#that prioritizes symbolism over all else

[loadinghellsing]

[harmoonix]

☾ Your Moon Phase ☾

☾ ~ In your Birth Chart ~ ☾

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🌑 If you want to find your moon phase scroll down before you read so you'll know what you read about 🌑 ☾•☾•☾

☾ • ☾ • ☾

🌑 BORN ON THE NEW MOON 🌑

The native born during the new moon is meant to experience many vast, wild and beautiful experiences in this lifetime, since New Moon symbolize beginnings, your entire life is about yourself, to prioritize yourself, to prioritize your time. The new moon is also known as the "Dark Moon" is the phase where moon is the weakest, because is covered in full darkness. People born under the new moon love to try out new things, to start new journeys/ideas/ to extend their creativity, since Moon can be a bit more soft in this phase, the native has an unique sensitive nature, is very important to not lose your love for curiosity as you grow up, to always stay curious

🌑 BORN ON A WAXING CRESCENT MOON 🌑

The natives born under a waxing crescent are more to embrace their lives with more curiosity and joy than others, their energy can be from clingy - to an attachment style in a really fast way, above all they're are independent and love to do the things their own way, they also tend to prefer their comfort zone and security (feeling safe) over anything else. They may also love challenges, especially if there is a reward involved, (risk taking). Some of them can also be a bit timid/shy at first but kind and respectful! The native during this moon phase tends to attach themselves to the past which can be a bit bad for them because you cannot change the past, you may feel sorry or bad over your past but don't let it to ruin your whole life

🌑 BORN ON A FIRST QUARTER MOON 🌑

Where the moon firstly finds herself being half illuminated, half and half, 2 pieces combining eachother, darkness and light. This phase of moon indicates growth. Therefore the native can be really grounding, motivational, more calm/peaceful. You are the protagonist/main character with this moon phase in your own life. The native has a very excited nature, the more excited thet get the more things they create out of it. They may also have a sense of achieving things, to collect as many things as possible and to open new doors in life. The native is a strong individual, proactive, sometimes a bit passive aswell. Your strong personality can help you to reach your full potential. Is very important to know that you can't change some things and have to let them happen, sometimes waiting for the result of a problem can be a key solver

🌑 BORN ON A WAXING GIBBOUS 🌑

The native born during this moon phase is blessed with the gift of communication, while other moon phases search for an individual knowledge, this moon phase wants to share their knowledge with others. These natives can also identify as the "psychologist" or "therapist" of their group (friend group if is the case) because of their analytical mind, they often know how it is to go through from bad to good moods and vice versa, and they know how to deal with problems in their own ways. What's special about this moon phase is that you can be what you want to be, since the native can be a big believer of their dreams and desires, they will certainly achieve those. The native can easily be an influencer in the relationship, inspiring the other one and themselves in the same time.

🌑 BORN ON THE FULL MOON 🌑

The time where wolves are howling to the moon, is a very wild phase for the moon to be in, is known for this moon phase to drive people crazy. The native born during this moon phase is very transformative. The moon is tightly tied connected to the natives feelings/emotions, and sometimes can even have a control upon it. For example to feel more agitated or stressed. You as a child of the full moon, you can often find yourself being a little more sensbile than others, sensbile to others people's energy as well. Is a state where your conscious mind allows you to dreams,to visualize your life, something about these natives is that gives "off vibes" is when it comes to being an extrovert or introvert, since it can manifest differently. An romantic native with a heart full of desires

🌑 BORN ON A WANING GIBBOUS 🌑

The children of the waning gibbous moon are gifted with a mind of a creator, they often have a very good intuition or like a little "angel" beside their shoulder energy, the moon finds herself being more of a reserved nature, if I was to describe this moon phase it will be the sound ocean waves at night. They're often that wise yet creative person of the group, but in the same logical and open-minded. You can find yourself always looking for a part that is missing, the feeling that you're not complete. You're very conscious of yourself/your life/your ambitions. And something very admirable about them is their beliefs, a native born during this moon phase will never be let down by their higher selves/by the God/source/universe

🌑 BORN ON A LAST QUARTER 🌑

The natives born during the last quarter have a sense of nostalgia in them, you have a quality about you that seems frozen in time, you keep yourself unique while trying to help others to do the same as well. This moon phase is more attachable than others, so therefore the natives not only attaches to people but to places/animals/things in life very easily. They may also have a sense of finding their meaning in life, while being happy about it even about the smallest things, because they represent "virtue". The native is known for being kind/lovely/loyal and sensible and sometimes they tend to hide themselves in their inner world. Sometimes the past can blind you from the joy of the present & future. The present is just as deserving of your love and attention as your past

🌑 BORN ON A WANING CRESCENT MOON 🌑

Born during the very last moon phase, the native born during this moon phase is gifted with an immense spirituality and intuition, to describe them with one eye they see the physical world and with other eye they see the spiritual world, so in a way they're connected with each other, the native is very likely to daydream a lot, may receive lots of insights and visions in their dreams. They are gifted with an active imagination, to imagine and create. A glorious nature yet sensibile and affected by others energy. You know how to get deep and meaningful, and it's because at your core, you're a thinker. The thing with them is that they get more wise by their age, just like a flower ready to bloom and show her beauty

🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘 • 🌑🌒🌓🌔🌕🌖🌗🌘

How to find your specific moon phase?

Try searching on google/internet your birthday and to add "moon phase" for example: 13.09.2020 moon phase!!

Another example is that astro seek (the site) wil show the moon phase right after you did your birth chart, scroll down to planets table and look right under the moon placement, for example like this:

The 3rd option will be to just search "moon phase calculator" on google but some of them can have wrong results. I suggest that the first and 2nd versions are wayy better!

This was an easy take, hope it helped you to find your moon phase!! Also what phase was the moon where you were born?🌗 Harmo☾nix 🌗

[coldwind-shiningstars]

Dungeon Meshi is obviously primarily about food, eating, and crucially survival through eating, but it's also focused on other aspects of survival. Sleep, rest, social ties and social exclusion. There's even extensive commentary on things like personal grooming (Marcille’s hair, Toshiro becoming depressed and no longer shaving), clean bathrooms, and other things. When it comes to disability these things are referred to as instrumental activities of daily life (IADLs), which are more complex things like shopping, housework, and cooking, which people need to do to survive, and activities of daily life (ADLs) which are the basic bare bones needs: eating, toileting, etc. Dungeon Meshi is concerned with the logistics of living and finding joy in those logistics.

This is super related to disability! Yes, Laios is autistic, this has been apparent from the beginning. But what does being autistic mean for him and the story? Mostly, it means his desires, goals, and the ways he goes about achieving them are strange, foreign, or baffling. He has different priorities than other people and the way he expresses those priorities are strange. They affect how he socializes, how he eats…

So, it absolutely makes sense that there would be a minor sideplot about activities of daily living and what it's like to be out of sync with everyone else when it comes to prioritizing things. It's Mithrun Time (he's gonna mith all over the place) and I'm so SO interested in the interplay of disability, caregiving and the logistics thereof, and intersectionality & privilege. Who needs care? How do other people feel about them needing care? How do they receive that care? And who do we think is worthy of receiving care and how does that interact with all these other factors?

Bunch of manga and extras spoilers past the cut:

“So, what's wrong with you?”

I see a lot of people talking about Mithrun's non-eye disability as a depression allegory, which I think is true, but I think it's also metaphorically/symbolically both a traumatic brain injury and a trauma response to sexual assault. The sexual assault aspect is pretty clear if you look at any of the symbolism of the actual disabling event: just look at it.

Mithrun is lying in bed and the goat comes to him, lifts him up and puts its mouth on his abdomen and lower pelvis. The eating is sexually charged, as is the particular way he struggles and protests. It's intensely violating, and things that were once desirable are lost. And the dungeon lord group therapy session involves a lot of people talking about the demons like an abusive lover; Mithrun, even though he wanted to kill the demon so badly, still says that they're gentle.

As for the brain injury, chronic TBIs can cause a wide variety of symptoms. Some immediately relevant ones are anhedonia (lack of enjoyment), executive function issues, poor interoception (trouble understanding what's going on in your body), cognitive impairment affecting ability to reason/multitask/plan/solve problems, changes in behavior and personality, depression, agitation, and restlessness. We see… basically all of these, in Mithrun, as downstream effects of the loss of desires. He can't tell when he's hungry, tired, or out of mana; he can't perform ADLs consistently even if he knows he'll die without doing them and dying without doing them will interfere with his long-term goal, he had drastic personality changes, he oscillates between impatient and totally withdrawn.

Brain injuries can also affect more complex tasks and ability to sustain lengthy periods of complex cognitive work. A common example is losing the ability to read and process longer passages; maybe you can read the words but you can't read a paragraph, or maybe you can read paragraphs but now you get a migraine after 15 minutes. Mithrun's skill loss is not related to reading but the effect is similar – he is and was extremely skilled in a particular area of magic, but also disabled in ways that specifically hinder his skill in this area – to teleport things properly you need depth perception and a sense of direction, and he lacks both of these! And while he's still an incredibly effective fighter it seems like he pretty frequently makes those sorts of mistakes.

This is treated often as a gag and it is genuinely funny but it’s also very real, to no longer be as good at the thing you were good at before you became disabled. Kui takes several throwaway gags seriously later on, not just this one. Another ~gag that's not really elaborated on is the bathroom thing, but I appreciate its inclusion anyway, since even if it's presented humorously it doesn't feel meanspirited in a way a lot of “diaper jokes” do. I think people need to talk a lot more about bathroom issues in a wide variety of disabilities, and I think it's nice that a guy I can already picture the “poor little meow meow” posts about also has this issue, you know?

Preferences vs Desire

Even referencing PTSD and TBIs it's hard to really grasp what having no desires means, and the characters don't generally ask, while Mithrun explains it in vague terms. “Desires” is a very broad term and indeed he has lost access to a wide but related variety of things. Unfortunately this lead to him often being treated as nonagentic.

Mithrun does still have preferences, even if he doesn't express them and has no desire which would drive him to seek out pleasant things and avoid unpleasant ones. He'll comment on the taste and texture of foods, for example – sure seems like he has an opinion!

People treat it like his preferences don't matter since he doesn't usually bring them up unprompted, and he's often in situations where there aren't other options.

Kabru seems best at not doing this (and, noncoincidentally, also seems to be the best at actually caring for him; the Canaries have a lot more Resources theoretically than Kabru And Mithrun Eating Monsters And Kabru's A Bad Cook, but although they are loudly distressed by the two of them disappearing it seems to have positively affected Mithrun's general health)

But, uh, acknowledgement that someone has preferences at all is a really low bar to clear and Kabru also doesn't seem to fully understand how Mithrun's brain works. Mithrun’s caregivers want him to eat when they want him to eat. They want him to rest and drink when they want him to.

He lacks the desire for a number of mundane things but also seems to lack the ability to tell when he needs them. He can't explain why he faints; is “I am out of mana” considered a desire for more mana, one that can be eaten? He can't sleep on his own; it's not only that he lacks “the desire to go to bed” but he can't do anything with his own exhaustion, even if he notices it. He comments on the unpleasant taste and texture of several meals; he may be unable to want to not eat it, but he definitely can tell when he dislikes something. But he also seems to be unable to tell when he's hungry.

Kabru will acknowledge these preferences but there's not really other food options, and Everyone Must Eat. Kabru doesn't know the details of Mithrun's condition yet but you can see the immediate frustration here and the way he offers food to him like Mithrun's a child.

Sure, he won't directly communicate preferences, so that makes it extra hard, but you can always just ask, and if he tells you he tells you.

The pathway between opinion and taking actions about it may be lost in Mithrun but the dungeon forces other people into a similar position – it forces them to eat food they don't want to eat so that they can survive or accomplish other goals. We've seen this with Marcille from the beginning. It's difficult with Mithrun because it seems like there is always going to have to be some sort of someone else overriding his autonomy – yeah, he's not hungry but he still needs to eat or he'll faint. Yeah, he's lying about whether or not he's clean but he still needs to wash or he'll die. Yeah, he needs to take a rest instead of keeping moving or he'll faint. But he's not unique in being in a situation where he has to do nonpreferred things. The difference is more that he lacks the ability to independently do anything when it comes to ADLs, preferred or not, which makes it into someone else’s choice and responsibility.

There's also a theme in Dungeon Meshi that comes up a bit of people being pushy about ADLs but from a slightly different perspective, and they're usually right. You see this in Senshi most commonly; he pushes the residents of the Golden City to actually eat even if they don't need to and can't taste it, and while he's correct in that Yaad does get enjoyment from the food even without taste he's still not quite listening to Yaad. Similarly, Kabru is correct in that he can get Mithrun to sleep without a sleeping spell, but he also ignores the way Mithrun says several times that he doesn't expect massage to work. There's a few aspects to this – wild but expected that the elves would choose the “just knock him out with a spell” route, the “easy way” Senshi always talks about when it comes to magic, instead of actually paying attention to other solutions. But also, generally, people know their bodies best, and sometimes even if you're really sure you have the trick to help them you have to listen to what they tell you.

tvtropes dot org frontslash DisabilityTropes

This is going to be a harder section just because it's so subjective; it's nearly impossible to think about the ways in which disabled people are viewed by the people around them/wider society with any degree of objectivity just because there are so many factors that go into it. But I do think Mithrun is consistently treated as relatively nonagentic and there are several ways this can manifest: being treated as a doll/pet/child, being treated as a weapon, and being a surface for people to project onto.

He's framed or treated as childlike intermittently through the manga; scattered about, just a little vibe in the way he's drawn, like the "say aah" above and Pattadol and Cithis through the teleportation scroll :

That's a middle aged man! And he's framed like a toddler getting picked up or misbehaving.

Which doesn't mean they care about him any less; his squad is really fond of him for someone who's technically like their parole officer. How dare you do this to our captain! They love him dearly; this is obvious and he comments on it! They respect him, too, as the leader and as a strong fighter. But loving someone and thinking they're a skilled fighter doesn't mean you respect their autonomy fully.

There's also an element of everyone projecting their own issues onto him; Kabru with their shared Dungeon Trauma. The canaries all suggesting wacky, midlife-crisis desires. He doesn't ever express that he minds any of this, except when they try to stop him from making particular decisions. They also don't often understand why he'd be motivated to do a particular thing, and in fact some of these projections may actually be correct! But while noodles and pottery may be good later-on goals for him, I think it's striking that a) Kabru was the closest to correctly guessing what desire Mithrun might acquire now and he was still guessing the exact opposite (suggesting a desire to not eat Falin but to help Laios, vs Mithrun's actual desire, which was to eat Falin with no thought given to the promise he made at all) and b) it's a desire that actually makes perfect sense with what we know about him, not something totally new.

And, finally, he's a weapon: people are willing to caretake him because he's good at killing things dead. If his only desire is to kill demons dead, it's easy to start seeing that as who he is. I don't think he'd argue that “trying to kill demons” takes up the majority of his life (it's his only goal and he's obsessed with it) but even if there's only one thing that matters to him he has autonomy (in the sense that he can make his own choices about what to prioritize and formulate his own plans) and personhood.

Politics and privilege – who gets to access care?

One of the things we're first presented with when it comes to Mithrun is that he is intensely capable at handling dungeons. Yeah, there's the immediately visible prosthetic eye and the navigation issues, but the Canaries are built up as being incredibly dangerous and skilled, and he's their captain; they all immediately defer to him. He's intense, he curbstomps an entire room of guards, he's efficient, he's brutal, he's strong physically and magically.

In short: yeah, he's very disabled. He's also still very useful.

At the risk of oversimplification, even within his particular disability, he's much more disabled than Marcille is (she lost something relatively simple and easy to miss, she has no catatonia-moment) but less disabled than Thistle, who seems to still have at least one desire related to the king but is still primarily catatonic. It seems like Thistle is not unusual among ex-dungeon lords, even if there's enough noncatatonic dungeon lords to form a support group later. When Milsiril finds Mithrun, she immediately intends to mercy-kill him – this seems to be a condition the elves are familiar with but consider terminal, at least to the degree Mithrun is affected, and people seem unfamiliar what it means to keep living in this state because Mithrun is unusual in that he survives at all. And he's “allowed” to survive initially because he's not as disabled as he could have been (still has a desire) and that desire is useful. They aim him at the dungeons and off he goes. It takes twenty years for him to recover enough to do it, sure, but they're elves. They can wait. He can still be useful.

Relatedly, when he loses the ability to pursue his desire he's immediately much worse off than he was previously.

The no-desire catatonia is something that can recur and the elves continue to not know how to handle it. If Kabru wasn't there to problemsolve I think he'd have just… stayed there with his increasingly distressed squad.

Speaking of his squad, there's also a fascinating power dynamic going on with just the inherent structure of the Canaries; criminals are assigned as his caregivers. There's the inherent unfairness to the criminal Canaries about them being given extra duties, this strange rich noble guy who's now their Responsibility. There's so much possibility for resentment in normal caregiving relationships, much less being forced by your jailor into caregiving someone. But there's also an element of the power the prisoner Canaries now have over him and his most basic ADLs and needs. Assigning Cithis to his care is such a can of worms! The dynamics of the situation are frankly awful for both of them; of course she resents him initially. It would be strange for her not to. When Pattadol catches her making Mithrun do embarrassing things, she instantly reminds Cithis of her lower-status – she's forced to care for this nobleman and then forcibly reminded that she's beneath him.

She's responding to having menial, low-status tasks forced on her by trying to humiliate him, and although he doesn't have the ability to care enough to stop her it's still a deliberate removal of dignity. He's the instrument with which she is punished and she punishes him in return (until it's not fun anymore and she understands him a bit more.)

Mithrun is a long-lived race, who has structural power over the shorter lived races simply because of how long they live. The dwarves and elves try to actively keep certain knowledge from other races, restricting their access to technology, and other expressions of distance. Senshi spends nearly the whole first season not listening to Chilchuck trying to explain that he's an adult and treating him like a child, and Kabru repeatedly says that the elves do the same thing (and tbh we see them doing it). There's even the fact that it took him twenty years to recover enough to join the Canaries again; a shorter-lived race might have died from old age in this time, or become too old to work in this capacity, and then wasted away without the drive to return to the dungeons. But they're elves; the other elves can afford to wait, and he's not going to age out of dungeoneering any time soon. Being an elf probably contributes to his wealth in the same way skin color contributes to wealth inequality in the real world.

Dungeon Meshi doesn't really go into race in the sense of skin color much, and Kui is writing from a different cultural standpoint than I am. While tallmen are quite accurate when it comes to skin/hair color (yes, even Kabru and his blue eyes; it's rare but possible) and cultural references, the elves, uh, absolutely are not, both in the sense of “dark skin & pale hair and eyes trope” and sense of the royals having jet black skin.

Still, I feel like race is so connected to care and caregiving in the real-world west that I would be profoundly remiss not to mention it. Skin color might not matter to elves in the racism sense, but it matters to humans and humans are the ones writing and analyzing this story. (And I fully expect as the fandom grows with anime-onlies people will like Mithrun more because he's white (has white features) than they would if he had darker skin, because fandom is also baseline racist.)

I don't think we can just not mention that Mithrun is pale-skinned and both Cithis and Kabru, his primary caregivers over the story, both have dark skin.

Racism means white people are more likely to get good medical care, the type you need to get diagnosed and prescribed caregiving. Racism means wealth distribution is uneven, favoring white people. Race affects immigrants taking on undesirable jobs like caregiving for low pay. Racism is a profound stressor which means it contributes to who becomes disabled in the first place in that it can worsen health outcomes.

Similarly to race, gender may not be very obvious when it comes to this subplot within the story but the gendered dynamics of caregiving in the real world are something I do want to touch on. There's an oft-cited statistic about how men are much more likely than women to divorce their partners when their partners are diagnosed with a serious condition; I don't like relying too much on those sorts of statistics because they can be so misleading but it does gesture at something very real, culturally. Even if men aren't supposed to be caretaken, women are supposed to be the caretakers. Certainly, it's not Mithrun's fault that he can't cook and can't do laundry and probably can't do most housework, but I do also think about all the posts passed around about “my boyfriend who won't do housework.”

Again, none of these privileges make him less disabled and less in need of and deserving of care, they're just worth talking about when we talk about caregiving in general.

It's Rotten Work, Even If It's You

People expect disabled people receiving care to be grateful, to accept anything, and to try and make it easier for the caregiver if they're able. Requiring care is an incredibly disadvantaged position, even as actually receiving it can be so tangled up in privilege. Caregiving is tremendously difficult work, it's true, but there's a particular vibe people want from disabled people – all those movies about not wanting to be seen as a burden. Never complaining. Being grateful.

And, uh, well…

Mithrun basically accepts anything his caregivers do, but he's not grateful at all! I appreciate that in a disability portrayal. He'll also lie to and ignore his caregivers, which is Annoying but is definitely an expression of autonomy even if he's probably not doing it specifically to express his autonomy. He's not going to thank you. He's not going to make it easy. He'll accept a lot of things considered “undignified,” and he's not mean or unpleasant in the sense that he's taking advantage or anything, but he's certainly not a model patient.

He's running off back into the dungeons just when you think you've finally gotten him somewhere safe.

There's always a strange tension in caregiving, I've found. It is incredibly intimate but a lot of it is done by total strangers. A number of caregiving tasks are viewed by the wider world as entitled but placing those tasks in the hands of strangers is a remarkably tough place to be in. As a disabled person, I've had to accept my bowel movements being discussed with my parents’ friends, all sorts of being physically moved places not against my will but without my permission, even my pubic hair being shaved off by a stranger (nurse) while I was unable to speak or move. When people are feeding you, making sure you use the toilet, rubbing your feet to make you sleep, helping you with hygiene – people are working so hard to help you. Are you supposed to just accept them doing whatever they want to you?

There's also a dynamic where people will say they don't mind caring for you, they're happy to do it, and then as the years go by and you continue to need care the resentment just builds up. Caregiving is hard work. It's often thankless. The goodness of people’s hearts can run dry, when it's been twenty years and you still can't bathe yourself.

Aaand I need to continue in reblogs, because I'm out of space for images. Please hold. edit: you can find part 2 here

[hiitsm]

A Reconciliation of Hearts

A Reconciliation of Hearts if for 18+ only.

Smut, Hurt, Toxic relationship, Toxic self thoughts

-

You were feeling anxious.

You were feeling sad.

You were just about to go to sleep.

Then, a message from Alexia lit up your phone screen.

Alexia, your ex-girlfriend.

Alexia, the one who insisted it was best if the two of you went your separate ways.

Alexia, who has a way of reappearing in your life.

And you, who always let her back in. You, who yearns so deeply for her comfort. So deeply for her touch. So deeply to be with her.

She asks if she can come over, and before you can even think, you've already typed out a quick "yes."

You really should consider things more carefully before responding.

You already know where this will lead.

Your ex-girlfriend likely attempted to find solace with someone new. Perhaps it didn't work out as she hoped, or maybe it did, but it wasn't fulfilling. Regardless, she's coming to see you now, likely with the intention of making you lose yourself in the passion and intensity of the night.

But if you are being completely honest with yourself, you know that lately, it hasn’t been about passion and intensity. It has been about rough and fast, something you don’t particularly enjoy.

Alexia should know that after the three years you spent together. She knew you like the back of her hand. But all of that changed when she ended things.

It stopped being a mutual experience and became all about her seeking her own gratification.

She couldn’t care less if you didn't reach that edge.

As long as she did.

As you heard the doorbell ring and opened the door, you couldn't help but notice your ex-girlfriend's demeanor. It was evident she had been with someone new but hadn’t found what she was looking for.

You could tell by the hungry look in her eyes.

You could tell by the tousled state of her hair that wasn't as neatly kept as it used to be.

You could tell by the way she practically pounced on you the moment you opened the door.

And you could tell by the slight bulge of her strap-on through her track pants.

Seeing that bulge shouldn’t stir you up as much as it does. Having Alexia here shouldn’t arouse you as intensely as it does.

This entire situation feels toxic, not just because of the way Alexia is treating you, but also because of how you're allowing yourself to be treated repeatedly.

Yet, resisting seems almost impossible.

Alexia is everything you desire.

Alexia is everything you crave.

Which is why you find yourself letting her use your body. You cherish the sound of her moans of pleasure, knowing deep down that you can satisfy her like no one else can.

It's bittersweet, though, because you wish that she would see you.

You wish that she would acknowledge your needs and not just come here seeking her own satisfaction.

But she broke up with you for a reason, so it's understandable that she might prioritize her own needs. Even though you're uncertain about the reasons behind her decision to end things, your own self-critical thoughts are taking over once more.

You find yourself in your bedroom without quite knowing how you got there, suddenly tossed onto your bed with Alexia hovering over you. A pang of anxiety starts creeping up, but you push it aside. It's Alexia, a familiar comfort.

Yet, your body tells a different story. Since the breakup, it's been fraught with anxiety, sending signals that this isn't healthy. To keep seeing her, to let her use your body like this.

It's tempting to ignore these needy signals from your body.

It’s easy to ignore it.

It's tempting to convince yourself that this is what you want, because it feels like the closest you'll ever be to your ex-girlfriend again.

Alexia helped you out of your clothes and discarded her own beside the bed. Your gaze settles on the strap-on she's wearing.

It's not unfamiliar to you. You and your ex-girlfriend used it many times before. This one is the larger one, a symbol of the exploration of different pleasures you shared. It was something intimate between the two of you, something special.

Seeing her wear it now, knowing she had it on with someone else before coming to you, stirs up emotions you've never quite experienced before.

You swallow those feelings deep down, determined to focus on pleasing her, despite the complexity of your emotions.

Alexia, misreading your emotions, maneuvers you onto your stomach, positioning you a bit off-kilter. She kisses your back with intensity. "Don't worry," she reassures you playfully, "I cleaned it before coming here," referring to the strap.

Instead of easing your mind, her words heighten your anxiety.

You had hoped that she would notice you, that she would start gently. Her kisses were softer this time, raising your hopes even higher. But soon, she was thrusting into you from behind with such intensity that you feared you might break.

You tried to find enjoyment in the moment, and some parts were pleasurable enough to make you moan into your pillow. This seemed to encourage Alexia to adopt an even rougher approach.

"Nobody lets me fuck them like you do," she groaned appreciatively. "Only you," she added softly.

If you hadn't been so anxious beforehand, you might have freaked out and hoped she wanted to reconcile, to end her search for pleasure with others who couldn't satisfy her. But those thoughts were fleeting because suddenly, you felt a sharp sting from where Alexia was thrusting into you.

It was an intense pain, unlike anything you had felt before in that area. It went beyond discomfort.

It was real, searing pain, and you couldn't continue like this. Finally, you made a decision. Before you could fully form the words in your mind, your hand instinctively reached back and grabbed Alexia's hand resting on your hip.

"Alexia, please stop! I'm in pain," your voice trembled slightly, betraying your distress. Alexia halted immediately. You couldn't see her reaction, but you could sense her shock in the sudden stillness that followed.

"I'm pulling out slowly, lo siento, lo siento mucho," Alexia repeats gently as she withdraws from you.

Despite her soft words and actions, you struggle to absorb this gentler side of Alexia. The side she always showed during your relationship. The pain persists, making it difficult to fully appreciate her concern. Moreover, embarrassment washes over you for the situation that unfolded.

As Alexia withdraws gently, she notices small drops of blood on her strap. For a moment, shock registers on her face before her attention returns to you.

She had always promised to take care of you, to be gentle no matter how rough things got between you.

Today, she feels she failed that promise.

Despite breaking up with you for what seemed like a trivial reason, she keeps returning to you. She misses you deeply. She cares about you profoundly. She realizes now that breaking up with you was one of the biggest mistakes of her life because you are everything she ever needs.

You are everything she ever wants.

She was lost in her own selfish thoughts, consumed by doubts that led her to prioritize her own pleasure over yours, and now she has hurt you.

As she snaps out of her reverie, she feels the bedsheets shifting.

You are moving away.

You are moving away from her.

She gently took hold of your arm. "Bebita, please let me take a look," she pleaded softly. "Lo siento mucho, this shouldn't have happened," she added desperately.

Her use of the nickname and her gentle approach overwhelmed you, contrasting sharply with her earlier demeanor. You felt conflicted, unsure which side of Alexia was truly with you in that moment.

"Please let me take care of you. I hurt you," she pleaded again, her voice filled with regret.

"You did hurt me, Alexia, a lot, and it's not just about this moment now," you tell her truthfully, tears welling up in your eyes.

"Lo siento, that's not what you deserve," she chokes out, resting her forehead against yours.

"I'm going to the bathroom. I need a little space for myself, but you can wait here until I get back if you want," you say, feeling uncertain but following what your heart tells you is right in this moment.

"I will wait for you," Alexia sniffles softly. Seeing her cry breaks your heart. You instinctively wipe away her tear with your thumb before walking to the bathroom and closing the door behind you.

You let yourself sink onto the cold bathroom tiles, your body trembling with anxiety.

The cold floor helps calm you down a little.

After a while, you begin to clean yourself up. The intense pain has subsided, leaving only a slight discomfort. You take your time and lose track of it, half-expecting Alexia to have left despite her promise to wait.

Suddenly, you hear her voice from the other side of the door, incredibly soft and tender. "Are you okay? Do you need any help?" Her words draw you closer to her once again.

You still love her.

You still love her so incredibly much.

You open the door and step out of the bathroom. Seeing that Alexia has changed into her clothes, you quickly do the same, pulling on a comfortable tracksuit and hoodie. Afterward, you take Alexia's hands in yours and press your forehead against hers.

"You broke up with me, Alexia," you say, your voice trembling slightly.

"You broke up with me, but you keep coming back." Holding her hands tightly, you don't want her or yourself to walk away.

"I keep wanting you because I'll never be able to get over you," you confess softly, a tear rolling down your cheek.

"But it's not okay for you to keep coming back. You broke up with me, yet you still give me hope that you'll return."

You're unsure if you've conveyed exactly what you wanted to say, but you tried your best to express your feelings.

"I keep coming back because breaking up with you was the stupidest thing I've ever done," she says, choking on her emotions.

"You are all that I want and need," she admits. "I thought I wasn't good for you, or for myself, with all those doubts in my head," she finally confesses, her forehead still pressed against yours.

"I hurt you by not talking about it. I hurt you by walking away, and I'm so sorry that I did," she says, her voice filled with regret.

"And just now, I hurt you again by thinking only about my own desires," she says, her tears flowing freely, her voice heavy with regret.

You stand there, feeling the weight of her sorrow, and pull her into your arms, hugging her tightly.

The two of you cry together, finding solace in each other's embrace.

''I want you back into my life if you let me. I want to stop hurting you. I want to be the partner that you deserve'' she admids and it makes your heart flutter but you also know that you should be realistic.

"I appreciate that, but before we go any further, we need to have some real conversations," you say, your heart breaking once again.

"You slept with someone else before coming here, Alexia. We need to discuss some things, and then maybe we can slowly rebuild what was lost." You know this is the only way forward, despite the pain it brings.

"I'm so sorry," is all she manages to say, her voice muffled against your shoulder.

"Can I stay? Please let me help you and take care of you?" she asks softly, locking eyes with you.

Despite everything, you know you can't resist her.

You can't say no.

Alexia is determined to ensure you won't hurt again, even though you know that it's impossible.

"Okay," you sigh softly, giving in to her earnest plea.

[ghoulsbounty]

From a Previous Life (Pt 3)

Cooper Howard (The Ghoul) x Preg!Reader

Summary: You rush to the Ghoul's aid, but find that hospitality doesn't come cheap in the wasteland.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, pregnancy, talk of cannibalism, mention of child loss, canon-typical violence, blood, angst, grief, yearning, rejection.

Word Count: 8.8K

A/N: This is late! I'm sorry this wasn't finished last week, but it took me a while to get the ending to a place where I was happy with it. Part 4 coming up next! I'd love to know what you think 💌

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

In the weeks that followed, a palpable tension thickened the air, suffusing every moment with a sense of unease. The Ghoul, ever cautious and seemingly intent on minimizing any unnecessary interaction, forwent sleep altogether. Instead, he adopted the role of a silent sentinel, perched upon whatever seating deemed acceptable as he watched over the entryways of your temporary shelters. There he would remain, a solitary figure in the dim moonlight filtering through shattered windows, his hat pulled low over his ghoulish features, shrouding them in shadow.

As you lay awake, restless and watchful, your gaze was repeatedly drawn to him, silently pleading for him to abandon his post and join you in the refuge of your shared space. Still, he remained steadfast, his bed beside you still empty and unused by your departure the following morning.

During the days, you travelled in silence under the relentless glare of the blistering sun, each step bringing you closer to your elusive destination. You would pause occasionally, your keen eyes scanning the barren landscape for any sign of abandoned treasures that could be sold for a fine price. Each discovery was accompanied by a hopeful glance towards your companion, a silent plea for approval. More often than not, his response was a grunt or a dismissive shrug, leaving you to carry the weight of your excitement and disappointment alone.

He had truly reverted back to the aloof and distant man he had been before that fleeting moment of connection shared around the crackling fire—the night he had gifted you the Pip-Boy. It had felt like a heavy reminder of the vast divide between you, a symbol of the distance that must remain for your child's safety.

The internal struggle waged within you relentlessly, tearing at the fabric of your resolve as you walked alongside him. On one hand, the instinct to protect your child, to prioritize their safety above all else, pulsed through your veins like a guiding light. But on the other hand, an undeniable longing stirred within you, a selfish desire to throw caution to the wind and reach out for him, to seek the comfort of the companionship you had felt briefly.

You remembered the warmth of his arms briefly wrapped around you, the intimacy of talking freely together like you had done that night by the fire. The memory tugged at your heartstrings, igniting a fierce longing that threatened to overwhelm your senses. And despite your best efforts to bridge the conversational gap, to break through the walls he had erected around himself, he remained stubbornly distant.

The silence between you grew more pronounced with each passing day, a distinct barrier that seemed to stretch endlessly between you. You couldn't help but feel a sense of resignation settle over you. Some divides were simply too vast to bridge, and perhaps, you thought with a heavy heart, yours and the Ghoul's were among them.

It wasn't until one particularly hot mid-afternoon as you battled against a relentless radscorpion that had sprung at you from beneath an overturned refrigerator in that evenings shelter, the Ghoul's patience reached its limit. With a single, precise shot from his magnum, he dispatched the giant arachnid before turning to you with a sour expression.

"Outside," his voice commanded, firm and unwavering.

You followed behind him obediently, watching in silence as he collected the empty Nuka-Cola bottles scattered on the porch and lined them up along the railing. Once satisfied with his work, he turned to you and nodded, signalling you to follow him. Together, you descended the steps and moved further away until you reached a spot that provided a clear shot at the makeshift targets.

You eyed him cautiously, uncertainty gnawing at the edges of your resolve as you waited for his next instruction. But when his gaze settled expectantly on the gun holstered at your hip, you knew what you were to do. With quick hands, you fumbled to unholster the weapon, your fingers closing around its familiar grip as you prepared to face the challenge that lay ahead.

Despite the sweltering heat and the sweat that trickled down your brow, you squared your shoulders and raised your weapon, determined to prove yourself to the Ghoul—to show him that you were capable of holding your own beside him. And as you took aim at the makeshift targets, a sense of determination surged through you. Today, you vowed, would be the day you proved yourself worthy of his respect.

Pulling back the hammer, you let out a shaky breath as you pinched the trigger. The shot rang out, reverberating through your body like a thunderclap as you felt the recoil jolt through your arms. Taking a step back to steady yourself, you lowered the gun and peered ahead at the targets, your heart sinking as you realized that all five bottles remained stubbornly intact, mocking you from their perch.

A sense of annoyance bubbled up inside you, mingling with the disappointment that weighed heavy in the pit of your stomach. You heard the Ghoul sigh from his spot to your right, where he leaned against a a utility pole with his arms crossed.

"Again," he said, his voice carrying a hint of exasperation. "And keep your eyes open this time."

His words jolted you out of your reverie, pulling you back to the present moment with a sharp clarity. Despite the simmering frustration within you, you nodded in acknowledgment, steeling yourself for another attempt with the gun raised.

"Feet further apart," he instructed, his tone firm and authoritative. Taking a deep breath, you squared your shoulders and adjusted your stance, grit crunching beneath your boot. You heard him tut, then suddenly felt him beside you. His heavy boot kicked at the inside of your own, widening your stance even further. His gloved hands pressed against your shoulder with a firm tap, guiding you into position before withdrawing just as quickly. "Again."

As the Ghoul moved back to his post, you steadied the gun out before you, pushing down the giddiness that surged through you like a current. It was an unexpected sensation, sparked by the lingering heat left behind by his brief touch—the first physical contact he had initiated since your embrace around the fire. You took aim at the first bottle, and with the memory of his guidance in your mind, you pulled the trigger.

The shot rang out, its echo reverberating through the desolate wasteland. A split second later, the sharp noise of the bottle smashing reached your ears, the shattered pieces scattering across the ground like sparkling jewels.

"Yes!" you exclaimed triumphantly, a surge of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you raised your arms above your head in victory. Turning to your mentor with a wide grin, you hoped for words of praise, but you were instead met with a stoic nod of approval, his expression unreadable as he regarded you with a steady gaze. Disappointment panged in your chest, a fleeting moment of deflation amidst the rush of triumph.

"Four more, then you can celebrate," he gestured towards the remaining targets and you eyed him with defeat as your arms dropped to your side.

Eyebrows furrowed in determination, you rolled you neck as you prepared yourself. A brief glimmer of pride flickered in his eyes as he watched you turn back towards your targets with a raised weapon.

"Four more, then you cook dinner," you countered and he laughed quietly, a short huff of air out his nose that was barely perceptible.

As the afternoon wore on, you focused all your concentration on the task at hand, determined to prove yourself capable not just to the Ghoul but to yourself. With each bullet that flew past its target, the Ghoul's sighs of irritation echoed in the stifling air.

He had retreated to the scant shade offered by a nearby fence, his slumped posture a testament to the oppressive heat that hung heavy in the air. From his vantage point, he observed your progress with a stoic demeanour, offering little in the way of encouragement as you struggled to find your mark. Still, you refused to be deterred by his silence, channelling your frustration and determination into each shot. With each miss, you adjusted your stance, honing your focus. Finally, the satisfying sound of shattering glass filled the air as the last bottle exploded into a thousand pieces, scattering across the ground.

Pride swelled within you as you looked down at your gun, a tool that had once seemed so foreign and intimidating. In that moment, a sense of awe washed over you as you realized just how far you had come from the life you had once known. The image of yourself as a wife, a homemaker, seemed like a distant memory, a remnant of a time before the world had been plunged into chaos. 

As you stood there, gun in hand, dirt under your nails, and a sense of purpose burning within your soul, you couldn't help but wonder how absurd your former self would find this scene. The thought of her reaction brought a smile to your lips, a bittersweet reminder of the person you had once been, and the person you were becoming.

A slow clap from behind you drew your attention, and you turned to see your partner walking towards you, his lips pulled into a wry smile. "Well, as long as no one moves, you might just cut it."

Despite his teasing, you welcomed the familiar banter, a reminder of the rapport that had developed between you before it's abrupt end. With a smile, you looked him over, a wave of gratitude washing over you. "Thank you, for this," you said, gesturing with the gun towards the broken glass. "I feel like The Man From Deadhorse."

With a playful grin, you raised your gun towards the Ghoul, a glint of mischief in your eyes. "I hope you like the taste of lead, you commie son of a bitch."

The sudden shift in atmosphere caught you off guard, the playful jest dying on your lips as the Ghoul's demeanour transformed with alarming speed. Before you could react, he closed the distance between you with swift, purposeful strides, his grisly features contorted with rage.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun from your hand, the dull thud as it buried into the sand was loud in the tense quiet. Your heart pounded in your chest as you watched in stunned silence, your wide eyes snapping back to him when he seized your arms in a vice-like grip.

"You don't play like that, you hear?" he scolded, his voice low and harsh, the intensity of his gaze drilling into you like a laser. His leather-clad fingers dug into your flesh, leaving behind faint impressions as he held you firmly in place.

With a shaky nod, you swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you replied, "I hear you." The tension hung thick in the air between you. "It was from a movie, I didn't mean nothing by it."

As he regarded you, the intensity of his grip slowly eased, his features softening marginally as he released you from his grasp. Though his anger still simmered beneath the surface, there was a hint of remorse in his eyes, a silent apology for his outburst. "This ain't no movie, darlin'."

"I know that," you said wistfully.

"Then act like it," he grunted, a wheezing cough escaping him before turning away. "Let's get moving," he muttered, his voice tinged with resignation as he retrieved the gun from the sand and handed it back to you.

You holstered your gun, a sense of caution settling over you as you eyed him warily, your footsteps echoing softly against the gravel path as you followed him back to your shelter. He stopped abruptly a few steps ahead, his posture rigid as he doubled over, sputtering into his closed fist.

Instinctively, you moved toward him, concern etched into your features, but you halted in your tracks at the sight of his outstretched hand. "Get back," he rasped, his voice strained, a clear warning in his tone.

You watched with growing unease as he struggled to regain his composure, each laboured breath sounding like a heavy weight upon his chest. The deep, chest-rattling wheeze that emanated from him sent a shiver down your spine, but despite the urge to rush to his aid, you knew better than to defy his command. With a reluctant step backward, you maintained a cautious distance, your eyes never leaving him as you waited anxiously for the bout of coughing to pass.

The coughing had started a few days prior, coming sporadically but with increasing frequency, especially when the Ghoul worked himself up. At first, you had dismissed it as the inevitable toll of his years spent wandering through dust and dirt, but as the days passed and you witnessed the panic in his eyes one evening while he counted his stock of liquid-filled vials, you knew it was something more. The sight of his trembling hands, the frantic glint in his tired eyes, sent a chill down your spine,

You didn't fully understand the significance of the vials, only that they were his medicine—but for what ailment, you couldn't be certain. You had assumed it was for pain, a necessary relief for someone who had endured the relentless exposure to radiation for so long. You knew better than to ask him about it directly. Even in moments of calm, when the worry over his dwindling supply wasn't etched into his furrowed brow, you knew that prying into something so personal would be met with resistance.

The Ghoul staggered back to the shelter and you followed behind him with growing concern, your heart pounding in your chest. You watched in silence as he grasped the stair rails for support, his normally steady gait now faltering. It was a sight you had never witnessed before—him weakened and vulnerable—and fear shot through you like a bolt of lightning, unwelcome thoughts of what this could mean racing through your mind.

You quickly put the invasive thoughts aside, hurrying to join him inside where you found him hunched over his saddlebag. His movements were frenzied as he loaded a vial into the inhaler that distributed the medicine. With a deep, shaky breath, he puffed the inhaler, the sound echoing loudly in the confined space. Minutes stretched into eternity as he fought to regain control of his breathing, his chest heaving with each ragged inhale.

You held your breath in anticipation, watching as his chest heaved and then settled, but your frown deepened when a groan escaped him. He threw himself back against the wall, his movements laboured and unsteady. His arms hung limp at his sides, the inhaler discarded and forgotten on the ground beside him. His hat slipped from his head, tumbling to the dirtied tiles below, leaving his bald head glistening with perspiration, the droplets of sweat trickling down his tired face.

It was a sobering sight, one that filled you with a sense of helplessness as you stood before him, unsure of what to do to alleviate his suffering.

"Told you to stay away," he breathed, his voice weary as he met your gaze, exhaustion evident in his eyes. "I'm fine," he muttered, though the strain in his voice betrayed his words. "Just need to close my eyes."

As his eyes fluttered shut, you moved to his saddlebag with haste, your heart pounding in your chest as you searched desperately for another vial to bring him back to you. But as your trembling hands sifted through the contents, your heart sank like a stone—empty. He had been rationing his vials for days now, telling you there was a place up ahead to get more, but that you weren't to come with him. Another one of his solo trips.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you realized that he was going nowhere in this condition. His shallow breathing reduced you to panic as you fumbled at the inside of his heavy duster, your hands shaking with urgency. Ignoring the incessant clicking of the dosimeter, you pulled out a weathered map that he had drawn up at the beginning of your journey, showing you just how far you had to go until you'd find the haven and the stops that you'd make between.

Your gaze swept over the roughly sketched lines and symbols, tracing the route ahead with a growing sense of urgency. Finally, your eyes landed on a cluster of squares topped with triangles, situated close to the location you recognized as your shelter on the map. Beside them, a lone letter "V" was scrawled, signalling the area designated for his next collection of vials. The distance seemed manageable, just a half-day's journey at most—perhaps even less if you pushed yourself.

The prospect of venturing out alone was daunting, yet despite the risk of leaving him vulnerable, of being scolded for leaving upon your return, you knew there was no alternative. He relied on those vials, and you relied on him.

With a heavy heart, you removed his gun from its holster, carefully positioning his gloved hand around its grip before settling it on his lap. Adjusting his hat back on his head to shroud his closed eyes, you hoped that any passing traveller might be deterred by the implication of a formidable foe awaiting their approach.

Taking a deep breath, you glanced back at your companion one last time, the weight of your decision settling heavily upon you. With a silent prayer for his safety, you asked him to wish you luck before turning away and setting off towards your new destination, determined to retrieve the vials and save the Ghoul.

The two-story house stood large and imposing before you, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon casting long shadows across the grounds. Its faded white paint was peeling, revealing the weather-beaten wood beneath, and its roof sagged precariously as if it could collapse at any moment. The yard, overgrown with tall grass and weeds, was littered with the carcasses of rusty, broken-down vehicles and an assortment of discarded debris, each piece a story of neglect and abandonment.

Stepping onto the sprawling porch, the creak of the wooden boards seemed to echo through the still air as you steadied your nerves. You rapped your knuckles against the front door that hung slightly ajar. 

"Whaddya want?" a disgruntled voice hollered from inside, and you stepped back as the door was torn open to reveal a man, his greying hair unkempt and greasy, clinging to his weathered face that was etched with deep lines and one large, pink scar from eye to jaw. "Well, what is it?"

Clearing your throat to dispel the tension, you attempted a friendly smile as you greeted him. "Hello, I'm hoping you can help me," you began, holding the unfolded map up to show him. With a pointed finger, you indicated the spot marked by the Ghoul with a "V." "I'm looking for vials, is this where I can get them?"

He peered closer to the map, beady eyes squinting as he considered it. With a dirty hand, he rubbed at the white stubble of his chin as he hummed, his gaze flicking over you quickly before straightening. "Vials, you say? You're in luck," he gave you a toothy smile, displaying his blackened teeth.

Despite the turn in your stomach, you breathed a sigh of relief. Tucking the map away in the side of your bag, you smiled gratefully. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that," you laughed.

"Well, don't dilly-dally on my porch all night, girl," he said, ushering you inside.

Stepping into the dimly lit home, you were hit by the musty scent of decay and mould. The house was cluttered, filled with stacks of old newspapers, broken furniture, and various knickknacks. The man led you through a narrow hallway into a small room that served as both a living space and a workshop. A cluttered table sat against one wall, covered in tools, scraps of metal, and various mechanical parts.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing to a rickety chair near the table. "I'll see what I got."

You sat down cautiously, the chair creaking under your weight. The man rummaged through a pile of junk on a nearby shelf, muttering to himself as he searched. After a few tense moments, he produced a small wooden box and placed it on the table in front of you.

"Here they are," he said, his tone gruff. "How many you need?"

You glanced at box, your heart pounding with a mix of relief and anxiety. "I need as many as you can spare. How much for all of them?"

The man scratched his head, considering your request. "Caps, or trade?" he asked, eyeing your bag.

"I have caps," you replied, reaching into your bag and pulling out a small pouch. You poured the caps onto the table, counting them quickly. "Is this enough?"

He scooped up the caps, weighing them in his hand before shaking his head. "Not hardly," he said, pocketing them as he stared down at you expectantly. You quickly fumbled in your bag, trying to find something to offer. "How about that there contraption?"

Your eyes followed his to the Pip-Boy on your wrist. What would the Ghoul say if you returned without it? He had insisted you keep it on, gifting it to you as a means of gaining some semblance of control that you desperately wanted. Granted it had recently become an unwanted reminder that loneliness would be your only companion until you met your baby, but he wouldn't want you to trade it. Yet he wasn't here, and you were in desperate need of those vials.

"Please, anything else," you pleaded, one last ditch attempt at negotiation as you rifled through the contents of your bag. "I have scrap, copper, toothpaste, you can even have my gun," you continued, listing your items in a desperate ramble before throwing your gun onto the table beside you. 

The man's narrow gaze swept over the array of items you had laid out, his expression a mask of disdain. Without hesitation, he seized your bag and upended its contents onto the worn tabletop. With a rough hand, he sifted through the items, emitting grunts of disapproval as he scrutinized each one.

"No, no good," he muttered, crossing his arms in a gesture of finality. "That thing's worth more than all that junk combined." His lip curled in distaste as he indicated the Pip-Boy resting on your wrist. "It's the gadget or no deal."

Desperation gnawed at you. You needed those vials; the Ghoul's life depended on it. Leaving empty-handed wasn't an option. Fighting back tears, you took a deep breath and looked up at the man, striving to keep your voice steady. "Fine, it's a deal," you conceded, fingers trembling as you unclasped the precious device from your wrist, placing it reluctantly into his filthy palms.

His cracked lips curled into a predatory grin as he regarded his newfound treasure. With a casual shove, he pushed the box of vials across the table towards you. Eagerly, you reached for it, anticipation tingling in your fingertips. But as you pried open the lid, hope turned to bitter disappointment at the sight within.

"There are only three vials here," you stated, disbelief colouring your voice. "We agreed on the Pip-Boy for everything you've got."

A mirthless chuckle escaped the man's throat as he he leaned back against the table, a smug gleam in his eyes. "There it is," he declared, gesturing towards the meagre contents of the box in your hands. "Lesson learned, darlin'. Always check the goods before sealing the deal."

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment and frustration, cursing yourself inwardly for falling prey to such a blatant deception. Anger surged within you, fuelled by both the injustice of the situation and the man's smug satisfaction.

"That's not fair!" Your voice rose, laced with indignation, drawing a startled expression from the man across the table.

"Now listen here, you little-"

"What's all this hoo-ha about?" a woman's voice interrupted him as she entered the room. She was about the same age as the man, greying and wrinkled, but whereas his face was stern, hers warmed when she saw you. Her hands went to the apron tied around her thin waist, wiping at the dirty fabric as she spoke. "Well, who do we have here?"

The man released an exasperated sigh, his patience wearing thin. "Just a fool not knowing when a deal is done," he muttered, flinging your empty bag in your direction. "Collect your shit and hit the road."

Before you could react, her hand shot out with startling speed, connecting with the back of his head with a resounding smack. He recoiled, irritation contorting his features as he rubbed the offended spot.

"Goddamn, woman!" he exclaimed, shooting her a venomous glare. "She got the chems, I held up my end of the bargain."

Her eyebrows arched inquisitively as she scrutinized you. "And what might someone like you want with those?"

"My friend, he's unwell," you explained, rising from your seat to begin to deposit your items back in the bag. 

"So, he sent you to fetch them," she deduced.

You nodded, choosing your words carefully as you gauged the situation. Despite her apparent kindness, you sensed it wise to withhold certain details of your predicament. "Something along those lines," you replied cautiously, then pointed to the three vials. "I just hoped there were more."

"There are more," she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she delivered a swift reprimand to the man beside her. "Edwin, why are you lying to this poor girl?"

Edwin, still nursing a sore spot on his head from her earlier blow, shot her a disgruntled look. "Can't a man try and make a profit in this economy?"

Ignoring his protest, she turned her attention back to you, a friendly smile gracing her features. "My husband will whip up as many vials as you need, don't you fret," she assured, her reassurance a comforting balm to your frayed nerves. Casting a disapproving glance at Edwin as he started to object once more, she added, "And to make amends for his rudeness, I'll whip you up a plate."

You breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you so much, but I really must hurry these back to my friend," you insisted.

"Of course you must," she affirmed, her eyes crinkled at the corners as she smiled again. "Edwin will go fetch you some from the cellar. We can't keep such valuable stock out in the open, you understand." Her explanation was delivered with a nod of assurance, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Edwin grumbled, leaving the room presumably to fetch the vials.

"Why don't you and me wait for him in the dinin' room," she suggested, her voice carrying a hint of Southern charm from the old world. "You ain't tasted nothin' till you tried my brahmin roast." 

Your protests dissolved into silence as she gently guided you into the room from whence she appeared. A grand wooden dining table commanded the centre of the space, its unpolished surface bearing the scars of time and use. Two weathered candelabras sat empty upon the worn tabletop framing an intricately designed vase that stood proudly in the centre, its once-vibrant bouquet now reduced to a collection of decaying flowers, a red hue faded to a sombre brown. Despite its faded grandeur, there was a certain charm to the room, a nostalgic reminder of simpler times.

Memories of your past life flooded your mind. You remembered the stressful joy of hosting gatherings, the meticulous attention to detail as you fretted over the correct placement of place mats and whether the centrepiece was in keeping with the latest trends from the home magazines you avidly read. Glenn, ever the laid-back husband, would often be found nestled in his recliner, savouring a glass of whiskey as the radio drowned out your worries. He only intervened when you were on the verge of tears, calling for Patti to come and mend his frantic wife.

As you took in the scene before you, a pang of nostalgia tugged at your heartstrings, a bittersweet reminder of a life left behind in the wake of the bombs. In this dilapidated dining room, this family had somehow managed to create a semblance of normalcy amongst the disorder. You only hoped to do the same for your own child.

"I'll have Junior walk you back to your friend," she announced, her voice carrying a gentle authority as she guided you to a seat amidst the array of mismatched chairs. "He's a good boy, you won't come into any trouble out there with him by your side." 

With a tender smile, she disappeared through a swinging door, leaving you to ponder her offer in the dimly lit room. However, your contemplation was interrupted by an unpleasant odour that wafted through the doorway, assaulting your senses with its acrid essence. The stench caused your stomach to churn uneasily, and you couldn't help but wrinkle your nose in distaste.

As she returned with two steaming plates balanced delicately in her hands, the offensive smell accompanied her, its presence overwhelming. Recoiling slightly, you fought to suppress the urge to gag and wondered how the woman wasn't doing the same.

Setting one plate down before you with practiced grace, she deftly produced a worn napkin from her apron, gently draping it across your lap with an air of hospitality. Expressing your gratitude, you watched warily as she took her seat opposite you, her eyes bright with anticipation.

Since your escape from the vault, you hadn't consumed anything that hadn't been prepared by your own hands or originated from a tin can. While her gesture was undoubtedly kind, you couldn't shake the apprehension that gnawed at you, fuelled by the putrid scent emanating from the meat on your plate.

You hesitantly prodded at the dish, watching as the jellied fat quivered around the thick bone it encased. A wave of revulsion washed over you, and opting instead to sample a carrot, you found it had been thoroughly drenched in the juices and carried the same off-putting aroma as the dubious meat.

Swallowing heavily, you mustered an encouraging smile for the woman across from you as she observed your reaction, her gaze expectant. Despite the foul taste in your mouth, you smiled in appreciation, hoping that it was enough to mask your unease. 

"It's delicious," you fibbed, delicately patting the corners of your mouth with the napkin. You eyed the door you had entered through. "Will your husband be joining us soon?"

You didn't want to push, but the urgency of your situation weighed heavily on your mind. Every moment spent away from the Ghoul felt like an eternity, and the thought of his deteriorating condition filled you with a sense of dread. You could have left with those three vials, but what guarantee did you have that they would be enough?

You knew nothing about his condition, nor did you possess the knowledge to provide any meaningful assistance. All you could do was return with as many vials as you could carry, hoping that the sheer quantity would be enough to appease him and alleviate any resentment he might harbour towards you for leaving.

"It's a big cellar," she offered in explanation, her tone carrying a hint of apology for her husband's delay. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, her gaze unwaveringly fixed on you. "Gets a mite lonesome in this old house."

You offered her a sympathetic smile, sensing a shared understanding of loneliness in her words. "And Junior, is he your son?" you asked.

"One of 'em," she replied with a wistful smile, her gaze drifting momentarily into the distance. "The only one left. Tall as a redwood and about as sharp as one too, bless his heart." There was a fondness in her tone, a mother's unconditional love for her child evident in every word. "But us mothers, we love 'em all the same, don't we?" she added with a gentle chuckle, her eyes flicking to your pregnant belly before returning to meet yours with a glimmer of joy.

Your eyes widened in astonishment at her revelation, and a surge of vulnerability and protectiveness welled within you, prompting your hands to instinctively cradle your bump. You had grown noticeably, your pregnancy now too pronounced to conceal any longer, compelling you to discard your vault suit in favour of garments salvaged from an old dresser. Amidst the solitude of your journey with the Ghoul, encounters with others had been rare, limited to a handful of oblivious traders who had failed to notice your condition. This unexpected revelation felt like a breach of privacy, like divulging a secret that had been shared exclusively between you and your companion.

"Of course," you replied cautiously, sensing the weight of her words.

"I'd move mountains for my boy, just to ensure he's fed and breathing. In this world, that's about all a mother can aspire to," she murmured, eyes glistening with the threat of tears. "It's a pitiful state when a mother can't even provide that much for her own kin."

Your heart constricted with anguish, fears surging to the forefront as you contemplated the prospect of being unable to provide even the most basic necessities for your unborn child. The notion of welcoming a helpless infant into a world of scarcity and violence filled you with terror. You had been hesitant to confront the reality of impending motherhood, unsure of how you would navigate the responsibilities that lay ahead. Despite clinging to the hope that sanctuary awaited you at the haven, you couldn't shake the nagging doubt that lingered in the recesses of your mind.

As you looked into her sad eyes, a pang of empathy tugged at your heartstrings. This poor woman had endured unimaginable loss, yet here she was, seemingly trying to cling to a semblance of normality by creating a home for her remaining family in the wasteland.  It was a fragile existence, one that could be snatched away at any moment, and as her resilience struck a chord within you, you wondered: Could this be your future as well? The thought lingered in the depths of your mind, weighing heavy on your chest. 

"Don't feel sorry for me, darlin', I got my time with my boys," she assured you, reaching across the table to rest her hand gently on yours. 

You smiled sadly as you regarded her. "I can't even imagine what you've been through," you admitted, your voice laced with genuine sympathy.

"No, I suppose you can't," she replied softly, her hand withdrawing from yours as she settled back in her chair. There was a moment of quiet contemplation before she spoke again, her words carrying the weight of hard-earned wisdom. "I've come to realize in this world that it's not about what's been done to us, but what we are willing to do."

You nodded in agreement. You had been thrust into this harsh reality, subjected to the horrors of the vaults and the betrayal of those who promised salvation. Yet, despite the trials and tribulations you had faced, you had fought tooth and nail to survive, to carve out a place for yourself in this dangerous new world. And now, with the imminent arrival of your child, that determination burned even brighter within you.

"Are you willing to do anything for your baby?" she asked, her voice soft yet resolute. Without hesitation, you nodded, unwavering resolve in your eyes.

Her gaze dropped to the table momentarily, lost in thought, before lifting once more to meet yours. "So am I," she declared softly, an edge in her voice that belied her gentle demeanour.

With a swift motion, she brought her index and middle finger to her lips, emitting a sharp whistle that pierced through the stillness of the old house. Your brows furrowed, trying to make sense of her action before Edwin shuffled into the room, trailed by a looming figure whose long hair obscured the majority of his face. "Christ, Mag, I thought we'd be waiting all night," the older man grumbled. "Junior, grab the girl."

You turned your gaze back to Mag, the panic rising within you like a tidal wave, but as your eyes searched for reassurance in hers, you found only avoidance. Her gaze remained fixed on the table, refusing to meet yours, her expression inscrutable.

Junior closed the distance with two swift strides, his towering frame engulfing you as he efficiently yanked you from your seat, flinging you onto your back on the table with a brutal force that stole the air from your lungs. The table's decorations rattled to the ground, mingling with the scattered food in a cacophonous crash.

As Mag's now stern voice echoed through the room, a cold shiver ran down your spine. "Don't leave any marks, Junior," she scolded, authority in her tone. Her son nodded in obedience.

Your hands trembled as you instinctively reached for your holster, only to curse under your breath when you found it empty. The realization hit you like a sledgehammer— you had handed your gun to Edwin during the negotiations, a decision that now seemed foolish in hindsight. Defenceless, vulnerable, and at the mercy of forces beyond your control. Like a cruel nightmare, you were back where you had started. 

"Can't sell meat that's all bruised up," Mag's words lingered in the air as she left the room and your eyes widened in terror as the door swung to a shut. You scrambled to rise from the table, but Junior pushed you back down, though this time with less force. 

"Please, you don't have to do this," you begged, tears welling in your eyes.

"She's not for selling, she's for eating," Edwin interjected callously, disregarding your pleas as he seized your ankles. Junior seized your wrists in an iron grip and pinned them above your head, stretching you out before them. 

"Says who, you old coot?" Mag challenged, reappearing with a hefty butcher knife gripped firmly in her hand. The awful smell filled the room again, and you felt bile rise in your throat.

"Says me, the one who got her inside in the first place," he retorted, grunting as you struggled against his grip. "Besides, I'm sick of that rancid meat. He's been festering in there for weeks." He nodded toward the door where the putrid smell was emitting from.

His words sent a chill down your spine as you glanced at the mess of food scattered across the floor. Your eyes honed in on the repulsive meat that now lay splayed on the grubby carpet amongst the ceramic shards of the plates. Brahmin meat, she had told you, but now you realized it was another poor soul who had crossed this family's path.

Perhaps you were naïve to not consider the act of cannibalism in this dire new reality, but your mind reeled at the images of teeth ripping through bloody flesh.

"Please, why are you doing this?" you cried, tears hot on your cheeks as panic consumed you, each futile struggle met with unyielding strength from Edwin and Junior. Mag moved to your side.

"We've had this conversation, darlin', you know why," Mag whispered, her face looming mere inches from yours. The warmth that once suffused her features had now drained away, replaced by a chilling resolve as she gazed down at you. "Motherhood demands sacrifice, and this is the sacrifice I'm willing to make."

Her gaze shifted to your belly, assessing it before turning to address the old man. "We'll keep her for meat and sell the babe for a hefty sum," she declared, eliciting a triumphant whoop from him. As her hand tenderly caressed your sweat-dampened hair, a shiver ran down your spine at the realization of your fate. "I want you to know that I mean you no ill will," she murmured, her voice a soothing contrast to the horror of her words. "But my boy has to eat."

The gentle touch of her hand offered little comfort as you recoiled from her touch. When you shook your head in a futile attempt to rid yourself of her grasp, she stepped back, her voice hardening once more.

"I wish I could promise this won't hurt, but there's only one way this baby's comin' out," she stated matter-of-factly, her words ringing with finality as the weight of your impending ordeal settled like lead in the pit of your stomach.

As the blade hovered menacingly above you, your mind raced with desperate thoughts. You couldn't shake the image of the Ghoul alone, abandoned where you'd left him while you embarked on this ill-fated rescue mission. What if he awoke to find you gone, vanished without a trace? Would he think you'd left him, angry over what had transpired between you both? Or perhaps that you'd waited until his weakest moment to finally run from him. The mere notion tore at your heartstrings.

You needed him to know the truth, to understand that your departure was in aide to help him not abandon him. You couldn't die knowing that he may think so badly of you, even though you weren't sure why it mattered so much. He'd been difficult and stubborn, scolded you and made you cry, but there was a yearning that you felt for him beyond your own understanding. With every fibre of your being, you silently pleaded for a chance to return to his side, to make things right and ensure that he could never doubt your devotion.

But you were trapped, with nowhere to run and no escape from the horrors unfolding before you. The full stretch of your body left your bare stomach uncomfortably exposed to the imminent danger. The cold, unforgiving blade of the knife traced a path across the swell of your belly, its touch sending shivers of dread coursing through your veins. Though the first cut was not deep, the sting of pain accompanied by the trickle of blood down your side served as a grim reminder of the perilous situation you had walked yourself and your unborn child into.

Since escaping the clutches of the vault, you hadn't dared to picture your future, quickly learning that the dangers of the wasteland were capable of shattering your reality with ruthless brutality from one moment to the next. Yet, amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing had remained constant: your unwavering determination to protect and nurture the life growing within you.

From the moment you heard the doctor confirm your pregnancy, a flicker of hope ignited within you. Despite the deceit of your husband, the looming threat of war, and every obstacle that stood in your path, you had clung to the unwavering belief that you were destined for motherhood. It was a truth that resonated deep within your heart, but you felt it slowly being swallowed by the hollow ache of despair and regret.

With a heavy heart weighing down every fibre of your being, you closed your eyes, bracing yourself for what was to come. In that harrowing moment, a chilling realization swept over you like a tidal wave: if you were to remain conscious through these next moments, you would meet your baby. You were so far from carrying to full-term, but why would Mag go to such lengths unless she was confident that your baby would survive. Afterall, a living baby must be worth a fortune in the wasteland. A commodity, as the Ghoul had described you. 

Then, the thought pierced your soul: your baby would enter the world alone, without you, unaware of what transpired or why you weren't there beside them. Growing up to think that their mother never loved them. You couldn't let it happen.

With your last shred of resolve shattered, a primal scream tore from your throat.

A distant crash from another room shattered the tense atmosphere, bringing the woman's relentless pursuit with the knife to an abrupt halt. All three members of the family turned their heads towards the doorway, their eyes widening in shock as it was obliterated before them. A deafening cacophony of splintering wood filled the air as a single bullet burst through, sending wooden fragments flying in all directions.

Instinctively, you turned your head away, seeking whatever meagre protection you could get. In the midst of the commotion, Edwin's agonized holler pierced the air, his body recoiling as the bullet sliced through his neck. With a forceful impact, he was thrown back against the kitchen doorway, his form crumpling to the ground with a heavy thud that reverberated throughout the room.

Junior's anguished wails pierced your eardrums. Despite his distress, his vice-like grip remained unyielding, keeping you firmly in place even as he grappled with the shock of his father's demise.

Meanwhile, Mag offered only a fleeting acknowledgment to the lifeless form of her husband before her attention snapped back to the now-open doorway. There, a figure emerged, a silhouette framed by the shattered remnants of the entrance. With each step, the sound of spurred boots rang out like a beacon of hope.

As the Ghoul's hulking frame filled the doorway, a wave of relief washed over you. He appeared worlds apart from the unconscious man you had left behind in search of aid, and as you took in his daunting appearance, you noticed the inhaler clutched in his hand, an almost empty vial inserted inside. 

Locking eyes with him across the room, you watched as his weary gaze swept over the scene before him: you, splayed out and held down on the table, a small cut marring your belly, tears streaking your face.

In that fleeting moment, his expression darkened with a silent fury. With swift and merciless precision, he raised his magnum, his aim unwavering as he first targeted Junior. In an instant, the sound of gunfire shot through the room, a single slug piercing through Junior's skull, extinguishing his cries in a heartbeat.

Mag's horrified gaze barely had time to register the terror before her own fate was sealed. She turned to the Ghoul with venom in her eyes. "Coop—"

With ruthless efficiency, another bullet tore through her chest, sending her crumpling to the floor beside her fallen son. In the span of mere seconds, the room fell almost silent, the only sound being the Ghoul's heavy breaths as he surveyed the aftermath of his swift justice.

A low groan echoed across the room, drawing the Ghoul's attention to the source of the sound. Without hesitation, he fired off two more shots into Edwin's chest, putting an end to his suffering. As the final ring of gunfire faded, the Ghoul lowered his gun, his gaze fixated on you once more. His eyes, dark and brooding, seemed to bore into your very soul, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable in their intense scrutiny.

With trembling hands, you pushed yourself up to sit on the table, the weight of so many emotions swirling within you like a windstorm raging inside your chest. Fear, relief, guilt, and gratitude warred for dominance, each vying for your attention as you struggled to make sense of the harrowing ordeal that had unfolded before you. In that moment of uncertainty, you found yourself paralyzed by indecision, unsure of how to proceed as you watched the Ghoul, awaiting his instruction.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, he holstered his gun and tucked the inhaler back inside his coat, the look of anguish etched upon his scarred face. With a silent understanding passing between you, he beckoned you to him with a curl of his fingers, a wordless invitation for comfort that you never thought possible from him. Your body moved on instinct, propelled forward by a force beyond conscious thought, as you leaped from the table and into the safety of his waiting arms. In that moment, all pretence of strength crumbled away, leaving you clinging to him with a desperation that bordered on frantic.

You held onto him so tightly that you could almost feel the air being squeezed from your lungs. As his muscular arms enveloped you and your unborn child, a floodgate of emotion burst open within you, unleashing an outburst of tears that wracked your body with their intensity.

"I never left you," you whispered through each sob, your voice hoarse from screaming, the words spilling out in a plea for understanding. "I swear, I was coming back."

His touch was tender as he stroked your hair, his breath warm against your ear as he comforted your trembling form. "Nobody would blame you if you hadn't," he murmured softly, then cleared his throat. "I told you, you weren't to come here."

"I had to save you," you insisted, your voice shaking but resolute.

"Sure did a fine job," he said, glancing around the room at the carnage. "Looked like you had everything under control."

His teasing stung, and you pulled away from him, hurt flashing in your eyes as you stood your ground. "You were unconscious. If I hadn't come, you would have—" your voice cracked, unable to finish the thought.

"I'm still here, aren't I?" he interrupted, irritation thick in his voice. "Good thing too, because I wasn't aware just how dumb you could be."

"I didn't know if you'd make it," you shot back, your voice a raw blend of frustration and fear. "I had to do something, I couldn't lose you."

For a brief moment, his eyes softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. But it was quickly replaced by steely conviction. He pointed a gloved finger at your belly, his tone firm yet edged with concern. "I shouldn't be your concern right now."

You cradled your bump protectively, looking up at him with glistening eyes. "And yet here we are."

He was silent for a moment, his hand dropping back to his side as he regarded you with a mix of frustration and helplessness. "What am I going to do with you?" he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You didn't answer him. Instead, you moved back into his chest, seeking the comfort you'd felt moments before. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, the tension in his muscles softening as he held you close.

"This can't keep happening," he said after moments of silence passed between you, his words hammering at your heart. You couldn't tell if he was referring to the intimacy of your embrace or your reckless brush with death once again. Regardless, you tightened your grip on him.

"Just a little longer," you whispered, your voice barely audible. He sighed in resignation as he gently disentangled your arms from his waist, pushing you back to look into your eyes. His hand slipped into the pocket of his coat, and he retrieved the device that would sever any remaining physical connection between you.

You had barely had time to enjoy the unbridled freedom of those moments in his embrace, the silence broken only by the rhythmic beating of his heart against your cheek rather than the disturbing clicking. But now, as your eyes fell on the Pip-Boy, you realized you weren't ready to relinquish that freedom, despite the protection it promised.

"I told you not to take it off," he chided. When you started to explain yourself, he cut you off. "I don't care, just put it back on."

You shook your head, your eyes locking with his, defiance met with disappointment. "Don't make me do it," he pleaded earnestly, his voice softening, laden with a desperation you hadn't heard from him before.

"I have a choice, and so do you," you told him, your voice steady but your heart pounding.

He smiled sadly, a bittersweet expression that deepened the ache in your chest. "I wish that were true," he replied, pulling your hand gently and fastening the Pip-Boy around your wrist. The device closed with a sickening clink, severing the fragile connection between you. You held his gaze, chin high, though you wanted to curl into yourself.

"I wonder if it really is me you're protecting with this thing," you said, your voice trembling with rage and sorrow, your hand still enclosed in his as the clicking commenced. "I'm not so sure anymore."

His gaze dropped as he took a deep breath, bracing himself before looking back at you with a rueful smile. "Me neither, vaultie," he admitted, his voice a whisper of regret. He dropped your hand and turned to leave the room. "Maybe it's better that way."

He disappeared through the open doorway, leaving you alone with the heavy silence and the cold weight of the Pip-Boy on your wrist. The freedom of touch you had tasted moments ago now felt like a distant memory, replaced by the stark reality that, regardless of anything else, the Ghoul was determined to keep you at a distance. 

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @lothiriel9 @ancientbeing10 @sillysimping @maeplaysbass @moon-trash1507 @spookyoat @rebelmarylou @writtenbyhollywood

[the-matron-of-ravens]

Aeorians and The Gods are Mirrors of Each other

I've seen a lot of discussion about how contrasting and diametrically opposed the mortals and gods are. And (particularly on CR Twitter) that this is a tragedy of oppressive gods striking down mortals who dared to resist.

Well, I don't think that's entirely accurate. Rather than being opposites of each other I think that the Aeorians in power and the Gods are acting more like mirrors for each other. Reflecting the failings and flaws of the other.

Let's take a look at some of the criticisms that the gods have received from both Aeorians and fandom under the Read More (cause long):

the Gods have hoarded power and abilities and resources from mortals to increase their own power

the Gods have used disproportionate violence against and ignored the plight of mortals because they could/because they hated them

the Gods have taken domain of lands/worlds that aren't theirs and done with them as they want - even at the expense of mortals

When it became convenient/dangerous/tough the Gods caused this chaos and abandoned mortals to their fate or worse are actively trying to destroy the mortals

The gods don't care for mortals - at worst mortals are bugs to squash - at best they view mortals as "prized pets" and things to be controlled

Ultimately, having these entities with this much power and resources is fundamentally not just dangerous but an existential threat

There are others but those seem to be the main critiques that I've observed.

Well, now let's take a look at Aeor and Aeorian society that we've learned over the course of Downfall p.1 and p.2

When in Hawk's Hill, the most important goal of Aeorians was taking tribute via food, rare resources, and materials, etc. for their secret project. All the while people starving for food watched on as riches passed them by, and Ayden daring to help them was seen as a huge risk.

Aeorians - during the time of the Age of Arcanum - took a chunk of the earth, raised it (crucially) above the rest of the world because they could and because it signalled their power and superiority over everyone else.

Then during the time of the Calamity, Aeor - as the "last bastion of civilization/mortals" has shuttered their doors. As we saw with Hawk's Hill after the resources were taken on board, those that could *work and serve* were prioritized first. And those that were sick or religious? Left for dead and discarded. (Edit: this is to say nothing about the way Aeorians have tried to eradicate all traces of the natural world and its animals from aeor)

Aeorians have developed the ability to create an entirely new species of people with souls - Aeormatons, they have developed the power of creation. They have also developed a weapon so powerful it can kill gods multiple times over. And the decision of who to target or when is completely in the hands of those in power.

Aeorians have been seen subjugating fiends, devils, demons, constructs, elementals - all symbols of divine power. Humiliating them and displaying their superiority by treating them as pets.

Are you picking up what I'm putting down?

Both the Gods and Mortals are guilty of all of these things. Some more than others.

Civilian Aeorians had no control over the high ranking Aeorians building a weapon or subjugating other species. Just as the Prime Deities were helpless to stop the Betrayer Gods from manipulating mortals into starting the Calamity. Just as they were helpless to do anything other than take up arms to try and prevent a genocide of their children by their siblings.

The power differential there is massive - but the result is the same. Both are groups of people being collectively punished for the crimes of a part of them.

The problem is we've moved passed Mutually Assured Destruction - where theoretically there could be a stalemate because both sides know the other could take them out. We've moved into a situation where both Aeorians and the Gods feel that if they don't shoot first, it is them who will be dead.

Once both sides have determined that to give in/not shoot would mean their destruction? We're headed for a unavoidable trainwreck.

My final takeaway here is that I think Matt has very very intentionally made it so both the Gods and the Mortals are reflections of each other. There is no unequivocal bad guy in power here and there is no unequivocal good guy in power.

The only end result here whether the weapon is completed or the gods strike Aeor down is a tragedy where innocents die because of those in power.

The only end result here is a world in which those in power cause more destruction and death than they ever thought themselves capable of because they felt forced into it or were blinded by their hate. Where even those who thought themselves "good" and "fair" and "helping" look at themselves and the result of their actions and see waste and destruction.

But I do have a question...after the Calamity and seeing what it wrought - the Prime Deities made the decision to not just banish their traitorous siblings away but themselves as well. To limit their own power - and by extension their ability to harm.

Would the Archmages of Aeor have done the same?

I'm not convinced to be honest.

[ginnsbaker]

In Losing Grip On Sinking Ships (6/?)

Chapter summary: The relationship between you and Wanda reaches a critical juncture.

Chapter word count: 10,500 words

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader (heavy on this chapter), Yelena Belova x Fem!Reader

Trigger Warnings: mildly dubious consent, alcohol abuse, smut, toxic relationships

Author's note: Yup.

AO3 | Masterlist

Next chapter: Seven

Taglist: @blackluthxr | @esposadejoyhuerta | @secretbackrooms | @justgotlizzied , @casquinhaa | @marvelwomen-simp | @sunsol-22 | @wandanatlov3r | @kyaraderuwez

-

Part VI

Wanda hasn’t heard from you in exactly a week. 

After you dropped off Sparky at her apartment, she attempted to invite you in for a chance to explain herself, but you firmly declined and hastily departed without uttering a single word or even casting a glance in her direction. Somehow, the situation has deteriorated further than where it’s been months ago.

As before, Wanda made numerous attempts to call you and sent lengthy messages, earnestly explaining that she never intended to offend you and expressing profuse apologies. Over time, her messages grew increasingly desperate, pleading with you to at least inform her if you no longer wished to see her again. However, you remained silent, leaving her messages unanswered. Eventually, her calls ceased to connect, and a warning symbol appeared next to her texts, indicating delivery failure.

The implications were clear.

You’ve finally blocked her.

She couldn’t understand why the topic of children affected you to the point that you’re hell-bent on writing her off this time. Your discussions about having them never went beyond who’s carrying (Wanda) and how many (two); it was more of wishful thinking that didn’t make the priority list in the five years you’ve been married. 

It’s why she didn’t think twice to open up about her regrets of not having them, contemplating whether things would have turned out differently–if she would have turned out differently. Maybe, she would have been someone who didn't prioritize her own needs above all else. 

In a roundabout manner, it was her attempt to convey that she felt flawed and tainted.

There’s no excuse for her cheating. But she wanted you to understand anyway, that if she could have prevented it somehow, she’d give everything she has to seize that opportunity.

But as it turned out, it was foolish of her to think like you were still partners in the old days; where she didn’t need to filter out her thoughts because they were safest with you. You were her best friend, after all.  It became challenging for her to strike a balance between being true to herself and expressing her thoughts with unwavering honesty. Ironically, her sincerity and openness only served to push you further away. Clearly, her efforts to do the right thing have only resulted in diminishing her chances of reconciliation.

Over the last few days, Wanda’s thought a lot about showing up at your door, but seeing how unpredictable you’ve become to her, the prospect of being turned away like a beggar frightens her more than anything. And worse, it might just prompt you to move out of Natasha’s apartment and consequently, out of her life for good. 

Wanda couldn’t take that risk. She’s lost you for the third time now; and each of them has hurt more than the previous one. How many more times does she have to lose you in order for her to learn how to keep you? 

-

“This isn’t what I ordered.” 

Wanda blinks at the customer with a vacant expression. He took one sip and arbitrarily dismissed the drink before turning his attention back to the tablet in front of him.

“You ordered an Iced Americano with oat milk, two pumps of sugar free vanilla and one pump of hazelnut syrup.” Wanda recites his order from memory. 

“No water.” he replies in a monotone, rigidly unbothered in his pristine suit.

Wanda swallows dryly; that detail she forgot about.

“My apologies. I’ll be back with your drink in a few.”

Wanda hurries to the coffee bar to make another. In autopilot, she redoes it from scratch, putting together the ingredients with preciseness that could only be perfected by hours of preparing complex orders alike. She mixes them all together, before filling the cup with ice to the brim. However, right before she can serve it, another customer comes up to the counter, with a mild complaint about their paninis. 

It takes less than a minute for Wanda to deal with the problem, and then she returns to the businessman with the replacement drink. Wanda quietly places the cup in front of him. His dull eyes flicker to her as he tentatively takes a small sip. Grimacing, he sets his cup down and then flashes Wanda an impatient look as he says, “How many times do I have to spell it out for you? I said no water.”

Wanda’s nostrils flared. “The hot espresso would melt the ice somehow,” she snaps with a tight smile, and then she openly leers at a specific area below his waist. “Or is your brain too small to understand that’s just basic science?” 

Her voice is loud and sharp enough for two other customers to hear, and for Agatha to come rushing to her side to help with the situation.

The man rises abruptly in a fury, and stretches his spine to look taller than his height.

“You’ll be hearing from me in your Yelp reviews later.” With that, he leaves, making sure to slam the door on his way out. Everyone cringes in chorus at the clashing sound of metal chimes. 

Wanda tacitly apologizes to the customers bothered by the commotion, before cleaning up the table of the one who just left.

When she returns to the kitchen, Agatha studies her in concern.

“You alright, dear?” she whispers to Wanda, depositing a tray of dirty plates and utensils on the sink. Wanda works her jaw as she starts putting those in the dishwasher. 

“Wanda, dear?” Agatha tries again. “Wanda.” she repeats in a hushed tone. That’s when she notices Wanda’s hands gripping the edge of the sink hard, her knuckles turn white. The brunette is shaking, breaths becoming shallower and shallower until she’s gasping uncontrollably. Agatha grabs Wanda by the shoulders and starts to lead her outside from some fresh air.

“N-No,” Wanda protests in between pants. “J-Just wait it out.” Then she falls to the floor and hugs her knees, willing for her panic attack to pass. In the background, she hears the remaining customers leave, murmuring to themselves about the “unpleasant vibe” the cafe is giving off. 

Agatha is on the phone, calling Pietro.

Make it stop. Wanda thinks to herself, trying to gain control of her breathing. Please, make it stop.

An image of you appears in her head. With her eyes closed, she can see every crease, every pore, every detail of your beautiful face. 

“Y/N…” she utters your name like a prayer. 

Gradually, the tremors subside. Her heart rate returns to normal. Wanda feels herself reconnect to her body. The episode is over just in time for Agatha to return with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, thank God, you’re alright!” she cries, before dropping to her knees and enveloping Wanda into a stiff hug. “You scared me! I thought you were having a seizure.”

“Panic attack.” Wanda corrects her evenly. “I get them sometimes. Sorry, I should’ve told you.”

“It’s okay,” Agatha rubs her shoulder soothingly. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

The warm feeling of comfort is what finally breaks Wanda. She covers her face with both of her hands and sobs into them. 

“Oh, Wanda…” Agatha takes her back into her arms and rocks her back and forth. “What’s happening to you?”

When her crying subsides, Wanda tells Agatha everything; from the night she found you again at the club, to the short-lived friendship that ended in a misunderstanding about imaginary kids.

“Honey, don’t you think it’s unhealthy to be in-touch with your ex-wife in the first place?” Agatha says in the best way she wouldn’t sound too critical of Wanda’s predicament. 

Wanda hastily brushes away the lingering tears that continue to trickle down her cheeks.

“I never wanted to be divorced from her. I never wanted us to end.” Wanda swallows back a whimper, feeling another dam within her threatening to burst at any second.

Agatha tries to sympathetically put some sense into her. “But you agreed. You signed those papers–”

“It’s what she wanted. And after what I did, I was in no position to deny her anything.”

“And what were you expecting to happen after you gave her what she wanted?

“I…” Wanda trails off, feeling like the biggest idiot now that she’s realizing how naive she’d really been for the past several weeks. So deluded into thinking that she’ll eventually worm her way back into your heart. “I don’t know.”

Divorcing didn’t feel so permanent when she agreed to it. To her, marriage was a legal binding that came with spousal benefits. Even without it, she already knew she was spending the rest of her life with you. When you divorced her, it didn’t change the fact that she was yours for good. 

Agatha sighs and puts her hand on top of Wanda’s, squeezing it lightly. “You know, we’ve never really talked about our personal lives. Most probably because I was your boss.” she says with a light chuckle. “But have I told you that I never married?”

Wanda shakes her head. “Someone from the gallery mentioned it in passing. I forgot who.” 

“I bet it’s Dottie. That bitch,” Agatha mumbles, glaring at the empty space in front of her. “Anyway… What was I saying?”

“You never married.”

“Ah, yes,” Agatha’s face twists into something wistful and sullen. “But it’s not because it wasn’t for me. To be honest, I love the idea of it. I guess you could say I missed the opportunity to be married.”

Dottie never delved into the reasons why Agatha stayed single all this time; likely because no one had gotten close enough to uncover the complete story.

“What do you mean?” Wanda asks, recognizing that Agatha is sharing this narrative as a diversion, and she feels a sense of gratitude for it. 

“The love of my life wanted to marry me before I was ready. I was, oh god, eighteen? A country girl, fresh out of highschool and ready to show the world what she’s made of.”

Wanda smiles softly as she imagines a young, vivacious Agatha Harkness. 

“He’s a junior police officer in our town and three years my senior,” Agatha tilts her head, the back of her head pressing against the kitchen cabinet. Wanda observes how engrossed she is in her own trip down memory lane. 

“I remember it like it was yesterday. I hadn’t known he’d been planning a proposal at the festival that was going to be held the night of my graduation day,” Agatha recalls. “So, when he got down on one knee with a ring in front of everyone we knew–our friends, our family, and practically the whole town–I had wanted to be struck by lightning and just…fall dead on the spot. That would’ve been the best thing to happen that night.”

Wanda’s brows are knitted together as she asks, “What did you do?”

Agatha starts laughing–a cackling humorless sound–nothing short of unhinged if Wanda hadn’t heard it before. “I ran. I literally ran for my life.” she tells Wanda.

“He was so humiliated by my reaction, he wouldn’t see me at all. I didn’t reach out either. I don’t think we ever broke up. We just stopped talking to each other. And then my career took off and I landed in New York.”

“Did you ever find out what happened to him after?”

Agatha smiles sadly at that, and says, “Oh, yes. I kept tabs on him for years. He got married to someone else the following year, just before I could muster up the courage to fix things.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago. And I’ve moved past it.” Agatha’s eyes are wet when they meet Wanda’s.

"So... you never got married because you've been in love with him all this time?" Wanda asks, curiosity and surprise lingering in her words.

The question sends Agatha into a fit of giggles. “Don’t be silly, Wanda. I’m not a martyr. I fell in love so many times after him.”

Wanda laughs along though self-deprecatingly. “Yeah, I guess that was a stupid take.”

As the silence settles between them, Agatha proceeds, her voice softening. "There was a time when I truly believed I would never move on. I was fixated on him for years. It may sound petty, but I even started curating my social media profiles to project an image of living my best life—well, in a way—just in case he ever stumbled upon them."

She takes a breath before continuing. "But then, one day, I woke up and he didn't consume my thoughts anymore. As my heart let go of him, it also released the notion of marriage."

“Oh,” Wanda looks down at her lap, not really knowing what to make sense of it all. “Those men that came after your ex, you never saw yourself marrying any of them?”

“I already had my one, great love, Wanda. He’s the only boy I was sure I could love forever. Yes, I can fall in love with other people again and again, but I’ve come to realize that it will never measure up to what I felt for him. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

"I do, actually," Wanda responds with unwavering determination. She isn't entirely certain of Agatha's intentions in sharing her story, but it only solidifies Wanda's resolve to win you back. "If I have to go to great lengths to prove myself to Y/N, then I'm prepared to do so. I won't give up without a fight."

"No, no," Agatha shakes her head, a little dismayed that her true message didn't come across as intended. "You're supposed to do the opposite. Let. Him. Go. One day, you're going to wake up, and it will all be nothing but a precious chapter in your life."

“I’m sorry, but I think you’re lying when you say it’s “nothing” to you. The fact that this memory has stayed with you all these years means something.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you regret that you acted a little too late. Don’t worry, I’m not going to make the same mistake.” Wanda says, getting to her feet. 

"I have no regrets," Agatha asserts, looking up at Wanda with staunch confidence. "And you have no right to judge me for choosing to prioritize myself over catering to his wounded ego."

"I wasn't judging you," Wanda soothes softly. "And I apologize if I'm not hearing what you want me to hear, but Y/N was open to maintaining a connection with me. And as far as I can tell, she isn't involved with anyone else yet, which means I-"

"How certain are you?" Agatha interrupts, a hint of challenge in her voice. "How certain are you that she isn't currently planning her future with someone new?"

"I just am," Wanda responds with full conviction.

“That’s not good enough, Wanda.”

“Well, unless I see her say ‘I fucking do’ to someone else at the altar, then the only option for me is her.”

Agatha drops her chin in defeat. She takes a long, deep breath before pulling herself off the ground so that she can address Wanda on eye-level. 

“I can’t tell you what to do because clearly, your mind’s made up. It seems made up long before you and Y/N got yourselves into this mess.”

Wanda is quiet as she stares at the floor, not denying nor confirming anything.

Agatha's expression softens as she reaches out to lift Wanda's chin gently, making her meet her eyes. "I'm here to support you, my dear. And I genuinely wish you the best."

Wanda struggles to swallow the lump in her throat. "Agatha, I... I apologize for what I said earlier about-"

“I’m not hurt,” Agatha says, but it doesn’t make Wanda feel any less guilty. “Believe me, I’ve said and done worse things when I was in your position.”

Wanda nods solemnly. “Can I ask you a favor though?”

“Sure, honey. What is it?”

“Please don’t tell Pietro. He’s doing well, I think. I don’t want him to worry about me. He’s been here long enough already.”

“You have my word.”

-

Later, after Wanda closes up shop for the day, she goes straight to your place. She loafs around a corner across your building, deliberating if she should come up to your unit and hash it out. The lights are open where your living room would be on the third floor, indicating that you’re home. But just as she makes the decision to see you, a figure of a woman approaches your window to draw the curtains. 

Wanda narrows her eyes, and as she looks closely, instantly recognizing that she’s the same woman from the club. The woman you danced with, seemingly without a care in the world.

Wanda’s step falters, almost losing her balance. She lingers for a bit, gazing up helplessly at your window. As people pass by her motionless figure on the streets, their expressions turn to suspicion, their eyes drawn to the direction that has captured her attention so completely.

She pays them no attention, but when it becomes apparent that this woman wasn’t going to leave anytime soon, she decides to go home.

As Wanda catches the last train to her borough, she tries not to think about what it means. 

Wanda’s never been one to reel in her jealousy; no matter the fact that she no longer has any business of feeling that way in the first place.

-

“Y/N?”

“Maybe it would have stopped me.”

Your mind keeps rewinding the same scene from a week ago. Over and over again, you see green eyes, large and imploring. 

“Y/N.”

Maybe it would have stopped me.

You see Wanda standing by the doorway, terrified and confused. It’s haunting in a way that you kind of wished you didn’t agree to this friendship thing in the first place. 

“Y/N!”

Yelena's voice calling your name startles you, snapping you back to the present moment. You blink and refocus your attention on her. "Sorry, what's up?"

Yelena had arrived unexpectedly an hour ago, holding a bag of Shake Shack takeout and mentioning something about being in the area for an event. It hadn't occurred to you that you hadn't been in contact since the night you shared a kiss at her doorstep. In fairness, she hadn't reached out to you either.

She had set up the food spread of burgers and fries on the table in front of the TV while you searched for a horror movie that neither of you had seen. However, in the midst of dinner, she had to take an important work call, and your thoughts immediately drifted back to the events of the previous week, those green eyes that were dark pools of fear and rejection. 

Yelena bites her lip, finally noticing the disconnect and distance you've been exhibiting.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” she asks. 

You tilt your head at her curiously. “Talk about what?”

Yelena rubs her temples as her mouth twists in a wry smile. “Oh my god, you can be such an asshole sometimes.” 

As you grab Yelena's hand, a surge of determination courses through you, preventing her from fully retreating. "Lena," you say, using her childhood nickname, a name that holds a special significance between the two of you. 

It's a subtle way of easing the tension that has filled the room. With a mix of relief and vulnerability, Yelena allows herself to be pulled back towards the couch, and she plops back down beside you.

“Look, I know I didn’t call you either after we… after that night. But I’m here now, and I’m ready to figure things out with you.” she says.

You sigh, letting go of her hand. “Frankly, I don’t know where to begin.”

“How about this,” Yelena proposes. “I’ll start with a question and we’ll see where it goes from there.”

“You’ve thought this through.” you say.

“I have.”

“Alright.”

Yelena nods. “Here it goes,” she blows out her cheeks. “Why did you kiss me?”

“I–”

“I don’t need a quick answer,” Yelena interrupts. “I need an honest one.”

The truth is, from the moment it happened until Wanda showed up the following day, it consumed your thoughts entirely. You recall lying awake in bed, unable to shake the desire to experience it again—the softness of Yelena's lips, the subtle differences in her kisses compared to those you had shared before.

You kissed her simply because it was unthinkable to do anything otherwise in that moment.

You give her this answer, and Yelena’s expression remains eerily neutral. Not that you were expecting some kind of reaction, but still–

“So if it had gone beyond a kiss, you’re saying you just wanted to hook up?”

You shake your head at her incredulously. “Not at all!”

“Oh, so you didn’t want to have sex with me at all…”

“I do! I mean–of course I’m attracted to you. But I didn’t kiss you just because I wanted to sleep with someone,” you say, feeling a pressure at the back of your neck. “I kissed you because I just… wanted to kiss you.” you wince at hearing yourself repeat the same thing like a broken record.

Yelena studies you for a moment, before she says, “Does that mean anything?”

“It means being close to you like that brought a decade-old feeling to the surface.” you reply, the volume of your voice considerably fading towards the end of your sentence. 

Yelena plays with the necklace around her neck. “Yeah? What sort of feelings?”

You prop your chin on one hand. All things considered, what you once had with Yelena had every potential to be one of your greatest loves. But you don’t want to mistake love with feelings of nostalgia. 

“You don’t have to answer that one,” Yelena says after a long, heavy moment. “Actually, I’d prefer it if you don’t. I’ve been thinking a lot this past week. About the possibility of us. About you, as a person… about me, as a person. And we’ve… changed. I just didn’t realize it before because you feel like home to me. I think no matter how long or far we’re apart, I’ll always feel that way about you.”

“Me too,” you say with a soft smile. “Your presence in my life has been nothing but comforting. Safe. Like I can always be me, even at my worst.”

“But it’s not enough for me, Y/N. I never thought the window would open again when Nat told me you got married. So, I’ll be damned if I miss my chance again.”

"What are you suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that we give this a real chance," she says.

"I... I don't think I'm ready," you hesitate.

Yelena can't help but let a smirk creep onto her lips. "Says the girl who kissed me."

You blush at that, wishing you carried the same courage you had that night at this very moment.

When you fail to respond, Yelena prods you with a question. 

“You’re not ready or you’re scared you’d hurt me?” she asks.

With love, you have always been ready. It has always been a natural and instinctive part of your being. You embraced love in all its complexities; with its joys and sorrows, without fear or reservation. But now, you cower in the shadow of betrayal–as if it was love itself that betrayed you, rather than Wanda.

“I’m scared I’d hurt you,” you choke out, barely able to contain the tremor in your voice. “... And I’m scared to be hurt again.”

Yelena’s heart breaks at your words. “Come here.” she whispers.  

She doesn’t really wait for you to act. Before you know it, Yelena has closed the distance to encircle her arms around your waist and pull you into a tight embrace. You hug her back and bury your face into her neck. It’s only when you feel Yelena’s soaked shirt against your cheek, that you realize you’ve been crying.

You remain intertwined in each other's arms for a while, finding solace in the connection you share, until Yelena’s phone rings and it’s Kate urgently asking her to work with her on a story that’s about to erupt. Understanding the importance of her work, you reluctantly send her off, promising to continue the conversation at a later time.

Just as Yelena is about to leave, she suddenly pauses and grabs the back of your neck, pulling you into a brief yet intense kiss. The passion and longing in that moment leave you breathless. Before parting, she whispers, "Something more for you to think about. Now, we're even."

With those words lingering in the air, she releases your bottom lip with a wet sound and leaves you with a swirl of emotions and thoughts to ponder.

-

That same night, on the rooftop of her apartment building, Wanda sits alone, surrounded by the night sky and the faint smell of tobacco after doubling her dosage of tranquilizers again.

The half-empty pack of cigarettes lies beside her, a testament to her struggle to cope with the turmoil in her heart. She takes a long drag from her cigarette, feeling the burn in her lungs, and exhales a cloud of smoke into the air. Beside the pack of cigarettes, a bottle of tequila rosé stands, its contents diminishing with every sip Wanda takes. 

Wanda's mind drifts back to her college days, remembering how smoking was once a non-negotiable deal-breaker for you. She had forced herself to quit back then, eager to align herself with your preferences and expectations. But now, in this moment of heartache and confusion, she finds herself returning to this old habit, seeking comfort and familiarity in the act of lighting a cigarette.

She recalls the day you moved out of your home in Westview, the day her world began to unravel. It was then that she picked up smoking again, a way to cope with the pain of your absence. And even when she found you again, she attempted to quit for the second time, hoping to present a version of herself again that you would approve of. 

But tonight, with her heart heavy and her emotions overwhelming, Wanda allows herself to surrender to the temptation of smoking. Each inhale brings a momentary respite from her thoughts, even if it comes at the cost of her health and well-being. She remembers how you used to despise the smell of tobacco on her breath, how you would express your concern about the impact it had on her life expectancy.

“As much as eleven minutes per stick.” You had told her so many times, back when you were just friends.

Yet in this moment, Wanda finds solace in the cigarettes, even if it's just for those fleeting minutes that they shorten her life. It's a small act of rebellion, a way to reclaim a fragment of control in the uncertainty of it all. 

“Ever wonder who will die first in our old age?” Wanda asks you one night after a particularly intense make-up sex. Lying in bed, you’re exhausted and seconds away from sleep, while Wanda’s energy hasn’t dissipated at all–rather, it increased even more after two orgasms.

You’ve been married for two years, and fought over a random encounter with Carol; a fellow NYU who was crazy about you for the entirety of your sophomore year. The aforementioned encounter was an annual work meeting with your company’s outside partners, and it led to Carol asking you to catch up over coffee after work.

“I hope it’s me.” you say, snuggling close to Wanda’s side. Tenderly, you place an arm over her exposed abdomen and affectionately squeeze a small fold on her belly.

“Can’t be you. I used to smoke three to four cigarettes a day for years before you made me quit.” Wanda says, laughing a little when you accidentally pinch a ticklish spot. 

“For the record, I didn’t make you quit.” 

“Fine,” Wanda rolls her eyes. “But going back to the topic: I think it’s going to be me.”

You’re quiet for a long period with Wanda thinking you’ve already fallen asleep, when you say, “I just did the math. As far as I know, you were a smoker for seven years, so that would amount to… about 10,200 cigarettes. Or 2.5 months lost.” 

Wanda looks down at you in confusion. “What are you on about?”

Your smile is mysterious as you close your eyes using Wanda’s breast as your pillow. 

“Don’t you dare start smoking now.” Wanda threatens softly, but you hear the fear in her voice anyway.

She feels your smile widen against her damp skin as you repeat, “I hope it’s me.” 

Wanda takes a satisfying puff from her last stick and wonders what’s one more thing for you to hate about her. 

Love is watching someone die. She heard that from a song that seems like a lifetime ago. Yet, she never truly understood its implications, given the typically grim connotations associated with death.

It was not until she revisited that casual conversation with you that she grasped the profound reality: by choosing to spend the rest of her life with you, she had essentially volunteered to bear witness to your eventual passing. Death, an inescapable and inevitable anguish, is a burden one willingly embraces solely out of genuine love for another.

Wanda shuts her eyes, recognizing the pressing need to halt her mind's meandering towards these thoughts, or she’ll never stop grieving. 

The cigarette's smoldering remnants fall from her lips as Wanda crushes it beneath her heel. She turns her attention to the bottle of rosé, swiftly uncapping it and taking a lengthy swig. No, she is not harboring suicidal thoughts. However, she remains unfazed by the potential perils arising from the harmful combination of her vices.

-

It’s almost midnight and you have only just been half-unconscious in your bed, when your phone rings for what feels like forever.

An unknown, overseas number appears on your vibrating screen and you stare at it for while before answering.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Natasha’s raspy voice comes through. The line is murky, and you can hear a foreign language being spoken in the background. “Sorry for calling you so late.”

You sit up on your bed, waking up quickly from your shallow sleep. “Where are you calling from?”

“Somewhere in Asia.” 

“Oh, I thought you’re in–”

“No. The mission took me here a day ago. Listen, I only have about five minutes.” Natasha says, not bothering to hide the impatience in her tone. 

You sit up straight on the bed, the last vestiges of sleep leaving your senses. “I’m listening.”

“Yelena and I talked some five minutes ago,” Natasha starts and your heart starts pounding in your ears. You hear a deep sigh coming from the other end–can feel Natasha’s apparent hesitation. But then–

“She didn’t exactly say that she’s still in love with you, but… But that’s how it sounded to me. And then she basically told me to fuck off and not act like an ‘overprotective asshole’–her words not mine.”

“We kissed.” The confession frees itself before you can stop it. 

“She did not disclose that detail.” Natasha says through gritted teeth from what you can hear.

“I should’ve told you but I don’t really know how to reach you, so–”

“I get it. I’m not mad,” Natasha says. “Not saying I’m okay with it either. Actually, I’m being ridiculous because you’re both adults.”

Growing up as an only child, you think it’s endearing how zealous she can be when it comes to looking out for Yelena. It’s something you’ll never dismiss as absurd in any way, especially since both were adopted and shortly abandoned by their parents before Natasha turned thirteen. Apart from you, Yelena is Natasha’s only family. And you hate being the cause of conflict between the two.  

“I just need to know one thing. Do you still love her?” Natasha asks. 

It’s instantly obvious that there’s a right and wrong answer to this. At the same time, you hear someone frantically knock on your door.

“Wait, Nat,” you mutter distractedly, putting on a pair of shorts. “There’s someone at the door.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Natasha mumbles. “Are you avoiding the question?”

“Wait a sec,” you say. The knocking remains persistent and demanding. You yell out, “Who is it?” as you pad towards the door. 

You don’t concern yourself with waiting for an answer. You hurriedly work the locks of the apartment and a certain brunette comes tumbling forwards the moment the door swings open. 

“Wanda?”

She’s wearing a mustard cardigan with liquid stains on the chest. And beneath the cardigan, a pair of pajamas that doesn’t match. From the looks of her, this visit was planned on a whim. 

For a while, you forget that your best friend is still on the call, until you hear Natasha say, “Yes, Wanda. Who else?”

“I… I’ll have to call you back.” you say to Natasha and simultaneously end the call before she can even protest. 

“Is she still here?” Wanda slurs and then lets out a small hiccup that you’d normally find adorable, except that you’re not supposed to feel that way towards her in light of being no longer married. 

And also the fact that there’s nothing adorable about seeing her so plastered to the point of being unable to focus her eyes on anything for longer than a second. 

“Who?” you feign ignorance, clueless as to how Wanda knew Yelena was at your apartment. 

As Wanda tries to approach you, her intoxicated state causes her to stumble, requiring you to swiftly grasp her by the waist to prevent her from falling. She lets out a laugh, but it rings hollow.

“You smell like baby powder.” Wanda comments quietly, her nose bumping the side of your neck. The contact sends a shiver cascading down your spine, awakening sensations you'd prefer to suppress, especially when it concerns Wanda. Feeling how dangerous having Wanda this close is, you gently push at her shoulders. Wanda relents with little resistance and when she looks at you through heavy-lidded eyes, asks the same question, “Is she still here?”

You decide to answer her truthfully this time. “She went home.” 

Wanda nods in understanding and you watch her eyes fall shut, a solitary tear escaping her closed lids.

“Okay,” she whispers solemnly, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “Thank you, that’s… All I… yeah.”

You rub your hands over your face in a feeble attempt to wake yourself up in case you’re dreaming, but before you can reckon what to do next, Wanda’s already turning on her wobbly legs towards the elevator. 

“Wanda, wait–” You reach out to tug at her wrist, and the slight force from it whirls her back around. She faces you with her eyes still closed, but her quivering lashes are brimming with more tears that are so close to spill.

When Wanda does open her eyes, they do spill. And it takes everything in you not to pull her into a hug and just make it all go away.

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” Wanda sniffs, brushing at her face but it’s no use–it’s like a dam has burst and it’s apparent that the steady stream flowing through her cheeks isn't letting up soon. “I don’t know why–I just wanted to see you. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Drunk Wanda never cried, particularly not on account of you. She was, at best, silly and clumsy–tripping over things and waking up to minor injuries she doesn’t remember getting.

Instead of replying, you lead her inside and Wanda dutifully allows herself to be led. She curls into herself on the couch, feet tucked under her. 

“I’ll go get you some water.” you say, padding towards the kitchen. It’s only when you’re sure Wanda can’t hear you that you release the breath you’ve been holding since her arrival.

A clean slate is what you yearn for, what seems rational in your current circumstances. The logical part of your mind insists on starting anew, devoid of bitterness, guilt, and the weight of unanswered questions. Free from the presence of Wanda Maximoff, who acts as the catalyst for all those emotions.

But wanting to want something and actually wanting something are two entirely different things. 

The question lingers.

Do you still love her? At first it’s Natasha’s face you imagine while the question is being asked. And then she morphs into Yelena, looking absolutely beautiful in the moonlight just right before you had kissed her. 

And then, it’s you. Do I still love her?

Would you have kept her at arm’s length if you knew the answer to this?

Just as you find yourself confronting the inevitability of needing an answer, you feel lithe arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you tightly against a body that would never not be familiar to you.

You tense automatically, but can’t find the will to step out of her embrace. It’s an understatement to say that Wanda Maximoff is your weakness. Without the raw and immediate feelings of anger and betrayal, without the sickening rush of having blood on your hands, and without the concrete reminders of how she threw away a decade worth of love and trust for a fling she claimed wasn’t even that important to her, is just–

It’s the kind of weakness that could annihilate all sense and reason; that could forgive the unforgivable, forget the unforgettable, even learn what has been unlearned. 

It’s a weakness that scares you if Wanda wields it to her favor. You’ve appreciated how she was very conscious of giving you as much space as you need for the past few weeks. You noticed how much she held back every time you were together. But right now, at her current state, you don’t know what Wanda would do. And she probably doesn’t know as well how much power she has in her hands despite her susceptibility to seeing you with another woman. 

“Remember when we talked about who’s probably going to die first when we’re old and don't have many years left in us?” you feel more than hear Wanda murmur against your shoulder, hating the way you slacken in her hold. 

In that moment, memories flood your mind, and although you recall vividly, you opt to remain still and silent.

“I hope it’s me,” Wanda whispers, echoing the exact words you had said to her that night. “I don’t ever want to go through the pain of watching you slip away again.”

Your heart crashes to the floor, breaking into a million tiny pieces that would never be a hundred percent whole again. 

“Wands,” you say breathlessly, then as you turn to face her, a cold hand softly cups your cheek and before you know it, she’s kissing you.

A fresh wave of tears sting at Wanda’s eyes because she can’t remember the last time she felt this happy. She’s hot all over and feeling the onset of a migraine from the alcohol and the pills, but they don’t diminish the pleasure of being surrounded by your smell and the feel of your unmoving lips.

As for you, all you could taste was the combination of bad choices she made just a while ago.

Regrettably, the fleeting moment ends sooner than Wanda desired, as you firmly grasp her shoulders with both hands and apply enough force to cause her to stagger momentarily before regaining her balance.

You barely managed to hang on to what’s left of your control. 

“Please, stop,” you don’t mean for it to come out as vulnerable as it sounds, but it’s hard to keep the firmness in your voice when Wanda’s looking at you like that.

“I love you,” Wanda insists so brokenly, she almost delivers it with a whine. 

“I love you, Y/N.” she repeats, as if there’s a threshold for the number of times she has to say it until you believe her–which, still, you don’t.

“It’s just the alcohol and maybe nostalgia talking.” you say. 

“You’re wrong. I love you. I want you.”

It’s pointless and childish to argue with a drunk person, but you can’t help but seethe in Wanda’s unwavering belief in her own lies. 

You take a couple of calculated steps towards her until you’ve effectively backed her against the fridge. 

“You know what I think?” you say menacingly, and it appeases you to see how she slightly trembles beneath your gaze. “I think you just want to fuck me. And it’s driving you crazy because you don’t own me anymore.”

You say it because it’s something you’ve been wondering about for a while now. It’s difficult for you to tell what she’s after–what she gets out of coming after you and wrecking herself like this in the process. You’re aware of Wanda’s tunnel vision when it comes to getting what she wants–specifically ones that don’t come easy–and you’ve seen it firsthand numerous times over the years. She never backs down from a challenge. 

You can’t help but think–is that what this is? A challenge to win back what she had so carelessly tossed aside?

Wanda, on the other hand, is far incapable of digesting your words properly. And yet, it just becomes clear to her how deep your resentment really goes. 

“That’s perhaps the ugliest thing you’ve ever said to me.” she whispers. 

You shake your head, backing away. It’s not quite as biting as you intend it to be when you say, “Oh? Well, it doesn’t compare to the ugliest thing you’ve ever done to me.”

Tense silence stretches out between the two of you, with only the sound of your breaths and your pounding hearts filling the void. By this time, Wanda’s eyes are dry. All that’s left are tear tracks that run through the edges of her jaw. She looks diminished and soulless, and somehow, it’s a worse sight. 

Wanda promptly hisses at the sharp pain that pulses on one side of her head, her fingers coming up to her temples to massage them.

Your shoulders slump, feeling exhausted–physically and mentally–all of a sudden. 

“Wanda–” you start, her well-being taking priority over your pique. “Please just lie down on the couch. I’ll get you some blankets.”

“I think I’m gonna go.” she says, even as she struggles to walk in a straight line.

“You’re drunk and you’re staying here. This is not a negotiation.”

A beat of silence, and then managing a scoff, she says, “Fine.”

Proceeding into Natasha's bedroom, you retrieve a pillow and a thin comforter, uncertain of where she keeps the actual spare bedding for guests. Returning to the living room, you find Wanda lying on her stomach, already in a deep slumber on the couch. Her face is turned away, mouth slightly open, accompanied by gentle snores. Glancing at the kitchen, you notice the untouched glass of water you had prepared for her. There’s no doubt the headache that awaits her when she wakes up. With utmost care, you drape the comforter over her body, ensuring her bare feet are covered, and place the pillow beneath her outstretched arm.

Creating an ambiance of dimness, you switch off all the lights, allowing only the moon's gentle glow and the radiant lights of the ever-awake city to seep through the window. Your gaze lingers on the shadowed outline of your ex-wife's peaceful form for a few fleeting moments before you withdraw to your own bedroom.

With the reassurance of Wanda being safe and sound in such close proximity, you swiftly succumb to a deep, dreamless slumber.

It’s still dark outside when you stir awake, with the sun peeking just outside the horizon. Last night’s sequence of events return to you in deliberate fragments, and you immediately get up and walk over the living room.

No sign of Wanda. 

The blanket you gave her is neatly folded on the armrest together with Natasha’s pillow. Circling the couch, you spot her cardigan discarded on the floor. She must have ridden herself of it, somewhere during the night. 

Bending down to pick up the article of clothing, and you’re unprepared for the smell of Wanda that wafts to your nose.

You’ve said some things. Appaling things. Reflecting on what was said, you're overcome with remorse, realizing the depth of the vilification you subjected her to.

You wouldn’t have loved her for so long if she was horrible enough to harbor such ill intentions.

Maybe the least you could do is put her cardigan in the laundry. Returning it to her in a fresh and clean state would be a small gesture of consideration and apology.

-

A throbbing pain is what woke Wanda about an hour before sunrise. Dread overcame her right when she opened her eyes to the familiar gray of your flat. She can’t recall much of what happened last night; only an inkling that she fucked up every step of the way following the moment she showed up at your door. Deeply ashamed of barging in and probably forcing you to shelter her for a night, Wanda left your building in a hurry. On top of the humiliation, she’s also already late for her cafe’s pre-opening ceremonies. 

It’s an unusually busy Tuesday, and she failed to get Pietro to come over and lend a helping hand. People are growing agitated by the slow service, ignoring the obvious reason that their server is wearing all the hats today–cashier, barista, waitress and maintenance. She’s tending to the cafe alone, except for Sparky–and she can’t really ask a dog to serve food and drinks… or can she?

Though if there’s one thing Wanda Maximoff is, it’s that she’s a professional multitasker.

“Can I follow up on that upside down mocha latte, miss?” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll be right with you.”

“This needs more sugar.”

“We have packets of sugar, sugar-replacement, creamer, cinnamon and so much more over that corner.”

“Excuse me, how much for two dozens of matcha peanut butter cookies? And do you take advance orders?”

“That’s, uh, you know what let me check. And yes we do take advance orders and provide catering services.”

“Your dog is licking the spilled coffee on the floor, in case you didn’t know.”

“Oh, shit–Sparky, get away from that!” Wanda temporarily sets her tray down on the table of one of her customers to get a mop.

“Miss, I think you swapped my order with–”

She’s not going to freak out. There’s no way she’s going to freak out. 

Wanda’s on her way to cleaning up the spill when someone jerks the mop out of her grip. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Vision mumbles without looking directly at Wanda. “You should attend to that asshole by the window. I think he’s about to lose it.”

Wanda’s at a loss for words, conflicted between carrying on with her duties and thinking whether or not she should confront her former student about why he’s here. In the end, she really has no choice but to charge through the pending orders and appease the snappy customers or else she risks losing this business. 

Little by little, the demands die down. And then finally, Wanda’s left to deal with Vision who’s seated near the back room, hunched over Sparky while her dog laps at his bony fingers.

“You shouldn’t have come here.” Wanda says as she approaches his table.

Vision jolts upright and she uses the opportunity to take a proper look at him. He looks a great deal better than the last time they saw each other. Wanda’s sincerely happy for him. Still, he cannot be here.

“Thank you for helping earlier, but I believe it’s best if you leave now.” Wanda asserts, her irritation palpable.

“I wasn’t stalking you or anything,” Vision says, unfazed by Wanda’s animosity. “I didn’t know you work here.”

Wanda snorts in amusement. “I don’t simply work here. I own this place.”

Vision looks embarrassed for making the wrong assumption. “Sorry, I… Congratulations, Wanda. This is truly remarkable..”

“Thanks,” she says, and then gestures at the door. “Now could you please…?”

“Can’t I at least order a coffee to-go?” Vision interjects.

“Fair enough,” Wanda concedes. 

“What would you recommend?” he asks, studying the menu with rapt concentration.

“Our bestseller is the Spanish latte.”

“Got anything Keto?”

Wanda casts him a dumbfounded look. But Vision seems serious with his request. The pieces of their affair now seem like a perplexing puzzle; and now she’s exploring the possibility that their affair could have been her having a mental break. Not for the first time she wonders, what the fuck was I thinking?

“Fine. Would you like it hot or cold? Medium or large?” Wanda asks.

“Uh, iced. Large.” he says.

Wanda works the register. “Large iced americano with two shots of heavy cream and a Splenda, coming right up.” 

Vision pays for his drink and thanks her. He waits by the counter as Wanda prepares his coffee.

The bells-like sound of the door chime rings, and Wanda mechanically welcomes the newcomer without looking up.

“Hi,” you say, not noticing Vision at all. It’s Sparky who greets you, excitedly wagging his tail as he sniffs you all over. 

Wanda flinches at the sound of your voice. Her eyes widen in panic, and they dart erratically from you to Vision, and then you again. It’s only when you absorb the horrified look on Wanda’s face that you catch sight of a taller figure from the corner of your eyes.

"You..." The word escapes your lips, unintentionally carrying a tinge of disdain. It's the first time you witness Wanda and Vision in the same room, and a rush of emotions floods over you, resurfacing all the pain you have been attempting to overcome during the past several months.

A flurry of questions swirls within your mind, leaving you feeling overwhelmed. Didn’t Natasha say he doesn’t remember? Or has he been aware of everything all along? And what about Wanda? Was she seeing Vision behind your back throughout this entire time? The uncertainty and confusion gnaw at your thoughts, leaving you grappling for answers.

Your first realization is this: no–you have not forgiven them. And if they’re fucking or trying a relationship with each other, you won’t find it in yourself to be genuinely happy for them.

The second thing is that you’ve been fooled once again; she had you believing that she regretted ever throwing away what you two had to fuck this kid. 

All this time, they were continuing where they left off. You don’t care why it bothers you so much–it just does and it makes you livid.

Vision cowers at the sight of you. It confirms your suspicions–he does remember. You watch him carefully as he mumbles a shaky goodbye to Wanda before rushing towards the exit, not caring at all about the drink he had ordered and already paid for. You don’t try to step out of his way, holding your ground as an act of intimidation. 

Neither you nor Wanda move an inch as Vision takes his leave.

"Y/N," she breathes, desperately attempting to convey that things are not as they may appear. “It’s not what you think.”

You scrunch up Wanda’s cardigan tightly in your hand before tossing it to the floor. “Doesn’t seem that way to me.” you say in a low whisper. 

A few nosy customers observe you with intrigue, murmuring to themselves and pretending to be busy with their phones. It makes your mouth twist in a nearly lunatic grin.

Just before you leave the cafe, you make sure that Wanda’s looking you right in the eye as you say, “I never want to see your lying face ever again.”

The finality of your words, coupled with the piercing intensity of your gaze, knocks the wind out of her.

“Y/N!” Wanda screams out your name desperately, throwing caution to the wind. She quickly unties her apron and dashes outside to run after you. 

Frantically scouring the nearby alleyways, her search proves fruitless as you have already disappeared, leaving her to confront the empty streets alone.

-

Wanda tries several ways to reach you. First, she tries calling you from her number, but she discovers you still have her blocked. Next, she asks Agatha to call you, but you refuse to pick up, until your phone becomes unreachable altogether. Whether it’s the reception or your phone being turned off, it’s clear that any effort to get a hold of you through a call is moot.

Pietro eventually accedes to Wanda’s begging and covers the final two hours of her shift. She has to lie to him with a fake emergency, which was very upsetting for her to do considering how passionately you called her a liar just earlier. She goes straight to your place when she’s free of her responsibilities. Her frustration fuels her actions as she pounds on your door with an intensity, demanding that you give her the opportunity to explain herself.

She keeps at it for some time, until the security comes up to your floor to inform her that you haven’t returned all day.

Out of options, Wanda goes home, defeated. More than her yearning to give you an explanation, she worries about where you could have gone to. She’s not a religious person, but when it comes to your safety, she prays to every god there is for you to be okay. 

It’s half past midnight when Wanda’s awoken by a loud, angry knock at her door. 

Her sleep riddled brain fails to notice how unusual it is for Sparky not to emerge from his dog house and start barking at the unexpected visitor. Her gut tells her it’s you, but just to be safe, she takes Sparky to the guest room, knowing how wary he is of strangers. 

“Who’s there?” Wanda’s voice echoes through the empty hall, voice hoarse from sleep and from yelling your name all over Queens.

There’s no response, and yet, each thud against the door reverberates through the room, filling it with a sense of urgency and unease.

Startled and growing increasingly concerned, Wanda opens the door and–

It’s the smell of beer that welcomes her first. 

Less than twenty-four hours ago, you were both entangled in a similar situation, albeit in reversed roles. The irony of the circumstances isn't lost on Wanda as she observes the unwavering and intense gaze you fix upon her. It's unclear to her how much you've had to drink to be able to find your way to her, but the determination in your eyes speaks volumes.

“Y/N, thank god you’re here. I was so worried–” Wanda tries to say, but the rest of her sentence dies on your lips. With one hand on the slope where her neck meets her shoulder, you push her roughly back inside her apartment, slamming and locking the door behind you with the other. 

You harshly nip at her lower lip before releasing it and growling, “This is what you want right? This is what you’ve been chasing me for all along?” 

Pinning her with a disdainful look, Wanda feels powerless to refute your allegations. Is that how you perceived this to be all along? How lowly your opinion of her has become? When she finds the courage to put the tiniest bit of space between you and her, you pull her flushed against your body to capture her swollen lips into another bruising kiss. The moan that escapes you both this time is irrefutable. Something tells Wanda that whatever she says between now and what’s going to happen next, will just be sucked into the abyss of retribution. And so, she gives in to the storm that is your feverish kisses and your hatred punctuating your every touch.

If she were being honest, she just wants to feel you. Logic and reason be damned. 

“Y/N!” Wanda mewls when you clumsily rub her through the fabric of her nightwear, pinching her clit as soon as you find it.

There’s no trace of tenderness in the way you maneuver Wanda and deposit her to the carpeted floor of her living room. 

There’s nothing gentle in the way you pull down her shorts to her ankles, and lift her shirt just enough to expose her tits. 

There’s only lust, and instinct, and vengeance in the painful entrapment of her hard nipple between your bared teeth. 

And Wanda loves it. 

It’s the punishment she didn’t know she had been craving for since the moment she invited Vision to her bed. If you needed to ruin her, Wanda would let you. She’d gladly take the beating if it means she gets to have even just a tiny fraction of you back–no matter how cruel this fraction of you might be. 

The throbbing in her clit matches the rhythm of her heartbeat, as you continue to tongue her nipple in broad laps. It’s visually lewd enough for her to avert her eyes in embarrassment, but suddenly, you grip her jaw and force her to look at what you’re doing to her, pausing just long enough to say, “Don’t you fucking look away.” before turning your attention to her other nipple and giving it the same treatment. Wanda feels her wetness soak the rug below her ass, and all the blood rushes to her core, already begging for release. 

Wanda gasps when you slide back up abruptly, the rough friction of your shirt rubbing against her tender peaks. She smells the alcohol on your breath before she tastes it, as you pull her in for a dizzying kiss. You’re uncommonly disoriented in your movements, as if you keep deciding and then changing your mind on how you want her. 

Wanda's fingers tentatively approach the button of your jeans, but you swiftly swat them aside. Instead, you seize her hands, lifting them above her head and securing her wrists together.

You rarely make love to her when you’re drunk. You never liked the idea of being unfocused and uncoordinated when you touch her, and you were always afraid you’d accidentally do something that might make her uncomfortable or even hurt her. And now, as your fingers skim through her wetness, not caring if your nails scrape against her sensitive skin, Wanda understands. She understands what you’re capable of when you give up control and let pure instinct take over.

She understands how perfectly capable you are of hurting her–in all aspects. 

Wanda feels she’s wet enough, but it’s still painful when you enter her unceremoniously with two fingers. 

“Y/N, wait–” Wanda gasps as you start to quicken your thrusts before she’s fully adjusted. “S-Slow down.”

But it’s like you can't hear her, seemingly entranced by your own fingers going in and out of your ex-wife’s cunt. The pleasure eventually overtakes the pain, and Wanda doesn’t have anything to hold onto as the heel of your palm grinds against her nub in a slow, circling motion. 

Wanda’s mouth falls open, warm puffs of air brushing so intimately against your chin. “Fuck, yes, right there–”

You pant against Wanda’s sternum, bitterly thinking that she will always be beautiful whether you’re seeing her through the lens of affection or loathing. 

Feeling how close she is, you add another finger into her. The fullness does nothing to abate the tightening in Wanda’s stomach. She writhes uncontrollably beneath you, overwhelmed by the intensity of pleasure, attempting to halt the motion of your fingers by pressing her knees against your lower body. But you keep her where she is, with her legs wide apart. You angle your hand a certain way, so you’re pummeling the spongy area inside of her every time you push inside.

“Kiss me, please,” Wanda whispers shakily against your sweaty forehead. Ignoring her plea, you lick into her ear instead, and then curl your fingers the only way you know how, propelling her over the edge.

“Fuck, fuck! I’m coming!” Wanda cries, her hips bucking uncontrollably. Her trembling arms wrap around your neck as you continue to fuck her through her orgasm. You silently observe Wanda as she regains her breath, her eyes closed and her chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern. Her brown hair cascades over the floor, resembling a fallen angel consumed by the depths of the earth.

Wanda's face is stained with tears. However, it is only when she becomes conscious of a droplet landing on her nose that she realizes she is not the one shedding them. Cautiously, as if she’s afraid of what she might see, she opens her eyes and looks up at you.

It’s the only picture of vulnerability in you that she’ll see for the rest of the night, and her own eyes well up, struck by the realization that you can never hurt her the way she’s hurt you. You interpret the look on her face as pity and angrily wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.

“This doesn’t mean anything to me.” you mutter scathingly, even as your lips quiver from the struggle of detaching yourself from your emotions. 

Wanda’s hands reach out to cradle your face. “I know.” she whispers.

“Then why are you agreeing to this?”

“I never stopped being yours,” Wanda whispers with a voice filled with fractures, and it's only your warm and solid presence that keeps her from falling apart. “It’s just how it is.”

You taste the bitterness in your tears, mixed with the metallic tang of blood from your lip from how harshly you’ve been biting down on it. How could she utter those words to you, knowing that someone else had gotten to know her so intimately in this manner? 

Whatever Wanda thought she did, no matter how many times she claimed it didn’t mean anything, however briefly it was–she gave bits of herself to Vision; her body, her mind, her words, her time. Those are the things that you can’t get back. Things you can’t replace. Things you can’t account for. 

Lies after lies, you think bitterly. 

And yet, it only intensifies your desire to claim her one more time. To remind her what she had traded away for illicit pleasure. To ruin her for everyone else.

“Again.” you demand, the mask of indifference returning to replace the face that Wanda loves the most. 

And that seals it–whatever this is. Wanda knows that this can’t end well.

But she couldn’t find it in her heart to care.

"Okay," she mumbles, her voice carrying weariness and resignation.

You wrap her shaking legs around your waist while your arms provide a secure embrace around her back. And then, with her clinging to you like a mindless puppet, you push yourself off the ground and onto your feet, Wanda along with a strength that astonishes both of you.

Wanda buries her head into the crook of your neck, hot tears slipping from her eyes as you carry her to the bedroom.

[bookfandomtalk]

There have been a LOT of debates on here and other social media platforms about the Batfam & their views on killing. I've had thoughts on this for a while and it's currently 1AM so lets do this:

Alfred: Would kill if neccesary, but only then. He wouldn't lose a night of sleep if he believes it's justified, but his definition of justified might not align with everyone elses. Alfred often puts the duty of the bat up on an even higher pedestal than Bruce, and if someone dangerous discovered the secret and Alfred could get away with it, he's definitely consider option, even if he probably wouldn't.

Bruce: I saw a post a few days ago about the Hunger Games and its view on bad people v.s. atrocities. The point was that if you prioritize condemning the people over their actions, you risk falling into those same actions. Bruce, and the concept of Batman, embodies that. His first priority will always be to stop atrocities from happening, not punishing the perpetrators. His refusal to kill stems FROM that. He's not cleaning up the city from bad people, he's cleaning up the city from bad actions. Honestly, I do not believe that killing someone would "destroy" Bruce in the way it's often suggested. But i do believe it would ruin the faith people have in the bat as a symbol of faith and hope, and I believe Bruce would struggle to cope with it for a long time.

Dick: Is a lot more morally rigid than Bruce. Where I firmly believe Bruce's emotional regulation issues come from being raised by Alfred, Dick got raised by Alfred and Bruce. As a result, he's a lot more like Bruce than he'd ever be willing to admit, and in some ways, he might be worse. Dick crosses peoples lines a lot in canon, especially when it comes to manipulating people. But the one line he'd never cross is murder. Yes, he nearly murdered Joker, but that was in a fit of rage. If Bruce hadn't resuscitated the Joker, I firmly believe it would've significantly changed both Dick as a civillian and Nightwing as a vigilante. It would break him.

Babs: Doesn't want to kill, but wojldn't hesitate. Her dad's a cop, she knows very well that in a life or death situation, she can't hesitate. She'll do all the training in the world to prevent herself from being in that spot, but if she gets caught of guard (again) she'll now be ready.

Jason: Unlike Dick and Bruce, Jason's first trauma wasn't the murder of a loved one. His mother died of an overdose and Jason's dad originally got killed in prison (not sure if that's still canon). He never had one hard line "no killing" because his first horrors were a lot less clear. He doesn't take killing lightly, but he believes that some crimes are unforgivable, and without significant fear, you can't stop people from committing them.

Cass: Cass is not morally against killing, but she won't do it. She can read every single sign in a person's body and knows so inherently how wrong it is. She killed once as a kid and decided to never again. If there was no absoluely other way out of a situation, and someone other than her was the one in danger, she might, but I really doubt that would or could ever happen.

Tim: Originally, Tim's no killing rule came from his idolidation of Batman and Robin. They said "no killing" so Tim internalized that. Tim is a very rigid person in his morals, but in a different way than Dick. His entire time as Robin, Tim had people trying to convince him to turn to the dark side and start killing, starting with Lady Shiva. This is what makes it so ironic that the only person Tim technically "killed" was in fact Shiva. It was a complete accident while he was affected by a herb that gave him super speed and Tim himself immediately administered CPR despite Shiva trying to kill him not even a minute ago. Then with Gun Batman, Tim's morals slightly change. Tim still refuses to ever kill, but now it's more out of fear. If he starts killing, at what point does he become that villain? His morals grey over time, the captain boomrang incident show that, as does the entire first half of the Red Robin run. But Tim has drawn ONE line for himself that he wants to maintain so he doesn't become Gun Batman, and that's that he won't kill. (So no, I don't believe he physically blew up any league bases. He blew up their online infrastructure. That's it.)

Steph: Her mother is a nurse who taught Steph to value life, but I honestly think that if Steph ever has to kill someone, or a accidentally kills someone (who deserves it) she'd handle it best. She wouldn't be completely normal about it, but she'd work through it and carry on.

Duke: Honestly mirrors Dick in a lot of ways, there's a reason they initially got paired in We Are Robin. I don't think Duke is capable of killing anyone. He's still human, he has a snapping point (but not enough has happened to reach it), but if he killed, he'd really struggle with it.

Damian: Hardest to nail down for me by far. (Mostly because the writers are fucking inconsistent) He used to be able to kill without remorse, and sometimes he mourns the fact that ne no longer can do that. But most of the time he's grateful for how far he's come. If he gets a chance to kill someone like the Joker and get away with it, he might, but otherwise, he's grown enough to know the value of human life.

[kentochronicles]

The Way We Should’ve Been

Nanami Kento x Reader

A/N: here it is!! The much happier part 3 🥰 thank you all so much for your love and patience, the feedback has been amazing and I’m so grateful to everyone 🩵 enjoy 🫂 all likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated 🩵

Tagging: @empower-bi-women - ty for being my reader again 😘 and @itsafairytalekay 🩵

The familiar scent of the infirmary at Jujutsu High enveloped you as you sat beside Nanami’s bed. The soft glow of the afternoon sun streamed through the windows, casting a warm light over the room, which felt like a sanctuary after the chaos of Shibuya. You could hardly believe it—he was alive, healed by Shoko’s skillful hands, and you could finally breathe again.

As you held his hand, your heart raced with anticipation, every moment feeling surreal. Nanami stirred, blinking against the brightness as his eyes focused on you. “Hey,” he murmured, a faint smile breaking across his lips.

“Hey!” You nearly jumped with joy, squeezing his hand tighter. “You’re awake! I was so worried.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and warm. “I’m sorry for making you worry. You know how I can be.”

You playfully shoved his shoulder. “Yeah, but you can’t keep sacrificing yourself like that! You have to let someone else carry the weight sometimes.”

He winced slightly at the motion, and your heart sank. “Oh, I’m sorry!” you quickly exclaimed, concern flooding your voice.

“It’s okay,” he replied, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Just let Shoko know that she’ll have to add ‘shoulder shoving’ to the list of things I’m recovering from. You could’ve warned me first!”

You laughed, relief washing over you. “I promise to ease up on the shoving, Doctor’s orders!”

Nanami’s gaze softened as he studied your face, taking in the concern etched there. “I didn’t want to leave you. I promised I would come back.”

Your heart swelled at his words, relief flooding through you. “You kept your promise. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

He sighed, a deep and contemplative sound. “I’ve been thinking about everything while I was recovering… about my purpose and what I want.”

You leaned in closer, sensing the weight of his words. “What do you mean?”

“I want to retire from being a jujutsu sorcerer,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ve seen too much darkness, too many people I care about getting hurt. I want to focus on living and building a future—our future.”

Your breath caught in your throat, the gravity of his words settling in. “Retire? But you’re so good at what you do. It’s important.”

He shook his head, determination flashing in his eyes. “I want to prioritize what truly matters. I want to be with you, without the fear of losing each other to this dangerous life.”

Tears of relief brimmed in your eyes as the reality of his words sank in. “You really mean it?”

“Absolutely.” He took a deep breath, a serious yet tender look crossing his features. “And I want to make this official.”

With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a simple, elegant ring. “Will you marry me?”

You gasped, your heart racing as you took in the sight of the ring. It was beautiful—a symbol of everything you had fought for and everything you hoped to build together. “Yes! Yes, of course!” you exclaimed, tears streaming down your cheeks as he slipped the ring onto your finger.

As the ring settled into place, Nanami’s expression softened even more. He leaned closer, brushing a gentle thumb against your cheek before capturing your lips in a kiss. It was sweet and full of promise, the culmination of all your hopes and fears. In that moment, nothing else mattered—the chaos outside, the darkness you had faced—it all faded into the background.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and glowing, you gazed into his eyes. “I can’t believe this is happening,” you whispered, still feeling the warmth of his lips against yours.

“Believe it,” he replied, his voice low and filled with love. “We have a whole new life ahead of us, one where we can find happiness together.”

Just as the weight of your moment began to settle, the door to the infirmary swung open, and in burst Gojo, his eyes wide and filled with a mix of surprise and excitement. “Did I just hear a marriage proposal?!”

Startled, you and Nanami quickly turned to face him. “Gojo!” Nanami exclaimed, his expression shifting from serene to annoyed. “Can’t you knock?”

Gojo ignored the annoyance in Nanami’s voice, rushing over with a wide grin. “I can’t believe you’re both alive and happy! This is the best news ever!” He dramatically threw his arms around you both, pulling you into an awkward group hug. “I’m so proud of you, Nanami! You finally found someone to put up with you!”

Nanami’s face flushed with mild irritation, but there was an undeniable softness in his gaze. “Gojo, please. We were having a moment.”

Gojo pulled back just enough to pout, his signature grin unwavering. “A moment? But I want in on the moment! This is like a romantic movie!”

“Yeah, well, the romantic movie is over, so can you please leave?” Nanami said, trying to keep his exasperation in check.

With an exaggerated sigh, Gojo held his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine! I’ll let you two have your lovey-dovey time.” He turned to walk away, but not before throwing a wink over his shoulder. “Just remember, if you need a witness, I’m the best!”

As the door closed behind him, you couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the tension ease. Nanami shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “I swear he’s a child sometimes.”

You leaned closer to Nanami, wrapping your arms around him. “True, but at least he keeps things interesting.”

In the comforting embrace of the infirmary, surrounded by the remnants of your battles and the playful banter of your friends, you felt hope blossom within you. With Nanami by your side, the future was bright, filled with love, laughter, and the promise of new beginnings. Whatever challenges lay ahead, you knew you would face them together, and that thought alone made you feel at ease in his arms.

[blakeswritingimagines]

Yandere Maegor Targaryen Having a Crush

As a yandere with a crush, Maegor Targaryen would be obsessively and possessively devoted to his beloved. He would be fiercely protective and defensive of you, becoming extremely jealous and territorial if someone else showed interest in you. He would demand absolute loyalty and obedience from his crush and would not hesitate to use fear or violence to keep you in line. At the same time, he would dote on his beloved, showering you with extravagant gifts and compliments, and would be fiercely passionate and intense in your love.

Maegor Targaryen would also be extremely controlling and possessive, wanting to have complete control over his crush's life and decisions. He would try to isolate you from others and keep you away from other potential suitors. He would be prone to sudden mood swings and fits of anger, especially if he felt his love was threatened. Despite his fierce and possessive nature, he also craved his crush’s love and affection, wanting your undivided attention and devotion.

In addition to his intense jealousy and possessiveness, Maegor Targaryen would also be controlling and domineering with his crush. He would make all the decisions and expect you to follow his lead without question. He would constantly monitor your activities, wanting to know where you were at all times and who you were with. He would also be possessive of your free time, wanting to control your schedule and ensure you spent all your time with him. Despite his controlling and dominating behavior, Maegor would also be extremely romantic and affectionate towards his crush.

Maegor Targaryen would also be extremely possessive of his crush's emotions and would not tolerate any sign of weakness or vulnerability from you. He would demand that you show only strength and confidence at all times, and would become angry if you displayed any signs of sadness or insecurity. He would expect you to rely on him for support and guidance and would not allow you to lean on anyone else.

In terms of his own physical possessiveness, he would always want to be touching his crush, either with a possessive hand on your shoulder or arm or by pulling you into his lap or against his side.

Maegor Targaryen would also be extremely demanding and pushy with his crush. He would expect you to drop everything and prioritize him, even if it meant neglecting other important responsibilities or relationships. He would also constantly test you to see if you were truly devoted to him alone and would become angry or jealous if you showed any interest in anyone else.

In addition, he would not hesitate to use threats or manipulation to keep his crush in line. He would threaten to harm you or someone you care about if you ever tried to leave him, or would play on your fears and insecurities to keep you firmly under his control.

Maegor would also expect his crush to constantly demonstrate your loyalty to him. He would demand that you perform acts or rituals to show your devotion, such as swearing oaths or performing symbolic acts of devotion.

Maegor Targaryen would expect his crush to cater to his every whim and desire. He would demand that you shower him with compliments and affection, and would become angry or violent if you failed to do so. He would also expect you to cater to his physical needs, whether it be sexual or otherwise.

He would not tolerate any criticism or resistance from his crush and would become angry and violent if you dared to defy him. He would also be extremely possessive of his time and attention, and would not tolerate any distractions or interruptions when he wanted to be with you.

Maegor Targaryen would also have a deep desire to claim and own his crush completely. He would yearn to mark you as his own, either through physical branding or symbols of possession. He would become intensely jealous if he saw anyone else touch you or show you affection, and would view any attempts to interfere with the relationship as a direct challenge to his authority.

He would dote on you with gifts and compliments and would express his love for you in physical ways. However, these expressions of love would always be laced with an undertone of ownership and possessiveness.

One thing he does to get his crush's attention is to send you extravagant gifts and tokens of his affection. He would send you flowers, jewelry, or other luxuries to show you just how much he cares. He also makes sure to be physically close to you whenever possible, finding excuses to touch you or find ways to be near you, whether it be a hand on the small of your back or standing close enough to brush up against you.

He is often demeaning or humiliating his crush in public if you do something to anger or provoke him, such as showing affection or attention to someone else. In addition, he might use public humiliation as a tactic to keep you firmly under his control, as a way to remind you of who is in charge and who you belong to. The knowledge that he is willing and able to humiliate you in front of others would serve as a constant reminder of your place in your relationship and keep you subservient and obedient to him.

"You are mine. I want you, and only you. You belong to me and I will not tolerate anyone else having you. You are mine to protect and possess, and I will do whatever I have to in order to keep you by my side. Say you'll be mine. Say it."

[jackles010378]

Jealous of Baby.....

(Dean winchester x y/n)

Y/n is fed up of Dean spending all his time with his car............

Y/n had always known about Dean's love for his car, affectionately named 'Baby.' It seemed like the two of them were inseparable. Dean would spend countless hours working on her, meticulously detailing every inch, and taking her out for joyrides across the country. Y/n couldn't help but feel a hint of jealousy, as it seemed like Baby always had Dean's undivided attention.

One sunny afternoon, Y/n decided to confront Dean about her feelings. She found him in the garage, engrossed in yet another project, Baby parked nearby looking pristine as ever. Y/n took a deep breath, preparing for the conversation ahead.

"Dean," she began tentatively, "I feel like you spend more time with Baby than you do with me."

Dean looked up from his work, his brows furrowing in confusion. "What? Y/n, Baby is just a car. You know I love you more than anything."

Y/n couldn't hide her skepticism. "Dean, you're always working on her, taking her on hunts, and talking about her nonstop. It's almost like I'm competing for your affection."

Dean stood up, wiping his hands on a rag. "Y/n, Baby is more than just a car to me. She's been there for me through thick and thin, just like you. I appreciate all that you do for me, but Baby holds a special place in my heart."

Feeling a pang of sadness, Y/n questioned, "But how do I know I'm as important to you as she is?"

Dean's expression softened, and he walked over to Y/n, wrapping his arms around her. "Y/n, the love I have for Baby and the love I have for you are two different things, but they both mean the world to me. Just like Baby has been there for me, you have been my rock, my confidant, and my partner in every aspect of life."

Y/n couldn't help but smile, feeling reassured by Dean's words. "But Dean, sometimes it feels like you prioritize Baby over everything else."

Dean took a step back, looking deeply into Y/n's eyes. "I understand why you might feel that way, but the truth is, Baby isn't just about the car itself. She represents a part of my identity, a connection to my past, and my love for the open road. It's not about the time spent, but the emotions behind it."

Y/n nodded, starting to comprehend the depth of Dean's feelings. "So what can I do to feel more included in this part of your life?"

Dean grinned mischievously. "Well, I have an idea. How about you join me on a road trip? Just the two of us, with Baby by our side. I want you to experience the feeling of wind in your hair, the hum of the engine, and the thrill of the open road."

Y/n's eyes widened with excitement. "Really? You'd do that for me?"

Dean nodded, his eyes sparkling. "Absolutely. I want you to understand that the time spent with Baby isn't about pushing you away—it's about sharing something I love with someone I love."

And so, Y/n and Dean embarked on an unforgettable journey together. As they cruised down the highway, laughter and music filling the air, Y/n realized that Dean's love for Baby wasn't a threat to their relationship but rather an extension of it. Dean showed her that their love could encompass his passions, as long as she was by his side.

From that day forward, Y/n understood that Baby wasn't just a car; she was a symbol of Dean's past, his present, and their future. And in the end, their love for each other proved to be stronger than any trace of jealousy that had once lingered.

Written for the JENSEN-A-THON run by @artyandink 💖

TAGLIST: @k-slla @cevansbaby-dove @kaleldobrev @janineb86 @deans-daydream @alternativeprincess94 @nescavaneck @angelbabyyy99

[imbecominggayer]

Writing Advice: How To Form A Plot

This not-so-little post will be a quick little rundown on how I start making my plots come to life.

How I go from daydreaming to actually having details

How I choose to eliminate what is going in and what isn't.

A) Find The Core Premise Of My Idea: What if?

By core premise, what I mean is the narrative device that will punctuate the narrative. What is the question that inspired this world. What is the world trying to subvert. What is the symbolism!

This will serve your prioritization. Basically, when you are daydreaming about the world there are no limits! But you need to have limits in order to understand where you want this plot and characters to go. The Core Premise functions as a sculpture. What do I need to prioritize? What themes and characters do I need to cut out because they don't serve the story?

For example:

Claude and Gabriel: This was inspired by the question "what if christianity was reflective of my values while still keeping the central themes of compassion, forgiveness, and love?"

Verne and Stanse: "What if everyone understood how an all-consuming desire for love and understanding can be monsterous?"

Yuuma and Jukka: "What if we didn't know who we were? What if we weren't that human? Could we still find love?"

Nonkosi and Yituing: "What if compassion was strength personified? What if Wrath was the weakest thing out there?"

B) Be Ready To Cut Things And Change Them Out!

Did you know that Gabriel wasn't originally an angel? He actually used to be a devil! But no matter how hard I tried I just couldn't get this characterization to work!

I took a step back. Looked at my christian inspiration and said "what if [UNNAMED CHARCTER] was an angel?"

I still kept some aspects of Gabriel's old devil origins. He acts a lot like a moral succubus but he definitely fits better into the world!

Did you know that Stanse wasn't Verne's love interest originally? Verne actually used to be in love with Edmund and Stanse was originally in love with Cident!

I realized later on that the themes that Edmund were diving into just didn't fit into the themes I was working on! Edmund was focused on regret meanwhile everyone else in the world was focus on the struggle with acceptance, love, and understanding!

After I brought Edmund down to the role of a good friend for Verne, I decided that Stanse's themes with understanding definitely fit with Verne. And that's how that love story came to be :3

What i'm trying to say is that sometimes your ideas suck. Sometimes they just don't work with the other aspects of the story. The themes are not lining up. In that case, stop trying to brute force it and start from scratch.

Before I was so heartbroken about having to start all over again that I just kept trying to make something work that was never going to. Trust me, you'll save a lot more time if you work with your themes and characters.

[sparklycharmy]

Neuvillette, Zhongli, and Yin-Yang.

zhongli is fairly complex and looks to be an equal blend of both (with more reverence to yang should his connections to the heavens prevail over earthly connections/symbolisms). earth in general symbolizes yin (with regard to solely the heavens vs earth context in chinese philosophy), however, his undeniable associations with the sun and his celestial origins introduce very potent yang elements in equal measure.

Zhongli

Yin characteristics:

1. stability and reliability: as an earth-associated figure, zhongli embodies stability, always presenting a dependable, supportive, and firm presence.

2. connection to the material: earth represents the tangible, material world, reflecting zhongli’s role as the god responsible for the creation of mora and economic stability in the earthly realm.

3. his geo element: he regularly controls an element associated with the earthly realm: yin!

4. philosophical and reflective: he often displays deep philosophical thought, engaging in teachings and reflections about order and the general world. he’s calm and gently supportive to those he looks after and is usually never the aggressor.

5. his other form is part qilin: the qilin represents yin! or at least leans more toward it.

Yang characteristics:

1. celestial authority: as a figure who came from the heavens (not earth) and is still a leading god (no longer an archon, but i say leader because 1) xiao wouldn't still have to go to him for permission to do certain things and 2) zhongli says he still as a duty to care for humanity), zhongli embodies celestial authority and control, which are hallmarks of yang energy.

2. guiding light: just like the sun, he serves as a guiding light for liyue, directing its people towards prosperity and self-sufficiency. his role as a celestial being involves watching over and actively protecting liyue. his prominent, guiding influence continues to preside over liyue, even in his absence (yang).

3. dynamic influence: his lines and lore in cn refer a lot more to the heavens, one example being the phrase "heavens move, earth follows", aligning with yang qualities of authority over the earth and guiding its element(s).

4. intimidating presence: even when disguised as a human, others are too intimidated to talk to him. despite that, his strong reputation has most of the people he interacts with regard him with reverence.

5. he represents the eastern dragon (and directly refers to himself as a dragon, even after retiring and no longer interacting with humans as a god): the eastern dragon is an embodiment of yang. they're gentle in nature yes, but embody yang according to sources (especially heavenly dragons).

6. power: zhongli is notoriously known for being a ruthless warrior of formidable strength and a daunting reputation. he is extremely assertive when it comes to contracts and impartially enforcing them (which he prioritizes over all else when involved).

- as a minor detail, adeptal energy is also more ethereal in nature than elemental (so yang affiliated), and zhongli is noted to be their ancestor on top of not being from the earthly realm.

In conclusion, he is a perfect blend of both, with a slight lean to yang.

Neuvillette:

neuvillette is similar to zhongli but remains oh so different. unlike zhongli, neuvillette’s element(s) are solely associated with yin; he does not hold heavenly (yang) ties in the same way zhongli does.

Yang characteristics

1. leadership: as a sovereign, his leadership and authority over fontaine demonstrate yang characteristics of control and assertiveness. his unwavering commitment to his role as chief justice, ensuring justice and order, is a yang trait.

2. opposition to the heavenly principles: his proactive stance against the usurpation of authority by the heavenly principles shows a decisive, yang-like purpose and he intends to go through with that purpose with action...we don’t know when, but soon.

3. he’s supposed to represent a western dragon. these dragons are more aggressive and arrogant in comparison to their eastern counterparts.

4. commanding presence: despite reaching out for amiable interactions, he holds a somewhat intimidating presence at first impressions.

Yin Characteristics

1. judicial purpose: as chief justice, neuvillette embodies the yin quality of receptivity by focusing on balance and fairness in the system.

2. care for the melusines: his protective and nurturing attitude towards the melusines aligns with the yin aspects of care and empathy. his soft nature is referred to several times.

3. contemplative nature: neuvillette holds an introspective approach to just about everything. his duties and his thoughtfulness are rooted in trying to understand humanity to better understand himself (a major yin trait, his foundational purpose is associated with introspection). this reasoning is highly reflective, aligning with yin.

4. preference for subtle simplicities and sensitivity: his taste. his sensitive nature is noted by sigewienne and himself.

5. emotional depth: the care he shows for fontainians and his role connect to his emotional depth and feelings for others, core yin qualities. emotional depth is shown to be an overarching part of his character again and again; his emotions have a direct influence over the entirety of fontaine and its weather for example.

6. his element. water represents depth, fluidity, intuition, and the capacity to flow and adapt, all of which align with yin characteristics. in most sources, water is solely referred to as a yin element.

- as a minor detail, his sq has yin written all over it! literally everything about it is sourced back to neuvillette’s own internal conflict/introspection (wriothesley helps in pointing this out, too). it is one of the only major quests/sqs that do not have us fighting a big bad, the main resolution ultimately lies in assuaging neuvillette’s internal conflict that paints his perspective of the world around him.

- the primordial sea, which he rules over and is of him, is referred to as “amniotic fluid” (the fluid that only exists to support a fetus) which undeniably connects to womb symbolism (supporting this is the fact the sea is the source of all terrestrial life on the planet!).

in conclusion, neuvillette embodies a nuanced mix of both yin and yang qualities, while leaning slightly more to yin.

PS: i almost forgot about his voiceline detailing the intimate connection himself and his vishaps have with the moon, a yin figure!

PPS: just a funny detail: he detests the sun.

[sepublic]

Man I really do wish we had an episode about Hunter and King bonding over being the last of their kind and realizing their belief over being a special guy was a lie, as was their entire life; It’s fitting for King of all people to remind Luz that people will continue to believe lies because they don’t want to believe their whole life is a lie, in the same episode as Hunter having this revelation.

Plus there’s the dynamic in King being an actual Titan and Hunter being told the Titan had plans for him, and King deciding he’s just some guy and Hunter breaking away from this worship mentality of the Titan. Bonus points if we get Lilith therapy as the B-plot. Like, King shouldn’t have to have an episode showing how he’s like Hunter for fans to appreciate the same traits in another character who’s more important, but still.

That gets me to how Hunter’s storylines in S2 are about his similarities with other characters, interestingly enough; The exceptions are Hollow Mind except maybe you could say something about the Grimwalker revelation haha, more on that in a bit… And some other appearances. But in terms of personal storylines and not just tagging along? Hunter’s got parallels with everyone, I always found him most interesting in these episodes because it also shed further light and appreciation on the characters Hunter bounces off of.

And it’s ironic? He’s made to be a clone, to be like someone else, and his storylines in S2 are about how he’s like other people. But the difference is Hunter choosing to notice and acknowledge these similarities in strangers not connected to him and/or vice-versa, to relate to the out-group rather than be a witch hunter as was the intention.

(I also think it’s worth noting that because of the shortening, the show had to be really efficient with its time, and prioritize wrapping up what it already had; Intertwining Hunter’s storylines with a pre-established character is a clever way to develop both in a single A-plot, and also leads to this meta of course. And if Eda’s Requiem was the cut-off point, then I’ve noticed there’s a difference in how Hunter’s plot with Luz takes up the whole episode, but his storylines with characters past that threshold also have to co-exist with a B-plot, interesting!)

Plus in S3, we do see Hunter acknowledge the clone baggage with a storyline about being himself no matter what similarities there are, and his final storyline seems anti-Belos? In that he’s not going to let the death of a loved one (perceived in Belos’ case) be an excuse to be bitter to others offering help, hell he’ll even make it about those friends too; He truly shows he is very much NOT his uncle no matter what circumstances they may share, even the most unpleasant ones that could be an ‘excuse’.

So S2 for Hunter is about how he’s like others (while still having agency on his end), and S3 is how he isn’t, how he’s his own person. And between these it’s no wonder his takeaway from Caleb is being ambivalent about what similarities they have or not because he’s no longer insecure about his own identity or status as a clone, he is who he is and that’s all that matters.

The parallels are familial and not in a clone sense, and ultimately just symbolic and on a meta level, not in-universe. I think Hunter wouldn’t mind having good things in common with someone else, because it means he has them; It’s what led Hunter to his friends after all. He didn’t even seem to care about the revelation that Caleb was actually open to witches, he’d already resolved that.

And the irony is that for all his cloning, Belos was really trying to make Hunter unlike Caleb, because he didn’t really want Caleb either he wanted an idea of his brother. So Hunter being like Caleb but still his own person with his own palisman is great, as is the resemblances being largely unconscious; Because Hunter was never expected to know Caleb beyond the bare minimum, he doesn’t know he was also a woodcarver and so that fact can never bother Hunter as a Palisman carver, especially with his normalness about the subject. The clone status is treated like any other blood relation. Maybe that’s the narrative reason why Hunter never learns much.

(Reminds me of that Steven Universe episode where Steven worries about liberated gems still playing into their designated roles when they should be free of that, only to understand that it doesn’t matter if they’re like those things or not, the point is that they have the agency and free will to be otherwise if they choose to, plus some need space and time to acclimate to experimenting.)

[ilynpilled]

Something so sexy about Jaime’s most heroic act being doomed from the get go in every way. It damns him for one, like there is no action to take in the situation he is in without huge cost. So many vows yadda yadda, you are damned either way. But in general, a nuke being under the city is something you cannot come back from. It is meant to be a death sentence to the place, the culmination of the trajectory the kingdom was on. Aerys doomed the city with that. The logistics of removal is not all that simple. If you tell Ned and he even believes you? Great! Now who else will have to know? Who can be trusted with it? How will you remove it? We do not even know all precise locations, we had to kill all the pyromancers. How do you make sure it is not accidentally set off? On top of that, the city is filled to the brim with corruption. Full of players who would love to use and exploit that kind of power. The information itself is dangerous. The wildfire functions as a great metaphor as a result. It is festering corruption. You cannot erase the caches at this point. The closest you can get to that is bury the knowledge. He is still haunted by an endless stream of burning bodies. An event that never happened: “In his dreams the dead came burning, gowned in swirling green flames. Jaime danced around them with a golden sword, but for every one he struck down two more arose to take his place.” When he hears that Tyrion made use of it, he is immediately reminded of his greatest fear: “Jaime saw green flames reaching up into the sky higher than the tallest towers, as burning men screamed in the streets. I have dreamed this dream before.” His faith in institutions is also below ground by then, like you see it in his weirwood dream, he tells the truth to his heroes and it does nothing. It is not about Ned, he is not the one that comes out, even though he assumed he would be. “It was never him.” They damn him to darkness anyway for his act and prioritize feudalistic moral constructs. All these contradictions are what makes his fire go out in the dream. But the belief that you can bury all this, and therefore prevent the existence of an Aerys 2.0, does nothing but stall the inevitable. KL’s supposed savior, Robert, the man leading the rebellion, who would slay the “evil dragon”, just led to stagnation. He did not wash out the corruption in it, he just sat on top of it and let it fester. He rues Robert, he says so. One bad king to another. The wildfire problem is more complicated than a single mad man. Its tragedy is rooted in enablement and escalation. There is a reason the pyromancers are more emphasized in the confession. I read it as symbolic of the systemic issues permeating the city, because those are what allowed it to get to the point that it did in the first place. Brienne knows about the wildfire now too, but she also does not comprehend what a volatile ticking time-bomb it is. They do not know how it works, and how it becomes more dangerous over time. Jaime might even save that damn city twice with the Cers and valonqar set up, but both times it is gonna be ultimately “pointless”, bc KL cannot be saved. But that does not matter, because the fact that someone acted back then has meaning. Thematically, that action itself is a triumph.

[disneydarlin]

Gravity Falls: Mabel Pines —Aesthetic

Mabel Pines' Character & Personality

Mabel is a twelve-year-old girl who's five minutes older than her twin brother. She's also the great niece of Stan. Mabel eventually wins a pet pig named Waddles. She represents the shooting star symbol in the Bill Cipher Zodiac, as it presents one of her sweaters. Mabel is an energetic, cheerful, fun, hyperactive, enthusiastic and free-spirited girl. Her outgoing personality and fearless curiosity comes in handy when her twin needs help solving a mystery, even if she isn't always aware of her silliness. Regardless, Mabel has a more sophisticated attitude when it comes to art. Despite all the weirdness in Gravity Falls, she's a "glass-half-full" person. Mabel is rarely angry or upset and generally keeps a positive outlook. Yet, she can be quite sensitive. Mabel will occasionally get her feelings hurt, especially by her rival. She's somewhat naive at times, too. Mabel avoids lying because she's a terrible liar, often blurting out whatever she's trying to lie. Beyond this, she's aware of her charm. As such, Mabel cherishes her beauty and cuteness. She generally has a high opinion of herself, considering herself "irresistible" to boys. Mabel also claims she does everything perfectly and believes she's of "pure, perfect heart." In reality, she's flawed like everyone else. Mabel will occasionally do things which will accidentally backfire in some way. However, she has the best intentions. Mabel will always try doing what's right for her happiness and others. In addition, she's clumsy. More than anything, Mabel is a dreamer with a world filled with preteen novels. Thus, her fixation on finding her one true love lands her in sticky situations at times. Mabel even has moments of self-centered behavior, mostly when it comes to boys. Although she sometimes prioritizes her needs over others, she'll apologize and own up to her mistakes.