of loneliness that may never be fulfilled, which is as much as Odasaku tells him when he dies.

Whatever happened in Dazai's life before fourteen was probably something horrible and tragic. Maybe he had a family. Maybe he had other good friends. Perhaps he even believed in the goodness of life and humanity. But what's really cool about the way he's written is that the exact events are not important nor necessary to understanding his character. His life is one big noodle incident, yet because of that, we're able to glean an almost deeper understanding about him, by leaving the details in the dark and exposing only the raw, humane emotions left behind. The most important part about any backstory in fiction isn't about what actually happened, it's about how does this affect the character now? What lasting impact did it leave on them, and how is it evident in the way they interact with the story in the present? This is something that Asagiri nails on the head when it comes to his backstories. And I think the lack of clear information about Dazai's backstory, yet all the information we do end up getting about him, is one of the reasons why Dazai is such an interesting and intriguing character in the series.

Thank you all for you time. You may now return to your procrastination.

[unabashegirl]

Vicious 13 — mafia hs

After his father's death, Harry Styles must take control of the family mafia while dealing with his unpredictable brother, Silas. He meets Y/N Castellano, the daughter of an Italian mafia boss, and learns about their arranged marriage.

Author's note: Hello everyone, I hope you are all doing well. Please enjoy tonights new chapter. Let me know what you think. This is one of my favorite episodes!

warnings: cursing and violence

--> vicious masterlist <--

After dressing herself, Y/N sat back in the same position as before, running her fingers through her hair as she tried to compose herself. The last thing she wanted was for the rest of Harry's men to know what had transpired behind closed doors.

Harry opened the door for the men, and Y/N remained still, her gaze fixed on the floor. She didn't want to meet anyone's eyes, especially not with the guilt and desire still swirling within her.

The men entered the room, their expressions a mix of curiosity and amusement. Y/N could feel their eyes on her, their silent questions hanging in the air. She resisted the urge to shrink under their scrutiny, instead focusing on keeping her composure.

Harry, ever the composed leader, cleared his throat and addressed the men. "Alright," he said, his voice steady and commanding. Liam and Jack walked nervously walked into the room.

They had gotten wind that the boss was looking for them, and a sense of unease settled over Liam and Jack. They exchanged worried glances, their minds racing with possibilities of what this meeting could be about. Liam furrowed his brow, trying to recall their recent interactions with Harry. He scanned his memory, searching for any hints of a missed task or an error in judgment, but nothing significant surfaced.

Jack, typically composed, found himself fidgeting nervously. He raked his mind for any recent slip-ups, any instance where they might have fallen short of expectations. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air as they made their way to the meeting room, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Y/N couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the sudden return to reality. She knew that what had happened between her and Harry was a fleeting moment, a forbidden indulgence that couldn't be repeated.

As the men filed out of the room, Y/N took a deep breath, steeling herself for the rest of the evening. She knew she had to put on a facade of normalcy, to act as though nothing had happened.

But deep down, she couldn't shake the memory of Harry's touch, the way he had made her feel alive and desired.

"What's happening?" Jack cut through the tension, his voice sharp with unease.

"Boss," Charlie began, prompting both men to focus on him.

"Yeah, what is it?" Liam pressed, his apprehension evident in his tone.

"What's the matter, boss?" Charlie clarified, his expression serious. "This isn't just a casual chat with a friend.”

Jack and Liam exchanged a glance, their silence a wall against the probing questions.

"Two weeks back, a shipment came through. How much of it?" Harry's interrogation cut through the air, his gaze sharp and unyielding. He had received a call days ago, tipping him off about internal issues within the club. The voice on the other end of the line remained steadfastly anonymous, even after Harry offered incentives and the promise of a personal meeting. "I won't ask again," Harry's voice was firm, cutting through the air like a blade.

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat, exchanging a quick glance with Liam. They both knew what Harry was referring to, but neither wanted to be the first to speak up.

"It was... uh, about 20 kilos," Liam finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening at the admission. "And where did that shipment go?"

"It... it went out the back, to the usual buyers," Jack stammered, his eyes darting around the room nervously.

"The usual buyers?" Harry's tone was incredulous. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for games? If there were 20 kilos why were only 10 delivered?” Someone had stolen from him and from his buyers. It had made him loose money. “Liam”.

The weight of Harry's words hung heavy in the room, the gravity of the situation sinking in for Jack and Liam. They exchanged nervous glances, realizing the severity of their mistake.

"I... I don't know, boss," Liam stammered, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape. "We... we thought... we thought the shipment was all there."

"Half of it is missing. Who did you sell it to?" Harry's voice was dangerously low and dry, his patience wearing thin. He knew what they had done, he just wanted them to admit it. Then he would reprimand.

"We didn't mean any harm, boss," Liam spoke up, his voice pleading. "We were just trying to make some extra money..."

"Extra money?" Harry's voice rose, his frustration boiling over. "You risked everything for 'extra money'? Who did you sell it to?!" He yelled, nodding at Charlie and Lex.

Charlie and Lex were quick to step between both of the men. Lex's knuckles met with Jack's face, the sound echoing in the room, while Charlie held Liam back.

"Who, Liam?" Harry asked again, his voice deadly calm now, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He knew there was no escaping this now. The truth had to come out, one way or another. "Again," Lex punched him once more, the force of it making Jack stagger. "I find it quite amusing that you think you'll be able to hide it from me," Harry growled, Lex’s grip tightening on Jack's collar.

"Again. Again. Again," Harry repeated, each punch landing hard on Jack's gut and face.

"The Italians! Federico!" Liam finally shouted, his voice desperate.

A cold chill ran down Y/N's spine at the mention of her father's name. She wasn't surprised that Federico had something to do with it. She just hoped that he wouldn't meddle with Harry until after they were married. The thought of her father's interference made her stomach churn with unease.

Harry's eyes darkened at the revelation. He released a heavy sigh, his mind already calculating the consequences of Federico's betrayal. "You sold it to Federico?" Harry's voice was low, a dangerous edge to it that made the air in the room tense.

Jack nodded frantically, his face contorted in fear. "Yes, yes, He offered us a good deal, we needed the money...”

Harry's jaw clenched as he listened to Jack's excuses. He knew Federico's game well—using his daughter's captor to undermine his business rival. It was a power play, and Harry was not going to let it slide.

"How are you going to make this right?" Harry's voice was low, the cigarette dangling from his fingers as he studied the two men before him.

"We'll do whatever it takes, boss," Liam said, his voice quivering slightly.

Harry took a step closer to Jack, his eyes narrowing. "You think money will fix this?" he asked, his tone dripping with disdain.

Jack swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he tried to compose himself. "We'll pay you back, boss. Every last penny," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Harry's gaze flickered to the blood on Jack's face, and he reached out to grasp his arm, pulling him to his feet. "Clean yourself up," Harry said, his voice firm. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and handed it to Jack.

Harry stood behind Jack in silence, the weight of the situation heavy in the air. Jack's heart pounded in his chest as he walked, his mind racing with fear and uncertainty.

It wasn't until Jack felt the cold, unforgiving metal of Harry's gun pressed against his temple that he realized the gravity of his mistake. The world seemed to slow down as panic gripped him, and he opened his mouth to plead for mercy.

But before he could utter a single word, the gun went off with a deafening bang. Jack felt a searing pain as the bullet tore through his skull, and in an instant, his world erupted into chaos.

Blood sprayed everywhere, painting the walls and floor in a gruesome display. Liam, who stood frozen beside Jack, was drenched in the warm, sticky fluid, his eyes wide with horror and shock.

Harry's expression remained cold and unyielding as he lowered the smoking gun, his eyes fixed on the lifeless body of his former associate. The room was filled with an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of ragged breaths and the drip, drip, drip of blood.

For a moment, no one moved. The weight of what had just happened hung heavy in the air, suffocating them all with its brutality.

Then, with a grim determination, Harry turned to Liam, his gaze piercing and unyielding. "You have one week," he said, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "One week to make this right, or you'll end up like him."

Liam could only nod weakly, his body trembling with fear and shock. He knew that Harry was not a man to be trifled with, and the consequences of failure were too terrible to imagine.

As Harry turned away, the reality of the situation crashed down on Liam like a ton of bricks. He was alone now, left to clean up the mess and make amends for the grave mistake that had cost Jack his life.

With a heavy heart and a mind filled with dread, Liam knew that the next week would be the longest and most terrifying of his life. And as he stared down at the lifeless body of his former partner, he couldn't shake the feeling that his own fate hung in the balance.

"Get them out of here," Harry ordered, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Lex and Charlie wasted no time in wrapping Jack’s body and dragging him out of the room, their protests muffled by the sound of the door slamming shut.

Y/N watched in silence, her heart racing with a mix of fear and anticipation. She knew Harry's wrath was not to be taken lightly, especially when it came to betrayal. She could only hope that her father's actions wouldn't jeopardize everything they had been building.

Harry's swift and cold-blooded execution of Jack served as a brutal wake-up call for Y/N. It was like a bucket of ice water thrown over her, jolting her back to the harsh reality of their situation. In that moment, she saw Harry for who he truly was—a man capable of taking a life without a hint of regret or remorse.

The man who had touched her moments ago, who had ignited a fire of desire within her, was now a distant memory. In his place stood a ruthless and unyielding figure, a man of steel and stone.

Y/N couldn't tear her eyes away from the scene before her—the bloodied corpse of Jack lying on the ground, the unmistakable scent of gunpowder lingering in the air. It was a stark reminder of the dangerous world she had been thrust into, a world where lives were disposable and loyalty came at a deadly price.

She felt a shiver run down her spine as she watched Harry, his expression unreadable as he calmly holstered his gun. There was no flicker of emotion in his eyes, no sign of the man who had held her moments ago with such passion.

In that moment, Y/N knew that she was nothing more than a pawn in Harry's game. She was a piece to be moved and manipulated at his whim, a tool to be used for his own gain.

The realization was a bitter pill to swallow, and it filled her with a sense of dread and unease. She had been drawn to Harry, seduced by his charm and charisma. But now, she saw him for what he truly was—a dangerous man with blood on his hands.

As the weight of the situation settled over her, Y/N felt a surge of fear and uncertainty. She knew that she was in too deep, entangled in a web of danger and deceit from which there was no easy escape.

With a heavy heart and a mind filled with trepidation, Y/N realized that she was now truly alone. In this world of shadows and secrets, she could trust no one—not even the man who had once held her in his arms and whispered promises of passion.

Harry's cold gaze met hers, and for a fleeting moment, Y/N saw a glimmer of something in his eyes—a spark of something dark and dangerous. It sent a shiver of fear down her spine, and she knew that she was treading on dangerous ground.

In that moment, Y/N made a silent vow to herself. She would survive this, no matter the cost. She would play the game, dance the dance of shadows and deceit, all while keeping her true intentions hidden deep within her heart.

As the room fell into an uneasy silence, Harry turned his gaze to Y/N. His eyes softened slightly as he approached her, the intensity of his earlier anger now replaced with a more calculating look.

"We have a problem," Harry said, his voice low as he stood in front of her. "And we need to deal with it before it gets out of hand."

Y/N swallowed hard, her eyes meeting his with a mix of apprehension and determination. "What do you need me to do?" she asked, steeling herself for whatever was to come.

Harry's lips quirked into a small smirk, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "I need you to make a call," he said, his voice a low murmur. "To your dear father."

Y/N's heart raced as the car pulled up to the elegant restaurant where she had agreed to meet her father. The familiar knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach, and she took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves.

The valet opened the car door, and she stepped out, her eyes scanning the elegant facade of the restaurant. It was a place of polished wood and gleaming glass, with soft lighting that cast a warm glow over the entrance.

As she made her way inside, the soft murmur of conversation and the clink of silverware filled the air. The restaurant was bustling with the chatter of diners, the aroma of delicious food wafting through the air.

Y/N felt a wave of apprehension wash over her as she scanned the crowded room, searching for her father's familiar face. She spotted him at a corner table, his expression unreadable as he watched her approach.

"Y/N," he greeted her with a nod, his voice cool and controlled.

"Father," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them palpable. Y/N felt the weight of her father's gaze on her, scrutinizing her every move.

"I trust you've been well," her father finally spoke, his tone casual, but there was an underlying edge to his words.

"Yes," Y/N replied, her voice steady despite the nerves churning inside her.

"Good," he said, his gaze lingering on her face. "I've heard some... unsettling rumors recently."

Y/N's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing with possibilities. She had to tread carefully, choosing her words with caution.

"I'm not sure what you're referring to, Father," she replied, her voice carefully neutral.

Her father leaned back in his chair, studying her with a calculating gaze. "You know as well as I do the importance of loyalty, Y/N," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Y/N felt a surge of fear grip her heart, knowing the implications of her father's words. Loyalty was everything in their world, and any hint of betrayal was met with swift and merciless consequences.

"I am loyal, Father," she said, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to appear composed. “I just have to gain his trust”.

"I've heard that you've been opening your legs to him," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "I wasn't surprised. You are just like your mother."

Y/N felt a surge of anger and humiliation rise within her, but she bit down hard on her tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. She hated when he spoke about her mother, using her as a weapon to wound her.

"Is that what you've come here to discuss, Father?" she asked, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.

Her father leaned back in his chair, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Oh, there are many things we could discuss, my dear," he said, his eyes glinting with malice. "But let's start with your... indiscretions."

Y/N clenched her jaw, her fists tight at her sides. She knew she had to tread carefully, to keep her emotions in check.

"I assure you, Father, my personal life is of no concern to you," she replied, her voice tinged with steel.

"Isn't it?" her father replied, his voice low and dangerous. "You seem to forget where your loyalties lie, Y/N. You are a Castellano, and you will behave as such."

Y/N felt a surge of defiance rise within her, pushing back against her father's demands. "I am loyal to the family, Father," she said, her voice unwavering. "But I will not be treated as a pawn in your games."

Her father's eyes flashed with anger, his jaw clenched tightly. "You will do as you're told, Y/N," he said, his voice a low growl. "Or there will be consequences."

Y/N met his gaze, her chin lifted defiantly. "I will not be controlled, Father," she said, her voice firm. "I will make my own choices, regardless of the consequences."

--> chapter 14

[nikethestatue]

"Elain gave it back".

That's what we learned from Morrigan and Feyre, in regards to what had happened to Elain and Truth Teller.

She returned it to Azriel. That simple gesture has been continuously misinterpreted as 'Elain doesn't care about TT or Azriel' or 'Elain abhors violence' and 'Elain can't handle Azriel's darkness'.

But what happened between Nesta cutting off the King's head and Elain returning the knife?

Because Elain wasn't the last person who held the dagger--it was Nesta. What transpired was Nesta rushed to the king, and grabbed the hilt of the dagger as she began twisting it. Meanwhile, Elain ran to Cassian, and both of them watched Nesta behead the King.

Now, nothing is said further about the knife. Nesta lifted the severed head and looked at it, while the Cauldron couldn't believe that Elain defended this 'thief', yet the Cauldron found her so lovely, it could never hurt her.

All of this means one thing--Elain went BACK for the dagger. She picked it up from the ground or she took it from Nesta. She was the one who understood its significance and its importance to Azriel and she took the dagger back. And likely, she cleaned it. Wiped the blade of blood and gore, before placing it back into the scabbard.

She was the one who carried it with her until the end of the battle, not knowing if Azriel would survive. If any of them would survive. But she served as the custodian for Truth Teller until it could be returned to its rightful owner. She carried it the entire day, following Azriel's words 'I won't be using it today' and once she saw that Azriel lived, she gave it back to him. If he'd died, it would've been Elain who would've held on to the dagger. If Azriel had died, it was Elain whom he trusted with his most treasured possession.

Elain stabbed the king in the throat, watched his beheading, had the Cauldron purr over her, then picked the dagger up, cleaned it and kept it safe for the duration of the battle, even after finding her father dead and watching the Cauldron being reforged.

Still think that Elain can't handle Azriel's darkness?

[gnocchibabie]

Desire and Blood (Chapter 6)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen/Strong OC (Jaenara Velaryon)

Tags: AU - canon divergence, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, Targcest (uncle/niece)

Wordcount: 4.9k

Summary:

Against all odds, the love between childhood friends prevails and the Dance of Dragons is avoided.

However, peace comes at a cost. With the unexpected proposal of marriage between Alicent Hightower's son and Rhaenyra Targaryen's only daughter, can love truly blossom between sworn enemies? Or will Jaenara Velaryon be reduced to a mere pawn?

Love may yet arise where enmity once thrived, but Aemond's relentless pursuit of power threatens to shatter everything they hold dear, including each other.

A/N: You can find the previous chapters on my masterlist!

If you are liking this series, please consider showing some love on my AO3 posting of this fic :) thank you x

A feast sits before the princess, and yet she is unable to find her appetite. Her fingers glide over the carved wood, finding a small divot as she traces circles absentmindedly. The servants continued to lavish her plate with food, but she neither noticed nor cared, her mind lost in a turbulent sea of thought.

All morning, and most of last night for that matter, Jaenara had been thinking of Aemond – of their “scandalous” meeting in her private chambers. Nothing had transpired between them, not really. Save for some words of vulnerability and a fleeting touch to her hair. 

Something so seemingly innocuous made the princess feel as though she were committing some great sin. 

She was not so sure why she had let Aemond into her room last night. Her intention had been to offer comfort, sensing his distress and knowing him well enough to understand he would not reveal what was troubling him.

But why did she care to comfort him at all? Why did seeing him in such a state stir something within her?

She was meant to feel only indifference towards her uncle, as he did for her. 

What kind of indifference, she wondered, was relief in her words of comfort? 

What kind of indifference was leaning into each other’s touch?

What kind of indifference was Jaenara finding immediate sleep, so that she may seek out her betrothed in her dreams?

Surely, indifference did not define their relationship. Perhaps, it was the beginning of something far more profound and complicated than either of them had anticipated…

“Jaenara?” Rhaenyra Targaryen’s voice halts her daughter’s ruminations.

The princess raises her gaze to her mother, who sits across from her with an expectant look. “Oh—yes?”

Rhaenyra sighs, repeating her inquiry, “Are you not hungry, child?”

Jaenara clears her throat and shovels a few bites into her mouth hastily.

“I suppose my mind is just…elsewhere.” she replies, making a show of chewing.

Daemon scoffs beside her mother, “Clearly…and don’t choke yourself.”

Jaenara stifles the urge to roll her eyes at her stepfather, taking a few gulps of water to wash down the hastily consumed food.

“Is something troubling you, dear?” Rhaenyra exchanges looks between her daughter and Daemon, concern etching her features..

Jaenara seizes the moment. “I haven’t been able to attend your council meetings of late, Mother,” her voice measured and calm. “Are there any significant developments I should be informed of?”

She chose her words with care, hoping to steer the conversation away from the discord that simmered beneath the surface of her impending marriage.

Daemon interjects before her mother has a chance to respond, “Certainly none that should be discussed during our morning meal. Now, I believe your mother asked you a question.”

“Daemon…” Rhaenyra breathes, now leaning forward to meet her daughter’s gaze, “Is it about the wedding, Nara?”

Jaenara returns her hand to tracing the table, feeling as though the food she just pushed down her throat may come back up at any time. After a moment, she drags out a sigh and brings her attention to the couple sitting before her.

Jaenara’s hand returns to the table’s surface, her unease growing palpable. She exhales deeply before meeting their eyes. “I am well, though I confess to some… anxieties regarding the wedding.” She clears her throat and rises, her chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“There is little to be gained in discussing it further. I must go meet my betrothed in the training yard to select my sworn sword.” She spits out her addressal of Aemond, as if it was acrid on the tongue. Without waiting for a response, Jaenara sweeps from the room, her steps brisk and purposeful.

Daemon rises, meaning to halt his step-daughter for leaving so abruptly. 

“It’s alright, husband.” Rhaenyra sighs beside him, slumping ever so slightly in her seat.

The king consort huffs and takes his seat once more, “She grows bolder and bolder by the day.” he mutters.

Rhaenyra hums thoughtfully, looking at her husband, “Yes, she reminds me of someone.”

“That girl is you, born again.” Daemon snorts.

“Perhaps she has picked up a few…traits from the both of us,” she places a hand on her husband’s arm, “I think I have upset her. I sell her off as though she were a brood-mare to perhaps the one person in the realm she has come to despise the most. And now that I am Queen, I barely have time to console her over the unfortunate pairing.”

“You two act as though Aemond is any kind of threat. Unpleasant perhaps, both to gaze upon and share company with. But harmless. Truthfully, Jaenara should be happy over the pairing. She is to marry a Targaryen prince, rather than be shipped off to somewhere she would grow miserable – like that wasteland they call the North.” 

Rhaenyra's gaze settled on Daemon with a thoughtful expression. "You wouldn't truly understand, Daemon. You have the privilege of agency over your marriage."

Daemon’s face hardened. "And yet, I was born a man of consequence, my own hand traded for political gain. You forget my ill-fated first marriage. Rhea Royce was merely a pawn for securing Runestone’s favor. I had no say in that union. Viserys made the decision with a wave of his hand, and it was settled." He took a casual sip from his drink, as though discussing the weather. "Jaenara would do well to accept her role and its demands. Besides, Aemond seems quite taken with her."

Rhaenyra’s hand fell away from Daemon's arm, her eyes widening. "What?"

"Well," Daemon continued, "they dine together occasionally. I've seen them walking in the gardens more than once. He even seems to have been the one to press her about selecting a shield."

Rhaenyra sighs and drops her head into her hands, “And all this has been lost on me? I find myself too busy at present to know the lives of my own children. I did not even know Jaenara had not yet chosen a sworn sword! To think she has been wandering around the Red Keep unprotected, and I had not even noticed…”

Daemon furrows his eyebrows at his wife’s self-scrutiny, “You have had much more important matters as of late. Allow the dust to settle around the crowning of the new Queen, and you will soon find time for other priorities once more,” He meets Rhaenyra’s eyes, “And your daughter has been well protected – Aemond knows what would become of him if he did not see to that.”

— 

Jaenara strides briskly through the halls of the castle, making a hasty exit to the training yard. She begins to nibble on her lower lip once more, hoping the sting will quell the swirling of her mind. As if her disturbance concerning Aemond had not weighed on her enough, she now worried she had offended her mother, or worse – saddened her. 

The princess focuses her gaze on the rich red rugs that drape across the stone floor, signaling her path to the training field, her stare too narrowly fixed to notice the figure bumps into.

“Careful, niece.” Aegon scolds, though his eyes and the smirk on his face are playful. 

Jaenara came to the conclusion that the gods, old and new, surely had it in for her this morning.

Not caring to prolong the unwanted interaction, she kept her reply short, “Apologies, uncle.” she muttered and set back on her path.

“Are you looking for my brother?” Aegon called after her.

Jaenara, back turned to her uncle, allowed her eyes to roll. “I am meeting him in the training yard.” 

Aegon hummed, “Right. Do make sure he doesn’t go…wandering off anywhere.”

Jaenara finally turns to face him, noting that his tone drips with mocking amusement. His smirk only deepens, underscoring his lack of genuine concern. 

The princess casts one last bewildered glance at her uncle before resuming her pursuit for his brother.

Has he gone mad?

Aegon giggled to himself, deciding not to reveal where he had found Aemond just the previous night. He’d save the revelation – for now.

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

For once, the training yard is considerably quiet. Save for the stern words of Aemond that echo throughout the grounds, reverberating off of the dozen knights that form a line before him. 

Jaenara lingers above for a moment, watching her uncle pace back and forth in front of the men, his face as intense as ever.

She supposes he took this matter much more seriously than she did. The princess stands stock still, trying to stall for as long as she can and wondering if she could blend in to the wooden posts surrounding her. She watches the sunlight glint off of the armor of the knights below her – watches her uncle continue to saunter up and down the yard. His mouth moves, though she is unable to make out any of his speech. 

Though she found she cared little to know what he was saying, so long as she could continue to watch his lips curl and twist and enunciate the words.

Seven Hells. Am I the one going mad?

These were precisely the kind of thoughts plaguing her mind all last night and this morning. This is what had driven her away from her mother with such haste. 

Jaenara hated it –- how it made her second guess herself. Keeping her composure around Aemond was sure to prove a monumental challenge – so much so, that she began to slowly creep away from the scene before her, hoping to retreat to the safety of her chambers. 

Though she was not quick enough.

The moment she took a step back, it was as if her camouflage amongst the balcony was relinquished – with Aemond looking up to meet her gaze.

“Princess Jaenara,” he announced aloud, causing the knights to take a knee from the mention of her name.

Letting out a puff of air, the princess began her descent down the stairs leading to the training yard.She navigated the muck of the training yard with a purpose, her heart racing despite her attempt to remain composed. Aemond met her halfway, his expression unreadable.

“Good morning, niece,” he greeted, his tone betraying a hint of warmth that contrasted with his usual stern demeanor.

Jaenara managed a small, polite smile and a nod. She was not ready to speak, her emotions too close to the surface. 

Aemond notices the terse air about her, though he continues on, “I petitioned the help of Ser Criston and Ser Arryk to assemble a few capable knights. But it would seem they brought me boys when I demanded capable men. You may dismiss them and I will personally see to it that–” 

“Greatness must start somewhere – for everyone,” Jaenara replies stiffly, eyes quickly scanning the man over, “Thank you, uncle.” She dismisses. Aemond furrows an eyebrow at the peculiar coldness of his niece. She had been so unexpectedly warm around him lately – especially last night – that he had forgotten how biting her icy demeanor was. 

Jaenara takes in the men before her and realizes Aemond was correct in his judgment. The knights all looked young and green, certainly having never seen battle. She makes her way down the line of men, observing how they all avert their eyes under her pointed gaze, suddenly becoming very interested in their shoes or a cloud in the sky. She passes by one knight, and finds hazel eyes staring back at her, head held high and fixed forward. 

The princess pauses.

“And what is your name, Ser?”

The knight keeps his eyes ahead of him. With a voice both steady and respectful, he answered, “Ser Relyn Redfort, Your Grace.” He concluded his introduction with a subtle nod. Aemond watched intently from behind Jaenara, though Relyn’s attention remained unmoved.

“Ser Relyn…” Jaenara said thoughtfully, a flicker of recognition crossing her features. “I believe a kinsman of yours serves in my mother’s Queensguard. Ser Adrian Redfort, is it?”

“That is correct, princess. He is my cousin.”

Jaenara hums thoughtfully. “I hear he is a man of great skill. I assume you are as well, to believe you are fit to guard my own life.” 

Relyn showed no sign of intimidation under her scrutiny. Instead, he seemed to draw strength from her challenge. “Indeed, princess. More so than the rest of these craven boys,” he declared with a grumble.

The other knights in line responded with derisive scoffs, and Jaenara could hear Aemond’s soft chuckle from behind her, clearly amused. The princess herself smirks.

Aemond leaned closer to Jaenara, his hand resting on her shoulder, and whispered into her ear, “This one carries an arrogance that may prove troublesome. You’d be wise to—”

“I find some truth in your assessment, Ser Relyn. Yet, it is actions that will validate your words.” Jaenara’s voice is louder now, cutting off the man who whispered into her ear. A resolute glint in her eyes makes the knight stand even straighter.

Aemond stared down at his niece incredulously. Had he done something to upset her? The last time he’d seen her had been the previous evening – or rather the wee hours of the morning – even then, she had been filled with laughter, jesting, and offering him solace.

But now she was acting…well – like him.

Had Aemond been so difficult with her before? So aloof and disdainful. So frigid. Was she now seeking to repay him in kind, serving him a taste of his own medicine?

Aemond peered into her lilac eyes once more, searching for something. Any sign of what troubled her. The prince recognized something within her expression – whether it be the furrow in her brow or the resolute look settled amongst her eyes – he saw, no felt, the same emotions that had burdened him yesterday.

Was she too consumed by thoughts of him? As he had been – still is – with her?

Gods…what a tangled web.

Despite his warm touch to her shoulder, Jaenara did little to let on what the lingering graze did to her. Ignoring her uncle still, she addresses Ser Relyn once more, Aemond’s gaze searing into her.

“To affirm your skill, I will have you–”

“Fight me in single combat,” Aemond’s voice soars over Jaenara’s with authoritative command, “Then, we will see how worthy you are.”

Murmurs broke out amongst the other men, clearly perturbed by the proposition. Aemond was known to be a formidable opponent, but to risk the chance of bringing some kind of harm to him – it would be mad to agree to it. 

Jaenara spun on her heel, her braid slicing through the air and brushing against Aemond’s chest.  

Finally, she looks at me.

“Are you mad?!” she hissed at him, her voice a fervent whisper filled with both incredulity and frustration.

“Oh, come now, niece,” Aemond said with a sardonic smile, his tone both teasing and resolute. He leaned in close once more, his breath warm against her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. “We both know I am the most fearsome in this yard. I told you in the garden that I intended to act. I was sincere then. Let me prove it to you.”

He straightened, his expression hardening as he walked with deliberate steps toward the center of the training yard. His gaze remained fixed on Jaenara a moment longer, a silent challenge in his eyes, as he prepared to face Ser Relyn.

“Uncle!” Jaenara called out, though the plea fell on deaf ears. “Mittys.” she mutters.

“I will serve you well, my princess.” Relyn called out. If he shared the sentiments of the other knights, he hid it well. 

He is infuriating. 

Jaenara watched as Aemond picked up a practice blade of his own, shifting it from one hand to the other and feeling its weight. Her mind was racing now, fearing what may unfold before her. She worried for Ser Relyn’s safety, knowing that Aemond was not the type of man to hold back.

She felt more concerned however, that some harm may befall her uncle. The thought made her stomach churn. And why was that?

Because you care about him damn it!

And truly, she realized, it was futile to believe otherwise. 

From across the yard, Aemond stole one more glance at his betrothed. He watched her gnaw at her lip once more – surely it would be red and raw by the time he returned to her. Her unease was palpable even to him. Jaenara shifted from one foot to the other anxiously, chest rising and falling quickly. 

While observing her fretful form, Aemond was suddenly struck with realization.

Perhaps she did care for him. She could verbally deny it all she’d like, but actions spoke louder than words. It’s why he found himself doing this, after all. 

But there was no time to linger on the thought if Aemond meant to win this fight. Certainly this was no time to even consider what this may mean for his grand scheme.

Ser Relyn Redfort stared back at him, already in a fighting stance. The other knights had formed a loose circle around the combatants, their whispers a low hum of anticipation and concern. The prince had picked up a practice sword of his own, feeling its weight and balance in his hands.  The blade was blunt, designed for training, but it would still deliver a telling blow if wielded with precision.

“You are quite eager, Ser Relyn.” Aemond slowly approached the man and came to a stop, his stance confident and commanding. 

To lose, Aemond added to himself.

“At your word, my Prince.” The knight was ever eager to prove himself. 

Aemond shifted his footing, prompting the knight to do the same. Soon, the two men began to circle each other, ready to see who would strike first. 

Jaenara had since returned to her previous vantage point amongst the stairs and wooden posts. From above, she watched the fight threatening to break out from below, as though she were a hawk high in the sky.

Of course, she wanted her uncle to win. To prove victorious to all the men in the yard – and to prove something to her.

Though the thought of Ser Relyn being bested did mean that the undesired affair of choosing her knight would only be prolonged. 

It was a difficult choice, she decided, though she still found herself muttering to herself, “Come on, Aemond.”

As though her mumbled petition was a signal to commence the fight, a glint of light flashed across the yard – a sword catching the sunlight. 

Relyn Redfort had swung first, attempting to send his blade crashing upon Aemond from above, though he parried with ease. 

Aemond recovered quickly, his sword clashing with Relyn’s with a sharp clang, the sound echoing across the training yard. The force of the blow rattled through both men, but Aemond's stance remained steady. He sidestepped gracefully, his eyes locked on Relyn’s every move. The younger knight’s aggression was clear, each swing executed with fervent determination, though Aemond’s experience and calm demeanor gave him an edge.

Relyn pressed forward, his strikes quick and relentless, trying to overwhelm Aemond with sheer force. He aimed high, low, and from the sides, each attack calculated and precise.

Aemond parried and deflected, his movements fluid and controlled. Despite the blunt practice swords, the impact of each blow was palpable, their exertion evident in the strained muscles and beads of sweat on their foreheads.

Jaenara watched with bated breath, her heart pounding in sync with the clash of blades. Her gaze darted between Aemond and Relyn, the tension in the air almost tangible. She had hoped for a clear victory but found herself enthralled by the display of skill and determination. The way Aemond moved, so effortlessly, only heightened her anticipation. She clenched her hands around the wooden railing, her muttered encouragement growing more fervent.

“Come on, Aemond,” she whispered again, her voice barely audible above the din of the crowd.

Relyn’s next swing was aimed at Aemond’s side, but Aemond anticipated it, shifting just enough to dodge the blow. He countered with a quick thrust, forcing Relyn to retreat. The knight’s eyes narrowed, a mix of frustration and respect flashing across his face. He adjusted his grip on the sword, his focus sharpening as he prepared for another assault.

The fight became a dance of sorts, each combatant testing the other’s limits. Relyn tried a feint, hoping to catch Aemond off guard, but Aemond’s sharp reflexes allowed him to deflect the strike and respond with a swift counter. The two warriors were evenly matched, their skill and stamina pushing them to their limits.

As the duel continued, Aemond’s strategy began to emerge. He let Relyn expend his energy with vigorous attacks, occasionally allowing the younger knight to land blows that were more symbolic than damaging. Aemond’s movements became more calculated, waiting for the right moment to exploit an opening.

The moment came when Relyn, after a particularly forceful swing, overextended himself. Aemond seized the opportunity with deft precision. He sidestepped Relyn’s blade, using the momentum of the young knight’s overcommitment against him. With a swift, decisive move, Aemond’s practice sword connected sharply against Relyn’s side, the blow delivered with controlled force that would have been crippling in a real battle.

Relyn staggered, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he tried to regain his balance. The impact of the strike was evident, and the young knight’s strength faltered under the weight of Aemond’s expert maneuvering. His sword lowered, he found himself at a disadvantage, his earlier confidence slipping away.

Aemond stepped closer, his expression stern yet respectful. “Yield.” he commanded, his voice carrying the authority of a prince who demanded both respect and acknowledgment.

The sight alone made Jaenara’s head spin for a moment, though her uncle’s tone of voice had her gripping the wooden railing impossibly harder.

Relyn hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering between Aemond and the ground. The fight had taken its toll, and the weight of defeat was clear on his face. He lowered his sword completely, his shoulders slumping in surrender.

“I yield, Your Grace,” Relyn said, his voice a mixture of respect and resignation.

Aemond helps the man to his feet, though not before delivering a blow of words, “You cannot expect to guard the life of a Targaryen princess if you can’t even cut me do–”

“You fought well, Ser Relyn,” Jaenara’s voice echoes throughout the yard as begins her descent once more, “Truthfully, not many men would dare face off against Prince Aemond. I have seen myself that you are not only daring, but capable. Perhaps, your skills need polishing – though that will surely come during your time here…” She regards her uncle with a testy look before continuing, “I will have you as my sworn protector.” 

A grateful expression begins to break across the knight’s face as he takes a knee once more, “You honor me, Princess. I thank you.”

Jaenara smiles slightly, “Well, you may not thank me so soon. I am told I can be difficult company.”

A dry chuckle leaves Aemond’s throat, which she pointedly chooses to ignore. The princess turns to the knights scattered throughout the yard, “I thank you all for coming – you may return to your duties.”

The crowd of knights began to disperse, their murmurs of respect and admiration concerning the fight that had unfolded fading. 

“I will see you on the morrow, Ser Relyn.” Jaenara finally nods, dismissing the young knight. 

The training yard was left with only Aemond and Jaenara, her previously polite smile fading as she turned to face her uncle.

“You had no right to do that,” she said sharply.

“To defeat him?” Aemond replied with icy calm.

“To humiliate him!” Jaenara’s voice was laden with frustration

To put yourself at risk. She dared not speak that thought aloud. 

“We were merely assessing his skill, niece. I will not have a man who cannot hold his own be tasked with guarding your life,” annoyance flashes over him, “And yet, you still chose him. For what reason? To vex me?”

She gave a scornful laugh, “To vex you?”

“Yes, to vex me. You are quite skilled at it. With your smooth words in the evening and your cold attitude by day,” he closes the gap between them, “Do you know what you do to me?” 

“What I do to you?” A mixture of hurt and immense sadness swells across her face, threatening to consume Aemond as well.

“Well, I apologize, uncle,” she spits, “I am sorry I am the woman you are doomed to marry. I am sorry you are stuck with me – and for whatever I do to you –”

“Jaenara, that is not what I intended –”

“And do you have any idea what you do to me? As though you are any better. One day you tell me our relationship is nothing but duty. You call me a bastard – and the next, y-you compliment my dress…your gaze lingers over me for much too long – you give me fleeting touches and–!” the princess all but stomps her feet, frustration boiling over, her words stumbling as she tries to articulate her pain.

“I cannot do it, Aemond.” Jaenara finishes, with a palpable sadness in her voice and wetness in her eyes.

“Jaenara!” His call was in vain, and all Aemond could do was watch as his niece fled the training yard, desperate to escape and put as much distance between them as possible.

His heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline he had felt during his fight with Ser Relyn paled in comparison to the frenzied emotions he now felt.

The prince lets out a frustrated groan, slinging his practice blade across the field.

“Damn it all!” he shouts aloud. He hadn’t wanted to make Jaenara feel like that. But what he said was true – his niece had left him reeling as of late. Apparently he had done the same to her. 

This was not a part of the plan.

Surely his increasing attraction to his niece, and perhaps even their growing attraction to each other, had not been expected. Though to Aemond, it was certainly not unwelcome. He found something in himself when he was near Jaenara – a part of himself he previously did not know even existed. 

He could love her, he thought, though the idea scared him. 

And if his own ambition to dethrone Jacaerys was not enough, surely his love for Jaenara was. 

Things could still go to plan.

Aemond eased his ragged breathing, regaining his composure bit by bit. He would seek her out – apologize to his niece at dinner tonight, allowing her the time to cool down. 

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

The day crawled by for Aemond, each hour dragging slower than the last, a stark contrast to the chaotic morning he had endured. The prince was allowed ample time to mull over what he would say to his niece when the time finally came. Embarrassingly enough, he had spent most of the day with Vhagar, pacing in front of her as she slept, entirely unbothered, whilst practicing what he would say to Jaenara. Soon, a cool evening settled around the Red Keep, enveloping all of King’s Landing in dusk. 

He now sat at the grand dinner table amongst the rest of his family, awaiting the arrival of Jaenara. Helaena was seated next to him, muttering something to herself as she fiddled with her hands in her lap. 

He frowned, struggling to make sense of Helaena’s muffled and cryptic speech.

“...a shadow of the sea…drifting through the city’s heart…leaving ripples unseen…”

The prince furrowed a brow, trying to decipher what Helaena could have possibly been talking about. 

But dinner came and went, with no appearance from Jaenara. Aemond had even dared to speak to his half-sister halfway through their meal, asking of her whereabouts.

“She requested her dinner be sent to her room,” Rhaenyra replied, her gaze revealing curiosity at her half-brother's worry. “She claimed to be unwell.”

Aemond excuses himself early and makes his way to his niece’s chamber. Stopping in front of her door, he sees the plate of food sitting there untouched.

Had her servants not even bothered to enter her room?

He knocks on her door, “Princess. It is me…” a pause, “Aemond…” he adds awkwardly. But he is only met with silence. The prince tries the door, but finds it is locked.

Panic set in as Aemond dashed back to his room. He ran his hand across the stone wall, finding the loose spot in a corner of his room. Hurriedly, he pushes down on one of the rocks, causing the hidden pathway to reveal itself once more. Running to Jaenara’s private chambers, he finds them barren. Making a round throughout the entire room, he finds no sign of his niece. 

A deep sense of urgency gripped him. She was not in her room, and she was likely not in the castle at all. Where had she gone?

Where did you go, damn it?!

He searches her room once more, gleaning for any clues that may indicate where she had run off to. From the corner of his eye, Aemond catches a deep blue fabric peeking out from under his niece’s pillow. Ripping her sheets back, he finds the fine dress Jaenara had been wearing that morning, folded neatly and placed here, as though she meant to hide it. 

Helaena’s words filter into his mind suddenly: Drifting through the city’s heart.

Aemond then remembers the revelation that Jaenara had shared with him the previous night, which had nearly sent him into hysterics: 

You are not the only one who apparently enjoys sneaking around King’s Landing.

Aemond dropped the gown, sprinting out of Jaenara’s chamber to grab a cloak and find one of the castle’s many concealed passageways that would carry him out into the night.

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