#[ she's making a weapon for him or something ]

[crossoverfamily]

I feel the same, and for me, it's from the start that I had issues with it, because as Tony said himself: when Tony was making weapons, she had no issue supporting him, but when Tony decided to change, her first reaction was to try to dissuade him and threaten to quit.

Honestly, I feel like Pepper only loved whatever idea she had of who Tony could be rather than who he really was, or she only loved parts of him, rather than the whole person. And Tony, what hurt is that I feel like he just... didn't believe he could be loved as he is. So when Pepper showed love, yet rejected parts of him, he wasn't surprised. He was grateful that someone would love him enough to "put up with him".

He shows himself willing to try, but it was never enough for her, and she doesn't seem to try and make similar compromises for him. Even if she frames it as worry for Tony's life, what she rejects is a core part of who Tony is. What strikes me is how she seems to refuse to be wife and mother unless Tony pretty much completely push aside being Iron Man. And I don't feel like he fully wanted to, and when he does, I feel like its because loosing against Thanos destroyed Tony inside.

And I love Tony for how he chose to change course in life, and he strikes me as someone who deep down just want to be loved as he is, and it hurts me the narrative never truly gave him that. And had the audacity to present the sole long term relationship he had as "the one" without truly acknowledging its unhealthy aspects.

The sole thing I respect is that, maybe, in their head, their love mattered more so they stayed together despite where they conflicted, yet I feel like it would have been so nice if they acknowledge they weren't working out as a couple. They could have been amazing friends once they tried being a couple and realized it wasn't working out. They could have loved each other without having to be a couple, or have it remain romantic. That's why I love to portray them as actively falling out of romantic love and settling into platonic love.

I prefer that to them working things out, because I feel like one of them would have to change something fundamental to work out as a healthy couple, and sure, it can be a story to tell, but if I consider the story I wanted to see, it's one where they love each other enough to not force one to change something that is fundamental, and if this means its too hard to remain a couple, they break off to have instead a healthier platonic relationship.

I trashed all my suits.

[scvrgrl]

is this love? | monkey d. luffy x fem!reader

you had caught his attention from the moment he met you, and now he knew exactly why. these feelings were both enticing and petrifying, suddenly filled with guilt for being so unprofessional. although, monkey d. luffy has never been a man of tradition...

word count: 6.4k

tags: fem!reader, a lil angsty (brief mentions of insecurity), best friend!usopp and best friend!nami, shifting perspectives between reader and luffy (most of it in luffy’s pov), some suggestive content but no smut, hardly proofread oops, lots of fluff tho! inspired by ‘is this love?’ - bob marley & the wailers :)

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.

the sun hung high in the sky, it's warm rays spreading across your skin, transforming it into a glistening bronze. it was a leisurely time on the thousand sunny, the chaos of battle behind the crew and a ways away in the new world. you finally had time to yourself, taking advantage of the tranquility that lingered in the air. all morning, you participated in self-care activities ��� from enjoying a long, steamy bath without disruptions from your male crew mates, to dedicating quiet time on the deck to finish the rest of the book Robin lent you while you tanned in your admittedly-skimpy bikini. however, the peaceful silence become suddenly unsettling, your heart beginning to race as you became increasingly anxious. your senses had been already been deprived, the sun blazing just behind the thin layer of your eyelids, the wind’s pace picking up and swarming into your ears. where is everybody?

as if you had summoned them, the door to the sunny’s common area swung open, slamming so hard against the wooden panels you thought it created a dent. three figures emerged carrying vibrant weapons that sprayed a mysterious liquid. before you could react, the salty liquid covered your entire body, small icy squirts piercing through your skin accompanied by shouts and belly laughter.

“get her, Usopp!!” a high-pitched voice rang, giggling uncontrollably as they swarm around you. Luffy and Usopp surround you, boxing you in while you sat there stunned and helpless in your seat. it turns out that Usopp had manufactured a new weapon — although, it’s sole purpose was to terrorize you and the rest of the crew rather than the foes you’d soon face in the new world. Chopper had made himself comfortable while he rested on the shoulders of the surprisingly sculpted man before you, Usopp’s brown skin glistening with sweat and seawater. Luffy stood beside you, his pronounced abs directly in your eye sight as he gazed his pearly grin upon you. the proximity of his heaving, sweaty body beside you made your cheeks flush, hoping the rubber man wouldn’t notice as you stare a little too longingly into his eyes.

the fondness you’d grown for your captain slowly bloomed into an unrequited crush over time — constantly reminding yourself that he has bigger things to worry about than working his way into your heart. the weight of his effect on you was suffocating at times, almost like “an exhausting burden that sucked the life out of me,” you had described to Nami once. it was unnecessarily distracting the way you couldn’t keep your eyes off of him — sneaking glances at dinnertime as he ravaged his meal, always looking for him during a battle to ensure his safety over your own, fumbling over your words and avoiding eye contact whenever he would approach you. his blissful ignorance to your coy advances didn’t make it any better, he always assumed you were just teasing him.

“hey! what’s the big idea, huh?” you griped, shouting at the group for splashing the crisp pages of the book on your lap. Robin is gonna kill me. “i’m gonna wring your neck for soaking Robin’s book! you know she's gonna my head, dumbasses!”

“awww c’mon [y/n]! it’s just a little water! what are you, scared or something?” Luffy teased, quirking his thin eyebrows.

“just a little water, huh? we’ll see about that,” you retorted, shifting your shocked expression to something more sinister and calculated. The sudden change of your demeanor stunned the young men before you, each of them exchanging quick glances before turning tail to flee. before they could do so, you lean over, clutching onto Luffy’s strong arms to steal the water-gun from his hands. the swiftness in which you moved didn’t give him enough time to react, a surprising feat considering how agile he can be. the slick from the sweat-seawater mixture that coated his body caused your hands to slip, gliding across his firm biceps and feeling every vein and scar that marks his skin. you were able to find dry patch on his wrist, clasping it in your hands and ridding him of the weapon.

“hey what the-!” Luffy exclaimed, arms thrown up into the air, leaving him perfectly vulnerable to your attack. you aimed the gun straight at the area between his eyes, the espresso-colored irises following its barrel. ocean water squirts right where you want it, waves of obsidian becoming soaked and falling over his eyes. Luffy shakes his head to rid his eyes and hair of the salty water, directing its droplets to you when he hears your squeals of shock. a large splash hits your spine as Usopp and Chopper team up against you, firing their “ammo” whilst you were distracted. you turned your attention to them, your initial anger subsiding into an invigorating rush of adrenaline as you charged toward them, laughing and screaming.

“Luffy, grab her!” Usopp commands over his shoulder, shielding himself from your relentless attack. before you could comprehend the command, you’re suddenly swept off your feet, kicking your long silky legs as a pair of strong arm wraps around your waist and hoist you up.

“Luffy! put me down!” you pleaded, giggles being pushed out of you as Luffy presses firmly on your stomach. he shifts your entire weight into his arms, hooking one of his arms under your legs as he carries you bridal-style. Instinctively, you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing your bare chest against his, breathing in tandem as he carries you toward the commotion. your breasts graze against the large “x” scarred into his chest, the textured skin creating a sense of friction that causes your stomach to flutter. you hadn’t noticed, but you had been breathing dangerously close to the crook of his neck as you held yourself close to him. selfishly, you wished this silly quarrel never ended, just so you could hold onto Luffy’s touch for a little while longer…

…

Luffy and Usopp had been scheming all morning — huddled and hushed in the corner of the boy’s quarters as Usopp made the finishing touches to his new contraptions. their sudden bursts of rambunctious laughter had earned its fair share of glares from Zoro, who had been resting peacefully in his hammock. they had been compiling a list of unsuspecting victims to test their weapons on — automatically ruling Zoro out as he had seen the finished product. as Usopp went down the list, Luffy gave his opinion on how he think each person would react, giving amused “oooo”’s and “ahhh”’s with each name. when Usopp made his way to your name, Luffy rolled over on his back, holding his stomach as a sweet melody of belly laughter erupted from his lips. 

“oh man, she’s gonna be so mad!” he exclaimed, riding through his fit of giggles. 

“she's gonna kill you two, you know that right?” Zoro grumbled, peeking at the pair through his dark eyelashes. his arms crossed behind his head, hands cupped in the valley of green tufts to support his neck while he rested. 

“that’s why we have to do it! [y/n] has yet to experience a taste of our pranks. c'mon Usopp, back me up here!” 

Luffy’s gaze fell upon his best friend, who had still been tinkering with the gun’s trigger mechanism. Usopp’s tongue rested between his lips in concentration, briefly returning it back to it’s place as he looked over to Zoro, “he’s right, Zoro. everyone on the crew needs to experience it. it’s like a rite of passage.” 

“whatever. i’m not savin’ anyone’s ass if she bugs out,” Zoro conceded, shutting his eyes for the last time as he finally drifts off to sleep. 

so that’s exactly what they did — stealthily monitoring your every move throughout the morning, lurking within dark corners of the ship to catch you in a vulnerable position. and, unbeknownst to yourself, you set the perfect trap when you decided to bask in the midday sun with your funny little book.

now, Luffy carried you in his firm grasp — cradling you close as he dodged the fire from Usopp and Chopper’s offense. the seawater sprayed upon your exposed body caused you to slip from his grasp, Luffy’s fingers sliding from the slick pooling between the creases in your thighs and waist. with every passing moment, his grasp on you became looser and looser. eventually, you were able to break free — using your freedom to take control and tackle Luffy, fighting him for his weapon. 

the two of you tussled on the warm patch of grass that coated the deck, arms and legs beginning to itch from the constant scratching. Luffy had fought many dangerous foes before, but they were no match for your strength and determination. he felt himself losing, your thighs pinning his waist to the ground as you firmly parked yourself on his lap. you used one of your free hands to pin his wrists against the pillowy grass beneath the two of you, the other hand spinning the toy gun with incredible ease. 

you rested the gun between the small space where his dark eyebrows met, a sly smirk dancing across your lips, “gotcha.”

the air surrounding the two of you abruptly became thick, Luffy’s breath hitching in his throat despite the quickened rise and fall of his chest. why is she so heavy all of a sudden?

the height of the sun once again casted its beaming rays onto you — only this time, you had an unexpected audience. your soaked hair had draped over one of your exposed shoulders, the saltwater accentuating natural waves that ran through it. the suns rays allowed the seawater that coated your skin to glisten, droplets shimmering over the curve of your thighs and boobs and ass and—

wait. 

Luffy found his heart racing against his thoughts, thumping violently in his chest. an unfamiliar warmth pooled at the base of his abdomen, sparking into a living flame that kindled and fluttered throughout his body. the warmth suddenly became overwhelming, his cheeks and neck flushing with every passing moment. the blissful fluttering in his belly transformed into an unbearable wave of nausea, anxiety rising in his chest. what the hell is going on???

without much thought, Luffy abruptly twists his hips from beneath you, causing you to lose your balance. you rolled onto the grass, propping yourself up on your elbows as you watched Luffy briskly walk away, the muscles in his back working as he hurriedly swung his arms back and forth.

“hey, are you okay?” you called out, concern filling your chest.

even the sound of your voice put Luffy on edge, worried that you would catch on to his sudden change in demeanor. he flashed you a quick smile over his shoulder, his pearly teeth shining in the sun as they gritted against each other, “yeah, i’m fine! i think i just ate too fast is all. i’m gonna go lie down for a bit.”

the moment he returned to face the rest of the sunny, his smile fell. Luffy made his way down to the boys quarters, finding his bed and flopping face down into the mattress. he released a sigh that could’ve pushed all the air from his lungs had he tried just a little harder. the weight on his chest made him wish that he could do just that, hoping that such a simple remedy would cure his sudden ailment. becoming so overwhelmed by an unfamiliar feeling unsettled Luffy. he had always been so used to being sure of himself — never thinking twice about challenging emperors and soldiers with bounties that dulled his own in comparison.

the thoughts that raced through his mind caused him to toss and turn, ruffling the already-disturbed sheets from beneath him. falling asleep was always second nature to Luffy — the act of simply resting his head was enough to make him drift off to sleep. but now, he couldn’t stop thinking. images of your soaked body flashed behind his closed eyelids, the droplets of water traveling down your navel burned into his memory. Luffy released a loud groan of frustration, palms digging into his eyes as he pulled at the jet-black hair that draped across his forehead. dramatically, he kicked the sheets that became tangled between his legs, limbs flailing and begging to be set free.

Luffy’s thoughts nearly suffocated him, anxiety rising in his throat as he came to the realization that something was seriously wrong. he hopped out of bed, immediately swinging open the door and making his way over to Chopper’s medical ward. his loud footsteps echoed through the narrowed hallway, large feet slapping against the floor as he charged straight to the familiar door. Luffy lingered a while before knocking, fidgeting with his calloused hands as he worked up the courage to admit that he was sick. he was always used to taking care of his crew that he often felt bad for worrying them about his own problems. 

“hey Chopper, you in there?” he asked gently, lips pressed against the crack of the door. 

a small “hm?” was heard before the sound of hooves scuffling against the wooden floor made their way closer to Luffy. Chopper opened the door, curiously inspecting his captain as he stepped inside. Luffy jumped onto the examination table, the weight of his butt slamming against its surface caused some nearby vials to rattle. 

“what’s wrong, Luffy? did you get into Sanji’s knives again? he told you not to do ‘three-knife style’ anymore!!” Chopper scolded, worried that his friend ticked off the ship’s cook. “if you make him mad again he’ll give the rest of your dinner away to Nami and Robin.”

in normal circumstances, Luffy would have entertained the idea, arguing that mastering such an artistic fighting style would only help in improve his chances of becoming king of the pirates. however, this day had been far from normal — nerves once again bubbling up to the surface, making his mouth go sour as his thin brows furrowed together. “i think something’s wrong with me Chopper. like, seriously wrong.” 

Chopper’s blue nose twitched as the expression on his face shifted from amusement to concern. panicked, he shuffled his way over to Luffy, grabbing his blue medical bag to assess his condition. he noticed the way Luffy clutched at his stomach, fingers lingering over the small tissue that covered his belly button. Chopper tenderly pressed on his abdomen, testing whether or not his friend is suffering from something internal, “does this hurt?”

Luffy shook his head, sighing heavily as he laid down on his back. “it’s not a stomachache i don’t think, it’s something…different. i can’t put my finger on it.” 

“well, what do you mean? maybe if you tell my your symptoms, i can make a treatment plan to help you feeling good as new!”  

Luffy smiled at his generosity, mentally patting himself on the back for choosing such a caring doctor to manage his crew. he chewed on the soft tissue inside his mouth, contemplating different ways to list out his symptoms. when that didn’t work, he just let his mouth run, word vomit pouring out of him seemed to be the way to go. 

“it all started when we were on the deck playing with the water guns. my heart started to race and my cheeks got super hot, like my face was on fire! my palms got super sweaty too — like way more than usual so that made me even more nervous cause i almost never sweat. and then my stomach — oh my god my stomach — it felt like all of my organs did a flip! i haven’t felt that way since Katakuri spun me around in the mirror world, and even then it didn’t feel nearly as bad as it did just now! i seriously thought i was about to yack all over [y/n] if i didn’t get off the floor.” 

Chopper stared at him wide-eyed, his breathing becoming rapid as he worked to piece the puzzle of Luffy’s sudden illness together. as Luffy continued, Chopper became increasingly more nervous, each of his symptoms sounding a little too close to a virus he had done some reading on earlier that week. he had read that the mystery disease came from ingesting a rare bacteria that thrived off of hot, humid climates and the salt from ocean water — which had coincidently been the exact conditions the straw hats had been sailing through for the past few days. Chopper’s “brave doctor” act slowly begins to deteriorate as Luffy continues to list his symtoms, “-and my chest got super tight, like someone was squeezing my heart and wringing out my soul” 

tears welled up in Chopper’s eyes, a small trail of snot running out of his blue nose. the sound of his sniffling pulled Luffy out of his thoughts, returning his attention to his furry friend. “Chopper? what’s wrong buddy? was it something i said!?”

losing the battle of fighting back his tears, Chopper began to wail and turned around to flee the room. Luffy charged after him, puzzled as to why he would suddenly burst into tears. it turned out that Chopper was making his way to the kitchen, seeking comfort from Nami and Sanji, who had been preparing the crew’s next meal. the aroma of chicken and vegetables filled the room, the delicious scent traveling to the rest of the ship as the door swung wide open.

“hey! if the two of you are gonna horse around, then do it outside! i’m cooking here-“ Sanji shouted, cautiously swinging his knife to point in the direction of the deck.

“LUFFY’S GONNA DIE!” Chopper cried, ending Sanji’s sentence short and gaining the attention from the chef and his unexpected partner. bewildered, the pair turned to face the intruders, fear becoming apparent on both of their faces. 

loud, thunderous footsteps had suddenly come to a halt upon entering the room, Luffy caught the swinging door with his large palm before shouting, “I’M WHAT?!”

“i’m sure that’s not true, Chopper. now what’s actually going on?!” Nami asked, her tone soft with reassurance. she had been chopping carrots and celery to accompany Sanji’s dish, the blade coming dangerously close to her long fingers upon the interruption. Chopper had run up to Nami, seeking comfort in her lap as he nuzzled his face into her thighs, wiping his tears on the pair of denim jeans she wore. 

“all of his symptoms line up with a specific virus i was doing some reading on the other week! i don’t have the proper herbs to cure it in my collection! i’m so sorry,” Chopper said, the last part muffled as he hid his face behind his small hooves. 

“well what were the symptoms? maybe you’re just jumping to conclusions buddy,” Sanji soothed, his raspy voice always softer when speaking to Chopper. with that, Chopper turned to Luffy with glossy eyes and snot dribbling down his chin, nodding his head for him to share his symptoms. so much for doctor-patient confidentiality.  

Luffy huffed a deep breath, preparing for his crew to decide his fate, “fine. i dunno…when we were messing around on the deck, my chest just got real tight all of a sudden — and not from all the running around. it was…different, like an aching almost.” Luffy balled his hand into a fist, mimicking the tightness in his chest. “and my stomach started fluttering and burning, like way deep down. i’d never felt anything like that before in my life. and the weirdest part was that it didn’t hurt, but it actually felt kinda good for a moment…” 

the words from Luffy’s rosy lips trailed off as he returned his gaze back to his crew, their faces shockingly calm and…happy? “why are you guys looking at me like that? what’s wrong with me??” 

the door to the kitchen swung open once more, Zoro walking in and holding from a half-empty bottle of sake. “sounds like you’re in love,” he joked, chuckling as he brought the rim to his mouth and taking a long swig. Sanji began to berate him for being so selfish, claiming that the bottle he was so carelessly drinking from was meant for “special occasions only, dumbass!” 

Luffy blew a raspberry through his lips, “yeah right! i’ve never even had a crush on anyone! that’s just gross, plus that’s Sanji’s job!” 

“i don’t know Luffy, what you just described sounds exactly what i feel when i look at my sweet Nami and Robin!” Sanji cooed, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and smooching kisses in Nami’s direction. 

Nami, not even flinching at Sanji’s advances, asked more questions to investigate Luffy’s condition, “well, did it happen when you were looking at anyone in particular..?” despite being known for her independence, Nami was very in tune with romance — always picking up on queues and indulging in romance fiction that Robin would entertain her with. the moment she asked the question, Luffy’s demeanor shifted. 

“well...kinda. it happened when i was holding onto [y/n]” Luffy said, voice unfamiliarly low and shy. the entire room erupted in laughter, teasing Luffy for sweating something so normal. Chopper sighed with relief, glad to know that his friend wasn’t dying. Nami giggled and punched Luffy’s arm playfully, “you do have a crush, ya dope!” 

Zoro slapped his back with an extra-heavy hand, his slight drunkenness causing him to lose control of his strength. something inside Luffy finally clicked, a brief moment of relief soothed his soul before the gravity of the situation came down on his shoulders like a fright train. the cacophonous laughter began to blend into a ringing in Luffy’s ears, overwhelmed with the information. he huffed a quick laugh and turned to make his way back to the boy’s quarters. what the hell?

…

Luffy couldn’t sleep that night, his eyes straining to carve out the grooves inside the wood that lay above him in the dark. everytime he closed his eyes, all he could see was you — the way your hips curved, your pillowy thighs plush across his lap, the small constellation of moles and freckles that sprinkled across your smooth skin. his cheeks flushed just at the thought, thanking every power up above that the room was dark and everyone was fast asleep. the racing of his heart was no match for the speed at which his mind ran, however, disgustingly sweet thoughts flooding his senses. 

the brief moments of sleep he did get were interrupted by dreams about you. he pictured the way your warmth would feel beside him, entangled in his sheets and his arms after a long night of peaceful sleep. the rising sun’s glow landed on you just right, illuminating the soft skin on your bare back. your cheeks were colored with a soft, sleepy blush, the rise and fall of your back as you breathed soothed all his anxieties. your eyes had a softness to them that tugged at his heart as they stared into his own with contentment, your dark lashes still heavy with sleep. your plush lips fixed themselves into a smile, mumbling something that was inaudible to Luffy’s rosy ears. whatever you said didn’t matter, as your lips met his and morphed together into a soft kiss. morning breath be damned, he found himself drinking you in, touching every part of you, attempting to commit it to memory. however, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember exactly how you felt, the fuzziness of the dream clouding his senses. the dream felt like a warm embrace, a tight grasp that he wouldn’t mind staying in for just a little while longer… 

when he woke up, Luffy opened his eyes to the empty spot in his bed — you nowhere to be found. your absence led Luffy’s heart to ache, feeling like he was missing a piece of him. this newfound discovery about himself tied loose ends in his life that he couldn’t quite pinpoint — he wasn’t sure why he always made sure you were okay during a battle, why you were the reason behind his motivations for improvement, why he always caught himself sneaking glances at you during meal and leisurely time. you had caught his attention from the moment he met you, and now he knew exactly why. these feelings were both enticing and petrifying, Luffy suddenly filled with guilt for being so unprofessional. although, Monkey D. Luffy has never been a man of tradition. 

… 

the past few days had been a blur for Luffy, constantly lost in his own thoughts. he started becoming hyperaware of every little thing, making sure that every time he saw you he was presentable. Luffy started grooming himself — showering more than once week, spending more time in front of the mirror to tweak his wild hair so it sat just right. with the bouts of self-confidence came insecurity as well, overanalyzing his posture and facial features. the scars on his face and chest suddenly the only thing he could think about — wondering if you thought them to be impressive or gross, seeing them as a mark of failure and weakness rather than a symbol of survival and determination. he traced the rough edges of the scar on his chest with his calloused fingertips, analyzing the fusion of pinks and reds that color his chest. this particular day he decided to cover it up, buttoning his shirt just above his scar to conceal it from the rest of the crew, embarrassment and shame pang in his chest. 

conflicting feelings wrestling in his mind and chest began to take physical tolls on Luffy — deep purple bags weighing his eyes down from the lack of sleep. he decided that he finally had enough of this senseless torture, deciding that today was the day he would tell you exactly how he felt. Luffy’s impatience led him to believe that jumping to confessions would finally allow him to marvel in all the good things love had to offer. he couldn’t wait for you to be in his arms, to carry you around on his back, to kiss you anywhere and anytime that he wanted. he couldn't wait for you to be his. 

Luffy figured he would pay the only person he thought would be the most well-versed in this thing called “love” — his ship’s cook, Sanji. despite having a questionable past when it comes to romance, Sanji could actually be captivating, making suave advances at all kinds of women over their years of travel and succeeding. Luffy wandered into the kitchen, finding Sanji sharpening his knives in preparation for dinner. 

“hey Sanji. can i ask you somethin’? Luffy asked, resting his elbows on the pristine table cloth as he took a seat. Sanji put his knives away and returned his attention to the young man, cautiously approaching him as he wore a solemn expression. 

“sure, what’s up?”

“how can i tell [y/n] i like her? i mean, i don’t wanna scare her away but at the same time, i just can’t stop thinking about her! she’s so pretty I’m worried she wouldn’t wanna be with someone like me...” Luffy trailed off, getting lost in his sorrows once again. 

Luffy’s uncertainty threw Sanji for a loop, scrunching his curly eyebrows in confusion, “since when do you care about what people think? just be yourself, Luffy, you have nothing to worry about. i’m sure if [y/n] didn’t like you she wouldn’t have joined the crew”

“well yeah but what if she doesn’t like like me? what if me telling her i like her scares her away and she’ll never be a part of the crew again?” Luffy threw his face into his hands, pulling at the stretchy skin around his cheeks in exasperation. 

“if that’s the case, then treat her to a huge bouquet of flowers! women love that flashy shit,” Sanji claimed, taking a long drag from his cigarette. “i’ll even help you bake her a cake or something. sound good?” 

“hell no, you’ve got it all wrong!” Nami exclaims, wandering her way into the kitchen for an apple to snack on. “women don’t just want ‘flashy shit’ Luffy, especially not [y/n].” 

“wow Nami, that top looks darling on you!!” Sanji exclaims, scurrying over to her to get a closer look. brushing off the compliment with a simple “thank you,” Nami continues her string of advice. 

“look, since i’m the closest to her i think that you should just be yourself. all [y/n] truly wants is honesty, and if you tell her exactly how you feel, she’ll be understanding no matter what.” 

and it was true. Nami had easily become your best friend the moment you stepped foot on the thousand sunny — the both of you confiding in each other free of judgement. it was Nami and Usopp who had listened to you pour your heart out about how you truly felt about your captain. there were nights where you cried into her lap about how lonely you felt because you thought he would never reciprocate these feelings, believing that he couldn’t afford to make the room in his heart to love you more than just platonically. you believed that you’d be stuck in the friendzone forever, your bottled feelings gnawing at the walls of your heart bit by bit until it was entirely consumed by loneliness. Nami kept these moments in mind, internally screaming as she couldn’t wait to watch this relationship unfold. you idiots have no idea.

“once you’ve gathered your thoughts, then you can tell her how you feel. but until then, i’d lay low for a while — that way you don’t jump her the next time you see her. but don’t completely ignore her!” 

Luffy hadn’t expected to take Nami’s advice, but it made sense as she was the closest to you. he brought her into a tight embrace, squeezing the petite woman’s frame as he chuckled a giddy laugh into her ear, “thanks Nami! who knew you were so good at this stuff?” 

“yeah well, this therapy is gonna cost you about fifteen hundred berr—“

“SEE YA!!” Luffy shouted over his shoulder, cutting Nami off before she could set her price in stone. 

… 

you hadn’t seen or heard from Luffy in a few days, which wouldn’t worry you under normal circumstances if he wasn’t acting so…strange. your captain has always been cooky and silly, but this behavior was different. the times you had seen Luffy, you flashed him a soft smile, a peaceful, friendly greeting. however, his eyes would just go wide and avert your gaze, something akin to fear flashing in his dark eyes. when you tried to confront him about it, he would brush you off and say it was just leftover stress — but the way his lips pursed and how he avoided direct eye contact let you know that he was lying. after that conversation, you resulted to avoiding him as well, embarrassed to seek him out when it was very clear that he did not want to see you. 

the loneliness and shame was eating away at you, every day a piece of you withered away as you mulled over what you could’ve possibly done to receive such treatment. all roads led back to that moment on the deck, where you got too comfortable, too carried away and let yourself do something you knew you shouldn’t have. it was too much, why would you ever think that was a good idea? 

you made your way to Nami’s room, trails of dark grey running down your cheeks from the mascara you had cried off. upon opening the door, you caught a glimpse of Nami and Usopp laughing about something before they directed their attention to you. Nami’s warm smile quickly faded, patting the cushy space next to her as she invited you over. the moment you shut the door behind you, the tears returned tenfold. all the pent up frustration and anger came pouring out of you, strong streams of salty tears surging from your eyes. 

“i think Luffy hates me,” you said, voice strained from choking back a sob. you filled them in on all the gruesome details, spilling the guilt and honest frustrations you felt and how you blamed yourself for his behavior. Nami immediately regretted the advice she gave to Luffy when she saw the state you were in, never imagining that you would’ve been this devastated. her and Usopp exchanged quick glances, warning each other not to reveal too much so they wouldn’t spoil Luffy’s confession plan. 

“oh [y/n], i promise he doesn’t hate you. boys are just dumb sometimes, especially the ones on our crew,” Nami joked, chuckling lightly to ease the tension that lingered in the air. you huffed a breathy laugh as you wiped your nose, tucking your hair behind your ears to avoid getting the trails of snot into it. 

“i think he’s just going through some personal stuff right now,” Usopp reassured, twisting the tiny frills of your shirt between his fingers as he lay sprawled out on Nami’s mattress. “trust me, i know what it’s like to have Luffy hate you for a while, and this just isn’t it. just give him some time and he’ll come back around.” 

their kind words put you at ease, the stream of tears drying out slowly as you collected yourself again. “thank you guys, i needed that.” 

the pair gave you soft smiles, continuing to keep the mood alive by cheering you up with filling you in on the predicament Usopp got himself into earlier that day. 

…

the sunset marked one week since this whole predicament began, Luffy finally ready to confide in you about how he truly felt. he had prepared a whole speech — each line carefully crafted with Nami’s help to describe exactly how he felt, not wanting to miss a beat. he couldn’t afford to forget anything, as one tiny mistake could result in catastrophe. Luffy had never prepared this much for anything, not even when fighting warlords and emperors. you had superseded all of them, your attention and feelings more important than his own. 

Luffy recited his speech over and over again in his head, making his way to your favorite spot on the sunny in hopes of finding you. the second he laid his eyes on you, however, his mouth went dry and the words suddenly scrambled together in his head. his attention was fixated on the way your face glowed against the orange horizon, the breeze blowing your hair behind you and putting every feature on display. you leaned over the railing, resting your elbows on the wooden edge as you drank in the smell of the seawater. your glowing eyes turned to meet Luffy’s, your face stoic and glum as you turned back to face the setting sun. 

“fancy seeing you here,” you stated sarcastically, your words lacking any form of amusement as your frustration returned. 

“can i talk to you about something?” Luffy said, his voice suddenly small and nervous. the tension in his voice had been unexpected, causing you to turn around and meet him face-to-face. you crossed your arms over your chest, nodding your head in his direction as a sign of permission for him to continue. Luffy took a deep breath, collecting his thoughts properly to restrain the word vomit that built up in his throat. although, his nerves made him feel like he was about to actually vomit. 

“first, i want to apologize for the way i’ve been acting these past few days. it was never my intention to make you upset or mad at me or anything. i did it because…” Luffy paused, fidgeting with the hem of his shorts. god, this is so weird. 

“because…?” you asked, the anticipation eating away at you. your heart thumped violently in your chest, throat beginning to sting as your nerves returned.

“because i like you, okay? like more than i should — and if i’m being completely honest, i didn’t even know i could like someone like that. but when I’m with you, i feel like i have a purpose. and of course I feel that way with everyone else, but you’re different!” 

Luffy took a small step forward, gently grabbing your hands and holding them in his. “the moment i realized that i actually liked you, something inside me clicked. it felt like everything suddenly made sense and a huge weight was lifted off my shoulders. i felt like i could breathe again and i was free. hell, i’ve been having dreams about you ever since — but nothing weird though i promise!” 

the way he threw his arms up in defense at that last sentence made you laugh, all of the dizzying stress releasing through your nose. you hadn’t realized it, but tears began to flow from your eyes. but these were tears of joy, tears of relief that everything you had beat yourself up over for the past week was all in your head. all you could do was stare at the man before you with a beaming smile and teary eyes, your brain short-circuiting as you took in every syllable that left his mouth. 

“i’m so sorry, [y/n]. i never meant to make you feel like i was avoiding you on purpose, i was just finding the right things to say. i really don’t wanna screw this up, so — if you’ll have me — i want to be there for you. i want to be the person you wake up next to every morning, the person you can come to and share everything with. i want to be yours and i want you to be mine.” 

Luffy’s thumb grazed your cheek, wiping away the tears that ran down your face. you leaned into his touch, gently pressing your lips into the palm of his hand. the intimate gesture caused Luffy’s cheeks to burn a bright red, a hopeful smile forming across his lips. 

“took you long enough,” you teased, redirecting his hands to your waist as you draped yours around his neck. “i’ve loved you for a long time, ya know? i was just waiting to see if you’d ever come around, dumbass.”

Luffy could no longer contain his excitement, hoisting you up by your waist and spinning you around in the air. your playful squeals were quickly silenced as he brought your lips to yours, drinking you in with every touch and taste.  

many people made the assumption that Luffy was born under a lucky star, attributing his success to destiny and fate rather than the determination and strength he put forth. that claim had always pissed him off as it made him feel like he was cheating the system entirely. however, it wasn’t until he held you in this moment that he finally understood what they had meant. 

i could get used to this.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚.

teehee i’ve been wanting to write for luffy for sooooo long but never knew what to write about. then this idea came to me like an epiphany and im so glad it did!

[milkfordragons]

Ok I need to ask this; Will's and Hannibal's reaction of their daughter killing an animal at a young age and then later on a person?

(if she was raised by both Will and Hannibal I mean)

If their daughter killed an animal at a young age, Will would meet the revelation with his usual blank expression, perhaps just the barest furrow of his brow, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He’d ask her why. Did the animal hurt her? Was she curious? He wouldn’t raise his voice. Instead, he’d make her bury it or dispose of it properly, watching her the entire time, searching for signs. If she was curious, he would redirect that curiosity: introducing her to anatomy through already-dead creatures, controlled, methodical. If it was self-defense, he’d teach her how to avoid harm without inflicting it in return.

But in the back of his mind, he would know. He’s seen this before, hundreds of times, on crime scene photos and in interrogation rooms. The first tell-tale sign, the first domino in a chain that doesn’t end well. But how could he judge? How could he call it monstrous when he himself had stood on that same path so many times?

Hannibal, on the other hand, would be amused. He’d watch Will’s reaction with veiled interest, perhaps even suggesting to their daughter that she keep it from him, just to see how long she could. He wouldn’t scold her, not as a child. But he would explain the concept of unnecessary cruelty, not out of morality, but principle. Killing for a reason is art; killing without purpose is wasteful. He would let the moment pass, filing it away for later.

And later would come. When she was eighteen, maybe twenty, and a body lay at her feet instead of an animal’s.

Will would stare. Silent for a long moment, before asking in that slow, measured cadence of his, “Why did you kill this person?” The same way he asked if the social worker was inside the horse. Not condemning, not accepting...just peeling back the layers of an answer he wasn’t sure he wanted.

He would help her. Of course, he would help her. Moving the body, hiding the evidence, all with the efficiency of a man who has done this before, who knows exactly how much blood will seep into the floorboards and what it takes to scrub it out. But when it was done, he’d take away her weapons. He’d tell her, not in anger but in frustration, that she was being reckless. That she was jeopardizing herself. That she was too young to be this careless.

And depending on her reasons, he would either lecture her in that circuitous, disorienting way of his, never fully condemning, but never truly approving...or, if he found himself understanding her, if he agreed in some way, he would say nothing at all. Just a blank stare, a slow nod. “Next time, you tell me,” he would say, his voice even, unreadable. “Don’t take matters into your own hands.”

Hannibal, predictably, wouldn’t care in the slightest. If anything, he’d be more offended by the lack of refinement. He would chide her, not for the act, but for her lack of precision, her lack of grace. He’d insist she learn, properly, under his guidance, he'd want to shape her hand around a blade. And then he would probe. For hours, for days. Picking apart her reasoning, setting her mind through a labyrinth of psychological experiments, orchestrating little tests of control, just to see what she would do.

And as for Will and Hannibal themselves, there would be arguments. Will would say they ruined her, Hannibal would insist that nothing is ruined, that everything is subjective. They’d circle each other with words the way they always do, pushing and pulling in a dance we all know too well.

[writinginatree]

All the Blood that You Still Owe

Relationship(s): Xaden Riorson & sibling!reader

Summary: An unpleasant surprise awaits on Hedotis, and you react with far less composure than your brother.

Warnings: Spoilers for Onyx Storm (set during chapters 33/34), canon divergence, mommy issues, implied daddy issues, anger issues, self-worth issues, we got all the issues baby!, unresolved childhood trauma, meltdowns, self-harm tendencies if you squint, graphic description of blood and violence, violence against children, murder, dissociation, self-hatred, vaguely suicidal thoughts

Title from MCR's song "I Don't Love You", go listen for some extra angst!

Landing on the rocky shore near the capital of Hedotis, you immediately dislike the place. You can't pinpoint why — on the surface, it seems like a beautiful, peaceful place. Nonetheless there's something about it that makes you uneasy in a way none of the other isles did. It's not just the lack of magic, either; uncomfortable as that is, you're starting to get used to it.

Observing the city — Vidirys, Violet had said it's called — it seems wrong somehow, with all those identical houses. It feels like looking at the background of a painting someone didn't want to put much effort into, just copying the same view over and over to create the illusion of a real place. Creepy, somehow, despite the superficial serenity.

The rest of the squad are all gathered a little farther up the beach, but you hang back, reluctant to part from your dragon.

The contrast of Dioghal's blood-red scales against the pale landscape only amplifies the lack of color around her, and you can't help but think what easy targets you make like this. Not that it should matter — according to Vi's handy guidebook, the people of Hedotis are supposedly peaceful. That doesn't make them trustworthy in your eyes, though. You're naturally suspicious of people who remain neutral in any and all conflicts happening around them, and you'd be willing to bet they do have weapons, possibly aimed at you this very moment from some hidden spot.

With these things in mind, you tense when you notice the group of locals stepping onto the wooden walkway that connects this piece of beach with what looks to be a market just outside the city.

Though you can't see any weapons on them, and they're all dressed in light tunics and gowns entirely unfit for combat, you double-check that all of your own weapons are where they belong before you give Dioghal's leg another pat and hurry after your squad, who are already going toward the locals.

Xaden raises a brow at you when you fall into step beside him, a wordless scolding for falling behind. Guess he doesn't quite trust the purported peace, either.

You're glad you aren't the only one who finds the place a little unsettling, because it really shouldn't be. But try as you might, you cannot shake the unease. Even the welcoming committee — if that's what it is — doesn't sit right with you. They should be wary of armed strangers on dragons showing up on their shore, but the way they're strolling toward you looks perfectly relaxed and casual. Almost like your visit doesn't surprise them.

No, you definitely do not like this. But these people could have the answers you're looking for, so if this is a trap, you're just going to have to deal with it. To calm your nerves, you remind yourself that Dioghal will be watching over you from afar. She won't let anything happen to you.

As you draw near, you notice a tall woman in the group of Hedotians — or is it Hedotics? — You should ask Violet later, she'll know what they're called — who seems strangely familiar.

Your discomfort intensifies, but you force yourself to keep walking, staring at the pale wooden boards beneath your feet as your group reaches theirs and greetings are exchanged. When the man from the triumvirate — he introduced himself, but you were only half listening — beckons his wife forward you glance up, and your heart stops, only to double it's speed.

It's the familiar-looking woman, and up close, you know why she's so familiar.

"Xaden," she says. Then her gaze jumps to you, frozen in place half a step behind your brother and a little to the side.

You barely hear her saying your name over the rushing in your ears, only vaguely register Xaden acknowledging her as he pulls Violet closer to his side. On the inside you're seven again, abandoned, confused, and fucking furious.

But unlike back then, you're armed now.

The metallic sound of your sword coming out of its sheath draws everyone's attention, and Garrick grabs you around the waist before you can take more than a single step toward your so-called mother.

"Let me go," you demand in a low growl barely loud enough for those nearest to hear. You can't seem to get enough air to speak any louder.

Instead of letting you go, Garrick forces your sword-arm down and pins it to your side. Despite the endless hours of training you've put in, you're no match for his strength — you might as well still be that seven-year-old you were when your mother left, so effortlessly does he restrain you.

"Calm down," he has the audacity to whisper into your ear. "We have a mission, remember? Don't fuck this up because of her."

He's right, you know that. It's just hard to care when so suddenly being faced with the woman you've missed and hated for the last thirteen — no, almost fourteen — years. Years you've spent imagining seeing her again — at first, it had been a happy, tearful reunion you'd pictured, back when you couldn't fully believe she had left for good. You'd thought you would apologize for whatever you had done to drive her away and all would be well. Then, as you'd grown older and understood she really had abandoned you, you imagined her looking at you full of regret and apologies, begging for forgiveness you would deny her. Later still, after your father had died and you were left alone under the care of some Navarrian loyalist, soaking up the world's cruelty like a fine handkerchief dropped into a pool of blood, you started dreaming of revenge. Your mother, Navarrian leadership, everyone. In your dreams you made them all pay for the hurt they'd inflicted on you and your brother, knowing you'd never be able to do so in reality.

But now you're here, and so is Talia. It would be so easy. So gratifying to make her see what pain she caused you and give it back to her tenfold.

Garrick's words echo in your ears as you notice the rest of the squad watching you with varying degrees of confusion and disapproval. Don't fuck this up. No, you can't afford to ruin this mission the way you do everything else. You've got to keep your shit together. For Xaden's sake, if not for that of everyone else on the Continent.

With that thought, you force your muscles to relax, and let Garrick guide your sword back into its sheath. His hold on you eases, but he hovers right behind you, ready to grab you again should you make it necessary.

You won't. Won't disappoint your brother and friends, won't ruin the mission, won't make things more difficult for them. You just have to hold in this burning rage. You can do that, have been doing it all your life. Calm. You have to be calm. If Xaden manages not to throw a fit at the sight of your mother, surely you'll manage not to do so either. Be calm.

Forcing yourself to take slow, measured breaths (nice and calm, nice and calm, nice and calm) you look anywhere except at Talia.

Someone starts making excuses for you, claiming that in your exhausted state you had merely gotten startled by Talia's suddenly stepping forward and overreacted. You meant no harm, they say. You're perfectly safe to be around, they say. It won't happen again, they say. Lies, all of it.

But no. It mustn't happen again. You can't ruin the mission. Keep it together. You have to keep it together somehow.

The man from the triumvirate — your mother's new husband — who observed your outburst with cold disapproval looks like he doesn't believe a word, but doesn't withdraw his invitation, either.

You really, really don't want to go to his house, though.

"Garrick," you mumble, since he's still standing closest to you, "I want to leave."

This is how it always went when you got overwhelmed while stuck at some stupid event as kids; you'd tug on the sleeve of whichever of the boys was closest to you and he'd sneak you out while the other two distracted the adults that wanted to keep you there before eventually joining you. But this is not a boring ball or dinner party, and you are no longer a child. You are here on a mission, and there's too much at stake to just blow it off, you know that even as you ask to leave.

"We can't, not before we find out if they have some answers for us," Garrick whispers back. He rubs his hand up and down your arm, trying to soothe you. "I know it's hard, but just remember that we're doing this for Xaden."

He's right. Gods, you know he's right, but every second in your mother's presence feeds the hatred burning inside you. Soon it will consume you whole. You don't know how you're supposed to keep it in much longer, if you can keep it in.

But you have to try. For Xaden. For your brother's sake, you might manage. If he can look at Talia without bursting into tears or punching something, then so can you. But of course Xaden has always had much better self control than you, a different kind of anger. Where your own anger burns like a raging fire, demanding to be let out, Xaden's turns his veins to ice, freezing his voice and eyes, a mask of deadly quiet.

You're not even sure if he is angry at your mother, or just disappointed, sad, whatever. Your rage is more than enough for both of you, anyway.

Talia's husband clears his throat. "Shall we?"

"Of course," Aaric says, stepping forward to take control of the situation, since neither Xaden nor Violet make any move to reply. The sideways glance he gives you in doing so says to get your godsdamned shit together. "Thank you for the invitation."

"You don't have to come," Xaden mutters to you, hanging back while the group slowly starts toward the city. You can tell he's upset too, but unlike you, he keeps it all on the inside. If only you were capable of the same. "Stay with the dragons if you want."

As much as you want to do so, it feels wrong, like you're failing both Xaden and the whole squad. What's the point of being part of this quest if all you do is lag behind?

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. You can always still join us later, if you feel up to it."

Us. That means Xaden intends to go with them. Of course. He's more important to the mission, and if both of you stayed behind, the man from the triumvirate might take offense. You should care about that. He's important here, and that means his opinion could decide whether or not these people will help you. But all you can think about is that all this time, your mother has been here, with that man. Had she left specifically to be with him, or did they meet later? Does it even make a difference? No, you decide. You hate both of them either way. And no matter how much you tell yourself you should, you just can't go with them to their house, where you'd probably have to sit in a stiff reception room and make pleasant conversation while the anger continues to eat you alive. You can't.

"Go. It's fine," Xaden encourages again. Nothing is fine. Not to you, and certainly not to him, either, but he's good at pretending things are fine when they're not. "You can do a sweep of the area if Dioghal isn't too tired, see if you spot the irids."

"I doubt they're here."

They aren't; you feel that in your bones. Hedotis is not a place dragons would like. Or are you just biased because you don't like the place?

"Yeah, me too. But we have to make sure, and it'll give you something else to focus on."

"Okay. I'll see you later then."

Xaden nods and follows the others, catching up with Violet, who walkes at the back, waiting for him, in a few long strides.

For a moment you look after them, feeling like a failure. They're almost out of earshot already, so you could break down now, scream and cry like the turmoil inside you demands.

You don't. Instead you turn, walking back down the beach to where Dioghal waits.

You wish your brother could have remained behind with you. Or better yet, that you could all leave this whole fucking place already. Selfish reasons aside, you also don't like the thought of leaving Xaden to deal with your mother alone. Her absence was just as hard for him as for you. Harder, maybe. But he won't really be alone, he has Violet and Garrick to take care of him, so you suppose it's alright. It makes no matter, anyway. Wishes won't get you anywhere; that's a lesson you learned the hard way. Xaden will bury his feelings and fulfill his duty the way he always does, while you will fight the urge to cry and scream for as long as you can and eventually break down, the way you always do.

Dioghal lowers her head when you reach her, chuffing in a way that sounds vaguely worried.

You curse the lack of magic in this place, desperately missing the mental connection to your dragon. She watched the interaction, but you don't know if she was close enough to hear, to understand what exactly made you so upset.

"That— That woman," you explain out loud, almost choking on the words, "that was my mother."

Dioghal croons, a blast of steam parting your hair. Her head swivels around to look after the group with narrowed eyes, like she's contemplating to follow them and show Talia exactly what happens to people who upset Dioghal's rider — death, usually.

"Can we just fly, please? Xay asked that we look around for the irids while the others talk to the triumvirate."

Dioghal lets out a low growl, and for a moment, you think she'll ignore you and go after your mother. Unlike you, she doesn't have anyone to grab her and talk some sense into her. You almost want her to do it. That way, you'd get the revenge you've dreamed of for so long without being directly responsible for ruining the mission. But then Dioghal straightens, averting her piercing gaze, and you know she's decided to let Talia live for now.

That should be a good thing, but it doesn't feel like one.

As you scale Dioghal's leg and get seated, you picture her claws sinking into your mother's flesh, her strong jaws closing around her, the resulting spray of blood as red as her scales. There's so many ways she could go about killing her. Biting her head clean off or slowly ripping her limb from limb, snapping her in half or clawing her guts out. Burning her, like the traitor she is. She could stab her with the poisonous bulb of her tail, make it slow and painful.

Gods, what the fuck is wrong with you? It can't be normal to wish these things upon your own mother, no matter what she did to deserve it. She may have abandoned you, but the fact remains that she's your mother. You're pretty sure that's supposed to mean something to you, even now, so why doesn't it?

If Dioghal could talk to you here, she would tell you it doesn't matter, that this hatred doesn't mean you're broken somehow. She understands your overwhelming anger better than anyone else ever has. You're one and the same in that way, quick to lash out for the smallest reasons, unable to let go of the big reasons, no matter how much time passes. Sometimes you wonder if that's why she chose you, because you're as unforgiving as she is, with a temper to match her own. And other times, you wonder if this similarity might be a bad thing, if maybe you would have been better off with a more reasonable dragon — say, a green, like your cousin's — that would teach you control over your emotions, instead of encouraging you to act on your rage like Dioghal tends to do. She forgets that you're human, that unlike dragons, you're supposed to have morals, a conscience.

If Dioghal ever caught those thoughts, she would probably eat you alive for doubting her.

She leaps into the air, and you wish you could leave the feelings plaguing you behind just like the ground, quickly shrinking with distance, but it's never that simple.

You can blame the stinging in your eyes on the wind, having foregone your goggles in your hurry to get off the beach, but there's no denying the sob that works it's way up your throat. Another follows, and another, and now your cheeks are stained wet, and with your eyes closed, you can pretend you've flown into a cloud and that's where the wetness comes from, but you know that if you open them, you won't be in the clouds. It would make no sense to fly that high, not when you're supposed to survey the isle for signs of the irids.

Bending at the waist, you press your face against Dioghal's warm scales and try to pretend your distress away. When that doesn't work, you allow yourself another sob, two. You have to stop. Dioghal may understand your anger, but she doesn't have much patience for tears. You squeeze your eyes shut, gnawing at your lip until blood floods your mouth. It's a reassuring taste. The pain in your lip isn't enough to distract you from your emotional hurt, but it gives you the strength to push past it and straighten in the seat.

Far below you, Hedotis's capital sprawles into the distance in it's orderly rows of identical pale houses. You can't deny there's a sort of beauty to it, but the city does not look alive the way Aretia or even Basgiath's small village of Chantara do. This kind of orderliness isn't natural.

It's hard to wrap your head around the fact that this is where your mother must have come from, that your ancestors lived here — maybe not in this very city, but in one like it somewhere on this isle. These are your roots. Talia's home, that she abandoned you to return to.

You hate it.

For hours, you fly along the coast, steering clear of any human dwellings and searching for signs of dragons in the less populated spots. As expected, you find nothing.

Despite how hungry Dioghal must be, she shows no intention to land and find something to eat. You know it's your obvious distress that keeps her in the air; she's protective of you to a fault, like— You flinch at the thought. Like a doting mother. Your eyes burn. Your mother abandoned you, but at least you now have a dragon to play the role she didn't want. Not that you'd ever say that to Dioghal's face. She has a habit of waving that poison-dripping scorpiontail of hers in your face when you call her out on her overprotective behavior, and she would take even more offense to being called a mother hen, no matter how true it is.

Guilt nags at you for keeping her from her well-deserved meal. She has to be tired, too. The flight to Hedotis had taken all night, and thanks to your meltdown, Dioghal has been circling overhead for another four hours or so while the others rested and fed themselves. Without magic to give them strength, the dragons tire faster than they're used to.

"Maybe we should land," you yell over the wind. It's not just lonely being unable to talk through your mental link, but also terribly inconvenient. "I've calmed down now. Honest."

Her head swings around, golden eyes scrutinizing you in that way that makes you feel like she can see through you, straight to your soul. Apparently Dioghal is satisfied with what she sees, because she makes a turn for the northeastern shore, where you can make out Tairn and Sgaeyl's looming forms once you get closer, and slowly descends to land on a colorless beach near a colorless house.

Talia's colorless house, you realize, spotting Xaden and Violet on it's veranda. The distance is too big for you to hear them, but from the look of it, your brother is arguing with Sgaeyl. Amazing how he manages that even without being able to talk to her.

She roars something in his face, maybe Don't tell me what to do or Behave until I'm back, and turns, making a slightly friendlier sounding noise at Dioghal before flying off, Tairn and Andarna close behind her. Dioghal nudges you toward the house and turns to follow the small riot. You assume the sound must have been an invitation to eat together. Dragon relations are a mystery to you, but as far as you can tell, Dioghal is something like Sgaeyl's cool aunt.

Not wanting to go into or even near the house, you're contemplating whether you should just make yourself comfortable in the sand or maybe go for a swim, when you notice two dark-haired boys watching you. They hadn't been there when you'd scanned the area from the air, which means they must have come from inside the house, probably attracted by Sgaeyl's roar. That in turn raises the question of whose children these are. You don't want to think about it, but... It's your mother's house. Of course it's possible someone else lives there with her and her husband, maybe a widowed sister or something. Or maybe the kids belong to someone who works for them; you just have to look at the place to know they have a whole army of staff. And yet the most painful conclusion also is the most obvious, the most likely — if Talia has a new life with a new husband, why shouldn't she have new children, too?

The thought makes you feel like crying again, so you turn to stare out over the water and do your best to ignore the boys. You don't want to know who they are.

And yet, when you hear voices a moment later, you turn to look again. You blame it on the self-preservation instincts Basgiath has instilled in you, edging on paranoia. Even before that, you never liked having something happening behind your back, but now it positively makes your skin crawl to be facing away from potential danger. What you see doesn't seem very dangerous, though. The boys are still there, and a woman fusses over the pair of them — some kind of maid, judging from the look of her.

Maybe that is their mother. Or maybe it's her job to look after them. What do you care?

But you do. You trail them with your eyes as they start back toward the house. Just as you're about to lose interest and turn away, Talia rushes from the house, straight toward the boys.

Your throat constricts. No. You don't want them to be hers.

But as you watch on, it's obvious they are. You don't understand what they're saying, since it's all in Hedotic and you're almost out of earshot, anyway, but you don't have to. It's all over Talia's face, in her tone, in every gesture and touch she makes. So loving, so tender.

Your heart aches as you watch her run her hands over their hair like she'd done yours when you were little. When she'd still loved you. Or pretended like she did, anyway. You're not sure which it was, and it doesn't really make a difference. Those times are long gone.

Your shaking hands curl into fists as the hatred inside you grows, demanding an outlet.

Not enough that she abandoned you. No, she fucking replaced you. With these boys, who no doubt are nicer, better behaved, less prone to meltdowns. You'd always known you weren't good enough, too difficult to be considered worthy of her love.

Xaden spent years trying to convince you it hadn't been your fault she left. He and Dad loved you despite your faults, wasn't that proof enough that you weren't unlovable like you thought? Sometimes, you almost believed him. After all, your mother had abandoned not only you, but Xaden, too — flawless Xaden, who you'd always been aware was your parents' favorite, who always had to serve as your good example when you acted out. Not even he had been enough to make her stay, so you'd let him convince you that maybe the problem really wasn't you. Maybe there was something wrong with her. It was easy enough to pretend so; she was gone, and memories blurred with time.

But now here she is, playing the loving mother for these boys, so it must have been your fault after all.

You stalk closer, unsure what you'll do when you reach them. It won't be pretty, that's all you know. You feel like a predator advancing on its unsuspecting prey.

Just a handful of steps and you'll be right behind them, and they still haven't noticed you.

Mom. The word is on the tip of your tongue, but you can't get it out. It feels too wrong. She will always be your mother, there's nothing you can do about that, but she stopped being your mom the moment she disappeared into the night without so much as a goodbye.

You still remember how you'd woken up that morning, happy and unsuspecting. You remember Xaden, who'd been awake earlier than you, sitting over his untouched breakfast — chocolate cake, left over from his birthday the day before. You knew something was wrong then, and that it had to be serious. There wasn't much that could kill Xaden's appetite, especially when it came to cake. You remember how you hesitated, slowly walking to the table and sitting down, not sure you wanted to know. Finally, you gathered your courage and asked what had happened.

"Mom is gone," Xaden had responded glumly, shoving his untouched plate of cake to you and rising from the table.

"Gone?" you'd asked, briefly wondering if he meant gone as in dead. Adults sometimes talked that way, but you didn't think Xaden would. "Gone where?"

"Away."

Xaden had stomped off to his room — to cry, presumably — and you dug into the cake he'd spurned, vaguely angry with Talia for making your big brother so sad, but still thinking that surely she would come back after a few days at most.

Her absence hadn't sunken in for you right away the way it did for Xaden. You missed her, sure, and you were upset, yes, but that was mostly because Xaden was upset.

Your mother had always been there, so it made no sense to you that she shouldn't be anymore. That she should have abandoned you seemed as absurd as the idea of water not being wet, or fire being cold. Children and their parents belonged together, that had always been a simple fact to you. Therefore, it wasn't until a few weeks had gone by that you were able to believe that she wasn't coming back.

Then you started to wonder why, and it didn't take long to come to the conclusion that it must have been your fault somehow. It always was. When she was unhappy, or tired, or had a headache, when something broke or there were chocolate smudges on the window; it was always because you had thrown a tantrum or refused to go to bed, because you had been too loud, too clumsy and careless. In your parents' eyes, you could never do anything right. Talia especially had always seen right through all your attempts of being good, of being like Xaden, straight to your rotten core. For as long as you remember, you always felt that something was fundamentally wrong with you, and your mother knew it, too. She never said so, tried not to show it, but she must have felt it, or she wouldn't have left.

And it's true, there has to be something wrong with you. Otherwise, you wouldn't be slinking toward the wholesome little group like a wolf amongst sheep, mind racing with bloody scenarios. You should be happy to see her, not want to throttle her.

You're close now, a step or two more and you'd be close enough to reach out and touch your mother's back, should you want to. You still have no idea what you want to say or do when she notices you, if you'll even be able to get any words out or if the rage will take over like it did this morning.

You hesitate. It might be better to turn away now, before it's too late.

That's when one of the boys notices you, tapping his mother's — your mother's — arm and saying something in Hedotic, wide eyes on you.

You can only imagine what you must look like to these people, who have only ever known peace. The raised scar running along your collar bone that Dioghal gave you at Threshing is on full display with your flight jacket unbuttoned, the array of weapons strapped to your body glinting in the sunlight. You wonder if the boys have ever seen a blade before, kitchen knives aside. You don't think so. Not with the way Talia and the maid were fussing over them, like they're precious little treasures that need to be wrapped in silk and kept safe. So unlike you and Xaden, discarded to be forged into deadly weapons in the fire of war.

Talia turns, gasping in surprise to see it's you standing there, you, who she'd certainly noticed separating from the group that morning.

A tentative smile touches her lips. She takes a step toward you, hand raised as if to cup your cheek, but falters at your hard expression. Still smiling, but less so. She's nervous, probably struggling to see the pathetic child you were in the soldier before her.

"How nice that you could join us after all. Xaden's girlfriend said you wouldn't, that you had to monitor the area. I'm so glad—"

"I didn't," you cut her rambling short. It's only half a lie. Xaden sent you patrolling mainly to distract you, so it wasn't like you'd had to do it. "I just didn't want to see you."

You thank Dunne that the words come out just as coldly as you intended them to, despite the tears wanting break free again.

Your mother flinches, and the smile falls.

Good. How dare she talk like that, after being gone for almost two thirds of your life? Is she really that ignorant of what pain she caused you, or does she simply believe she's entitled to your forgiveness? Whichever it is, she'll know better soon.

"You abandoned me," you say before she can recover from the shock of your words, which should not have shocked her at all — wouldn't have, if she'd ever cared enough to truly know you. You've always held onto your grudges, clung to them, really. "Abandoned us. Does that mean nothing to you?"

You assume the whelps don't understand the common language — it's only common to the Continent, after all. A shame, really. You want them to know their mommy isn't as perfect and loving as they probably think, to know she's already left a pair of her children behind without looking back once and there's nothing stopping her from doing the same to them.

"Of course it does," Talia exclaims, "but you have to understand—"

"I don't have to understand shit!"

Dragons don't listen to sheep, that's what Dioghal would say.

"I didn't want to leave you behind, but I couldn't take you with me," Talia continues to defend herself. "Xaden was the heir, and you..."

You're the spare, that's what she's too cowardly to say. She should have thought about that sooner. Of course she couldn't take either of you from Tyrrendor, that would have defeated the point of your very existence. She knew her children would have to grow up in Aretia when she married your father. Was she planning to abandon you even then, years before you were born?

"I couldn't bring you!" she repeats.

The tear that runs down her cheek only make you angrier. What right does she have to cry?! It's your and Xaden's lives she ruined, while she was here playing house with her oh so lovely new family. It makes you want to turn the whole place to rubble. To climb onto Dioghal and torch it all, force Talia to watch her neat little house burn the way you'd had to watch Aretia burn. To take away the happiness she'd found while you were suffering.

"You could have stayed!" You meet Talia's eyes for the first and last time and repeat yourself more quietly, "You could have stayed."

Then, faster than Talia could ever hope to comprehend, you grab the younger boy by the shoulder, ripping him away from her and setting a dagger at his throat in the span of a second.

"No! Gaius!" she shrieks, color draining from her face. "Don't hurt him!"

Her fear is both gratifying and infuriating. If someone had done the same to you, would she have cared as much? You almost laugh at the thought. No, if it had been you in that boy's stead, she wouldn't have given a damn.

Talia pushes the other boy behind herself, hand clasped so tightly around his arm he winces in pain. She doesn't notice, gaze fixed on her youngest. At least you think he's her youngest. For all you know she could have more children hidden inside the house.

The maid shuffles backwards with tiny steps, as if you won't notice what she's doing that way. She's still well within knife-throwing range when she turns and makes a run for the house, but you let her go. It's not her you care about, and any help she might return with will come too late. The blade is already nicking the boy's skin; one wrong move from anyone and he'll be dead.

"Please," your mother cries, "let him go! We'll do anything you want. My husband is part of the triumvirate, he can give you whatever information you want, just don't hurt our boy!"

She thinks you're doing this for information? Things must've not gone well for the others so far, then, a realization that only adds fuel to the burning rage inside you. Doesn't she care at all what happens to you and Xaden, not even enough to put in a good word with her husband?

You shake your head, lips curling in disgust. Does she have no spine or dignity at all?

"The only thing I want is for you to suffer. And since you seem so attached to these boys, killing them will be a good start. You think I'm just taking this one hostage?" You laugh, the resulting sound harsh and ugly in a way that sounds foreign to your ears, not like you at all. "No. I'll make you watch me slit both their throats just for fun."

"They're children!"

"So were we!" you scream, voice breaking as you finally lose control of the tears you've been wrestling with for hours. "We were just children too when you decided you didn't want us anymore and fucked off without a word! You think that doesn't do anything to a child, being abandoned like that?!"

"You had your father!"

"Until we didn't," you bite out. "But that's not even the point! The point is that you pretended to love us while you had to put up with us, and then as soon as you could, you ran away behind our backs like the coward you are. Would it have killed you to tell us you were leaving, to give us a chance to say goodbye?!"

As you speak, you give the boy in your hands a shake, your dagger scraping his skin ever so slightly. He cries out for your mother, who is staring at the blade against his neck with such intense concentration you doubt she heard a single word you said. You don't know why you even bothered.

She says something to the boy in Hedotic — hopefully to calm him. She would have to be an even bigger fool than you thought to believe he could escape you.

"Please don't hurt him," she sobs again. "Do what you want to me, but let Gaius go!"

As if. Killing your mother is still on the table, but for now, watching her fear for her son's life is much more satisfying than the brief pleasure of putting a knife into her would be.

If only you could stop crying. Talia is not worth your tears, and you hate letting her see you cry, hate giving her that power over you. Crying in front of people has always felt humiliating, like a display of your lacking self-control. And crying in front of your mother now, after all the time that's gone by since she left, really ruins the picture of the cold-blooded soldier you want her to see. You want the thought of what the innocent child she left behind has become to haunt her — a futile hope, probably. If she cared, you wouldn't be in this situation.

Shouts from the direction of the house alert you that others have become aware of what's happening, but your eyes never stray from your mother's panicked form. For better or worse, she has your undivided attention.

You should do it now. Drag it out much longer, and whoever is coming from the house might manage to stop you. Peaceful place or not, they would be fools not to have some sort of security personnel. You could probably take them on, but that would mean letting the boys go, and that is not happening. They're the ticket to Talia's personal hell.

From the corner of your eye, you see Xaden approach. He moves carefully, the way you would around a corned animal, and stops a dragon's length away.

He calls your name, so softly you almost miss it, and cautions, "Don't do something you'll regret, baby."

"What difference does it make? She's always looked at me like I'm some sort of monster, so I might as well prove her right."

It's stupid to be acting like this, you know. It's Xaden who will turn into an actual monster if you don't find a way to cure him. You're not going to get any closer to doing that by throwing pointless tantrums about things no one can change. But you've never been good at regulating your emotions. Even when you were little, your anger always consumed you. You thought you'd gotten better — you'd had to. All the power that comes with being a rider is dangerous in the hands of someone with the emotional stability of a toddler, so you'd worked hard on learning better self-control. Using sparring sessions to work through your feelings, you now usually manage to avoid the violent outbursts you were prone to as a child. But there is no coping mechanism strong enough to save you from the sheer hatred for your mother that has festered inside you for almost fourteen years, the embers of the despaired rage from when she'd left reignited into the burning flames they'd been when the pain of her departure was still fresh. The moment you saw her, the rage overwhelmed you the way it always had.

"It's not about her," Xaden reasons. Can't he see you're beyond reasoning? "It's about how you will feel once you've calmed down."

"Better, that's how I'll feel!"

But even in your frenzy, the tiny part of you still capable of rational thought knows that's not true. Never once have you actually felt better after one of your outbursts. You always think you'll feel better after you let it out, but every time you're left drained and ashamed instead, picking up the pieces.

One time — you must have been about eleven — you'd broken Xaden's snow globe, which had been a gift from your mother, in a rage. You'd felt horrible afterwards, and not just because he refused to speak to you for more than a week. After that, you'd promised yourself you wouldn't lose control of yourself like that ever again. Keeping that promise had been impossible, but the memory almost makes you halt. It's never too late to change, right?

But then your gaze falls back onto your mother — the same mother who'd thrown you away like an old toy she no longer wanted, never looking back, never caring what became of you in the rebellion or the impending war, now so keen on protecting these boys — and the hatred wins out.

"What makes them worthy of the love she denied us?" you demand of Xaden, not really wanting an answer. If she ever loved you at all, she has long stopped doing so. If there is a reason for it, it doesn't matter. "Why does she get to be happy with a new family while we had to suffer and fight for our lives every day for years?"

Without waiting for a response, you turn your dagger so that instead of the edge of the blade being lined up with the boy's throat, it's the tip that presses against his fragile skin.

For a moment you stare at your mother and wonder how it has come to this. Her desperate pleas mix with the boys' crying and the frantic voices of your squad, fading into the background until all you can hear is the racing of your own heart.

Then the dagger pierces skin. You sink it in to the hilt and yank sideways, slitting his throat wide open in a move you've practiced hundreds of times on the mats of Basgiath's gym. Never would you have thought that this would be how you'd come to use it for real.

Talia wails, lurching forward, and you shove the body into her outstretched arms. A fountain of blood sprays over your hands and your mother.

She cradles the boy to her chest, crying and blubbering words you're too far gone too understand. Maybe it's Hedotic. She's focused entirely on the life you already took, and that's her mistake. She doesn't notice you sidestepping her to get to the other boy, who stands frozen in terror, until it's too late.

He screams in fear as you advance on him, lifting his arms in an attempt to fight you off, but of course he doesn't stand a chance. If he'd ran while you were killing his brother he might have made it into the house. As it is, they're about to be reunited.

Talia screams again, even louder than before. "Simeon!"

She gets to her feet just as you stab the boy straight into the heart. Through the haze of your own tears, you watch as she catches his falling body and sinks to the ground with him, wailing all the while.

There's a blur of movement, and then someone's arms are around you, pulling you back against a strong chest. He holds you tightly, like he expects you to resist, squeezing your arms against your ribcage in a way that would be painful if you weren't so detached from your own body. Someone else takes your bloodstained hand into their own, prying your fingers apart to take away your blade.

You let it all happen, numb to the world.

People are shouting, hectically buzzing around. None of it registers. Your vision blurs, not with tears this time, but simply going unfocused. You barely feel the hands turning you to face away from it all. Now that your anger has run it's course and is wearing off, there's nothing left in you but the deep underlying despair you've long gotten used to.

You vaguely realize it was Xaden holding you as he lets go, stepping to your side and wordlessly leading you toward the ocean, where the dragons are waiting. You hadn't even noticed them returning.

As you walk, your head starts to clear, and you slowly become aware of yourself and your surroundings again. The way the sand shifts under your boots with every step. Warm blood dripping from your fingers, the heavy smell of it mixing with that of the sea. Your brother's hand, strong and steady against your back.

You're glad he doesn't take it away, even when you reach the dragons. If he did, you might just crumble under the weight of what you have done.

You keep your eyes trained on the sand beneath your feet, not wanting to see the horrified looks on everyone's faces. There can be no doubt they are horrified, after what they just witnessed. Even you are disturbed by your own actions. The uncontrollable anger might have been an almost constant companion for most of your life, but never before had it driven you to kill someone.

In the heat of the moment, you'd only seen the boys as tools to hurt your mother, but now it sinks in that they'd been people of their own. Children. Innocent. It hadn't been their fault that Talia replaced you with them. Now they're gone, and you can't take it back. You're not sure you want to, and that scares you most of all.

You look back only once. When you do, Talia still kneels in the blood-soaked sand where you left her, sobbing over the bodies of her youngest sons. Part of you thinks you should have finished the job and killed her too, but another, crueler part buried deep inside you whispers it's just right this way. This way, she'll suffer far more, for far longer. Then, viciously, you wonder if that's true. It was so easy for her to replace you and Xaden with these boys, who's to say she won't replace them just as easily? She probably is not yet too old to get pregnant again. Well, let her. No matter what she does, she'll have to live with the memory of their deaths, of her own helplessness in the face of your righteous fury. You hope it haunts her till the end of her days.

When Xaden stops walking, you do, too. Some of the others are rushing back into the house to get their things, but Xaden doesn't leave your side. Taking your rucksack from you, he digs through it until he finds a towel, and leads you to the edge of the water to clean the worst of the blood off you. Neither of you speaks a word while he does so.

You just stand there, staring into space while the past hours replay in your mind over and over again. The bloodshed could have been avoided, you think numbly, if only you had stayed in the air a few minutes longer. If you hadn't landed just when Sgaeyl roared, the boys would have been safely inside the house, and you would've never even known about them.

Finally you drag your gaze up from the ground to look at your brother. You're not sure what you expect to see on his face — disappointment, anger, horror... some sort of negative reaction to the atrocity you just committed, certainly. But you find neither. Instead, he's gazing at you with affection and worry you do not deserve. The look he gives you is almost like he understands, like he might have done the same. But that's absurd. Xaden would never throw a fit like that, would never let his anger out on innocents. He's the sane one of you two, the responsible one. He never would have risked the mission— Oh gods, the mission!

"I'm sorry," you whimper. "I ruined everything."

He shrugs, like it's not a big deal. As though you broke a tea cup or maybe a window, not ruined international relations forever by murdering innocent children. "They weren't going to be much help anyway."

"What if they know something that could help us and now we'll never know? It'll be my fault if— if—"

...if Xaden fully succumbs to the dark, is what you mean, but can't say so when you're not sure who might hear. As the isle of wisdom, Hedotis is the most likely to know a cure, isn't it? But thanks to you, there's no way any of you will be welcome here again, no way of being given access to their collected knowledge.

Your brother shakes his head, brushing a tear off your cheek. "They don't have magic here, so it's unlikely they know anything that would help us. Even if they did, they didn't give the impression of wanting to share their knowledge, regardless of your behavior. And they don't have an army they could aid us with, either."

He's just saying that to make you feel better.

They don't need to have magic to have information about magic. And information is something the people of Hedotis surely hoard. Aaric, Violet and Xaden are good at this whole diplomacy thing. They would have managed to make some kind of bargain and learn something useful if you hadn't fucked everything up.

They should have left you at home, never let you near anything or anyone important. Your mother was right, you're nothing but trouble. It would've been better for everyone around you if you'd never been born.

"I didn't want to hurt anyone," you whisper. At least you don't think you did. You certainly hadn't wanted to want to hurt anyone, which basically comes down to the same thing... doesn't it? "I just— I was so mad at her, and— They were right there and all defenselessness and—"

"I know," Xaden soothes, running a hand over your hair. "I know, baby. You don't have to explain yourself. I'm not judging you."

"You should, though! I— I'm—"

By now you're crying too hard to continue speaking.

"Shh, it's alright. You're not a monster," he says, somehow guessing what it is you'd meant to say. "You're just upset."

You certainly are, but that doesn't excuse what you've done.

Despite what he might think, Xaden's lack of concern about the matter is far from reassuring. Not that you want him to be mad at you, but his complete disregard for the lives you took makes you wonder if maybe he's already lost more of his humanity than you knew. But no. Surely he's just pretending not to care to your benefit. How could he be a soulless venin when he's looking at you so gently, soothing you just like he had so often when you were children and your parents didn't have the patience to deal with you? Venin or not, he's still a better person than you have ever been.

"Mom was right," you say, and immediately cry harder. Now you've done it, now you've called her that after all. "She always knew something was wrong with me."

"Nonsense," Xaden starts, but you don't let him speak. Now that you've started talking, the words just keep pouring out.

"I shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't be so mad at her, because it was my own fault she left. She never would have left if it wasn't for me. You were perfect even as a child. All I ever did was throw tantrums and cry." You manage a self-depreciating laugh between sobs. "Still do, apparently. I can't even blame her for wanting to get away from me, I'm just sorry you had to suffer for it, too."

Xaden takes your face between both hands, forcing you to look at him, though it's hard to make out his expression through the tears blurring your vision.

Shaking you for emphasis, he says, "It was not your fault. We've been through that a thousand times after she left, baby. There is nothing wrong with you for being emotional."

Calling you emotional is a severe understatement. For as long as you can remember, you've always been too much. Too clingy, too loud, too easily overwhelmed, too quick to cry and rage. Needy and out of control, a disgrace to your family line. Xaden can say it's not true all he wants; you know it is. And now you're a murderer too, on top of all that.

"And for k-killing those kids? Is there nothing wrong with me for that, either?" you ask angrily.

Xaden sighs. "You made a mistake. It happens. If you didn't feel bad about it I'd worry something's wrong with you, but you clearly do. It's okay. We're all capable of bad things."

You don't know what to say to that, so you don't respond.

For a few minutes, Xaden simply lets you cry. He doesn't try to calm you, doesn't scold you for breaking down. He just holds you, providing an anchor in reality and making the occasional soothing sound.

Then, someone says something. You can't make out the words over the sound of your own sobs, but the voice sounds like Violet's, and there's a note of urgency to it that gets your attention. You feel Xaden nod, and then he takes your hands, gently removing them from the death grip you're clutching the back of his shirt with, and holds you at arms length so he can look you in the face.

"I'm sorry, baby, but I need you to calm down, now. At least enough to get on Diogahl and fly. I know you're upset, and you can cry all you want later, but we really need to go. Okay? Think you can do that for me?"

You nod, even though you're not at all sure you'll be able to mount your dragon, let alone keep your seat once you're in the air. You can barely breathe.

Maybe that's okay. Maybe it would be better for everyone if you lose your seat and plummet into the sea. At least then you wouldn't hurt anyone anymore, wouldn't destroy everything you touch, wouldn't constantly disappoint those you love. Maybe they'd be better off without you. Your mother definitely was — or would have been, if you hadn't come back into her life.

"Hey," your brother's gentle voice pierces through the mess of your thoughts. "Breathe, baby. It's okay. If you can't fly—"

"I can," you croak, wiping your face with your sleeve. More tears are still falling, but you manage to trap the sobs inside, at least.

A glance toward your mother's house shows what brought on the hurry to leave: guards are coming. You knew they had to have some, but there's no triumph in being right. Forcing a deep breath, you swing your rucksack onto your back and tighten the straps with shaking hands. Meltdown or no meltdown, you can fly. You have to. You refuse to be responsible for even more bloodshed.

"That's the spirit," Xaden praises, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. "Try not to think too much about what happened. Just remember there's more to you than that anger, and that I love you, even if Mom doesn't. You're not evil."

"Okay. I'll try." The guards are getting close; you really have to hurry now if you want to avoid them. "Love you too."

Xaden waits until you've made it up Dioghal's leg; only then does he run to Sgaeyl, taking his seat as the others climb into the air. You get away just in time, and with your brother's words in mind, you hold on tight and don't look back.

[anthurak]

So here’s an interesting through that came to me thanks to the discussion on a recent ask:

We still don’t actually KNOW where or who Cinder picked up archery from, do we?

And this feels particularly significant given Cinder’s now very consistent trend of basing her weapons, fighting style, dress, mannerisms, really ALL aspect of her identity on mimicking others. Either those who have molded or hurt her, or those she has fought and killed.

Cinder’s use of swords, either single or paired, is clearly based on the swords she got from Rhodes. To the point where her weapon ‘Midnight’ that she used pre-Maiden powers may have simply been modified versions OF those swords, while the flaming/glass swords she’s been using post-V3 are just straight up copies of Rhodes’ swords.

Meanwhile, post-V3 Cinder has also started making use of a spear, just like PYRRHA used.

And of course, Cinder’s choice of dress and overall mannerisms are very much a mix of Salem and the Madame of the hotel.

So with all that in mind, I think it makes this question all the more curious:

Where, or more likely, WHO did Cinder pick up her use of archery from?

This really feels like it ties into a ‘missing piece’ of Cinder’s backstory that we haven’t seen yet. After all, we still don’t know how exactly Cinder was taken in by Salem. So I have to imagine Cinder picking up archery is somehow tied into whatever was happening when or shortly before she first met Salem.

Given Cinder’s trend of taking aspects of people she’s known or killed, it feels like a safe bet she picked up archery the same way. Perhaps a huntsman that was pursuing Cinder who she ended up killing. Or perhaps this huntsman wound up cornering her, only to be killed by Salem as she suddenly appeared to ‘rescue’ Cinder. Given everything we’ve seen, and the fairy tale allusions, I think it’s easy to imagine Salem appearing suddenly before Cinder to ‘help’ or ‘rescue’ her in a scene darkly reminiscent of Cinderella meeting her Fairy Godmother.

Alternatively, for a really dark scenario; what if this hypothetical bow-wielding huntsman didn’t actually mean Cinder and just wanted to help this clearly lost and scared girl on the run from something. Only for Cinder to kill this huntsman anyway out of the overwhelming fear and paranoia she’d developed towards huntsmen after what happened with Rhodes.

All in all, I’m feeling pretty confident that where/who Cinder picked up archery from represents, if not a core piece of her character, at least an important part of her story and development that we haven’t seen yet. Particularly given, as @kkglinka pointed out here, Cinder has some very notable potential allusions to Paris of Troy. Not just in Cinder’s use of a bow and being the one to shoot Pyrrha, our Achilles, in the heel, but also in how Cinder’s fire motif and bringing destruction to Atlas parallels Paris having been prophesized to bring destruction to Troy via his mother dreaming of him as a torch setting fire to Troy. Or how Cinder’s fixation on the maiden powers parallels Paris setting off the Trojan War by kidnapping the maiden Helen.

Basically, I wouldn’t be surprised at all if us finally learning where/who Cinder picked up archery from happens to coincide with at least a few references to the Iliad. Say, whoever Cinder picks up archery from happening to be a sheep farmer. Or perhaps a sheep faunus.

[newobsessionweekly]

No way out

part 1

Tim Bradford x fem!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: When you finally find the courage to take action against your abusive boyfriend, Tim is there to save you. And something happens inside the two of you.

Angst

Warnings: Domestic abuse, emotional distress, violence, protective behavior, slow-burn romance, language.

A/N: As I promised, I will be more active around here. I got a request and decided to turn it into a mini series, I hope you'll like it. Feedback is always appreciated!! Take care of yourselves, bubs! Lots of love! 🫶🏻✨

Words: -

You were gasping for air before you even hit the floor.

The impact of your body slamming into the hardwood rattled your bones, but it was nothing compared to the suffocating terror gripping your chest. The room was spinning, but you forced yourself to look up—his shadow loomed over you, sharp and menacing under the dim light.

"You're always making me do this," he seethed, his voice thick with anger. "Why do you have to push me?"

You curled into yourself, the familiar sting of his words cutting just as deep as the bruises that would form later. Your body ached, but it was the emotional toll that shattered you the most. Because you knew him. You knew the boy he used to be—the high school sweetheart who held your hand in the hallways, who kissed you under the bleachers, who swore he’d never hurt you.

But that version of him was long gone.

A sob choked in your throat as you turned your head, eyeing your phone on the couch just a few feet away. He was pacing now, running a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath about how sorry he was, how it wasn’t his fault.

It was now or never.

With all the strength left in you, you lunged for the phone, snatching it into your trembling hands as you scrambled backward. He spun around, rage twisting his face.

"Don't you dare—"

You pressed 911.

"911, what’s your emergency?"

Your voice cracked. "Please, I—I need help. My boyfriend—he—"

A hand yanked your wrist so hard you thought it might break. The phone clattered to the floor, but the call was still connected.

"You think they can help you?" he sneered, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. "You're nothing without me."

But he was wrong. For the first time in years, you felt something shift inside you. A quiet, burning defiance.

And then, in the distance—sirens.

Tim Bradford had answered countless domestic calls. Some ended peacefully, some turned violent, but every single one had the same thread of despair woven through them.

Tonight felt different.

Lucy kept checking the address, her expression tight. “Tim,” she said suddenly. “I know her.”

He flicked a glance at her, hands steady on the wheel. “Who?”

“The victim. Y/N. She’s my friend.”

His jaw flexed. He didn’t like that. “You knew she was in trouble?”

Lucy hesitated. “I—suspected. I asked her before, but she never admitted it.”

Tim exhaled sharply through his nose.

They pulled up to the house—lights off, curtains drawn. The kind of place where bad things happened in silence.

He stepped out first, scanning the surroundings. He didn’t like this either. The neighborhood was quiet, too quiet. He unholstered his weapon, nodding at Lucy to follow.

They approached the door. Tim knocked, hard. “LAPD! Open up!”

Nothing.

He could hear muffled yelling inside, a crash, then a choked cry.

Tim's patience snapped. He stepped back and kicked the door open in one powerful motion, the wood splintering under his boot.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

You were on the floor, bruised, tears streaking down your face. And your boyfriend—your attacker—stood over you, his face twisted in fury.

"Get your hands where I can see them!" Tim barked, stepping between you and the man without a second thought.

"She’s my girlfriend!" the guy snapped. "This is none of your business!"

Tim had him pinned against the wall in two steps. He twisted the guy’s arm behind his back, forcing him to his knees. “You like hurting people?” Tim growled. “Try me.”

Your boyfriend grunted in pain, but Tim didn’t care. He snapped the cuffs on, yanking him upright.

Lucy immediately rushed to you. “Hey, hey, are you okay?”

Your eyes were still locked on Tim. He wasn’t sure what you were looking at—the gun, the badge, or something else entirely.

“Y/N.” Lucy touched your arm, voice soft. “You’re safe.”

Your breath came out in a shudder, and your knees nearly buckled. Tim watched as Lucy steadied you, gently guiding you toward the couch.

For the first time since they arrived, you exhaled.

The paramedics checked you over, but Tim never left your side. He told himself he was just being thorough, but deep down, he knew better.

Lucy knelt beside you, guilt written all over her face. "I’m so sorry. I should have seen the signs. I should have helped—"

You shook your head. "You couldn’t have known."

Tim watched the way your hand trembled against the blanket draped over your shoulders. Without thinking, he reached out, gripping your fingers lightly.

Your breath hitched. His touch was warm, grounding, and for the first time in years, you felt safe.

It was wrong. You had just gotten out of hell, and here you were, noticing the strength in his hands, the way his voice sent a shiver down your spine.

But when he squeezed your hand back—just a little—you knew he felt it too. Something dangerous simmers in his gaze, something fierce and protective and angry—not at you, but for you.

The night ends in a blur. Statements. Paperwork. More questions than you have answers for. But through it all, Tim is there.

He stands close—not too close, but enough that you feel his presence like a shield. Whenever someone else talks to you, his eyes never leave you.

It's overwhelming. And yet... comforting. You don't even realize how exhausted you are until it’s over.

"You have somewhere to stay?" Tim asks.

Lucy speaks before you can. "She’s staying with me."

Tim nods, but something about his expression stays tight, unreadable. His eyes flick to yours once more, and for a split second, you swear you see something there—something you shouldn’t.

And then he turns away.

When Tim gets back in the shop, he doesn’t start the engine.

Instead, he turns to Lucy. And snaps.

"What the hell, Lucy?" His voice is sharp, cutting. "You’re a cop. How did you not see what was happening to your own friend?"

Lucy’s eyes widen. "Tim, I—"

"You should have known," he growls, slamming his hands against the wheel. "You should have done something."

"I didn’t know!"

"That’s the problem!"

The car falls silent.

Lucy swallows hard, guilt written all over her face. "Why do you care so much?"

Tim opens his mouth—then closes it. He doesn’t know.

But something about the way you looked at him—something about the way he felt when he saw you on that floor—unsettles him.

And for the first time in a long time, Tim Bradford doesn’t know what to do with himself.

[howdeepthegrave]

This would be gut wrenching. Agatha would so deeply want to believe that somehow the universe was giving her a chance. Just one more chance. Just a little more time. And no matter who tries to tell her, or how, she would refuse to believe that's not her precious little boy back with her somehow.

Here have some poorly written claptrap.

"Mama, please, let's go now."

Agatha looked down at her son and smiled.

"All right, Nicky, we'll go. We'll go where no one can bother us or hurt us, okay?"

Billy stepped in their way.

"Agatha! Agatha, that is not Nicky!"

All Agatha could do was laugh at the boy's pathetic attempt to turn her away from her child. From her own flesh and blood.

"Jealousy almost suits you, Billy. It makes you seem even more like Wanda, somehow."

"Agatha..."

"Billy, leave her," Tommy said. "There's no point."

"But she... We have to get her away from that thing!"

"Oh, you'd love that wouldn't you, Mommy Issues?" Agatha spat.

"Please, Agatha, you have to know that..."

"That what? That you thought you could replace what I lost? How could you ever hope to do that? You're just the nasty end result of the Scarlet Witch not knowing what she was doing with herself. You're no one's son! You're nothing!"

Billy staggered back, the words striking almost as solidly as a weapon. Tommy ran to his side, buoying him up and pulling him away.

"Forget that old witch, man. What'd she ever do for us?"

"She helped me to find you. Tommy, she... I can't let her end up like this. She helped me, even when she didn't mean to."

"Billy, anything you've done, you did on your own, with your own power. Sure, maybe she helped you with some control..."

Turning, Tommy and Billy saw Agatha reach out and take the hand of the thing she believed to be her son. Billy fought back tears, horrified to know that perhaps there was nothing he could do. Agatha waa lost to this thing. Already he could see how it had dimmed and drained her, could envision what would happen to her under its further control.

"Have you tried tugging at her heartstrings with your mind again?" someone suggested.

Looking back, Billy saw Death, Rio for now, casually leaning against a light post. She seemed deeply unconcerned that the woman she once claimed to love was walking away hand in hand with a simulacrum of their dead son, a disguise for codified evil.

"Stop her! Please, Rio, you..."

"Silence, Abomination. I can't stop Agatha from doing this anymore than I've ever stopped her from doing anything."

"Can't you?"

Rio shrugged.

"So you'll just let her go? Let her keep rotting away again under the influence of that... That thing?"

"She never wants to see me again. And if she's content to end her days enslaved by delusion, by a... By an image of Nicky, who am I to stop her?"

"It's lying to her! It's lying about Nicholas, about her child. About your child. Aren't you..."

"OF COURSE I'M OUTRAGED!" Death roared, surging forward to knock Tommy back and grab Billy by the throat.

"Then do something," Tommy said.

"I... I can't," Rio said, releasing Billy.

"If you love her, please, please help her," Billy gasped.

"I..."

"Just prove it's not Nicky! You should be able to do that."

And then Rio was gone. Further up the way, Agatha and the thing pretending to by Nicky had paused.

"If they wanna go, why doesn't she just, like, teleport 'em away?" Tommy asked.

Billy shrugged.

"AGATHA! AGATHA, THAT IS NOT OUR SON!"

The voice was like thunder surging around and over them. They saw Agatha stop, saw her release the hand of the Nicky-thing, and Billy thought they ought to take a chance.

"Tommy, go grab it!"

"What? I..."

"Just go!"

In a flash Tommy cleared the distance, made a grab for the Darkhold Kid, and snagged the back of its jacket.

"Mama, help!"

Agatha heard her son cry out, turned aside, and blasted Tommy. He fell to the ground, screaming, and Agatha smiled, though she staggered as she moved to take Nicky's hand again.

"It's okay, Nicky. Mama's right here. We'll never be apart again."

Why did she feel so tired? So drained? She could feel Billy approaching, rushing to check on that brother of his. Would it be worth it to turn back a moment and bait him to see if she could siphon off his power? After all, he had given willingly before.

He had given willingly.

"Mama, come on. We have to go before..."

"Agatha, that boy is not ours."

Spinning, Agatha snarled, pulling Nicky behind her.

"You won't take him from me again, Rio! You can't."

"Agatha, Nicky... How could that be Nicky? I know you can feel that's not him. Not our blood. Not the sweet soul we made."

"My blood. The soul I made. You never cared about Nicky, or you would..."

"Agatha Harkness, I have loved two souls in my existence! You are one. The other... The other is still in my realm, safe from pain and harm. I love our son, Agatha, as much as I have always loved you. Please, my love, turn from this illusion. From this lie."

"You... You monster. You took..."

"Only when I had to, my love. Only when our boy, our son, was so tired that his soul could not stand a moment more. I gave you all I could. I would have given you anything."

Agatha felt Nicky's grasp on her hand tighten, felt her mind waver strangely.

"Mama, she hurt me! She took me so I could never see you again! She killed me, Mama!"

A jolt went through Agatha, and she looked back at Nicky... At her son... At...

At whatever this was.

There was a gasp, not of breath, but of reality tearing. Again Agatha turned and saw that Rio had sliced the veil.

"I can offer a moment," Rio said.

"Mama? Mama, when will you come home and see me?"

There he was. Nicholas. Her son.

"Nicky?"

"Mama, I miss you all the time."

"Nicky, I... Oh, sweet boy, I'm so sorry."

"For what?"

"For everything. Everything I did. Everything I exposed you to. Everything after you were gone."

"Mama, you were scared. You get scared a lot. It's not a bad thing. Scared makes you pay attention. You told me that once. Maybe you just pay too much attention."

Oh, that was him. That was her boy. Her sweet, sweet boy.

"That's the lie, Mama!" the Nicky behind her cried. "That's not me! I was never like that! I'm your son. I'm just like you; I do what it takes to survive."

"No, Nicky," Agatha said, "you were never like me. Not that way. You... You were more. You were always, always good."

Something snapped, not in Agatha's mind, but at it. Something sharp and cold and heavy that made her physically stumble back away from Rio, from their son on the other side of the veil. She felt the hand if what she perceived as her child latch tight onto her wrist.

"Come on, Mama," it said, and she could hear how its voice was a cruel parody of Nicky's.

"Agatha, let it go!" Billy shouted, and he was close by, so close by, kneeling over Tommy, but he seemed leagues away.

With all of her strength, Agatha sent a pulse of power down her arm, just enough to knock away the grip of the child-thing, the creature.

The Darkhold.

She felt laughter bubble up from her throat and she fell forward onto her knees, shaking not so much from the laughter as from the utter lack of surprise. Of course. Of course she had lost control again. That was how she was, after all. Uncontrolled. Wrong. Bad. Evil, straight from the womb.

"You're not evil, Mama."

Nicky. Her Nicky. Her baby. He was right there, still right there, but oh, that tear in the veil was closing so fast.

"Our son is right, Agatha. You're many things, but you're not evil."

Looking up at Rio, Agatha smirked.

"Aren't I?"

"Not quite, my love. You're not that thing, at least."

Rio's blade was pointed beyond Agatha, to the place where the Darkhold stood.

"Do you not know how to expel evil, mi corazón?"

Agatha knew hundreds of ways to banish evil, from simple incantations to master workings. She knew many, many ways to do away with darkness.

"I may need a little hand this time, my love," she said.

She slumped, feeling Rio catch her by the shoulders and turn her so that they both faced the Darkhold. It was standing there, looking so like Nicky, so like their son, but its face bore an expression of ancient hatred.

"You think you can stop me? Prevent my dominance over this petty world? You think..."

Curiously, Rio's dagger suddenly sprouted from the Darkhold's neck. Agatha's stomach lurched, her mind straying again to imagine that it was Nicky who had been hurt, Nicky whose hands were scrabbling at his throat, seeking to pull the blade free. A moment later she was back to herself, back in the moment, and she raised her hand.

"No one needs you," she said, feeling strength flow into her and unleashing a wave of power that knocked the Darkhold back.

When it hit the pavement, it was a book again, much like it had been once when she had first taken possession of it. Of course, this copy had Rio's dagger jammed through it.

Rio eased her down, left her lying there on the pavement a moment, walking over and grabbing the Darkhold, wrenching the blade free and then vanishing. Agatha pushed herself up, shook her head, and saw Billy and Tommy nearby.

"Boys, are you..."

"We're fine," Billy said, his voice with a sharp edge that she was unused to from him.

Struggling to her feet, Agatha tried to think, and then tried not to think, of the things she had done under while once more under the influence of the Darkhold. The pain she had unleashed. It was probably pretty on par with most of what she had done down the centuries, but now...

"Tommy, Billy, I'm sorry. I... Wasn't myself."

"You were, actually," Billy said, "but just your worst self."

He was still looking at her with eyes full of betrayal as he helped Tommy up and they walked away from her. Agatha closed her eyes a moment.

"You know, getting away from it all for a while is great for mental relaxation and recovery."

When Agatha opened her eyes, Rio was right in front of her.

"You know some good little getaway spot?" the witch asked Death.

"Baby, I know 'em all. But right now, if you're interested, I'm thinking a secluded little woodland cottage. Simple, quiet, and cheap since no one's lived there since, oh, 1750."

Chuckling, Agatha shrugged.

"Sounds cozy. But before we head off, the Darkhold..."

"Threw it in a black hole. It's now cosmic spaghetti."

When Rio offered her hand, Agatha took it.

"Like old times, huh?"

Death smiled.

"Yeah. Like old times."

Other characters touch the Darkhold and their life turns to shit

Meanwhile Agatha takes it, uses it, plays with it and is fine and unbothered. And it’s all to get away from her baby mama

Honestly what is there to be afraid of when you can get Death to bend the rules of nature for you

Agatha Harkness, the woman you are

[scottcyclopssummers]

X-Manhunt Omega - A masterclass in mutant mess

I read it. I wept. Not because the story was good. Or because it made me emotional. I wept because the issue was comically bad. One of the worst crossovers of this decade. But I won't go into explaining what happened in the issue. Here is what I have a problem with:

1. The Mishandling of Cyclops’ Trauma

Scott was tortured for months by Orchis and publicly put on trial to be executed because he was the face of mutantkind.

In X-Men #3, Scott’s panic attack was a deeply personal, well-written moment that reflected his trauma. In X-Manhunt: Omega, it’s just a plot device to get him stabbed by Wolverine.

This isn’t character-driven storytelling. It’s reducing trauma to a spectacle. Instead of giving Scott emotional depth, the issue treats his panic attack as just another dramatic set piece. Reducing his trauma to just "denial" is dismissive.

2. How to Gaslight 101: A Prof. X Tutorial

Xavier made Scott watch him kill the Agnew, which was later revealed in X-Men Infinity Comic to be a lie. The Agnew were never real. This raises a fundamental question:

Why did he make Scott watch him “murder” them in the first place?

This was never explained. And worse—Xavier waited until now to tell Scott it was fake. That means he let Scott believe he had witnessed a murder for no reason.

There’s no logic behind this except to further manipulate Scott.

Xavier had zero reason to put Scott through that.

Instead of acknowledging that he emotionally abused Scott, Xavier just shrugs it off.

The narrative never answers the fundamental question: Why gaslight Scott like this?

The issue just sweeps it under the rug.

3. No Consequences: The Xavier Way

Xavier spends the entire issue dismissing Scott’s emotions, calling his anger “hatred” instead of acknowledging what he did.

He never apologizes.

He never takes responsibility.

Instead, he plays the victim and then leaves for space.

The writer describes Xavier as a MacGuffin rather than a protagonist, claiming Scott was the one with the hurdles to overcome. But this framing is exactly the problem. Xavier is the cause of everything happening in this event. He manipulated, lied to, and emotionally abused Scott for years. Yet instead of facing consequences, the story reframes Scott as the one who needs to move on.

Ayodele even admits:

“Scott is still so hurt and fixated on Charles to see it. So, I made his ‘enemy’ say it… ‘Yo. Look around. Wake up.’”

This is infuriating. Scott isn’t “fixated” on Charles; he’s trying to hold him accountable. But instead of validating Scott’s justified anger, the story treats it as a personal failing.

4. Storm’s Shock-a-Palooza

Storm’s actions in this issue are wildly inconsistent. She claims she wants no part in the hunt—yet she tries to kill Scott by striking him with a lightning arrow, sending him plummeting from a spaceship to Earth. Sure. Let's call that "stopping him."

Even beyond that, her characterization feels forced.

Why is she suddenly so protective of Xavier?

Why is she bothered by Sage asking for a spaceship, something that is barely a fraction of her resources? Storm has never been one to hoard wealth. My guess is that this is Eternity.

But, rather than making her actions feel organic, the issue seems more focused on giving Storm a flashy “cool moment,” even if it comes at the cost of her characterization.

5. Snikt McStab

Logan had zero relevance to the plot...until he suddenly delivered a dramatic monologue about Scott fighting for everyone’s dreams… and then stabbed him.

How does stabbing someone help with a panic attack? Scott was losing control of his powers due to trauma, and instead of helping in a rational way, Logan impaled him. If anything, that should’ve made it worse. But nope. Scott instantly recovers. Logan also has the audacity to tell Scott he "poked" him. I guess what Weapon X did to him was "poking" too.

There were better options right there:

A telepath could have calmed Scott down.

Indestructible Rogue could have restrained him safely.

But Logan had to be the one to "wake Scott up," because apparently, stabbing someone is the peak of wisdom. Feels more like the writer’s self-insert moment than actual storytelling.

6. Bittersweet? Bitterfake? What difference does it make?

Xavier faces zero consequences and everyone acts like this is some tragic farewell.

Emma kissing Xavier on the cheek makes no sense.

Rogue hugging Scott at the end is hollow because she and Uncanny cast spent the entire issue dismissing him. (Not counting how they use his name as an insult in the previous issues.)

The issue treats this as a “sad but necessary” moment instead of what it actually is: Xavier getting away with everything.

The final insult? Instead of resolving Xavier’s crimes which would have been a good way to redeem him, the story reframes the "protagonist" Scott as unreasonable. One good thing does come out of this. Charles finally fucks off to space to be the bird lady's sex pet. The X-Men gather, tears streaming down their faces. A sob here, a choke there. Or perhaps, they're just choking on the overwhelming aroma of bullshit.

To summarize:

Scott gets gaslit and forgets Magik can teleport.

Storm is out of character.

Had no idea stabbing a person suffering from a panic attack can get rid of a panic attack. (According to one writer anyway)

Wolverine is the in-character Stab-Happy Asshole Extraordinaire.

Xavier faces no real consequences. (In character for Xavier)

Unnecessary monologues all around.

Unnecessary character appearences.

Necessary characters don't appear. No Rachel. Magneto has no lines. No Juggernaut. Warren, Hank and Bobby are hardly there.

Xavier is now Hickman's problem.

If the goal was to make Scott “wake up” from dreams, maybe they shouldn’t have made this entire arc feel like a bad fever dream. Perhaps Xavier or someone else is still manipulating all of their minds. I wanted to give this issue more grace, but the way Scott's trauma was handled....ugh.

[lady-arcane]

—The Language of Silence—

Unlike Gojo, he enjoys silence and will often sit with someone for hours without talking.

Some people fear silence.

They see it as an emptiness, a gap that needs filling. They rush to fill the space with words, laughter, noise—anything to push back against the quiet.

Suguru Geto is not one of those people.

He has always understood that silence is not the absence of something. It is its own language, its own presence. It is the space where truths settle, where emotions breathe.

Gojo fills the silence because he does not know how to sit with it. But Suguru?

Suguru lets it stay.

And so do you.

-----

The first time you realize this about him, you are both sitting on the temple steps, watching the wind move through the trees. It has been over an hour, and neither of you has spoken.

You shift slightly, waiting for him to break the quiet, but he doesn’t. He just sits there, eyes half-lidded, hands folded in his lap, his presence as steady as the sky above.

And for some reason, that steadiness makes you stay.

Minutes pass. Maybe hours. The world moves, but you do not.

You look at him and wonder if he is thinking about something or nothing at all.

“Suguru?”

He turns his head, slow and deliberate.

“You ever get tired of sitting in silence?” you ask, half-joking.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Do you?”

You think about it. Shake your head. “Not with you.”

And that is enough.

-----

Suguru has always been like this. Quiet, contemplative. His silence is not an empty thing—it is full of thoughts he does not say, emotions he does not spill.

But sometimes, you wish he would.

Sometimes, you wish he would speak the things you only catch glimpses of in his eyes. The weight he carries. The exhaustion that lingers in the corners of his smile.

“Do you ever wish you could turn your brain off?” you ask one evening, lying on the floor of his dorm, staring up at the ceiling.

Suguru hums in thought. “Sometimes.”

“Do you ever succeed?”

A pause.

“No.”

You turn your head, watching him in the dim light. He is leaning against the bed, arms resting on his knees, his gaze far away.

“You could talk to me,” you say softly.

He looks at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. “I know.”

But he doesn’t. Not really. Not in the way you wish he would.

Instead, he lets the silence settle between you again.

And you let it.

-----

There is a difference between comfortable silence and avoidance. Between peace and distance.

You notice the shift before you name it.

It happens after Riko. After her laughter turns to memory, after blood stains the ground where she once stood.

Suguru stops filling the silence with meaning. Stops letting it be a presence between you.

Instead, he uses it as a wall.

You sit together, as you always have, but something is different now. He is farther away, even when he is right next to you.

You reach for him—not physically, but in the way you look at him, the way you wait for him to meet your eyes. But he doesn’t. Not like he used to.

One night, when the distance becomes unbearable, you finally break the quiet.

“Suguru.”

He blinks, as if pulled from somewhere far away. “Hm?”

“You’re shutting me out.”

He exhales slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m just… tired.”

It is a half-truth. You both know it.

But you do not press.

Because some things are too heavy to say out loud.

-----

You do not hear him leave.

One day, he is there. The next, he is not.

And suddenly, silence is no longer a comfort. It is an absence. It is something hollow, something sharp.

You sit on the temple steps alone, the same place where you once sat together, and you realize that silence is not always peaceful.

Sometimes, it is unbearable.

Because this time, it does not mean understanding.

It means he is gone.

-----

Years later, when you see him again, he is different.

His silence is no longer soft. It is a weapon now, honed and sharp-edged.

But when your eyes meet, just for a second, you wonder—

Is there still a part of him that remembers?

The quiet mornings. The easy stillness. The unspoken understanding.

You do not ask. And he does not say.

But when he turns to leave, you swear—just for a moment—he lingers.

Just long enough for you to know:

Some silences never truly end.

[d3lly1000]

Zack & Lilly The Hedgehog - The Gremlins Twins!

I was trying to hold off on them until I finished Skyler's redesign, but I couldn't.

I had mentioned some time ago that I wanted to give Sonic and Amy chaotic twins because I can totally see them causing trouble and getting into a lot of mischief, and well: Here they are!

Some facts about them in my AU:

When Amy was pregnant, she constantly felt tremors in her body and headaches. These effects were caused by the abilities they were naturally born with – the Supersonic Scream.

Zack was born seconds before Lilly.

When they were babies, they couldn’t control their abilities, which is why there were constantly broken windows around the house. They would even get scared by the sound of their own 'super-cries' when they were in the crib, which occasionally led to some hearing impairments.

Lilly is the thinker of the duo. She always comes up with foolproof plans and strategies to start a chaos zone. Zack has a more innocent mind, but still, he loves causing trouble too.

Lilly has a shorter temper, with assertiveness, leadership, and perfectionism. She likes it when everything is going as planned, and when things don’t go as expected, she knows how to play the 'helpless girl' to avoid facing the consequences. She dreams of not only dominate the world but also becoming a famous actress.

Although he causes trouble too, Zack is more soft-hearted. He tends to be more affectionate and empathetic, with a strong sense of protection and courage. He would love to have the chance to perform a heroic act like his father someday.

Zack loves stories of romance and fantasy. Every night before bed, he would ask his father to tell the story of King Arthur, where Sonic would give so many details that it made him wonder if he had been there when the story happened.

Lilly has a great taste for mystical and magical things – thanks to her mother's Tarot cards. She eventually discovers that she can cast some spells, but only when she's an adult.

Both have the ability to summon weapons. However, Lilly has always chosen to design a cute umbrella that could help her glide and be more defensive, while her brother, who dreams of protecting others and being a great knight, opts for a sword.

Lilly and Zack will rarely be seen apart; she is the shield to his attacks. They highly honor their own sibling code.

Zack doesn't have super speed like his father, but his Uncle Tails designed technologies that use his movements as energy, making him faster.

Both love playing pranks on their older sister – Skyler. This always irritates her, as she usually ends up having to fix the problems they cause.

They are 6 years younger than Skyler - If something happened to her siblings, she would feel guilty.

In Amy's view, the twins are angels. They always pretend nothing is happening, because if she finds out, they’ll be in serious trouble. Sonic knows they cause a lot of mischief, so he scolds them without involving Amy, advising them and giving them moral lessons so they don’t do it again – which always happens.

Lilly is daddy's little girl, Zack is mommy's little boy.

Zack eats a lot, which gives him a more robust body when he’s an adult.

Both are extremely dramatic. They like to think they’re acting in an anime, saying impactful lines and making exaggerated gestures.

They are very close friends with their cousin - Tails and Zooey's daughter.

Their biggest goal is to dominate the world. However, when they become adults, this plan fades from Zack's path, as he wants to follow in his father's footsteps as a hero, but Lilly still has the desire to rule it in an evil way.

Zack has spikes similar to Sonic's deceased parents, while Lilly has bangs-like spikes similar to Amy's mother.

Conclusion...

For now, that's it. Some of the characters mentioned aren't finished yet, but as soon as I finish, I’ll be posting new information!

[lunette-png]

Waves of Ithaca

Chapter 6: The Weight of Absence

The scent of salt and cypress lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of the sun.

(Y/N) had been young then, her legs sturdy but her steps still unsure on the rocky shores of Ithaca. And beside her, as steady as the waves themselves, stood her father.

Odysseus’s laughter was deep and rich, the kind that seemed to rattle through the earth and sky alike. She had loved that sound, cherished the rare moments when it spilled freely from him.

“Again,” he said, gesturing to the spear she clutched with small but determined hands. “Hold your stance. Think of the strike before you make it—see it in your mind, six hundred times if you must, until it’s already won.”

She nodded, her brows drawn with concentration. The spear felt heavy and awkward, its weight a challenge against her growing strength. She drew in a breath and lunged forward, her form imperfect but resolute.

Odysseus caught the spear easily, his grip ironclad. “Better,” he admitted, though his eyes remained calculating. “But you’re thinking too much. You should feel the movement, not force it.”

“I was trying to do it right,” she said, her voice tight.

“There’s more to skill than perfecting a technique,” Odysseus replied, kneeling to meet her gaze. “You have to trust yourself. Your instincts. No man—no god—can teach you that.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, pride mingling with frustration. “But I want to be better.”

“You will be,” he promised. “But not if you keep trying to be something you’re not.”

The words stung more than they soothed, a wound that festered even as she nodded in agreement. Because even then, she was chasing something more.

But what was it?

They were older now.

Years had passed, yet the ghosts of those lessons remained. (Y/N) found herself beside Telemachus, huddled over polished shields and worn blades in the palace’s dim-lit armory. The air was thick with the scent of metal and oil, their hands stained from testing edges and binding leather.

Telemachus’s expression was strained, his shoulders carrying the weight of responsibilities he had never asked for. Just as her hands once held the spear under their father’s guidance, his hands now fumbled with the bindings of a new scabbard, fingers clumsy with frustration.

“It’s not holding right,” he muttered, scowling at the uneven fit of the sword in its sheath. “No matter how I tie it, it feels... wrong.”

“Again,” she said, her voice low but firm. “You’re forcing it. Trying to make the leather bend to your will. You have to work with it. Feel where it gives and where it resists. Find the balance.”

He let out a frustrated sigh, his hands curling into fists. “I’m trying to do it right.”

“And you will,” she replied, echoing their father’s old promise, though the words felt heavier now. “But you’re not going to fix anything by brute force. It’s about patience and precision. Understanding the weapon, its strengths and its flaws. Trusting your instincts.”

Telemachus glanced at her, his irritation softening into something like doubt. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It has to be,” she said, though even she could hear the fraying conviction in her voice.

But then he huffed, something simmering beneath his frustration. “You always do this.”

Her brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“Talk to me like I’m still a boy.” His voice was sharp now, cutting through the quiet air between them. “Like I’m something fragile. Something you need to teach and protect. I’m not.”

The accusation caught her off guard. “Telemachus, I- ”

“I know you mean well,” he continued, voice tight, “but you treat me like a substitute for him. Like I’m just the closest thing to Father that you can hold onto. But I am not him. And I am not the version of him that you can protect.”

The words hit like a blow, more painful than any sparring strike.

(Y/N)’s jaw clenched. “You think I don’t know that? Do you think I wanted this? I had to grow up fast, because I had no choice. I had to be the one to protect you. To stand in his place. And maybe- ” her voice wavered, just slightly, “maybe I treated you like a child for too long. But that’s because I couldn’t afford to lose you, too.”

Telemachus shook his head. “And I couldn’t afford to keep being your shadow.”

(Y/N) froze.

His fists tightened at his sides, his frustration boiling over. “I was always supposed to live up to him. People expect me to be his son—to be like him. And I tried, even when I never met him, even when all I had were stories and expectations. But now… now it’s not just him.” He looked at her then, his voice breaking slightly. “It’s you, too.”

(Y/N) opened her mouth, but no words came.

“I spent my whole life being told I had to be the son of Odysseus,” Telemachus went on. “That I had to be strong, clever, capable. And then you—you became everything I was supposed to be. The warrior, the leader, the one who makes people feel safe. And now… I don’t just have to live up to Father.” His breath shook as he exhaled. “I have to live up to you, too.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any armor.

They were children again.

Long before they stood in the armory, before Telemachus could lift a sword without struggling under its weight.

(Y/N) had trained him, long before he had even asked to learn. He had been small, barely more than a toddler when she first placed a wooden staff in his hands. Too young to understand war, but old enough to want to be strong.

“Hold it like this,” she would say, adjusting his tiny hands on the shaft. “Like Father taught me.”

And when he wobbled under the effort, she would steady him. When he stumbled, she would pick him up.

He had worshiped her then, in the way little brothers do. He had thought she was invincible. That she could protect him from anything.

And for a long time, she had believed it too.

But now, as he looked at her with frustration and defiance, she realized that she had never allowed him to be anything but her little brother. She had protected him so fiercely that she had never let him fight his own battles.

And maybe that was the real reason for their argument.

That night, (Y/N) sought out her mother.

Penelope sat by the window, her hands tangled in the threads of an unfinished weaving. The air felt heavy with grief and resilience.

“Mother,” (Y/N) began softly. “I... I fought with Telemachus.”

Penelope’s gaze rose, her eyes tired but attentive. “About what?”

“About Father. About me trying to protect him.”

Penelope’s expression softened, though her voice held a weary wisdom. “You both carry your father’s absence like a wound. But it’s not your burden to bear alone.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” (Y/N)’s voice trembled. “I can’t be Father. I can’t be everything Telemachus needs me to be. And- ” She hesitated. “I can’t keep pretending this is enough. That I can stay here and not feel like I’m... drowning.”

The admission hung in the air, vulnerable and raw.

Penelope’s eyes glistened, her hands trembling as she reached out. “You are my daughter. Not just his. And you are not bound to his shadow. You can choose your own path.”

“But if I leave... what if I lose myself out there?”

“Then you find your way back, just as you always find your way back to us."

Penelope stood by the window, her fingers resting lightly on the woven fabric of the curtains. The night was still, save for the distant crash of waves against Ithaca’s shores. She had memorized that sound long ago—how the tide came and went, as if whispering secrets only the sea understood. It was the same rhythm she had fallen asleep to for nearly twenty years. The same rhythm she had listened to while waiting.

"Our children fight battles you should be here to win," she thought, her gaze fixed on the dark horizon. Telemachus was nearly a man now, though sometimes, she swore she could still see the boy who used to cling to her tunic. And then there was (Y/N)—Odysseus’s daughter through and through, carrying the weight of his name like an unspoken burden.

Penelope sighed. "I am so proud of them. And I am so afraid for them."

She didn’t expect an answer, not really. The gods were cruel that way.

Far across the sea, beneath the same stars, Odysseus stood at the edge of an unfamiliar shore. The embers of a dying fire crackled behind him, though there were no voices left to keep him company. His men were gone—lost to the sea, to monsters, to their own folly. Only he remained, watching the horizon as if it held the path home.

"Penelope."

The name left his lips before he could stop it. He had said it countless times—at the mercy of storms, under the weight of exhaustion, in the silence between battles. As if saying it aloud could bridge the impossible distance between them.

"Our children—are they strong? Do they resent me?" He ran a hand through his hair, fingers gripping tighter than necessary. "Does she still look at the sea like she belongs to it more than Ithaca? Does he still reach for a father he has never met?"

He exhaled sharply. It was a cruel thing, to be so far away from them for so long. To be reduced to a ghost in their lives when all he had ever wanted was to return.

"Penelope," he whispered, "can you hear me?"

And somewhere, in the quiet of the palace, Penelope’s grip on the curtains tightened. A fleeting thought crossed her mind—an echo of something distant, something lost.

"How much longer must I wait?"

A gust of wind swept through the open window, carrying with it the faintest whisper of laughter—playful, elusive. Hermes’s presence was never heavy, never lingering for too long, but it was there nonetheless. Watching. Listening.

The moonlight stretched into (Y/N)’s chamber, brushing against her skin like a familiar touch. She lay awake, her thoughts restless, the weight of the day pressing heavy on her chest. Ithaca had always been home, and yet, she had never felt more like a stranger within it.

A stronger wind rolled in from the sea, stirring the curtains, and something light drifted through the air—pale, fragile petals, caught in the breeze. (Y/N) sat up, startled as they settled onto her sheets.

Olive blossoms.

Their pale white blooms were rarely found so close to the palace, yet here they were, carried from the distant groves, their scent mixing with the salt in the air. She brushed her fingers over the petals, something tightening in her chest.

Was it a sign? A reminder of her roots, of the land she had been born to rule? Or was it merely a trick of the wind, as fleeting as everything else?

She closed her eyes, but no answer came.

And far across the sea, Odysseus stared at the waves, as if the sea could answer.

"I will return."

But in the quiet of her chamber, (Y/N) did not think the same. She did not know if she wished to stay or go.

The wind carried the last of the olive petals from her hands, spinning them into the night.

AN: surprise- can you tell i have daddy issues 🧍 can you tell i'm the older sibling 🧍🧍 i may or may not be sleep deprived rn so i am very sorry if it isn't my best work

[tianxyz]

🍎 Overanalyzing MC's hair in Caleb's story/myth:

I haven't gotten his cards yet so if I'm wrong abt smth in his myth pls ignore!

Present-day Linkon MC's interactions with Caleb often mention him helping her dry her hair, using her hair ties, giving her that apple hair clip, etc.

Now this might be a reach, but it reminds me of how hair is used to signify marriageable status in ancient Chinese traditions. Hair pins are given by the suitor to the woman as an engagement or promise. Once married, her hair would no longer stay down but be tied up. Some modern depictions romanticise this as only the husband can let her down. Or that it is his duty to brush and care for her hair, a gift from her parents/ancestors.

MC's hair is another way for Caleb to show his care and love for her. She doesn't fully dry her hair after a shower, knowing that Caleb will always do it for her. She wears the hair clips he gifted, and he wears her hair ties to mark her claim on him. Her longer hair can signify that she is cared for and loved.

Now fast forward to future MC in Fallen Cosmos myth. Short and practical, having longer hair than that would be another thing to worry about. From what the trailers show, it seems like she hasn't been with Caleb in a while. Both have been transformed into living weapons who don't have time to worry about hair. One less thing to think about, one less reason to have physical touch between them.

It just makes me appreciate how present Calebmc has such casual intimate moments. That something as seemingly insignificant as her hair can hold so much of his love. I think the myth should have Caleb give her another hair clip bc that girl is HIS ☝️😌

(I think Caleb would love her hair no matter what length. A little bit of length just opens new avenues. He loves to use her hair as an excuse to touch her, to show how he cares and loves her 🧡)

[chappedlipdirtycontacts]

(this is my attempt at explaining my thoughts but my vocab is literally so limited so my point may not come across)

the whole Amara and Dean thing was so confusing to me. i know they were trying to make Dean attracted to Amara. have them kinda forbidden love type thing. maybe even have a biblical metaphor for forbidden fruit. whatever the plan was. but it was so Destiel?? Amara knew it too but she lowkey tried to get with Dean anyway.

i tried watching this whole season without my Destiel lenses on but there’s no way. she literally looked at Castiel and Dean separately and saw them in each other??

“the love you feel is cloaked in shame” because he was raised to be a strong, burley, straight, weapon of a man?

Dean’s whole being attracted to her thing wasn’t romantic or sexual. i think it was more of a fascination thing. and she took the Mark of Cain from him so maybe a piece of him was secretly grateful? he even said he couldn’t hurt her if it came down to it. he’s internalizing this appreciation and gratitude because he knows he’ll get flamed for it. he’s always giving Sam and Castiel shit for empathizing with the enemy, he doesn’t want to be a hypocrite.

i don’t think he could recognize or process that sort of positive emotion towards her, so he just assumed it was sexual attraction. Dean convinced himself that he was sexually/romantically attracted to her. and i think for a second Amara believed it, hence the kiss.

(but then later is when she looks into Castiel’s heart and sees Dean)

honorable mention: this sweet filler episode lady. thank you for smelling the homosexuality on Dean and actually saying something about it.

LONG STORY SHORT, Destiel outweighs Dean x Amara so suck it. Destiel forever.

[red-in-the-ledger]

Where’s My Love; Part I.

joaquin torresxreader, angst

You weren’t supposed to be here.

“Y/N…?” His voice cracked through the comms, laced with disbelief. His eyes, wide beneath his headgear, locked onto you like he’d seen a ghost.

“What—what are you doing here?”

You didn’t answer.

Your stare was unwavering—empty. Cold. A shadow of who you used to be. That’s when it hit him like a punch to the gut. You weren’t in control.

Your warm, honeyed eyes—the ones that once held nothing but light and love when they looked at him—were hollow now. Glazed over. Stripped of everything that made them yours.

“Y/N! Hey!” he called out, louder this time, as he watched you smash the back window of the black SUV in front of you with a precision that didn’t feel human.

The sound of shattering glass echoed like gunfire.

He barely had time to register it before you reached in, pulled out the silver canister—the one filled with enough adamantium to tip the scales of global power—and tucked it beneath your arm like it was nothing more than a grocery bag.

“Joaquin, you need to do something. Now!” Sam’s voice crackled through the earpiece, urgent and sharp, snapping him out of his daze.

“What—what do I do!?” he asked, but he already knew. He just couldn’t make himself say it. Couldn’t even let the thought fully settle.

“Stop her.” Sam’s voice softened now, as if he knew the weight of what he was asking. “I know what she means to you. But if she gets away with that canister, the war begins. And a lot of people—millions—are going to die.”

Joaquin’s feet felt like they were bolted to the pavement. His breath caught in his throat. This couldn’t be real. Not you. Not like this.

But then you turned to him.

Still silent. Still watching.

And you ran.

Joaquin didn’t think. He moved, his instincts taking over.

“Target is mobile!” he barked into the comms, already sprinting after you. “I’m going after her!”

His chest ached with every step—not from the running, but from the heartbreak. Because deep down, he wasn’t chasing a threat.

He was chasing the ghost of the woman he loved.

You moved like a shadow, cutting through the dimly lit alleyways with practiced speed. Every twist and turn seemed premeditated, like you knew this city better than he ever could.

And maybe you did now.

Joaquin’s boots pounded the pavement behind you, breath ragged as he tried to close the distance. “Y/N!” he shouted, voice cracking with desperation.

You didn’t stop. Didn’t even flinch.

Up ahead, a fire escape ladder dropped from a brick wall. You leapt, scaling it effortlessly, one hand still securing the canister. Joaquin followed, slower, heart hammering with dread.

You were trained, sure. But this wasn’t training.

This was weaponization.

“Sam, I can’t get close to her!” Joaquin gasped, climbing two rungs at a time.

“Buy time. We’ve got backup rerouting to your position.”

“Great. I was hoping to have an audience when I get my ass kicked.”

You reached the rooftop and kept moving, your silhouette framed by the low city lights, wind whipping your hair around like wild strands of warpaint. Joaquin finally hauled himself up after you, stumbling slightly as he landed—but you were already near the ledge.

“Y/N, stop!”

You did. For just a second.

He saw the smallest flicker in your eyes. A hesitation. A crack in the ice.

Joaquin was nervous to move. Scared even the smallest movement would scare you off. His hands were raised, voice gentler now.

“I know you’re still in there,” he gulped. “Whatever they did to you, whatever they’re making you feel right now—it’s not real.”

Your grip tightened on the canister.

“Please,” he whispered. “Come back to me.”

The wind howled between you, loud and merciless. Then—your body jerked. A shudder passed through you like a system overload. You staggered back a step.

“Y/N?”

A glitch.

You dropped the canister.

It clanged against the rooftop.

And then—your hands flew to your head as a scream ripped from your throat, raw and agonized, your knees buckling under you. Joaquin’s heart stopped. He dropped to his knees beside you, but kept his distance.

“Hey, I’ve got you. I’m right here, okay?”

More than anything, he wished he could pull you into his arms and erase the world around you.

Your breathing was shallow. Broken. And when your eyes finally met his, something familiar shimmered there—something real.

“J?” You mumbled. Your voice barely above a whisper. But he heard it. Clear as day.

Before he could respond, or even take a breath, a dart embedded in your neck with a hiss.

Your body slumped forward and collapsed into his arms.

“No—no, no, no!” Joaquin cradled you as your body began seizing.

His eyes scanned the shadows around them. A rooftop away, he caught the glimpse of a figure vanishing into the dark.

Whoever did this… they were smart, calculated.

And now?

Now it was personal.

—

Everything was heavy. Your limbs, your head—your heart.

The world came back in fragments. A dull, aching hum beneath your skin. A low beeping somewhere close. The sterile sting of antiseptic in the air. And the soft pull of fabric sheets beneath your fingers.

You were lying down.

Alive.

You blinked against the blurry overhead lights, your throat dry. A groan escaped before you could stop it.

“Y/N?”

The voice was soft, but immediate. Familiar.

You turned your head, slow and sluggish, and there he was—Joaquin. Sitting beside you, still in tactical gear, dried blood on his temple. His eyes looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

You stared at him. Confused. Dazed.

“What…?” Your voice came out hoarse.

He leaned forward, hands shaking just slightly. “You’re safe. You’re—back.”

Back?

You frowned, trying to piece together the fog in your mind. There were flashes—brief, violent snippets like broken glass.

A black SUV.

A canister.

The rooftop.

“I…” You paused, something inside you flinching. “I - I wasn’t…”

“I know.” He reached for your hand, hesitating just long enough for you to pull away—but you didn’t. You let him take it. His touch was warm, grounding. Real.

But they couldn’t stop the vicious attacks of memories flashing behind your eyes.

Images—sharp and jarring—struck like lightning. The SUV. The glass shattering. The cold weight of the canister in your hands. The scream of civilians. The sound of Joaquin’s voice—begging you to stop, to look at him, to remember.

You flinched.

Your fingers twitched in his grasp, breath catching as another wave surged forward. You saw blood on your hands—someone’s blood. You weren’t sure whose. You didn’t even know if it was real. But it felt real. Too real.

“Hey,” Joaquin said gently, his thumb brushing across your knuckles. “It’s over. You’re safe.”

You shook your head. “It’s not,” you replied, voice low, cracking. “I can still feel them. In my head.”

He didn’t pull away. Just leaned a little closer, like he could shoulder the weight for you if he tried hard enough.

I’m not letting them get to you again.” His voice was quiet, but deadly sure. “We’re gonna find out who did this. And we’re gonna end it.”

You wished you could believe that was enough.

But the truth was—it wasn’t just manipulation. It was invasion. They’d crawled into your head, rewired your instincts, buried commands under your skin.

And worse?

Part of you followed them. Willingly.

A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it. “I could’ve killed you, Joaquin.”

“But you didn’t,” he said, without hesitation. “You came back.”

You looked down at your hands—calloused, bruised, unfamiliar.

Did I?

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, “Do you remember the first time we trained together?”

You blinked, confused by the shift. “What?”

“You disarmed me in under four seconds and laughed in my face.”

Despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitched. “You tripped over your own foot.”

“Exactly,” he said, a tiny smile playing at his lips. “That’s the Y/N I know. Smart. Fast. A little cocky. A lot terrifying.”

You let out a shaky breath.

He leaned in, his eyes boring into yours. “She’s still in there. I see her.”

“And I’m not letting them get to you again.” His voice was quiet, but deadly sure. “We’re gonna find out who did this. And we’re gonna end it.”

You stared at him. At the pain etched deep behind his eyes. And something inside you cracked—something you hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.

Before you could answer, the door opened. Sam stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“We need to talk,” he said. “All of us. Now.”

You exhaled slowly and sat up, ignoring the dizziness.

You’d just come back from the edge.

Now it was time to face what waited beyond it.

[swordbisexual]

Fuck it, WIP Wednesday on a Thursday, because Enid continues her reign as funniest motherfucker in the Koronus Expanse. (AO3 user Orevet, if you're reading this, god bless you for that comment.) From the first part of the big Magnae Accessio series that better not grow past being three installments so help me:

And there, standing in that doorway, is Enid. Wide awake. Hair tumbling halfway down her back in a riot of flame red. Stub revolver in hand. And may the Emperor preserve him, she is clad only in a nightshirt that just barely skims her thighs. Heinrix has only just begun to desperately grasp for some modicum of self-control at the mere sight of her when she whirls around, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, and gun raised. She might have made a wonderful Sister of Battle, if she were the least bit devout; she may not be armored, and may not even be properly armed, but there is a wild, unflinching ferocity to her that is almost holy, especially limned in the golden glow of her own city behind her. She wrinkles her nose, and the illusion is broken. “Son of a bitch.” Slowly, Heinrix lowers his own weapon. “Lord Captain?” Enid narrows her eyes, not lowering her revolver an inch. “Try again, van Calox.” “Enid.” Blessedly, that puts the barrel of her gun somewhere lower, pointing in the general direction of his leg, which would be a sight easier to repair than right between the eyes. He takes a step forward, craning his neck to try and get a good look at the balcony behind her, steadfastly avoiding looking at any part of her below her waist. “I… heard gunshots.” “Well of course you heard gunshots.” She turns, takes aim, and fires. Something made of glass shatters just beyond his line of vision, and he can only just make out the faint sound of shards raining on the rockrete several stories below. When she addresses him again, it is with an impatient toss of her hair and a look over her shoulder that makes his own heart betray him and thud a little too quickly. “I’m shooting a gun.”

[yvesssssssss]

Missing darling Shishiba right about now

How about a fic where a jcc student (preferably from the poison department) dare I say, fucked around and found out what it means to try and poison Shishiba (her unfinished business).

Alternatively, Shishiba hunting down the world's biggest mistake only to see the girl he gave up on (due to being a civilian) trying to screw him over for leaving her hanging, love and hate can truly blurr when you start missing their face, right?

Fucked Around and Found Out

AHHH, I hope you like it!! I tried to capture your idea the way you imagined it—hopefully, I got it right!

Shishiba had been poisoned before.

It came with the job—assassins, spies, and wannabe prodigies all tried to take him out one way or another. Most failed before they even got close.

This one? She had made it close. Too close.

He watched as the woman convulsed on the floor, her own poison ripping through her system, her breaths coming in short, pained gasps. The irony wasn’t lost on her. Not anymore.

Shishiba twirled the empty syringe between his fingers, crouching beside her. “You should’ve done your research,” he said, voice unbothered. “I don’t drink anything I haven’t tested first.”

The woman—young, cocky, and stupid in a way only poison department elites could be—tried to sneer, but her muscles were already locking up.

“…Bastard…” she wheezed.

Shishiba exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, yeah.” He tilted his head, eyes cool and unreadable. “Who sent you?”

Her gaze flickered upward. Just a second. A mistake.

But it was enough.

Shishiba didn’t need to follow her line of sight to know who he’d find.

A familiar presence. A mistake he never expected to see again.

And just like that, everything clicked into place.

Shishiba had seen a lot of ghosts in his life.

But none had ever looked him in the eye quite like she did now.

She was standing on the second-floor balcony, silhouetted by dim light, her arms crossed as she looked down at him. Not with fear. Not with regret. But with something sharper.

Something between hate and longing.

Shishiba barely reacted. Just flicked the poisoned syringe into the dead girl’s throat and stood up, brushing dust off his gloves.

His ex-lover—the woman he had left behind—leaned on the railing. “I thought it’d take longer for you to notice.”

Shishiba sighed. “You always did overestimate yourself.”

A sharp, dry chuckle. “Right. Because I’m just some civilian, huh? The girl you walked away from.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And yet, here you are. Pulling strings, trying to kill me.” His voice was quiet, almost thoughtful. “Was I really that bad of a boyfriend?”

Her fingers clenched. Just barely.

But he caught it.

He had always been good at reading her.

She smiled, but it wasn’t a kind one. “You always did think too highly of yourself, Shishiba.”

“And you always liked making bad decisions,” he shot back. “Trying to poison an assassin? That’s rookie-level stupidity.”

She hummed, as if considering. “Maybe.”

Then she flicked her wrist. A soft clink.

Shishiba’s instincts screamed.

He dodged just in time to avoid the vial that shattered at his feet—acid, judging by the instant corrosion of the concrete.

His gaze snapped up, and his blood ran hot.

She wasn’t just here to taunt him.

She was here to kill him.

“...Tch.” He pulled his weapon from his coat. “Guess you really did miss me.”

She grinned, pulling out her own knife. “You have no idea.”

Shishiba exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

Love and hate blurred too easily when you missed someone long enough.

And judging by the way she was looking at him now—like she wanted to carve her name into his skin just to make sure he never forgot—she had missed him a lot.