#but the love she has for her son in that moment is just....

[rhysisphysis]

I feel what's important to be said about this is that - as far as the original Tomino quadrilogy goes - this is never portrayed as anything but an absolute tragedy.

Let's talk about episode 13. Can we talk about episode 13 please? I've been dying to talk about episode 13. It is simply the best and most important Gundam episode that there is.

Obviously, spoilers for anyone who hasn't watched the original series.

In Episode 13 - Coming Home, the White Base continues its sojourn through Zeon territory, and makes a stop near Amuro's hometown. Amuro borrows the Core Fighter to go check in with his mom.

After a brief scare finding his childhood home empty, he learns that his mom is just busy working at a nearby refugee camp. He finds her, they hug, have a touching reunion, then catch up while Amuro rests in one of the refugee camp beds.

Except, it's kind of hard to land a fucking fighter jet in a small town without being noticed. A pair of Zeon soldiers come to do a sweep of the camp, under the correct assumption that there's an EFF pilot lurking about. Amuro hides under the covers as they poke around, but ehhhhn, it's just old people and kids, nothin' ta see here. Except then Amuro's EFF pager (shut up, it was 1979) goes off. They move to investigate and, left with few other choices...

Amuro shoots.

The first Zeon soldier goes down. The second runs. Amuro chases, then empties his gun off-screen.

His mother is horrified.

"Even they might have children, you know? How can you aim a gun at someone like that and fire," she says. "You've grown so cruel."

Amuro protests. He tells her it's war. He asks her if she loves him. He checks in with White Base.

"Amuro, I don't remember bringing you up to be like this," his mother says.

"Please, go back to the way you were!" She begs.

Amuro runs off to the Core Fighter. He does a strafing run on the nearby Zeon base while his mother, heartbroken at what her son has become, clutches one of his childhood toys.

"Maybe it's because he was raised by a man," she says to herself as tears well up in her eyes. "He wasn't like that as a boy. He was a boy who couldn't even kill a fly."

Amuro gets in the Gundam and finishes the job, destroying the Zeon base.

After Amuro's cheeky rampage, the White Base lands. Amuro says his goodbyes to his mother, while Bright comes out to tell her what a good, good soldier her little boy has been. He also asks Amuro if he'd rather stay behind since, y'know, he is a child, not an enlisted soldier.

Amuro thinks about it for a moment, then stoicly salutes his mother and tells her to take care of herself. He and Bright leave on the White Base. We're then treated to what I would confidently call the single most gut-wrenching scene in the entire Gundam franchise.

Kamaria Rey watches her son leave. She doesn't move, doesn't say a word.

As she loses sight of him, she falls to her knees.

For a full minute, we watch Kamaria weep as the White Base takes off and slowly disappear over the horizon, carrying back to war the soldier that was once her sweet, innocent baby boy. She hardly moves until the last few seconds before the episode fades to black, where she hangs her head in resignation.

Kamaria Rey's son never sees his 30th birthday.

I still think it's really cool how Amuro starts as the shittiest pilot alive (because he's a 15-year old) that only gets carried because he's in the biggest, fattest stat stick in-universe at the time (a few retroactive additions made in the future notwithstanding), enough that even its crappy vulcan guns are tearing Zaku IIs apart, and when he starts getting a bit too cocky, Char and Ramba Ral show up in objectively inferior pieces of junk and absolutely deliver his pizza, they just drag his face across every available surface in Planet Earth like he's a Yakuza mook, all because they are simply that much better at piloting, and the thing is, Amuro takes that very seriously.

He goes from shitass kid in an unfortunate situation that doesn't want to get in the robot to the most unwell child soldier in the war, which is really saying something, but most importantly, becomes so good at piloting the Gundam that the Gundam physically cannot handle Amuro's piloting. They need to apply "Magnetic Coating" to its joints so they don't fucking snap away from the main frame because Amuro, one, moves too damn well but also in too extreme a way for the frame to handle it, two, despite being equipped with two sabers, a shield, a beam rifle and vulcan guns, Amuro is a stern believer in introducing most everyone in thagomizer range to his Rated Z for Zeon hands, the single most official pair of hands in the business, tax free. He KEEP going Ip Man on these dudes, he does NOT need to do a Jamestown on these mother fuckers but he INSISTS. Somehow even the Gundam Hammer, which is a giant Hannah Barbera cartoon flail-- Ok, look at this thing, words do not do it justice

Even this god damn Tom and Jerry prop is less savage that whatever Amuro decides to do the moment he's done throwing his shield to get a free kill on someone and it officially becomes bed time forever for the unfortunate sap at the business end of his ten-finger weapons of mass destruction.

The RX-78-2, "Gundam" for its friends and family, even has a top of the line cutting edge Learning Computer that 'learns' alongside the pilot and their habits. This data extracted from it was so absolutely fucked up that it completely revolutionized Mobile Suit combat afterwards, which is a wholesome thing to think about when The Best Combat Data Ever came from a really angry, really stressed 15 year old that doesn't even like piloting. He was 15! He made Haro with his own hands! Amuro literally just wanted to make funny cute spherical robofriends! Amuro was out there trying to make Kirby real, but fate had other plans for him. His cloned brain put in a pilot seat is one of the setting's strongest 'pilots'.

They made fucking Shadow the Hedgehog with his brain, god damn.

By the end, Zeon is rolling out Gelgoogs out of its mass production lines. These things are in the Gundam's ballpark in terms of overall specs (or "power level"). Amuro is bodying them as if they were episode 1 Zaku IIs.

AND THEN HE GETS FUCKING PSYCHIC SPACE POWERS. Not that he needed them, he bodied a couple Space Psychics without any of those powers before awakening to them. But heaven's most violent child was not done evolving, whether he liked it or not.

Char bodied him in a souped up Zaku II at the start, a machine objectively inferior to the Gundam. Amuro more or less one-sidedly beats the shit out of Char when he's in a custom Commander-type Gelgoog that you could consider to be equal spec-wise to the Gundam. Amuro is the embodiment of Finding Out. He is Consequences. You tell him he better make it hurt, better make it count, better kill you in one shot, buddy, he needs half a fucking shot. The complete transformation. One could consider the central 75% of the show as long drawn out training montage turning a kid into the Geese Howard of giant robots.

[whosscruffylooking]

Militiae Species Amor Est II

Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."

Re-read Part I Now!

a/n: if you would like to be added to a taglist, please let me know in the comments!

warnings: // a small threat of violence is made between Iris and her partner, but no physical contact is made. canon typical violence.

word count: 4.2k

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

You step cautiously into the grand halls of the estate, the place you once roamed as a little servant girl, where your bare feet had once echoed softly against the cold marble. The air is thick with the weight of memories, each one pressing heavily against your chest. This was the house where you had grown up, where you had once been invisible, and where your life had irrevocably intertwined with his.

A voice pulls you from your thoughts. It rings out, familiar and poised, yet carrying a tension you haven’t heard before.

“Iris. It has been quite some time.”

You turn sharply, your breath catching as you face Lucilla, the mistress of this house—and the mother of the man you’ve spent a lifetime aching for. She stands before you, as elegant and commanding as you remember, her beauty untouched by the years. For a moment, you falter, caught between the awe she still inspires and the fury simmering just beneath your surface. But there’s no time to linger on reverence. Not now.

“We need to help Lucius escape,” you say, your voice steady despite the fire raging in your chest.

Lucilla’s expression hardens, her posture as composed as ever. “You are in no position to plot something like this. An engaged woman. A woman of low birth who has risen to a place of promise.” She steps closer, her gaze piercing, as if to drive the point deeper. “It isn’t safe for you.”

Her words land like a blow. You bristle, your hands curling into fists at your sides as anger floods through you. “You mean to insult me? When you know—when you must know—that I have loved your son since childhood?” Your voice rises, trembling with the weight of years left unspoken. “Do you truly believe that I could ever forget him? Forget the way we laughed, the way we cried, the way you sent him away as if he were nothing but an inconvenience? I have not had a single night of peaceful rest since that day! Not one!”

Lucilla’s carefully composed mask cracks, but you don’t stop. The words pour out, sharp and unrelenting. “And you? As his mother, do you feel nothing? No anguish, no torment? Or do you simply find it easier to look away, to let him suffer alone? Now he’s here—he’s here, Lucilla—and you expect me to sit back, to watch him fight the same fight that took his father from him? With no attempt to save him, no attempt to shield him from even more pain?”

The silence that follows feels deafening. For a moment, Lucilla looks at you as though she’s been struck. Her lips part, trembling with words that won’t come. Then, to your shock, her face crumples, and tears begin to spill down her cheeks.

She crosses the space between you in an instant, wrapping you in an embrace that is both unexpected and suffocating. Her voice shakes as she speaks. “I subjected one child to a life of pain. I—I couldn’t bear to see you suffer the same. Don’t you see? I’ve only ever wanted you to find peace, Iris. Contentment. That’s why—” She pulls back, her hands gripping your shoulders tightly. “That’s why when Caius’ father approached me, I agreed. I thought he could give you the life you deserved, one free of sorrow. I never meant to make you feel betrayed.”

You push her hands away, stepping back as the weight of her confession settles over you like a leaden cloak. “Peace?” Your voice is bitter, sharp as broken glass. “Do you truly believe I could ever find peace without him? All I ever wanted was your son. Not your pity. Not a life designed to ease your guilt.”

Tears well in your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You straighten your spine, your voice unwavering. “If you truly cared about me, you would have sent me with him. Instead, you left us both to live lives filled with nothing but longing and regret. So save your excuses, Lucilla. If you truly care now, then tell me—” Your voice hardens, each word a command. “Tell me the plan to rescue Lucius.”

And she does. Through trembling breaths and tear-filled eyes, Lucilla tells you the plan—how her husband, Acacius, will orchestrate Lucius’s escape from the prison. She explains the carefully laid steps, each one steeped in risk, each one reliant on precision. But there’s one missing piece.

“Someone needs to warn him,” she says, her voice wavering as she meets your gaze. “He has to know what’s coming, or he’ll resist. He won’t trust it.”

The moment hangs heavy between you, her words an unspoken plea. You don’t hesitate.

“I’ll do it,” you say firmly, the fire in your chest burning brighter now. “I’ll warn him.”

Lucilla’s eyes widen, her lips parting as if to protest, but you shake your head, cutting her off before she can speak.

“No one else knows him like I do,” you continue. “He’ll listen to me. He’ll trust me.”

For a moment, Lucilla studies you, her expression a war between doubt and something that almost looks like hope. Then, finally, she nods, her shoulders slumping under the weight of her choice.

“Be careful,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. But you’re already turning away, your mind focused on one thing: reaching Lucius.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The corridors of the barracks stretch before you like an endless void, every shadow a whisper of your guilt, every creak of the stone beneath your feet a reminder of what you stand to lose. Wrapped in a dark cloak, the cool air bites at your skin, but the ache in your chest burns hotter. You cling to the cover of night as you make your way toward Ravi, a gladiator-turned-medic who once saved soldiers from the edge of death. Tonight, you hope he’ll save you in a different way.

When you reach his room, you knock softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Ravi.”

The door creaks open, his wary eyes scanning the hall before they settle on you. “What are you doing here?” he hisses. “You shouldn’t be anywhere near this place.”

“I won’t tell you the details,” you reply quickly, your voice trembling. “If anyone questions you, I don’t want you to lie on my behalf. All I ask is that you point me toward Hanno—let me speak with him privately.”

Ravi’s expression hardens, torn between caution and compassion. Finally, with a resigned sigh, he nods. “You shouldn’t do this,” he murmurs, but he leads you through the labyrinthine halls. When he stops outside a cell, his voice is heavy with warning. “He’s in here. Be quick.”

Ravi pushes the door open slightly, just enough for the man inside to hear. “Someone is here to see you, Hanno,” he announces.

Lucius turns at the sound of his name, his face hardening the moment he sees you. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing before he looks away sharply. “I have nothing to say to her,” he bites out, his voice rough, almost broken.

Your heart twists painfully at his words, but you nod at Ravi, signaling for him to let you in anyway. He hesitates, but when he sees the determination in your eyes, he steps back, locking the door behind you as you slip into the dimly lit cell.

Lucius stands with his back to you, his hands balled into fists at his sides. His silence is deafening, but you don’t let it deter you. You step closer, the ache in your chest swelling with every step. Tears sting your eyes as you finally find the words you’ve been rehearsing in your mind since the moment you decided to come here.

“I cannot begin to express how sorry I am,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “For how I treated you. For what I said.”

He doesn’t move, but you can see the slight tension in his shoulders. You press on, desperate to reach him.

“I never should have assumed you would return to this place—to the pain, to the life you’ve fought so hard to escape—and risk everything for the very place that destroyed your family. It was selfish of me to ask, selfish to think I had that right. I suppose these emotions, these feelings I’ve tried so hard to bury, have clouded my judgment.”

His breathing slows, the air between you thick with words left unsaid. You take another step, your voice breaking now.

“But know this, Lucius: you are far more than just a gladiator. Even before I saw you in those cursed games, you were so much more to me. You always have been. You were the boy who gave me his last piece of bread when I had nothing. The boy who made me laugh when the world felt too heavy. The boy whose soul captured mine long before I knew what love even was.”

His shoulders slump slightly, and though he doesn’t turn, you see his hand tremble. The silence stretches, heavy with everything you’re too afraid to ask. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, raw with pain.

“And yet you stood there, questioning who I was,” he murmurs. “Doubting the choices I made to survive. Do you know what it’s like to have someone you love look at you as though you’re a stranger?”

The words cut deep, sharp as any blade, and tears spill down your cheeks. You move closer, desperate to bridge the distance, to close the chasm that has grown between you.

“I was wrong,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I was so wrong. But I swear to you, Lucius, I have never stopped seeing the boy you were. And I will never stop loving the man you’ve become.”

Lucius stares at you, his eyes swimming with emotions too tangled to name. The air between you crackles, heavy with unspoken words and the years of longing that have built into this single, fraught moment. You search his face for a sign that your words have reached him, that the wall he’s built is beginning to crumble.

Lucius's gaze burns into yours, his expression a tempest of anguish and desire, before he moves. His hands are on you in an instant, rough but careful, as though he's afraid you'll vanish if he doesn't hold tight enough. He presses you against the cold, damp wall of the cell, the chill of the stone seeping through your cloak and biting into your skin. It's grounding, sharp against the heat that erupts between you as his lips claim yours.

The kiss is everything you've imagined and nothing like it all at once-wild, desperate, and unrelenting. His hands frame your face, thumbs brushing over your cheeks as if to memorize the feel of you. His lips are firm, demanding, pouring years of suppressed longing into the kiss. You can feel his ragged breaths mingling with yours, and the faint taste of salt from your shared tears lingers between you.

Your hands find his chest, trembling as they trace over the worn fabric of his tunic and the hard planes of his body. His heart is pounding beneath your palms, as wild and erratic as your own. When your fingers curl into the fabric to pull him closer, he growls low in his throat—a sound that sends a shiver racing down your spine.

The cold wall presses unyieldingly against your back as he leans into you, his body a solid, unmovable force. The contrast of cold stone and his scorching heat sets your senses ablaze. His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as if he could somehow fuse the two of you together, and the pressure of his touch ignites a fire that consumes you whole.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you both struggle to catch your breath. His lips hover near yours, as though the distance is too much to bear, and his voice, rough and low, brushes over your skin.

 "Do you understand now?" he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. "Do you see what you've done to me? You've been the only thing keeping me alive, Iris. Even when I hated the world, I still loved you."

Your tears spill freely as you clutch at his tunic, your voice trembling. "I see it, Lucius. I see it, and I feel it, because l've loved you just as fiercely.”

He tilts your chin up, his dark eyes softening, and his thumb brushes tenderly across your jaw. "Then let there be no more fear," he whispers before capturing your lips again.

This kiss is softer but no less consuming, filled with a desperate hope that perhaps the two of you, against all odds, can still claim the love that's been waiting for so long.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The sun blazes mercilessly as the crowd fills the arena, their cheers deafening and bloodthirsty. Your seat offers a clear view of the sand-covered pit, where the fighters enter with stoic faces and heavy chains. Among them is Lucius. Even in the sea of bodies, your eyes find him instantly.

He walks with his head held high, his shoulders squared. You can see the fire burning in him now—a determination that wasn’t there before, knowing that people are ready to rescue him. The weight of hope, of knowing freedom waits just beyond the reach of this hellish stage, has reignited something in him. Yet, the sight of him under the watchful eyes of guards and the jeering crowd still twists your stomach with dread.

Your fiancé, Caius, sits beside you, oblivious to the storm raging within you. His hand rests possessively on your arm as if to remind everyone—and perhaps himself—of who you belong to.

When the fight begins, Lucius is relentless. His movements are sharper, faster, more focused than ever before. You watch in awe as he disarms one opponent and dodges another’s blade with a grace that feels almost otherworldly. But it’s not enough to calm your nerves. Every strike, every blow he lands only tightens the knot in your chest.

And then it happens. A spear slices across his shoulder, leaving a vivid trail of crimson in its wake. He stumbles, his hand instinctively going to the wound, and for a moment, your world stops.

You stand without thinking, your breath catching in your throat. “Lucius,” you whisper, though the name escapes like a prayer rather than a call.

Caius turns sharply to you, his grip on your arm tightening. “What are you doing?” he hisses, his voice low but sharp. “Sit down, Iris.”

But you can’t. Your heart is pounding too loudly, drowning out his words. All you can see is the blood staining Lucius’s tunic, the grimace of pain that briefly flashes across his face before he forces himself back into the fight.

“Iris!” Caius snaps, his voice rising now. “This is unseemly. People are watching!”

You don’t care. The moment the fight ends and Lucius is escorted out, you wrench free from Caius’s grasp and run. His angry protests fade behind you as your sandals slap against the stone corridors leading to the medic chambers.

When you burst through the door, Ravi looks up in surprise. Lucius sits on a stool, blood dripping from his shoulder as Ravi prepares to clean the wound. His gaze snaps to you, and for a moment, he freezes, the stoic mask slipping to reveal something raw and unguarded.

“What are you doing here?” Ravi asks, his tone filled with warning.

But Lucius speaks first, his voice low and strained. “Iris.” Your name on his lips feels like both a question and an anchor.

You cross the room in a rush, ignoring Ravi’s protests and Lucius’s raised brow. “Let me,” you say softly, reaching for the cloth in Ravi’s hand. Your fingers tremble as you press it against the wound, but you don’t flinch.

Lucius watches you, his gaze piercing. “You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, but there’s no anger in his voice—only concern.

“And you shouldn’t be out there,” you reply, your voice breaking. “But here we are.”

His hand rises, hesitating for a moment before it brushes against yours, smearing your skin with his blood. “I’ll be fine,” he says, though his eyes betray him.

“No, you won’t,” you whisper, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Not if I lose you.”

Ravi clears his throat awkwardly, stepping back. “I’ll give you two a moment,” he mutters, leaving the room.

Lucius exhales shakily, his gaze never leaving yours. “Iris, you have to be careful. If Caius—”

“Let Caius think what he will,” you interrupt, your voice trembling with conviction. “I won’t sit by and do nothing while you suffer.”

In the space of a breath, his restraint snaps. "Damn Caius," he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse, just before his lips capture yours.

The kiss is wild and desperate, like a clash of wills—a battle neither of you is willing to lose.

His hands tighten around your waist as yours tangle in his hair, the metallic taste of blood faint on his lips, a reminder of the wounds he's endured. He kisses you with the fervor of a man who's fought too long to deny what he feels, each movement urgent and unyielding.

He lifts you onto the nearby table, the rough wood cold beneath your legs as papers and tools clatter to the ground, forgotten. You gasp against his mouth, but he doesn't falter, his body pressing into yours as if to prove something-to you, to himself, to the world that's tried to keep you apart.

Outside, the sound of footsteps halts, followed by a frustrated sigh. Ravi's voice mutters something inaudible, and you know he's standing there, trying to give you privacy while also likely cursing your recklessness.

Lucius pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the narrow space between. "This is madness," he whispers, his voice rough and thick with emotion.

"Then let it be madness," you reply, your voice just as unsteady. Your hands trail down to his face, cupping his jaw as your thumbs brush over his cheekbones. "Because l'd rather have this moment than a lifetime of silence."

His lips crash against yours again, the kiss even fiercer than before, as though he's pouring all the words he can't say into the connection. His hands linger around your thighs, gradually pushing the hem of your dress higher and higher up your leg.

“Lucius, I—” Ravi’s voice cuts through the haze, and you pull back abruptly, your chest heaving.

Lucius turns toward the door, his body instinctively shifting to shield you from Ravi’s view, though it’s already too late. Ravi stands in the doorway, his face a mixture of disbelief and exasperation.

“I left you alone for mere minutes,” Ravi mutters, crossing his arms as his eyes dart between the two of you.

Heat rises to your cheeks, but you hold your ground, refusing to shrink beneath his gaze. “I was helping,” you say, your voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside you.

“And clearly you’ve been very thorough in your assistance,” Ravi replies, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Lucius steps forward, his voice low but firm. “Enough, Ravi. You’ve said your piece.”

Ravi exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “If anyone finds out about this, it’s not just you two who’ll pay the price. Keep that in mind.” He turns on his heel, muttering something under his breath as he leaves.

The door clicks shut, and silence settles over the room once more. Lucius looks at you, his eyes clouded with both regret and longing. “I’ll deal with him,” he says softly, though his hand lingers at your side, as if reluctant to let you go.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

The door slams shut behind you as you step into the quiet of your home, the night air still clinging to your skin. Your heart is pounding in your chest, adrenaline still coursing through your veins from the events that transpired just moments ago. You barely have a chance to steady your breath before Caius appears in the hallway, his sharp gaze locking onto you as he takes in the sight of you—disheveled, hair slightly tousled, your dress still crinkled from the tension of the night.

“Where have you been?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s an edge to it, an undeniable undertone of suspicion that you cannot ignore.

You swallow, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, a familiar lie already forming on your lips. “I was just out for a walk,” you say, trying to sound nonchalant, but there’s a slight quiver in your voice that betrays you.

Caius takes a slow step forward, his eyes narrowing, scanning you with unsettling precision. He glances down at your dress, and for a split second, his gaze lingers on a small stain of blood near the hem. His face hardens.

“That doesn’t look like the mark of a walk,” he says, voice tight with suspicion. “Where did you get this from?”

You freeze. The blood—it wasn’t from you, but from the hurried touch you had shared with Lucius. His words echo in your mind, Damn Caius. You can feel the weight of that kiss, the dangerous closeness, and the desperation in his touch. It lingers in your skin, like a brand that you can’t erase.

“Nothing happened,” you lie again, your heart racing in your chest. You want to scream, to tell him the truth, but fear clamps down on your throat. “I helped Ravi again, like I used to.”

Caius isn’t fooled. His eyes flicker with recognition, and before you can take another breath, he’s stepping toward you, his hand gripping your wrist tightly. “Tell me the truth,” he demands, his voice low and threatening. “You’ve been with him, haven’t you? The Eagle of Rome.”

The mention of Lucius sends a shock of panic through you, freezing you in place. No—you try to deny it, but the truth is already written across your face. “I haven’t—” you start, but the words falter. You try to pull your wrist free, but his grip tightens, pulling you closer.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growls, his voice a razor’s edge, the anger seeping through each word. His fingers are like iron, digging into your skin as he pulls you toward him. “I saw the way you looked at him in the stadium.”

Your breath catches in your throat, your pulse quickening as the weight of his accusation hits. Lucius—the name lingers like a forbidden prayer. “I was helping all of the warriors today. I promise you, I didn’t even touch him,” you snap, your voice shaking with a mixture of anger and guilt, but the words feel hollow, like a lie you want to believe but can’t.

“Stop!” Caius interrupts, his voice rising now, each word thick with rising fury. “You think I don’t know what’s going on? That I haven’t seen how you’ve been sneaking around? How you’ve been lying to me?”

His words hit you like a slap. In an instant, his frustration boils over, his anger flaring in his eyes. He moves toward you, forceful and sharp, and you stumble back into the wall, trying to escape his grasp. You gasp, your heart pounding as you try to steady yourself.

But before you can recover, Caius is right there, his face inches from yours, his breath ragged with fury. “You have no idea what kind of reproach you’re bringing against our family,” he spits, his voice dangerously quiet now. “Your actions make us a mockery. The choices you’ve made—make us look like fools.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, your heart aching in your chest. His words cut deeper than you expected, and guilt rises in your throat. He’s right—this has always been the choice, between him and Lucius. Between duty and love. But you couldn’t let go—not when Lucius needed you, not when you were the only one who could do something for him.

“Let me go, Caius,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, as if asking for the smallest mercy. “Please.”

But there’s no mercy in his eyes now. Only betrayal, and the realization that whatever it is that’s come between you, whatever feelings you’ve tried to bury, are on the cusp of release. He stares at you, and for a moment, you think you see something softer in his gaze—but it’s fleeting. He lets out a jagged breath, his grip still tight on your wrist.

“I never wanted this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “But I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt.”

You don’t know what to say to that, because you feel the same way. Every word from his lips is a weight pressing you into the wall, and yet, you can’t escape it.

“Clean yourself up,” Caius says, stepping back. His eyes linger on you, raw and unrelenting. “And can’t stand the sight of you right now.”

Caius turns away, his shoulders tense with unresolved anger, and the silence between you stretches, thick with unspoken truths. As he walks out, leaving you standing alone in the dimly lit room, you feel the weight of the choice you’ve made—and the painful certainty that nothing will ever be the same again.

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tag list: @willowpains

[superhoeva]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐅𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐘: 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄

main masterlist | series masterlist | tag

⬩ pairing(s) gomez inspired!simon "ghost" riley x morticia inspired!fem!reader

⬩ warning(s) sabrina carpenter (heavily mentioned), violence (mentioned), guns (mentioned), the kids having a blast, humor (i hope!), confused!dad!simon, mom!reader

⬩ author's note hi my loves! simon and wifey having a night in is still in progress but i still wanted to write something for the rileys! as a sabrina carpenter fan, i absolutely love this one and i hope you do as well. thank you for all of the love on the two fics released so far! much more to come! <3 (lovely divider is by @wethairjoel)

⬩ word count 0.4k

Something… odd is coming from the living room. Upbeat. Annoyingly familiar and Simon’s blood starts to itch when he can’t place it. The man gives in with a mix of a grunt and sigh, easing into the room with furrowed eyebrows.

Simon has to pause at the sight he’s met with. A blast of bright pop music smacks him in the face. As does the way Reaper bounces in a happy dance around his sister, who’s completely enamored by the television screen. A summery music video plays–filled with swimsuits and umbrellas and too much orange for Simon to appreciate.

“Little Devils?”

Reaper answers without pausing his jumping.

“Yes, Papa?”

“What’s this now?”

“A new song we like. Isn’t it nice, Papa?”

Simon thinks for a moment, tongue sliding across the inside of his cheek. “Well, she’s very… blonde.”

“You’re blonde, Papa,” Raven reminds him, and Simon would laugh if it wasn’t for the repetitive melody sounding over and over again.

“Who showed ya this, anyway?”

“Mama.”

Oh, alright. You showed them this–wait… what? You? His beautiful, brooding wife?

“They were talking about her at school, too. She’s very pretty… but not as pretty as Mama.”

Another hm is all Simon can hum in agreement. His eyes trail back to his son, to his daughter, then back to his son again. With the way he’s moving, he’ll sleep just fine tonight.

Simon flicks back to the telly. What is this woman even talking about?

“Wha' is she even talkin’ about, lovies?”

Reaper answers his father, out of breath but still moving. “‘Bout how she has to work late.”

“Why’s she workin’ late?”

“‘Cause she’s a singer,” Raven replies this time, not even noticing how she sings the response. Bloody hell… as long as they’re having fun, he guesses.

Simon finds you in your office, expression scarily similar to Raven’s as you stare at your computer screen. Entranced by the same woman his children are listening to just down the hall.

“You too, pretty?”

You nuzzle against the tender hand he places on your shoulder, Simon warming and pressing a kiss on your head at the affection. “She’s actually quite interesting, my love. Watch…”

Simon sighs but obeys, eyes focusing on where your laptop plays a music video. Very different from the one Raven and Reaper are enjoying. This has knives and blood and shotguns and injury. All of which forces a tilt of the head from Simon.

“This is…” your husband trails off, unable to find the words. “'S quite nice.”

“It’s magnificent,” you mumble, transfixed at how Sabrina Carpenter looks with a wooden fence sticking through her middle. “They’re magnificent.”

Funny enough, Simon is the one who rewinds the video as soon as it’s ending, tapping you to stand so he can take your seat and pull you onto his lap. Arms wrapped around your middle and chin settled on your shoulder. Eyes blazing with delight at the viciousness of the video.

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 6 part 1

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1])

ooh the "magick" mitzvah? I've been puzzling about the connection between william and billy, that's an interesting detail. I'll elaborate in a minute

I've seen a lot of irony about joe locke clearly not being 13 here, but the thing is, sometimes boys do suddenly hit puberty and have an insane growth spurt! and then you get the hilarious visuals of some guy sitting in a tiny desk in a classroom full of children.

my point being, they should have had joe dancing with a bunch of actual 13 year olds, it would have been so fucking funny

I love mama and papa kaplan, and it really gets to me that they lost their boy and don't even know it. I was worried about billy's episode because I thought it would be just a bunch of marvel tie-ins with no heart. glad to report I was wrong

lilia who hates witch stereotypes performing those very stereotypes in order to not fucking starve

william's reflection is billy reversed

lilia foresees william's death and billy's takeover, and she is SO sorry for him. patti as usual conveys so much, you can tell her heart is breaking but she's being kind and lying in order to not scare this poor kid. and this is exactly why being a Seer has always been a burden to lilia, how do you form any relationships, how do you love someone when you've already seen the day you're going to lose them?

“The Tower Reversed.” disaster, destruction, sudden upheaval. but reversed, it means miraculous transformation.

and there is something about lilia choosing this moment as the most representative for billy, a moment that symbolize both billy and william. this is future!lilia embracing her own strength and reclaiming the coven and the community she denied herself her whole life. and not only she includes billy in it, but also william as a fundamental part of billy, a kid that she protected and cherished despite meeting him only briefly.

not only lilia goes above and beyond for william, hiding the truth from him, inviting him to enjoy the party she knows will be his last. she hides the sigil on him so she can protect billy too, because she knows that another little boy is about to wake up in a strange reality and be so lost. she tells william he's a good egg, but she is the goodest egg.

I love the little choices here. wanda's voice on the radio, pretending she's in an idyllic sitcom marriage. and a real life marriage where wanda's 1950s tropes are reversed, rebecca is the one who drives and grabs her husband's hand to reassure him.

another great detail: the dissolving Hex reflected in the car window.

the parallels are taking my breath away. two moms, agatha and rebecca, fiercely loving and protective. both would blame themselves for their sons dying.

but sometimes, boys die. and to quote jac shaeffer, that is tragedy enough to fill the universe.

you can hear william's heart slow down and stop. then, when billy takes over, it starts beating like crazy.

and here's alice, who's also never met william (or billy) before, but she will unquestionably do her utmost to help.

I miss you so much, alice

he's so scared. the way he shakes his head and doesn't know where to look.

imagine being born yesterday, and suddenly you are in a different body and your head is cracked and you're surrounded by strangers. and your brother is nowhere.

that is the worst omelet I've ever seen in my life by the way

(also I know billy is used to instant growth, but imagine switching from child to teenager just like that, it's like going through puberty in two seconds. kafkaesque nightmare fuel)

and it's just so realistic and so moving that the kaplans are presenting a united front even though they are crumbling underneath. and they won't say any of it out loud because they are good fucking parents and it's their job to protect and worry without their kid ever feeling guilty about it. (billy does end up reading their minds because they're not equipped to parent a superhero yet. not that they wouldn't RAISE TO THE FUCKING CHALLENGE. I love you rebecca and jeff kaplan)

william liked classic movies, board games and magic tricks. there were budding hints at a goth vibe too, with dario argento quotes and creepy victorian posters. it doesn't seem at all incompatible with the person billy will eventually grow up to be, I know he had to settle into william's life, but he didn't revolutionize any of it, he kind of followed in william tracks. I think that yes, william died just as wanda dissolved the hex and it was a wrong place and wrong time kind of situation, but he also had to be a compatible donor - as similar as billy as possible, I don't know if genetically or soul-wise or what. they even look a bit similar, same ears, same nose, same eyes, same chin, same triangular face.

these guys really like doing mirror shots, don't they

by the way I will keep calling him Boyf because it's so damn funny, but I do know his name is eddie and I'm really really happy for the representation. there won't be any particularly deep meta about these two because gay boys are so, so far from my realm of interest or expertise, I'm sorry if you were looking forward to it. if you want to add context or ideas about them please do!

another possibility is that billy's soul, while not having any of wiliam's memories, was still shaped and conditioned by his dna and brain chemistry and past experiences, so in a sense william is still in there. you put software in a different hardware, it's gonna affect its performance.

I'll say this about boyf, he's very sweet. billy gives him this crazy story and he doesn't flinch, he just tries to understand and be supportive.

*cough cough* nerd

but look, he's pulling a detective agnes! he really is an agatha mini me.

ah yes, the future coven looking after billy even before meeting him. lilia giving him the sigil, alice being first responder on the site of the accident, jen saving his dating life by teaching him good skincare (he's a teenager! he's got pimples!)

you guys, I hope you don't mind me dedicating some time to billy alone, but I do like this episode a lot.

and tomorrow: it's the return of butch agatha!

[lwh-writing]

If I may (forgive me, I don't know how CPS works, I had to make up names, and it's long):

As a correspondent for Casper County Child Protective Services, Julia is unfortunately used to taking plenty of calls, especially for the city of Amity Park.

Julia is also used to getting calls regarding the Fentons. At least half a dozen of her coworkers have their own personal accounts of the peculiar couple and their children, and Julia has twice had to stop by Fenton Works and assess the situation for herself. What she and her colleagues have found is a well-meaning, but feckless pair of scientists that continue to *just barely* scrape by every evaluation. If it wasn't for the fact that Jasmine and Daniel Fenton weren't so perfectly happy, healthy, and loved in their home, Julia knows that the Fenton family would've long-since been broken up.

None of this prepares her for receiving The Call.

Julia's shift ends in a little over an hour. The phone rings, and she pulls up both a new tab on her organizational software and a new page on her notepad. She hopes that this call is for something minor, and that it's the last she'll receive for the day, as she wanted to enjoy the rest of the weekend in peace.

Unfortunately, The Call is neither of those things.

"This is Casper County Child Protective Services. I am--" Before Julia can continue her usual spiel, the sound of a wailing child cuts clear across the line.

"It's Maddie Fenton," the voice on the other end says, just barely heard over the cries.

Julia sighs and begins to pull up the usual file. "What have the Fentons done this time?"

"I think you misunderstood," the voice continued, "This is Maddie Fenton. I'd like to file a--." More cries drown out Dr. Fenton's words, and soon the light sound of footsteps and a closing door can also be heard. The cries don't quite stop, but they are much more muffled.

"....are you reporting yourself and your husband?" Julia asks. It wouldn't be the first time a parent has called CPS and requested that their children be removed from their own custody. Sometimes, bad parents are just good enough to recognize when their child deserves better than them, and other times, good parents know that they are spiraling or hitting a rough patch hard enough that they cannot continue to give their children what they need. Julia has always respected those types of people the most.

"No, I...." Dr. Fenton said, "It's about my sister's son, Timothy Turner."

Julia searches for the name in the Casper County database, only to find nothing. "I'm sorry, that name doesn't appear to be in my files."

"It probably wouldn't be in Amity Park. My sister Luisa and her husband live in Dimmsdale."

Julia expanded her search to the city in question and found a Turner family living in Dimmsdale.

"Right, then. May I ask how old Timmy is?"

"He's six."

She then asked Dr. Fenton to describe the problem that led her to call CPS.

"My sister and I have not always had the closest relationship," Dr. Fenton explained, "Luisa can be a bit flighty and airheaded, making communication difficult. I'd often make a few calls, only for them to be ignored and responded to a month later. It didn't really bother me much until Luisa had a kid."

"Did you worry that your sister's tendencies would make her forgetful in regards to her child's care?"

"There were a few moments, but I didn't think they would stick," Dr. Fenton said after a moment of thought, "I thought there might be growing pains, but I guess I thought having a child might force Luisa to become more mature. But I was wrong. My sister and her husband are obviously not taking their duties as parents seriously, and I think there might be some major problems."

"Such as?" Julia egged on, grabbing a pen and preparing to jot down notes.

"From the beginning, Jack and I noticed a few odd remarks. Thomas, Luisa's husband, really wanted a daughter. When Luisa was pregnant, he would go on about all the father-daughter things they would do together. But when they had Timmy instead, it was as if Thomas and Luisa were never expecting. Thomas didn't once mention any of the activities or other things, and barely mentioned Timmy at all beyond lamenting the fact that he didn't have a 'precious babygirl'."

"That is very concerning," Julia agreed, "Is there anything else?"

"Yes. Whenever we would visit Luisa for weekends or holidays or such, we'd often find Timmy alone at the house. I took Luisa aside and told her that her son wasn't old enough to stay by himself and that he needed a babysitter. She got him one, thankfully, but when we came over next time, Timmy immediately burst into tears and told us how his babysitter would hurt him."

Julia stopped her writing. "Did you tell your sister?"

"Of course I did," Dr. Fenton said, tone irked, "But Luisa dismissed it out of hand. She and Thomas both claimed that Timmy was just lying for attention. But the way my nephew looked, I.... I just couldn't take any chances. So one weekend, about three months ago, Jack and I took the kids to Dimmsdale a couple hours early to see if we could catch the babysitter in the act. And what we found--"

A disgruntled, grunting noise came from the other end of the receiver.

"It was horrible. That vile witch of a teenager had Timmy tied up like a prized hog at a fair, and had dozens of weapons and torture instruments all laid out. We swung open the front door to see her laughing manically at Timmy's tears, nine-tails whip raised in hand. She tried to play it off, but we caught her red-handed and she knew it."

"Jack and the kids stayed with Timmy, but I took the girl aside and made it very clear that if she stepped within ten feet of my nephew again, I would tear her apart molecule by molecule. Then we waited for Luisa and Thomas to get home so we could explain the situation. They finally arrived just before midnight, the both of them tipsy from a date night out. Jack and I tried to explain the situation again, but they dismissed it. Again."

"Did you attempt to contact Dimmsdale police or CPS when you found the babysitter?" Julia asked, wondering what the fuck kind of trainwreck she was getting dragged into.

"Yes, we did," Dr. Fenton confirmed, "The police were useless. Apparently, the babysitter would sit for the officers, and they all claimed that she was an 'absolute godsend' that could 'straighten out even the most delinquent of children'. CPS wasn't much better, and when we went to try and talk with her parents, they seemed just as terrified of her as Timmy was. So Jack and I discussed our options and finally told my sister and her husband that we would babysit Timmy whenever it was needed, no charge required."

Julia made a note to report Dimmsdale CPS to Internal Affairs, all the while encouraging Dr. Fenton to continue. Not that much encouragement was needed. It seemed as if Dr. Fenton was finally releasing weeks' worth of frustration towards her sister, brother-in-law, and overall situation.

"The first time we babysat, we had to drive the two hours to Dimmsdale and get Timmy ourselves. Neither Luisa or Thomas made mention of what their plans were for pickup, or when they'd be done with whatever they were doing. They just absently told us goodbye and drove off. We packed up a few of Timmy's toys-- all of which were birthday and Christmas gifts from us, mind you --and then went back to Amity Park. It was a fun day, but once we were done with dinner, we started calling Luisa and Thomas to see where they were, and we still didn't receive an answer. We eventually decided to drive Timmy back. We came home to an empty house, and didn't leave until the Turners came in a little after two."

"The second time we babysat, Jack and I ran a bit of an experiment," Dr. Fenton confessed, "We picked Timmy up on a Friday after school, packed him a few changes of clothes, and then took him back to our place. We waited the entire weekend to see if either Luisa or Thomas would notice we had essentially kidnapped their son. They didn't call or text once. The only reason we took Timmy back to Dimmsdale was because he had school Monday morning."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Julia swore under her breath.

"And that brings us to now," Dr. Fenton said, "Jack and I picked up Timmy, but this time, we refused to leave Dimmsdale until Luisa and Thomas gave us straight answers as to where they were going, what they were doing, and when they would pick up their son. Apparently, Thomas has a Pencil Conference in Pennsylvania. They assured us that Timmy would be coming with them. Their flight leaves from the O'Hare airport at six. It is currently a quarter past four, I have been trying to call my sister for three hours and received no answer, and my nephew is crying his eyes out because he is a six-year-old child who misses his parents no matter how horrible they may be. And I just... don't know what to do."

Julia let out a shaky breath before creating a new case file and saying to the defeated-sounding woman, "You've done the right thing in calling today, Dr. Fenton."

"...thank you," she said, "I know this is the right thing for my nephew, but my sister..."

"Your sister is a grown woman who has made her choices," Julia dismissed before creating a new file, "Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but it sounds as if you and your husband wouldn't be opposed to housing Timmy as we get this situation dealt with."

"That is correct, yes. The kids love their cousin, and Jack and I just want Timmy to be happy and safe."

"Good. What I am going to do, Dr. Fenton, is contact a judge in Amity Park and tell them to grant you emergency custody of Timothy Turner. I am also going to contact the proper channels to start an investigation into the Dimmsdale CPS, the Dimmsdale police, and the babysitter who terrorized your nephew. What was her name?"

"Vicky," Dr. Fenton spat, "Vicky Carter."

"Thank you, Dr. Fenton," Julia said, writing the name down, "Now, we will try to get you emergency custody as soon as possible, but that usually takes a while. Two weeks, at the minimum."

"Thomas and Luisa said the Pencil Conference lasted a week, and that they were thinking of staying for a while to see the sights."

"Well," Julia said, wondering exactly how serendipitous the events turned out to be, "Well, then that just works in our favor. You will most likely receive another visit from Child Protective Services just to confirm that your household can support three children. After that, it would be best if your entire family could refrain from contacting Mr. and Mrs. Turner, as a legal battle to remove your nephew from their care will most likely follow. Are there any particular charges you'd like to level against the Turners?"

"Child neglect and child abandonment," Dr. Fenton answered immediately.

"Well, then we are of the same mind. Please expect a multitude of emails and phone calls in the near future."

"Of course. And thank you, for the help."

Julia said her goodbyes and rose from her desk. As she was making her way to the Internal Affairs office, a few voices called out from the breakroom.

"Uh-oh, somebody's got their business face on," Tyler teased, "Anything we should be worried about?"

"I got a call from the Fentons."

A few chuckles rose up from the room.

"What they'd do this time, cover the 'Spirit of Clean' mascot with neon green silly string?"

Julia frowned and shook her head. "Dr. Maddie Fenton called to report her sister for abandonment and neglect."

The room went quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

"Shit," Tyler murmured, "How fucked up does the case have to be for the Fentons to turn someone in?"

"You don't want to know," Julia said, turning on her heel and continuing down the hall, "You don't want to know."

✨Au ✨ Moms are sisters

[dangermousie]

Because I've seen so many people comment to the effect of "how come if he loves her, he never bothered to learn sign language?" etc and I want to talk about it.

But since it involves the novel, it's behind read more as spoilery.

So yeah, in the novel he does not know sign language. (Who knows if they keep that in the drama.)

But the thing is - I think a lot of wtf reaction from people is because they operate from "but how would he not bother if he wants to woo her/be with her/or just even take care of her well" standpoint.

But that's the thing. The situation is not "he loves her and wants to have a true marriage with her, he just does not know how to woo her or is worried she will only go along because of her mom" or even "he would love to be nicer but he has to be mean/standoffish etc for her protection or to take care of her."

Sae Eon is FUCKED UP. Like FUCKED UP FUCKED UP. He's not really a person, but a whole bunch of traumas in a fancy suit. There is a reason that at the end of the novel he asks her to give him a name because he's literally never had one, or when he tells her that the real him is someone who's always hated all of humanity. The very end is his diffusing a hostage situation on the way to their wedding and he saves a little kid not because he's innately nice but because he knows she'd like it. It's very much a "she's got a leash on a nuclear bomb in human shape" set up in the novel. He will never innately care for other people but she does so he just mirrors that because he cares for her.

So he didn't learn sign language because he had no intention of ever having a relationship with her of any kind - not a marriage, not a friendship, not even any meaningful interaction. Marrying her to save her from that dude (and if I remember correctly in the novel there wasn't even a bad dude for her to be married to) and then putting her in his house to occasionally look at and not touch, like a fancy art piece (or as he put it, a fish tank) to calm all the devils in his head was literally the most interaction he could manage.

In a lot of ways, his situation is vvvv similar to that of LJK in Flower of Evil - down to fake parents with an OG serial killer son who he knows would murder him for a corn chip and having to live with a fake identity in a monster lair - but instead of choosing to become the bestest husband ever to compensate, he just withdrew. It's made clear the moment he was old enough and had enough power, he fled all the way to the other side of the world as a war correspondent into some fictional hellhole of a country because that felt better to him than home. He and HJ were never friends even as kids because he had no bandwidth for that at all - she was his little bit of piece in childhood but even with that he couldn't really have proper human interactions with her (the thing with him giving her a plate in the drama is a drama thing; significantly in the novel, she is the one who gives him her food because she notices his eating issues and feels bad and coaxes him to eat. This is not a kid who has any mental or emotional room to spare for anyone else.)

So basically tl;dr - he didn't learn because he is operating at about 0.2% of normal emotional capacity and ability to interact. He's a bastard and a cold jerk and it's not an act to save her or because he's just awkward. It's because he's very very very very damaged.

Now, a novel is a novel and a drama is a drama so who knows how much of it will be kept. They already softened him up from the novel as is. But at least in the novel, it totally made sense...

[hallowpen]

I genuinely forgot that I hadn't done one of these for episode fifteen...

I want to start off by taking a moment to discuss Khun Savitree.

She was put in a very difficult position where both action and inaction weren't entirely viable options for her, as it would affect her relationship to Kuea (and his willingness to provide for her and their unborn child). Another instance of class dynamics was put on display when Kuea, a man of higher status than Savitree, tried to discredit her in order to continue to conceal his indiscretion. Ultimately, her choice to reveal the nature of their relationship forces Kuea to marry her by order of the Prince, but the full consequences of that decision won't play out on screen.

I've been seeing a few misunderstandings surrounding Anil's father (possibly from the English translated version of the novel), so I just want to clarify: While His Royal Highness is considered to be the head of the Savettavarit Grand Palace, he is not the King... he is the son of the King.

With that being said, there are two forms of address that I did not mention previously that I should have: You might have heard Kuea and his family address those of royal rank by using the term กระหม่อม (pronounced 'kra-mom'). It is a formal and more official way to address members of royalty who would be referred to as 'his/her majesty'. Another formal address is ฝ่าพระบาท (pronounced 'faa phra-baat'). It is an expression of reverence toward royalty which can be translated as 'one who is representative of the foot of Lord Buddha'.

Figures who hold higher rank within the royal hierarchy are considered closest to the 'realm of heaven' and treated with almost god-like reverence (Which makes sense in regards to Patt's argument against Pin's pursuance of Anil, who should not be tempted to stoop below her station for one of lower status). As head of the Savettavarit Palace, His Royal Highness the Prince has final word amongst those who live within its walls and anyone who wishes to associate with them.

We're going to be talking about karma again, because it is sooo very rooted in all of the decisions Princess Patt and Khun Pin have made thus far. I know that it's hard to sympathize with a lot of their choices and how quickly they turn around from them, but hear me out.

Karma is defined as the concept where the intentions of our actions create consequences that affect both our present and future lives. Positive actions lead to positive consequences or 'good karma' and negative actions lead to negative consequences or 'bad karma'. I've been saying that Patt viewed her intention to love Im as a 'negative' action because it ended in what she believed was karmic tragedy. Flash forward to her insistence of Pin pursuing the opposite 'positive' action... which ultimately led to a void and fraudulent marriage. The law of karma would have Patt (and Pin) believe that Pin being saved from an unhappy life and marriage is a karmic reward for Pin AND Anil's good intentions toward one another... which would mean that the fates always intended for them to be together. It basically throws a wrench into Patt's entire belief system because she was wrong (and that's why she tries to make up for it). I can't think of a more coherent way to explain it unless you jump into my brain, so I hope that makes sense hehe

[ponderingmoonlight]

Son Hak saving you from a group of men

Pairing: Hak x fem!reader

Word Count: 2k

Synopsis: While gathering herbs, you get surrouned by bandits - until a mysterious, cocky stranger swoops in to save the day. But you’re no damsel in distress, and you’re ready to show him exactly what you’re capable of.

Warnings: tensioooon y'all, Hak is so damn inviting I just had to write this

I know a lot of my followers are here for jjk, kny and maybe aot, but I enjoyed my fruits basket fanfic soo much that I just had to write for Hak hehe

Even if you're not a fan, I'd love you forever for a little like <3

The forest is quiet as you weave through the dense underbrush, your hands skilfully plucking at the delicate leaves of a healing herb nestled in the shade. The sun filters through the green above, and for a moment, you take in the peace of nature, away from the bustling energy of the village. It's not every day you get the chance to help restock the supplies of your mother’s pharmacy, even though you’re always more than happy to help.

After all, collecting herbs means at least a few minutes of peace, a few minutes away from your mother’s desperate attempts to match you up with a random man. You know she only wants your best. After all, your father is the love of her life. It’s only natural for mothers to wish for that happy ending for their daughters, right?

You can’t help but grimace. Marrying a jerk from your village isn’t exactly your vision of a happy ending, though. If it was for you, you’d be happy enough by becoming a pharmacist just like your mother while getting to train with your father from time to time.

A pharmacist…That bouquet of moonshade bloom looks exceptionally good today. Its healing properties will be of great help for your father when he finally returns home-

Your focus on the herbs is abruptly shattered when the sound of rustling leaves catches your attention. Did someone follow you? Your mother, by any chance? No, you are the only one who knows about that secret place, the only villager who comes here. But who…?

You glance up, fingers tightening around the handle of the small blade strapped to your waist. Your father told you over and over that a knife can be a dangerous weapon in the right hands, that you should never use its powers carelessly.

A group of rough-looking men steps into view, their eyes narrowing as they spot you. Your heart drops to the floor, fierce eyes following each and every step. This can’t be good. This definitely means trouble.

“Well, well,” one of them drawls, smirking as his gaze sweeps over you.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing out here all alone?”

You straighten, willing yourself to appear unfazed.

“Just minding my business,” you reply evenly, your hand inching closer to the hilt of your sword.

“And I advice you to do so as well.”

But they don’t seem inclined to leave it at that. No, instead, one steps even closer, his grin widening in a horrendous way.

“We’ll take real good care of you. No need to be shy.”

Your heart pounds as they close in, and though you’re confident in your skills, you know you’re outnumbered. That won’t stop you from giving it your all. Little do they know you aren’t a shy and weak girl from a nearby village. No, you are the daughter of a captain who serves under the crown itself. He never cared about the fact that you are a girl, always trained you like a son. Exactly for moments like these.

Just as your fingers wrap around your blade, a blur of movement descends from the trees.

“Now, now,” a unfamiliar, teasing voice cuts through the tension.

“Is this the part where I ask if I’m interrupting something?”

The men freeze, startled by the sudden interruption. Your head snaps up toward the source of the low and somehow taunting voice, your grip on your blade tightening. A tall figure emerges from the shadows of the trees, moving with the grace of someone who has seen far too many battles.

He’s tall, there’s no doubt in the fact that he’s quite muscular underneath the dark cloak he’s wearing. His strikingly blue eyes flick to you briefly, his smirk cocky and self-assured, before settling on the men again.

Who on earth is he?

“Interrupting? Not at all,” one of the bandits sneers, regaining his composure.

“But this isn’t your business, stranger. Why don’t you move along?”

The man chuckles, an easy, confident sound that only serves to irritate the bandits further.

“Oh, but you see, I just can’t help myself when it comes to damsels in distress. It’s a weakness of mine.”

“Damsel in distress?”, you hiss through gritted teeth

You bristle, ready to argue that you’re no damsel, but the situation is too tense to waste time on resentment. Besides, the stranger’s interruption has bought you a moment to steady yourself, and you intend to use it.

The bandit leader narrows his eyes.

“You’ve got a death wish, pal.”

“Maybe,” the man replies casually, lifting his glaive off his shoulder and twirling it with practiced ease.

“But I’ll still take my chances over yours.”

Without warning, one of the bandits lunges at him, a blade drawn. You barely have time to process what happens next - a flash of steel, and the man goes flying backward, clutching his chest and groaning in pain while you didn’t even manage to pull out your knife in the meantime.

The stranger doesn’t stop there. He moves like lightning, his glaive cutting through the air in wide, precise arcs that force the other bandits to scatter.

And you? You just watch him like a fool with your mouth open.

“You lot really are a disappointment,” he comments with a mocking sigh.

“Is this what passes for banditry these days?”

One by one, the men fall like rice sacks. Some manage to run, tripping over their own feet in their haste to escape, while others are left sprawled on the ground, groaning in defeat. It’s over in a matter of moments, leaving only you and the stranger standing amidst the chaos.

You are loss at words. Did this…really just happen?

He plants his glaive in the dirt and turns to you, his smirk softening into something almost friendly.

“You alright, Miss?”

Miss…You lower your blade but don’t sheath it just yet. Your eyes narrow as you study him, unsure whether to thank him or demand his intentions. What did he do here anyway?

He doesn’t seem fazed by your caution at all, though. In fact, his grin only widens.

“You’ve got the look of someone who’s about to say, ‘I had it under control,’” he mocks, leaning casually on his weapon.

“I did,” you reply sharply, finally slipping your blade into its sheath.

He chuckles again, the sound low and annoyingly charming.

“Of course you did. I’m sure you would’ve handled it beautifully.”

He tilts his head, a curious glint in his eyes.

“Still, it doesn’t hurt to have a little backup, right?”

“And what do you want for this ‘backup’?” you ask, crossing your arms.

He raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Whoa, easy there. I don’t charge for being a hero. Consider this a freebie.”

You’re unconvinced, but he doesn’t seem malicious. If anything, he looks mildly amused by your wariness.

“You’re not from around here,” you remark, more a statement than a question.

“Caught that, did you?” he replies, clearly entertained.

“You’re right. Just passing through. But I’d hate to think what would’ve happened if I hadn’t.”

His gaze shifts to the bouquet of herbs you’d dropped during the commotion.

“A pharmacist, huh? Or is it an herbalist?”

“Both,” you answer tersely, bending to retrieve the herbs.

You keep one eye on him as you do, unwilling to let your guard down entirely. You hate to admit how mesmerising his fierce eyes look, how inviting those strong arms are.

Inviting…Are you out of your mind?

“Impressive,” he notes, leaning on his glaive again.

“And the blade? That’s not just for show, I take it?”

“My father taught me,” you reply, straightening with the herbs in hand.

“And I can handle myself, thank you very much.”

“I don’t doubt it. But if I hadn’t stepped in, you might’ve been forced to prove it a little too much.”

You bite back a reply, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of rising to his bait.

Hak leans casually on his glaive, his smirk as infuriating as ever. He won’t give up, won’t he?

“You’ve got a lot of fire, Miss Pharmacist. How about actually proving it?��

Your brows furrow.

“Prove it? I don’t have anything to prove to you.”

“Oh, I think you do,” he teases, straightening up.

“Come on, impress me. You’ve got a blade, and from the way you carry yourself, I’d say you know how to use it. Or was that all talk?”

Your jaw tightens. He’s provoking you and you know it, but you’re not about to back down. Not when you’re challenged like that.

“Fine. You asked for it.”

Drawing your knife, you take a step back to create space, your movements fluid and precise. Hak raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued as you ready your stance.

“Anytime you’re ready,” he announces, spinning his glaive once with a flourish.

You charge forward, swinging low before feinting to the side. He blocks effortlessly, his movements annoyingly smooth. But you’re not done. You hinge, using the momentum to aim a strike at his side. He parries, his smirk widening.

“Not bad,” he admits.

“But you’re going to have to do better than that.”

Gritting your teeth, you change tactics, using a feigned stumble to lure him into an overcommitment. As he steps forward, you twist, sweeping his legs out from under him with a sharp kick. His surprised grunt is deeply satisfying as he crashes to the ground.

You’re about to step back and declare victory when his hand snaps out, grabbing your wrist.

“Not so fast,” he mumbles, yanking you down with him.

The next thing you know, you’re sprawled on the forest floor, half on top of him, his laughter ringing in your ears, his firm muscles rough against your palms.

“You’re full of surprises,” he soothes, his grin entirely too smug despite his current position. “Guess I deserved that.”

“Maybe next time you’ll think twice before underestimating me,” you huff, trying to push yourself up.

Gosh, the feeling of his body against yours almost makes your face flush. You were never this close to a man before, especially not a man like him. He definitely knows how to fight, how to use his body oh so smoothly.

“Next time?”

His grin softens, and there’s a flicker of something warmer in his gaze.

“I’ll look forward to it.”

You roll your eyes, brushing yourself off as you stand with that faint voice in your heart screaming in agony. He rises with ease, dusting off his cloak as though he wasn’t just knocked flat on his back.

“Alright, you win. I’ll admit you’re not half bad. But don’t think this makes us even. I still saved you, remember?”

You let out an exasperated sigh.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re irresistible,” he counters smoothly, falling into step beside you.

The banter carries you both out of the forest, and for all his teasing, you can’t deny the warmth his presence brings. For a stranger, he feels oddly… safe. Annoying, but safe.

But you can’t continue like this. If you stay by his side a little longer, you might really for his charm.

“I guess I keep going now. Have a nice journey to wherever you go next”, you finally announce while turning your step into the direction of your home.

“Hey,” he calls after you.

“Not even a ‘thank you’? Tough crowd.”

You glance over your shoulder.

“Thanks,” you bite back, though it comes out more envying than you’d intended.

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine this time.

“You’re welcome, Miss Pharmacist. If you ever need saving again, just yell. I’ll come running.”

You scoff, but can’t quite suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. Whoever this stranger is, you suspect this isn’t the last you’ll see of him.

[mc-lukanette]

The bell of the bakery rang, followed by the sound of a pair of boots against the floor. Sabine looked up, brightening at the familiar faces.

"Tom! Look who's here!" she exclaimed, beckoning her husband closer with a wave of her hand.

Tom stopped putting a tray in the oven to look up, beamed, then remembered his task and hurried to finish so he could face their customer properly. Throwing off his oven mitts, he greeted happily, "Anarka! And you even brought little Luka!"

"Everything looks little to you, sailor," Anarka commented with a snort, though he wasn't wrong. She adjusted her one-armed grip on her baby boy, ensuring he was secure against her.

That, in all likelihood, wasn't an actual concern. Luka, despite his young age, had his tiny hands grasping tight to his mother's clothes, as if she would let go of him at any moment. Anyone could imagine him hanging on for dear life even without an arm supporting him.

"Did you come by for a teething rusk?" Sabine wondered. It'd been a special offer for any parent who needed them for their baby at no charge; she and Tom knew from experience how expensive babies could be regardless of such concerns, so they helped others where they could.

"No, but I wouldn't say 'no' to having a few." She raised two fingers. "But Luka's not the only one who needs them."

"Of course." Sabine got a bag ready. "Where is your other one? Sweet baby Juleka?"

Juleka was a quiet one, even more so than Luka, which was a strange thought when considering what their mother was like. It was to the point where you wouldn't know Juleka was there unless you saw her, but it was remained odd seeing a brother without his twin sister.

Anarka tossed her head back with a groan. "With a friend of mine. It's a handful having them together sometimes."

Tom chuckled. "I know just what you mean. Our Marinette is a handful all by herself!"

"Ahh—" She looked off to the side, then to Luka in consideration. Taking a step to be right against the counter, she put a hand to Luka's ear and moved his head so his other ear was against her clothes, keeping him from hearing much as she leaned close to them. "It's actually because of this one."

Tom and Sabine exchanged a look of concern. Was such a cute baby already getting a bad boy streak?

"Oh, they're not fighting," Anarka clarified, standing straight and uncovering Luka's ear, "but he has habits. Never seen a baby feeling suffocated by attention."

She gestured at the chubby hands that still hadn't let go of her. Tom put a hand to his chin, stroking his mustache with his index finger as he tried to piece together what she meant.

She pointed a finger at her son, stressing, "He. Hugs. Everyone."

Luka stared at her fingertip from under his thick, fluffy black hair, following the conversation about as well as the other two.

"That's... sweet?" Sabine commented, not seeing what the problem was.

Anarka shook her head. "Poor Juleka just needs to cry sometimes - babies do that, you know - but Luka squeezes anyone who looks just a little upset. I'm sure she loves him, but he doesn't know when to leave people alone. I had to keep them in separate cribs or he'd hold her all night, but then he gets fussy without something to hold."

That made somewhat more sense and made Sabine a little curious. She made eye contact with Tom expectantly, trying to convey her thoughts without words.

"Hm," he hummed, nodding along to the telepathic conversation, "I want to see it too, dear, but I can't cry on command."

"Think about our wedding day," she countered.

Instantly, Tom let out a choking noise. Doing an amazing performance as the "baby" of everyone in the room, including the actual baby, he grew misty-eyed and muttered, "You looked so beautiful..."

"ah," Luka uttered, the first sound that he'd made since getting there. He let go of Anarka's clothes, only leaving behind wrinkles to indicate that he'd been there, and reached both hands out towards Tom. He was so quick about it that he nearly fell forwards, Tom hurrying to take him in his hands before anything happened.

"See that?" Anarka chuckled, amused. Her tone was mischievous, as of course she wouldn't have let her boy actually fall.

Tom sighed in relief, not yet recovered from the shock. He held Luka carefully and glanced over to speak to him, "man-to-man," only to get a sudden smack to his face. "Ow!"

Sabine cooed, "I think he was trying to wipe your tears away."

"He's got a strong arm for his age!" Tom half-cheered, half-protested, taking one hand off of Luka to rub the tiny mark forming on his cheek.

"That he does." Anarka puffed out her chest with pride and patted her fist against it. "He'll be throwing scoundrels overboard in no time."

Sabine raised a brow at her, wondering if she should be worried, but her thoughts drifted as she looked back at Tom. Seeing him hold a baby reminded her, "Oh, he hasn't met Marinette yet, has he?"

Tom gasped in realization. "He hasn't!" He met Anarka's gaze, questioning, "Should we have a little playdate for them?"

"Your girl is here?" She put a hand on her hip, surveying the room skeptically.

Sabine cut in, looking under the counter at something. "She was napping when we checked on her, but she's awake right now. You two can head up, I'll take care of things here."

Thus, Anarka followed Tom out the back of the bakery and up the stairs, with Tom rambling about the balance between working the bakery, having enough surveillance on Marinette so they knew when she'd need them, and getting others to babysit when it became too much. They didn't have relatives nearby besides Tom's father, who "wasn't around despite being around" as Tom delicately put it, while his mother was off traveling who knew where.

Ergo, their friends helped when needed.

Quietly as a mouse, which was funny considering his size, Tom slowly and cautiously opened the door to the living room. While Marinette had been asleep before, visually apparent from the few strands out of place amongst her soft black hair, they found her sitting in a playpen and playing with a stuffed animal. She'd lay down, holding it above her, then let it drop, but whatever reaction she expected it to make appeared to disappoint her - as much as a baby could sound disappointed - and she'd try again.

Anarka glanced up, spotting a camera in the corner of the room aimed at the baby girl, and guessed that was how Sabine knew Marinette had been awake. She gave it a faux salute, then turned when Tom started talking again.

"We've been calling it Marinette-proof," he explained, indicating the playpen itself and the toys inside. "You wouldn't believe it unless you saw it yourself. We gave her one of those little toys - the ones where you put the shapes in the holes - but not the hard ones; you blew them up with air. She was having a blast until she tried to throw one into the hole; it missed and bounced off, then bounced off the side of the playpen and hit her square in the face!"

He directed a hand to his own face to show roughly where it hit her while Anarka whistled, sympathetic but almost impressed by the bad luck on display. She was seeing a future child of chaos, surely.

She approached and leaned over the playpen, supporting herself with an arm against the edge of it as she wondered aloud, "What's she up to?"

Tom came up beside her and leaned over to get a fully unobstructed view of his daughter. "That one's supposed to stick to her, but she doesn't know how to make it do that." He sighed, but smiled tiredly. "She likes to be held during all the time we can't make for her. She's probably ignoring me because I had to put her down last. Isn't that right, pudding cup?"

Marinette didn't react, nor did she to the pitiful noise Tom made afterwards.

Upon closer inspection, Anarka spotted the soft pads on the end of the stuffed animal's arms, figuring that they'd stick to each other when brought together. While Tom's observation seemed accurate that Marinette didn't get how it worked, she at least appeared to be making a game out of dropping the stuffed animal on herself, or maybe it was only generally giving her some form of satisfaction.

Luka, whose back was facing the playpen due to him being held against Tom's chest, turned his head to follow the attention of the two adults, which was directed solely on Marinette. While she had largely ignored the two adults, the new set of eyes on her made her look up.

Anarka's baby boy and Tom and Sabine's baby girl made eye contact for the first time.

Then, without a prompt or question, Luka let go of Tom's shirt and stretched his arms out for Marinette. He pitched forward like before, trying to launch himself into the playpen headfirst, and Tom made a panicked move to keep him from plummeting for the second time that day.

"You only have one mother!" he whisper-yelled. "Do you want to lose her to a heart attack?"

Anarka, intrigued, reached out to take her son in her arms, slowly putting him down next to Marinette. "He's never done that to someone who wasn't upset, who wasn't his sister..."

Both babies stared at each other in some unspoken staring contest, Luka's arms still out as he leaned towards her. The stuffed animal, once so interesting to Marinette that it'd had her full attention, was set aside without so much of a glance at it. She stretched her arms out and went towards him as well, losing her balance but falling against him.

They both went down onto the soft surface at the bottom of the playpen, letting out little noises and giggles that almost made it seem like they were having a conversation. Tom and Anarka waited, though they weren't quite sure for what: for Marinette to finally get bored of being held by someone and push Luka away, or for Luka to finally reach his limits of holding onto someone and let go?

Neither happened. They moved occasionally, rolled around, got back up just to fall over each other again, but never released one another.

Anarka grinned, waving her wrists about to make her bracelets jingle and see if it might get their attention, but they were completely distracted. "I think my son's found himself a co-captain!"

"A what?"

—————

From there, Anarka brought Luka over as much as possible. There was no reason not to and both Luka and Marinette received all the benefits from it. It was perhaps a little early to call them playmates before they could fully understand the concept, but they enjoyed seeing each other. They brightened whenever they made eye contact and curbed the other's "worst" habit.

The parents let the other babysit for them at times. Anarka could take Marinette when Tom and Sabine were too busy, and Tom and Sabine could take Luka when Anarka needed a break from dealing with twins. Marinette and Luka had even slept in the same crib on occasion.

It was precious. The parents were fairly sure the two didn't know what sharing was yet, but the babies would play together, wait their turn when being fed, and showed each other their toys.

That wasn't to say there weren't problems, but they were purely emotional, meaning realizing their baby had a new favorite person that wasn't them.

The worst of it was when the babies started to talk. Tom and Sabine had been holding out (maybe even placed a bet or two on which of them would be her first word), but they knew deep down that Marinette's utterance of "uuka" was not just a random noise.

On Anarka's end, she had the relative luxury of pretending that "Mah" was for "Mama" and not the first part of Marinette's name.

—————

Inevitably, the babies started to grow up into semi-functioning human beings. It was speculated that they might start unattaching from each other as they gained more personality, still being friends but not clinging to each other as much. However, that did not happen, which served as something both sickeningly adorable but headache-inducing.

The moment Luka could walk without falling and memorize a path he'd been carried through over and over, Tom and Sabine caught him at the door to the bakery. He could barely open it himself, but looked up with bright, Marinette-seeking eyes like he'd done nothing wrong, all while the two co-owners peeked outside frantically for any sign of his mother.

They made sure to keep the side door locked starting that day, just to make sure Marinette wouldn't sneak out to see him too.

Since they were old enough to grasp the concept of sharing now, that was exactly what they did. Whenever one brought toys over to the other's to share, at least one or two stayed there, and Anarka laughed when she commented that Luka had about 60% of Marinette's toys and only 40% of his own in his room.

Not that it really mattered. They saw each other so often that they never regretted leaving a toy with the other, and there was a mutual unspoken promise that they'd take good care of them. The only reason the parents themselves could tell whose toy it was, even if they couldn't remember who they bought them for, was based on the type of toy it was: Luka leaned towards musical toys or ones that made sounds while Marinette liked colorful toys or ones that had her solving problems.

Luka even left his little guitar with Marinette once; his guitar, simply because she told him that she liked how it sounded! The situation was remedied when she realized that it didn't sound good without him, but it showed how close they were.

They still slept together from time to time, and not always because they stayed the night at the other's house. After a day of hard work (play), they could be found peacefully passed out together, either on the bed or a little blanket they'd put down to play on so they wouldn't be sitting on the hard floor.

It wasn't always the same. Sometimes there'd be a stuffed animal between them, or Luka's child-sized guitar would still be strapped to him like he'd lulled them both to sleep with his playing, and other times it was apparent that they'd deliberately set everything aside for a nap. On rarer occasions, they'd have tiny crumbs on their mouths, indicative of having raided the fridge for snacks before settling down to sleep.

Snacks they fed each other, in all likelihood.

It was difficult to get mad about it. Tom took pictures while Sabine sighed and made excuses about it being their fault for not hiding the sweets well enough. It probably didn't help that Anarka thought it was positively delightful, more proud than anything else when such little kids could coordinate so efficiently to find snacks no matter where or how high up they were.

On one day in particular, Tom and Sabine awoke to the small knocking noises against their bedroom door. Sabine slipped out and headed over to the door, opening it to find their little girl on the other side.

"Marinette? What's wrong?" she asked in concern.

Marinette sniffled, dressed in her pajamas but certainly not in bed. A plush was attached to her arm, as she actually got how those worked nowadays.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Sabine pressed.

Marinette nodded, looking ashamed by the fact.

"Aww, gumdrop," Tom began, getting out of the bed as well. He lifted the blanket and gestured towards the center of the mattress, offering, "Come here. You can sleep with us for the night."

She blinked her shimmering eyes at the spot indicated for her, then Sabine, then back at Tom. Finally, she shook her head, saying with a pout, "No. I want Luka."

Tom's expression cracked like an egg into flour, the man having never felt so betrayed in his life.

—————

Years continued to pass, and with the passage of time came Marinette and Luka continuing to grow up. Toys were slowly traded out for more consistent hobbies and the parents were still cherishing the precious moments when they could call their child their "baby" without any fuss about it.

Of course, with that came the cuddling elephants in the room that Tom and Sabine had consistently put off over and over, because how do you tell two preteens who had been sleeping together since literally before they could even remember that they shouldn't anymore?

"The longer we put this off, the harder it's going to be on them," Sabine said, trying to be the voice of reason between the two. It was a slow day at the bakery, making it easier for them to have a conversation.

Tom made a noise at the back of his throat, not at all enthusiastic at the idea. He hit the dough he was kneading in a mini fit of exhaustion, specks of flour being flung off onto his apron. "Maybe Anarka will talk to Luka about it soon?"

The two made eye contact for a long, considering moment, then shook their heads. Anarka was not going to talk to Luka, and they knew that. She found their relationship as "co-captains" (a term which Tom still had not gotten an explanation for) to be something that shouldn't be intruded upon.

Sabine tapped on the counter, then bent down to grab an "out on break, be back soon" sign they hadn't needed since Marinette was much, much younger. She headed over to the front door and hung it, then spun around to face Tom, hands on her hips in a show of confidence.

"We should do it now."

"Now?" he repeated, having not been given any time to prepare.

"They're both here." She pointed upwards. "We'll get it out of the way, and then we'll never have to think about it again."

Reluctantly, he relented and followed her to their self-designated fate. No matter how used to cuddling Luka and Marinette were, they were still a boy and a girl who were exhibiting signs of puberty, and it was hard to know what might happen going forward.

When they reached the top of the stairs next to the kitchen, Sabine knocked to let them know they'd be coming in. There was no answer, so she knocked again, louder, but the room on the other side remained quiet.

Exchanging a knowing look, the two invited themselves in, expecting to see the preteens lying down on the chaise lounge or Marinette's bed (in the worst case scenario), yet they weren't on either. While they initially feared that the two had snuck out for some rebellious preteen shenanigans, they noticed the abandoned guitar near the wall - Luka wouldn't have left without that - and light pouring in from above the bed.

They headed up themselves, careful not to make too much noise, and peeked up at the balcony to confirm their suspicions.

There, of course, were the two sources of their concern, sharing one lounge chair instead of the two they had blatantly bought so they had separate and equally comfy places to sit. Luka had seemingly laid down first, but with one socked foot on the floor and his legs crossed. The action gave Marinette ample legroom on the footrest as she slept on top of him, her face against him to hide from the sun while her hand gripped his hoodie. She was in just the right position for Luka to curl against her, hiding his own face against her hair while he held her.

They were like two black kittens sunbathing together.

Sabine hesitated. So did Tom. They looked at each other for a solid minute, having a wordless discussion on the matter, then sighed and left the two alone.

It wasn't a moment of weakness, they told themselves; it was just better than the alternative where the two resorted to cuddling and sleeping together in secret at Anarka's place instead of where they could see them.

—————

Juleka didn't have any particular feelings about her brother cuddling someone. Marinette was her friend, which was practically guaranteed to happen with how much Marinette came over when they were young and also now. Her mother told her stories of Luka's habit as a baby that bothered Juleka at times but perfectly aligned with Marinette's, and that checked out.

She felt the nice balance of their relationship the way it was. Luka cared about her, doted on her, but she was given space to herself when needed. In a home where they shared a room, it was nice to know that he had other places he could go or be at just about any time.

There was at least one moment when she realized that she was bothered by the seemingly endless capacity for affection on display, but it hadn't been jealousy that someone else was getting her brother's attention.

Rather, it was jealousy that her brother was getting to cuddle a cute girl, a feeling that Juleka shelved for a couple years until she could make sense of it.

Overall, she considered it a positive for all involved. Most entertaining, actually, were the people who didn't know about it and came to hang out for the first time, an occasion that Juleka put her full focus towards.

Her most vivid memory was having a group of friends over: ones who knew Marinette, but hadn't met Luka yet. She'd considered warning them, but decided it'd be funnier to catch the reaction in real time and took them down to the lounge room.

Luka was there, and of course he was because Marinette was there too. The two stared when Juleka and her friends entered, oblivious as to why they were getting looks. Marinette even had the audacity to ask, "What?"

A sight Juleka had grown all too used to seeing was right in front of her again: Marinette in Luka's lap, which was just as much of a home for her as it was for Luka's guitar. Said guitar was atop her lap instead, Marinette leaning against Luka and making it easy for him to put his arm around her to reach the guitar's neck.

"Hey, Jule," Luka greeted, unphased and not putting much thought into the reactions.

The total nonchalance he had about getting "caught" caused Juleka's friends to turn their eyes to her instead, desperate for an explanation. She mumbled a greeting back to Luka and turned away, pretending to look in the cupboard for snacks whilst trying to contain her laughter.

—————

It was inevitable, perhaps, that word would spread at Marinette's school. The bakery was right next to it, thus making for an easy view of the balcony. It wasn't like Luka and Marinette were at all careful either, not getting why they would ever have to hide how close they were.

In a way, it was more surprising that it took until Marinette was a teenager for it to be brought up. She had been sitting in the cafeteria, biting into an apple, when a hand slammed down on the table. She peered past the fruit to see Chloe, who normally disappeared around lunch to eat elsewhere, but apparently had nothing better to do that day than to bother her.

"Hey, Marinette DuPlain-Jane," she sneered, searching through her phone rather than looking at her.

Marinette munched idly, wondering how many hours Chloe spent coming up with that. A voice in her head pointed out, That's generous. It was a week at least.

The same voice corrected a second later, Actually, bet Sabrina came up with it.

She'd been bullied by Chloe for years, so she'd had countless memories of going to the Liberty rather than home in order to cry in Luka's arms as soon as possible. He held her the whole time without complaint, serving as her support outside of school.

"I'm with you," he'd promised at one point, squeezing her middle and pulling her against him. She could still imagine the sensation of his warmth against her, developed over all their time together, and his voice next to her sounding so pained due to being unable to physically be there for her.

It felt like so long ago, which was also when she'd stopped crying. She put up with the bullying, knowing that the staff didn't really care anyway, and calmed herself thinking of all the conversations she and Luka had over her, as well as the conversations she would have with him in the future.

For example, he'd scoffed when she told him about being in the same class as Chloe that year and getting bullied the very same day. "So you grew up, and she didn't? How is she still in your class?"

Marinette just barely managed to suppress a snort as the line replayed itself in her head, not wanting to instigate Chloe any further than Chloe instigated herself against her. That said, the bullying largely bounced off of her now that she was in her mid-teens.

With a noise loud enough for the whole cafeteria to hear, Chloe slammed her phone down on the table. On the screen was an image of Luka on the Liberty, sleeping on a lounge chair with Marinette on top of him as usual. Lounge chairs were always their favorites when they sunk down in the middle like it wanted to be an understudy for a hammock; it helped keep them close together.

"Sleeping with a boy?"Chloe asked, also deliberately loudly. "What do you think the whole school's going to think about this?"

Marinette wondered if Chloe could send that picture to her. Excluding the shoddy photo-taking job, it was of her and Luka, and she could always digitally edit it to fix any weirdness.

Point being was that she didn't see what there was to be ashamed of, but telling Chloe that wouldn't go anywhere. While she didn't tend to engage with Chloe when she was being bullied, it was fun to do it every now and then when she could think of something to say that might be fun to tell Luka later. He'd hold her tenderly while listening to her, and his warm, low laugh would echo in her mind for the whole day afterwards.

Glancing at the photo again, Marinette put her apple down and muttered, "How embarrassing."

"Isn't it?" Chloe's smirk widened. "Because I'm about to send it—"

"For you," Marinette corrected with faux concern. "Of course you think it's embarrassing when you've never had a boyfriend before. You're still young."

Whatever Chloe was going to say next, it cut off with a choking noise. "Wha—I'm just as old as you!"

"Couldn't tell." She grabbed the stem of her apple, turning it to spin the fruit on her tray. "So something else bothered you? Oh—" She placed her other hand to her mouth in mock surprise, though she actually grimaced at the thought it conjured up when she said, "Sorry, I'm not interested in girls."

Chloe flushed bright red, either in shame, embarrassment, or both. She might've exploded right then and there by trying to start an actual fight if she felt that she could get away from it.

No longer hungry - not after Chloe breathed in the general direction of her food - Marinette slowly got up from her seat and picked up the tray.

"You—how dare you—!" Chloe hissed.

Giving her just a little more attention that she didn't deserve, Marinette gave her a once-over, eyeing the red cheeks, the blue eyeshadow, and the blond hair. Pointing to Chloe's face, Marinette added, "By the way, yellow, red, and blue are a really bad combination on you."

With that, she left, glad that Luka with his receptive hearing wasn't around to hear the shrill yell behind her.

—————

Luka let out an exhausted sigh, taking a moment to relax against the wall of a building. His part-time job wasn't awful, but it could be tiring with all the biking around and infrequent "bad" customer. Marinette tended to scold him when he looked too worn out (whatever standard that was), fretting over his whole body and reminding him to take breaks.

Thus, he made sure to do so whenever he could. Maybe he could've gotten away with not taking a break if he knew he wasn't going to be seeing her after work, but such instances were few and far between. They saw each other often enough that he probably had more pictures of him with her in his phone than with his own sister.

Not only because taking pictures together gave him an excuse to text her later to send it over.

He smiled to himself, glancing at the thin, red object hanging off of his bike. It was actually something meant to hang up in cars, but Marinette had gotten it for him as a gift.

"The smell of strawberries always perks me up!" she'd told him at the time. "Maybe it'll work for you too!"

He knew it wouldn't, but happily accepted it anyway. He could never say no to her and wouldn't dare refuse anything he could add to his collection of Marinette's various presents to him.

The reason he knew that it wouldn't work was because Marinette smelled like strawberries. After literal years of cuddling, he'd associated her with the scent, which brought him a sense of calm, warmth, and home. The "perking up" was only when she invited him over or told him she needed him, adding an extra rush to his steps.

That didn't stop him from hanging the air freshener on his bike, giving it a playful tap whenever he got off as if to say 'I'll be right back,' and enjoying the scent whenever he biked anywhere. Even the picture of strawberries on it reminded him of Marinette, as strawberries were shaped similarly to her pigtails back when she still had them.

His friends at school rolled their eyes whenever they saw it, but it was all in good fun. They'd seen him with her so many times - enough that they could joke "where there's a Marinette, there's a Luka" and vice versa - and never hesitated to tease him or ask if they'd "finally" gotten together. Juleka wasn't immune to it either, though had learned that she'd get the same answer every time.

Luka couldn't comprehend the obsession everyone had with what his relationship with Marinette was, nor the looks he'd get when he said they weren't dating but weren't "just friends." To him, Marinette wasn't a friend, wasn't a best friend, nor his girlfriend. She was, however, special to him, which was about as far as he went to put any sort of "label" on what they had.

His mother had used the term "co-captains" before, which he accepted but wouldn't use himself. How would one begin to describe a bond that extended past what they could remember?

He thought of it in the same way he thought of music. Words weren't always enough to carry emotion, and a person could be made to feel with music alone even if there weren't lyrics to tell them what the sound was trying to convey.

Luka was Luka, Marinette was Marinette, and together they just were. He could've searched for a word that might define what they had, but he didn't need to: he and Marinette understood on an abstract level what they had and that was what mattered.

A guitar without strings, a piano without keys, and a drum without a drumskin: all things that remained physical but ultimately incomplete. That was how he felt, as Marinette had been a core part of his very being and he didn't want to - couldn't, really - imagine life without her.

He paused, contemplative, then pulled out his phone and tapped down some notes. Such thoughts could make for a good song, he figured.

He sent the notes to Marinette first, as usual.

—————

Seasons passed, fashion trends faded, and songs moved onto the next verse, but Marinette and Luka's relationship stayed the same: older and wiser, sure, yet no less attached at the hip. Whether it was a driver's license or graduation, they shared their experiences with the other, who celebrated like it was their own.

Luka, being older than Marinette, had deliberately held off on going anywhere, so Juleka moved out before him. Moving out tended to mean going farther away and there weren't any places he could go that both suited him and were just as close (or closer) to the bakery.

It seemed utterly ridiculous to anyone who knew, because it wasn't as if the distance was going to stop them. They were both perfectly capable of driving and each had either a bike or a Vespa, thereby making a little extra distance negligible, but it was about the conscious choice for Luka. The path they'd both walked to reach each other from childhood to adulthood was precious to him, and they walked that path even when they had other options. To make the decision to move further away than he already was, it was unthinkable.

He never said any such thing out loud, but Marinette knew. She too had a fondness for the places they'd been together, her balcony alone littered with recollections of being there with Luka to spotting Luka walking along the path below, which often led to her rushing down the stairs at full speed to meet him at the door. She never called it nostalgia, as she wasn't sad to leave it behind, but only on the condition that it meant newer, closer experiences with him.

"We'll just have to move in together. It's the only way," she concluded at some point when he'd brought up the topic of her ideal home. She noticed his awestruck face, feeling almost shy but not really, and shrugged. "Finding two places close enough together might be a problem, and we don't even know if it'll be as easy as the way between the Liberty and the bakery." She made a motion of drawing a line between them, which was a difficult task when they were pressed together. "Unless you—"

"Yes," Luka interrupted immediately. He squeezed her tight and murmured another affirmative into her shoulder, though it was more of a sound than a word. It was like when they were still babies and Luka wanted something but didn't have the vocabulary to express it.

She buried herself against him and echoed the same sound back at him.

—————

To absolutely no one's surprise, finding a place to settle into did nothing to curb the habits of old. If anything, they got worse, as Marinette and Luka "didn't have to waste valuable time heading to see each other" that they could've already been spending with each other. Marinette might've wished she'd done it with him sooner if she hadn't known that her poor parents would've protested at the idea of her leaving the proverbial nest so soon.

But now, the two without a label were free to do as they wished. That meant holding hands whenever they weren't busy doing anything, still staying close when they were busy doing something, and making sure their house had seating that had its hammock-esque quality so they could sink against each other all over again. They got a bed to share that was cheaper than one that two people might buy normally, confident that they wouldn't need one at full width since they already slept so close anyway.

There were also new experiences to be had that they either couldn't fully take in while living separately or didn't have the occasion to before. Luka would hug Marinette from behind when she was cooking, or she'd swoop in to squeeze him when he'd come out into the living room in a bathrobe she'd made for him, fresh out of a shower.

Discussing meals they wanted to have over the course of the week, trying to sync their off days so they could make plans together, always being ready for the other to fall into their arms after a particularly hard day, and the list went on. They'd done just about everything, and it was as perfect as they could've asked for.

Marinette was thinking exactly that as she woke up one morning, not bothering to move since she didn't have anywhere in particular to be. Luka was waking up himself, smiling down at her and keeping her comfortably in his arms. It was difficult not to sync their sleeping schedules with how they were, finding the bed too tempting when the other was laying on it, so they often woke up as one unit.

She was amazed when she thought about it, how one moment from their infancy could lead up to this. Anarka had told her the story before of how they met, a baby girl sitting alone in her playpen and the baby boy who reached his arms out to her. She couldn't say what had been running through her infant mind at the time, but she was glad she reached back.

Visions of the past came together, of Luka when he was a child accepting snacks she fed him, of Luka as a teenager with his arm reaching out to her on pure muscle memory, and finally the adult Luka of the present who lived with her. She saw the highlights in his hair that he'd asked her to pick the color for, the piercings in his ears that he'd gotten while she held his hand in case it hurt him, and the lips that whispered words of comfort and affection to her whether she needed or simply wanted them.

Without another thought, she kissed those very lips. There wasn't any fanfare, or a grand declaration, or any other indication of it prior beyond the heat in her gaze; it just felt right. They'd held hands, they'd cuddled, they'd licked bits of melted chocolate or sauce from the other's fingers, and they'd pressed their foreheads together for minutes on end. Kissing was natural, like they'd been doing it forever or it was an extension of everything they'd done before.

As she pulled away, he followed after her, not letting the contact break for even a moment. His arms went further around her, one hand going lower towards her hip and the other to her shoulder. His kiss was slow at first, then more fervent when she grabbed at him to keep him close.

It wasn't a next step in their relationship, nor changed it in any significant way. The love that flowed off their tongues when calling the other's name had been there for a long time, and they would continue to do everything they already did. It was just more of each other, only with less talking.

They didn't leave the bed until their stomachs protested for them to eat, an unintentional mirror image of two babies sharing a crib until they were made to separate.

[estrellami-1]

Lavender Letters

Part 10

Eventually everyone leaves. Eventually Eddie stays behind, first with the pretense of helping Steve clean up, though that pretense is shattered the second Robin looks at Steve.

Chrissy’s taking her home, though, so it’s not like she has any rocks to throw.

They do clean up. The stereo is turned off, all bottles and glasses are taken to the kitchen, and all chip bowls—empty of everything but chip dust—are dumped into the trash. Eddie catches Steve at the sink, crowds him in, draws him upstairs.

Takes him apart slowly, reveling in his whines and writhes, breathless with want, with the thought that he gets this.

It’s after that Steve speaks up. “What is this?” He whispers. “What are we?”

Eddie tugs Steve in more securely, runs a hand through his hair. Smiles when Steve sighs, boneless on Eddie’s chest. “What do you want to be?”

Steve shakes his head. His hair tickles Eddie’s neck. His fingers tighten nearly imperceptibly around Eddie’s side, slotting in between his ribs. “I don’t want you to agree to something you don’t want.”

“Then let me tell you what I want, and you can take what you want.” He rolls them over, cages Steve in underneath him. Leans in to nip at his lips. “Steve Harrington, I’ve had a crush on you from the moment I saw you. I started falling in love then started standing on tables because it was the only way I knew to protect myself. I fall fast and I love hard and it tends to drive people away but I don’t know any other way to love. I never did anything, never said anything, because I’m Al Munson’s son and bad luck is attracted to that name. I thought there was no way I could ever have you. Then you started writing your letters, and I realized who you were, and I realized something else.”

“What?” Steve whispers.

“I’m also Elizabeth Newark’s son. I’m Wayne Munson’s nephew. And those are great things to be, great names to be associated with. And I realized maybe I can have this. I can have my cake and eat it, too.” He teasingly pinches Steve’s hip, then pets a soothing hand over the spot when Steve squirms. “That’s me. That’s how I feel. What do you want to take from that?”

Steve’s silent for a minute. “I fall hard and fast, too,” he admits in a whispers. “And… and girls liked it, at first, because they had my attention all the time. But it got too… suffocating. For them. The longest relationship I ever had was with Nancy and she broke my heart. It’s still healing. I can’t promise I’ll always react the right way. I can’t promise I won’t be annoyingly clingy, because I don’t know how else to be. I noticed you the moment you first stood on a table and couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t get you off my mind. It took Robin and an NDA to shake it loose and make me realize why. I have scars and nightmares from things I can’t tell you about. But I want all of you, if you’re willing to give it to me.”

Eddie rests their foreheads together. “I’m going to tell Wayne,” he murmurs. “And I’m sure you’re going to tell Robin. But when I do, I’d like to call you my boyfriend.”

Steve grins, eyes nothing more than slits. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Eddie whispers, and kisses him.

It’s a terrible kiss, they’re both smiling too wide to do anything, but it’s fantastic at the same time because Eddie rolls back over onto his side and Steve follows, staring at Eddie. “What?” He asks, “do I have something on my face?”

Steve shakes his head. “Just your face,” he whispers.

Really, what’s Eddie supposed to do, not kiss him? He does, thoroughly, pulling back with a chuckle when Steve yawns. “Sorry,” Steve says around it, cheeks lighting up in a blush.

Eddie shakes his head, taps Steve’s nose with his finger. “Go to sleep,” he whispers. “Let me keep the nightmares away.”

Steve tucks in close, puts his nose in Eddie’s neck. “M’kay,” he murmurs, and does.

Before long there’s soft breaths puffing against his clavicle. Eddie pulls the blanket up more securely around their shoulders, tucks Steve in best he can. Lays awake for as long as he can, memorizing the face he’s seen a million different times, a million different ways, but never so relaxed as he is right now.

Steve sighs in his sleep, throws an arm over Eddie’s chest. His fingers slot between Eddie’s ribs again, and Eddie has one thought as he drifts off.

Maybe our bones were made for each other.

[ghostymarni]

didn’t want to grief post on this thread, so just venting here for my own piece of mind

digital holonet entry 112824 0714hours

I’ve been on and off coping as grief does, but after seeing that post about not thinking too long about crosshair just reminded me how much I’ve kinda been avoiding drawing him.

I know I recently had a similar conversation with Lupe about this. He will always be favorite overall, but my vision for cross has artistically changed so many times because I think deep down it’s a grief truth for me that I’m struggling with. I have so many crosshair drawings I never posted because they’re just SAD. I didn’t want to turn this to a depression blog so I refrained from posting or deleted those from here.

My husband passed this summer more suddenly than I’d like to think about. He was watching season 3 without me because I was too busy with work at the time. But rewatching it after he passed had me instant hone in on crosshair + connecting the loss of my husband with the loss of tech; which gave a different part in my grief acceptance + a secondary obsession with the brilliant minded clone. It’s a reminder to hold onto everything we created and did, + to always keep thinking about him.

Crosshair returning with his brothers + not having tech there feels twice as suffering knowing what their last interaction was like. And an even deeper personal meaning knowing I see my husband in everything. In our life around us, in how I choose things, how I respond to things. (Which we see + are reminded of that tech is apart of everyone he ever met)

Self regret that we didn’t have time to have a proper last moment. It just ended. Just because you choose to accept they knew you loved them, + vise versa, doesn’t make it easier than you’ll never have them around anymore.

Which with grief, digs the vibro-blade a little deeper because you never know when your last interaction with someone is.

watching how each of them take the notion of what tech would do, picking up where he would take over. I would imagine it would catch crosshair off guard, hearing tinkering to certain data pad beeps, only to look up + see Echo fixing something, or Omega typing away. Because I literally do this with sounds I associate with my late husband.

That feeling never goes away for a loved one. His brother, his batch twin. But omega is a huge part of that healing. And she has been a huge part in mine connecting her with my kid who isn’t giving up on me + needs me. Simple intended motions go such a long way. And the scene were they’re meditating hits hard for me.

Even more so when I’m constantly shaking out my own hand to keep it under control. It’s never easy when it hits, but every scene of cross trying to get his tremors under control, is something I do more often than I care to admit. I just have to keep going.

Not seeing tech with omega, is like realizing I won’t ever see my husband with our son growing up. He’s young, + it feels more unfair. And that hurts. Crosshair is such a dynamic clone + his guilt + hurt reaches out to many people in so many different ways. Which is why I can’t think too long about him either, but he will always be my favorite overall because I see him as me.

From grief, trauma, hand tremors, loss. (if I’m being honest, I’m pretty decent at shooting actual long range rifles) there’s so much to crosshair I personally relate to, and not just his attitude haha!

Crosshair didn’t see his brother fall, but he watched another brother die in his place. An older brother that taught him a lesson he didn’t realize he needed to know until it was too late. We confirmed that from his retaliation of shooting an imperial officer, + when they returned to the deserted base; he instantly moves to set up the memorial buckets as Mayday did. A reminder of the fallen, a reminder that they existed + lived.

A lesson I have to remind myself everyday.

So what I guess I’m also trying to convey, while I see myself as crosshair, despite the grief, the false fight some days, I’ve never felt so alone than having my soulmate gone. Going from a life of fun, banter, + life for granted, to solitude and what feels like isolation.

the clone community really gave me a second chance. At me. At reconnecting with myself, my art, my humor + wit. The friendships I’ve made + are continue to make really are giving me a new fight and a new reason to just keep going.

I never share for sympathy, I don’t want to be put in a “do not interact zone”. That’s the opposite of what I need or want. I just wear my heart on my sleeve + find comfort in just being honest about struggles + how we strive to move on.

as our boy hardcase (+ echo) quote, what I try to embrace:

“LIVE TO FIGHT ANOTHER DAY”

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 5 part 5

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1])

jen just shakes her head, bitter and not in the least surprised at what agatha did

meanwhile agatha is... she's just devastated

billy is the only person in the room who has never experienced and still doesn't comprehend the finality of death

agatha runs, she can't do anything else. rio is the only one that cares.

she looks so pathetic in that getup. her behaving like a little girl is not so funny anymore, is it?

as always, rio watches her. she has a lot to think about after this trial.

but alice needs her undivided attention now. lady death has to clock in.

I'm glad that we keep focusing on agatha's reaction. she used to be able to kill people and shake it off (or at least pretend to). she cannot shake alice off

and it was all for a tiny spark of magic. that is all that's left of alice on the mortal plane

when billy confronts her she visibly recoils and shrinks in on herself, like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar

one hand on her own heart, one on billy's heart. like she's begging and willing him to understand

it's not: you lied. it's you lied to me. it's personal. it's the trust he had in a mentor and mother figure, irrevocably broken

agatha never lies to billy. she's shitty with him in many other ways, but she doesn't lie

billy, honey. you set out on a road trip with a literal serial killer.

agatha had this mad fantasy of billy and her becoming a family, a coven two. and of course she went and ruined it. she always does

jen has all her walls firmly up, she won't allow herself to grieve for alice. she's still on the verge of walking a dark path, and agatha is the one pushing and pushing her toward it

lilia, who has lost and grieved so many, is just numb with pain. Death is unstoppable. hey guys, remember the first three episodes? when everything seemed so fun and carefree?

to billy witches were spellbooks and broomsticks and hot topic eyeliner. how do you explain to a kid the ugliness and violence and trauma that will inevitably fester in a marginalized, repressed community?

from the mouth of a child. she might have killed alice by accident. she has been deliberately and systematically killing many more to serve her own agenda.

and what agatha does, when confronted with ugly truths? she runs, and if she can't run, she goes all in with the spectacle and the cruelty

she could have picked any moment to talk about wanda. she could have broken the news gently, eased billy into understanding what he's been doing. now she's just lashing out in anger and fear and pain. billy did just put her through hell, but she's still the only adult of the two, no matter how immature she wishes to act

when push comes to shove, when it all becomes too much, agatha will latch to her self-preservation instincts and choose to protect herself over anyone else, even the people she loves. She's doing it with billy, she's doing it with rio. I'd argue that she did it with nicky, too.

hey, hey agatha, remember what happened the last time you poked a chaos witch with a stick? you dumb idiot.

fucking around meets finding out etc etc etc etc

boy is she SCREAMING. this bitch will never go down quietly, she'll snivel and cry like the sad pathetic creature she is

and the parallels and the irony of billy hurting jen and lilia in his grief.

do you guys laugh too when bille ellish pops in?? I love how agatha later says that billy is dramatic because he's a maximoff. honey, wanda was only ever coming up with cute sitcom scenarios. this is all your doing, you and your dramatic ass. this is your son. drama queen and drama queen in training.

go to episode 6 part 1

[dirtytransmasc]

me when I realize how willing Alicent was to die for her son (she stood between him and a dragon. what was she meant to do? she could do nothing against a dragon. even if she shielded him from the flames, it wouldn't be enough to save him. she stood there, knowing if Rhaenys was set out to kill her son she would go with him. she stood there accepting that if her son died she would go with him. she would protect her baby with her last breath. she would go out holding his hand, head held high, bathed in fire because there was nothing she wouldn't do for her children):

[screenshotsonpinterest]

It’s nothing it’s just Annabeth having to watch Jason fall in love with Piper, even as he’s gaining back his memories, knowing that her Percy is alone somewhere with no clue who she is and could very well be doing the same

[s0fter-sin]

ghost stares at the ceiling, chest heaving in a harsh pant; sweat ice on his clammy flesh and soaked into the sheet he restlessly kicks away.

ears still ringing, his fingertips blindly drift down to trail along his vivisection scar. he half-expects blood to smear in their wake. his own line of solomon, who ordered him split in twain; half of him given to a grieving mother and half left with the grieving to be.

just for both his broken halves to be rejected.

what did it make him that his mother grieved him more than she loved him? that she begged to be relieved of him more adamantly than she begged to receive him? why did his worth spill out with his drawn blood? why was his pain lesser than hers?

his hand flexes, digging into the raised scar like it’ll part beneath his fingertips to plunge into his mangled insides. no one knows the cruelty of reforming the halved; his name, his being, not nearly as important as his body when he was stripped from himself. no one knows the pain of healing and understanding losing pieces of yourself means losing your value along with them.

how many more pieces did he have to lose before he was halved once more? before his very presence incurred grief so strong it was better to be rid of him than cradle his bloodied remains?

did the infant fight himself? did he age always at odds with himself; his halves never truly whole? he hopes he wasn’t, that he was spared the loss of self; the fear that one may be welcomed over the other.

who will he lose when the inevitable comes? when he’s ripped apart again? simon? or ghost? is it better to be cursed with choice just like his mother or live with an aftermath chosen for him? does it matter if in the end, he convinces himself there was nothing of him left to lose?

his head lolls to the side and the wild buck of his chest slows. he watches johnny beside him, his face lax with the rare peace of sleep; his cheek squished against the pillow, his lips pursed as long breaths escape him.

johnny. soap. never torn asunder but two all the same.

he carefully reaches out and ghosts his fingers along the jagged scar on his chin. even in sleep, he presses into his bloodied touch. he’s never fled his half-flesh, never shies away from his gore as it spills unbidden from his cleaved torso. he holds on where his mother let him go; cups his stomach to hold his insides in place and never minds the blood that drips through his fingers.

simon will never let him become his own solomon and cannibalise himself. he will never let him question which half of him has more value; which pieces he can afford to lose before he’s cast aside.

ghost’s soap. simon’s johnny. his.

whole, in any incarnation.

[mc-critical]

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