#she can choose between getting depicted as either

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

Frev friendships — Robespierre and Éléonore Duplay

Please present the testimonies of my tender friendship to Madame Duplay, to your young ladies, and to my little friend. Also, please do not forget to remind me of La Coste and Couthon.  Robespierre in a letter to Maurice Duplay, October 16 1791

Present the testimonies of my tender and unalterable attachment to your ladies, whom I very much desire to embrace, as well as our little patriot.  Robespierre to Maurice Duplay, November 17 1791. These letters are the only pieces conserved in which Robespierre mentions Éléonore.

[Robespierre’s] host's daughter passed for his wife and exercised a sort of empire over him.   Causes secrètes de la révolution du 9 au 10 thermidor (1794) by Joachim Vilate, page 16.

When the constituent assembly was transferred to Paris after the October days, Robespierre came to stay in the house of Duplay, located on rue Saint-Honoré, opposite the convent of Assomption, and wasted no time in becoming a zealous devotee. The father, the mother, the sons, the daughters, the cousins, etc, swore only by Robespierre, who deigned to raise the eldest of the two [sic] daughters to the honors of his bed, without however marrying her other than with the left hand. At the time of the organization of the revolutionary tribunal, Robespierre had father Duplay appointed as juror; the two sons had a distinguished rank among Maximilien I’s bodyguards, whose leader was Brigadier General Boulanger. Mother Duplay became superior of the devotees of Robespierre; and her daughters, as well as her nieces and several of her neighbors, obtained high ranks in this respectable body.  Souvenirs thermidoriens (1844) by Georges Duval, volume 1, page 247.

It has been rumored that [Éléonore] had been Robespierre's mistress. I think I can affirm she was his wife; according to the testimony of one of my colleagues, Saint-Just had been informed of this secret marriage, which he had attended.   Mémoires d’un prêtre regicide (1829) by Simon-Edme Monnel, page 337-338.

Madame Lebreton, a sweet and sensitive young woman, said, blushing: “Everyone assures that Eugénie [sic] Duplay was Robespierre’s mistress.”  “Ah! My God! Is it possible that that good and generous creature should have so degraded herself?” I was aghast.  “Listen,” cried Henriette, “don’t judge on appearances. The unhappy Eugénie was not the mistress, but the wife of the monster, whom her pure soul decorated with every virtue; they were united by a secret marriage of which Saint-Just was the witness.”   Souvernirs de 1793 et 1794 par madame Clément, Née Hémery (1832) by Albertine Clément-Hémery.

[Robespierre’s] relationship with Éléonore, the carpenter's eldest daughter, had a less protective and more tender character than with her other sisters. One day, Maximilien, in the presence of his hosts, took Éléonore's hand in his: it was, in accordance with the customs of his province, a sign of engagement. From that moment on he was seen more than ever as a member of the family.  Une Maison de la Rue Saint-Honoré by Alphonse Ésquiros, published in Revue de Paris, number 9 (May 1 1844). At the end of this article, Esquiros claimed to have obtained the information contained in it from Éléonore’s sister Élisabeth. Shortly thereafter, said Élisabeth did however write a letter to the paper in order to ”protest loudly against the use that, without consulting me, you have made of my name, and to declare that this article, on many points in contradiction with my recollections, also contains a large number of inaccuracies.” She does unfortunately not indicate exactly which parts of the article are inaccurate and which ones are not, and certain details contained in it match up too well with what Élisabeth writes in her (by then not yet published) memoirs for me not to believe Esquiros hadn’t actually interviewed her prior to writing the article. In spite of her complaint, all the information in article was republished, almost entirely word for word, in volume 2 of Ésquiros’ Histoire des Montagnards (1847).

My eldest sister had been promised to Robespierre.   Note written by Élisabeth Duplay, cited on page 150 of Le conventionnel Le Bas : d'après des documents inédits et les mémoires de sa veuve (1901) by Stéfane-Pol.

Duplay's eldest daughter, Éléonore, shared her father's patriotic sentiments. She was one of those serious and just minds, one of those firm and upright characters, one of those generous and devoted hearts, the model of which must be sought in the good times of the ancient republics. Maximilien could not fail to pay homage to such virtues; a mutual esteem brought their two hearts together; they loved each other without ever having said so to each other, there is no doubt that if he had succeeded in bringing order and calm to the State, and if his existence had ceased to be so agitated, he would have become his friend's son-in-law. The slander, which spared none of those loved by the victim of the Thermidorians, did not fail to attack the woman he wanted to make his wife, and one was not afraid to write that a guilty bond united them. We, who knew Éléonore Duplay for nearly fifty years, we who know to what extent she carried the feeling of duty, to what extent she rose above the weaknesses and fragility of her sex, we strongly protest against such an odious imputation. Our testimony deserves all confidence. France: Dictionnaire Encyclopédique (1840-1845) by Éléonore’s nephew Philippe Lebas jr, volume 6, page 821.

A virile soul, said Robespierre of his friend [Éléonore], she would know how to die as she knows how to love... The destitution of his fortune and the uncertainty of the next day prevented him from uniting with her before the destiny of France was clarified; but he only aspired, he said, to the moment when, the Revolution finished and strengthened, he could withdraw from the fray, marry the one he loved and go live in Artois, on one of the farms that he kept from his family's property, to there confuse his obscure well-being in common happiness. (Extract from a part of l’Histoire des Girondins looked over by Philippe Le Bas).  Le conventionnel Le Bas: d'après des documents inédits et les mémoires de sa veuve (1901) by Stéfane-Pol, page 78.

All the historians assert that [Robespierre] carried out an intrigue with the daughter of Duplay, but as the family physician and constant guest of that house I am in a position to deny this on oath. They were devoted to each other, and their marriage was arranged; but nothing of the kind alleged ever sullied their love.    Testimony from Robespierre’s doctor Joseph Souberbielle, cited in Recollections of a Parisian (docteur Poumiès de La Siboutie) under six sovereigns, two revolutions, and a republic (1789-1863) (1911) page 26.

[Robespierre] rarely went out in the evening. Two or three times a year he took Madame Duplay and her daughters to the theater. It was always to the Théâtre-Français and to classical performances. He only liked tragic declamations which reminded him of the tribune, of tyranny, of the people, of great crimes, of great virtues; theatrical even in his dreams and in his relaxations.  Histoire des Girondins (1847) by Alphonse de Lamartine, volume 4, page 132. Lamartine claimed to have interviewed Élisabeth Le Bas Duplay and it therefore seems likely for this detail to come from her.

The eldest of the Duplay daughters, who Robespierre wanted to marry, was called Éléonore. Robespierre allowed himself to be cared for, but he was not in love. […] The Duplay family formed a kind of cult around Robespierre. It was claimed that this new Jupiter did not need to take the metamorphoses of the god of Olympus to become human with the eldest daughter of his host, called Éléonore. This is completely false. Like her entire family, this young girl was a fanatic of the god Robespierre, she was even more exalted because of her age. But Robespierre did not like women, he was absorbed in his political enlightenment; his abstract dreams, his metaphysical discourses, his guards, his personal security, all things incompatible with love, gave him no hold on this passion. He loved neither women nor money and cared no more about his private interests than if all the merchants had been free, obligatory suppliers to him, and the inn houses paid in advance for his use. And that’s what he acted like with his hosts.  Notes historiques sur la Convention nationale, le Directoire, l’Empire et l’exil des votants (1895) by Marc Antoine Baudot, page 41 and 242.

Madame Duplay had three [sic] daughters: one married the conventionnel Le Bas; another married, I believe, an ex-constituent; the third, Éléonore, who preferred to be called Cornélie, and who was the eldest, was, according to what people pleased themselves to say, on the point of marrying my brother Maximilien when 9 Thermidor came. There are in regard to Éléonore Duplay two opinions: one, that that she was the mistress of Robespierre the elder; the other that she was his fiancée. I believe that these opinions are equally false; but what is certain is that Madame Duplay would have strongly desired to have my brother Maximilien for a son-in-law, and that she forget neither caresses nor seductions to make him marry her daughter. Éléonore too was very ambitious to call herself the Citizeness Robespierre, and she put into effect all that could touch Maximilien’s heart. But, overwhelmed with work and affairs as he was, entirely absorbed by his functions as a member of the Committee of Public Safety, could my older brother occupy himself with love and marriage? Was there a place in his heart for such futilities, when his heart was entirely filled with love for the patrie, when all his sentiments, all his thoughts were concentrated in a sole sentiment, in a sole thought, the happiness of the people; when, without cease fighting against the revolution’s enemies, without cease assailed by his personal enemies, his life was a perpetual combat? No, my older brother should not have, could not have amused himself to be a Celadon with Éléonore Duplay, and, I should add, such a role would not enter into his character. Besides, I can attest it, he told me twenty times that he felt nothing for Éléonore; her family’s obsessions, their importunities were more suited to make feel disgust for her than to make him love her. The Duplays could say what they wanted, but there is the exact truth. One can judge if he was disposed to unite himself to Madame Duplay’s eldest daughter by something I heard him say to Augustin:  “You should marry Éléonore.”   “My faith, no,” replied my younger brother.   Mémoires de Charlotte Robespierre sur ses deux frères (1834) page 90-91.

A little wooden staircase led to [Robespierre’s] room on the first floor. Prior to ascending it we (Fréron and Barras) perceived in the yard the daughter of the carpenter Duplay, the owner of the house. This girl allowed no one to take her place in ministering to Robespierre's needs. As women of this class in those days freely espoused the political ideas then prevalent, and as in her case they were of a most pronounced nature, Danton had surnamed Cornelie Copeau "the Cornelia who is not the mother of the Gracchi." Cornelie seemed to be finishing spreading linen to dry in the yard; in her hand were a pair of striped cotton stockings, in fashion at the time, and which were certainly similar to those we daily saw encasing the legs of Robespierre on his visits to the Convention. […] Fréron and I told Cornelie Copeau that we had called to see Robespierre. She began by informing us that he was not in the house, then asked whether he was expecting our visit. Fréron, who was familiar with the premises, advanced towards the staircase, while Mother Duplay shook her head in a negative fashion at her daughter. Both generals, smilingly enjoying what was passing through the two women's minds, told us plainly by their looks that he was at home, and to the women that he was not. Cornelie Copeau, on seeing that Fréron, persisting in his purpose, had his foot on the third step, placed herself in front of him, exclaiming: ”Well, then, I will apprise him of your presence," and, tripping upstairs, she again called out, "It’s Fréron and his friend, whose name I do not know." Fréron thereupon said, "It’s Barras and Freron," as if announcing himself, entering the while Robespierre's room, the door of which had been opened by Cornelie Copeau, we following her closely.  Memoirs of Barras: member of the Directorate (1899) page 167-169, regarding a meeting he and Fréron tried to have with Robespierre following their return from Marseilles in March 1794.

In the morning, the daughters of the carpenter with whom Robespierre lived dressed in white and gathered flowers in their hands to attend the feast [of the Supreme Being]. Éléonore herself composed the bouquet for the president of the Convention. Histoire des Montagnards (1847) by Alphonse Esquiros, volume 2, page 447-449. In a footnote inserted on page 28 of Thermidor, d’après les sources originalets er les documents authentiques (1891), Ernest Hamel writes that Esquiros obtained this description from Élisabeth herself.

…Éléonore, Victoire, Sophie, Élisabeth, raised in the peaceful interior of the home, in the oasis of the family, sincerely imagined that the same happiness extended to the whole city; they blessed in their hearts the God of the revolution who had given such rest to the French nation. Only one circumstance worried them, it was that for some time the porte-cochère of the house had been strictly closed night and day on orders from the carpenter. Éléonore timidly asked Maximilien the reason for it in front of her other sisters. He blushed. “Your father is right,” he said; ”Everyday right now something passes along this street that you must not see.” In fact, around two o'clock in the afternoon, a tumbril was rolling heavily on the pavement of Rue Saint-Honoré; the sound of horses and the cries of people could be heard even in the courtyard. It was the thing that passed by.  Une Maison de la Rue Saint-Honoré by Alphonse Ésquiros, published in Revue de Paris, number 9 (May 1 1844). The incident is portayed as taking place during the time of the ”great terror” of June-July 1794. When republishing the anecdote in his Histoire des Montagnards (1847), Esquiros instead has Robespierre say this to Éléonore on January 21 1793, the day of the king’s execution.

It was the first days of Thermidor: Maximilien continued his evening walks at the Champ-Élysées with his adoptive family. The sun, at the end of the sky, buried its globe behind the clumps of trees, or swam softly here and there in a dark gold fluid. The sounds of the city died away in the agitated branches; everything was rest, silence and meditation: no more tribunes, no more people; nothing but the peaceful and solemn teaching of nature. Maximilien walked with the carpenter's eldest daughter at his arm: Brount followed them. What were they saying to each other? Only the breeze heard and forgot everything. Éléonore had a melancholy brow and downcast eyes: her hand carelessly stroked the head of Brount who seemed very proud of such beautiful caresses; Maximilien showed his fiancée how red the sunset was. Here ends the story of intimate life; here Mme L(ebas) movedly wiped her eyes. This walk was the last. The next day, Maximilien disappeared in a storm.  Une Maison de la Rue Saint-Honoré by Alphonse Ésquiros, published in Revue de Paris, number 9 (May 1 1844). When republishing the anecdote in Histoire des Montagnards (1847), volume 2, page 460, Esquiros adds the following part right after reprinting the anecdote word by word: “It will be good weather tomorrow,” said [Éléonore]. Maximilien lowered his head as if struck by an image and a terrible presentiment.

Legendre: At the time of 9 Thermidor, I was secretary as well as Dumont: I said to him: “There’s going to be some noise. Do you see in this rostrum the whole Duplay family? Do you see Gerard? Do you see Dechamps?” At the same moment Saint-Just began his speech; Tallien interrupted him and tore the veil.  Louis Legendre at the Convention March 26 1795

One of those who had witnessed the outcome of this catastrophe (the execution on 10 thermidor) told me that he recognized in the crowd Duplay's eldest daughter, who had wanted to see for one last time the man whom her whole family had looked upon as a god. Mémoires d’un prêtre regicide (1829) by Simon-Edme Monnel, page 337.

The widow of the deputy Le Bas, who gave birth to the man who was to be my teacher, was one of the daughters of the carpenter Duplay. This Duplay family had become Robespierre’s family. He lived with them, and when he died, he was engaged to Mademoiselle Éléonore, the sister of Madame Le Bas. The fiancée mourned Robespierre up until her death. This whole family was closely united, and the memory of the deceased contributed not a little to this union. Premières années, (1901) by Jules Simon, p. 181-187.

[adragonprinceswhore]

Rumours

Aemond Targaryen x (Ex)Wife

Chapter VI: Storms 🎼 Masterlist

Summary: Aemond’s wife left him following an explosive fight last week, and he hasn’t been able to find rest since.

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, depictions of a toxic relationship, possessive Aemond, shitty and useless coping mechanisms, reference to violence and injuries

Word count: 2300

A/N: Thank you always sweet sweet Justine (@theoneeyedprince) for looking this over and giving me ideas 🤭 ILY! The lyrics are interwoven with the story in this chapter, hope it makes sense! As you can tell, this is set a week after his wife left him, and before he wrote his new songs for Rumours…

‘Every night that goes between, I feel a little less’

8 hours and 25 minutes.

That’s how much sleep he’d gotten in the last week.

Since the fight.

Fights. Plural.

It wasn’t the first time he’d gotten into a physical altercation with his brother. His childhood memories are tainted by endless disputes, especially after their father died, back when Aegon would sneak out to get drunk while their mother worried sick at home.

Why was his brother seemingly incapable of behaving well? Aemond saw how his mother worried herself sick over her oldest son, while also having to deal with grieving the loss of her husband, and navigate the internal political turmoil the death of such an influential man left behind. And Aegon couldn’t even spare her further heartache.

Fucking pathetic excuse of a man.

It was, however, the first time he had hurt his wife. Physically, that is. She’d told him he’d hurt her before, when his jealousy got the best of him.

He knows he’s crossed a line. As soon as he lost his temper and threw that plate against the wall. Dangerously close to where she was standing.

He regrets it all. Why did it even have to happen in the first place? If she had just cooperated with him; worked with him instead of against him. Instead of hiding things from him, talking with Tyland behind his back.

He always knew that she’d leave. One day.

He’d never leave her.

Frustrated, Aemond lets out a quiet sigh and gets up from the bed, moving to sit on the edge, slouching as he places his head in his hands. He suddenly notices how quiet the room is; the loud thoughts echoing in his mind momentarily disappear as he ponders what he could do instead of sleeping.

He moves quietly to not wake Alys next to him, whose heavy breathing provides the only real sounds in the room. It is almost eerily quiet now that he thinks about it; such a stark contrast to the insufferable buzzing of thoughts roaming around in his head.

Rest doesn’t come to him anymore. 

His mind can’t provide him with any repose. Not even for a second.

He closes the door to the bedroom with a quiet ‘click’ and exits, moving towards the balcony connected to the large, open-plan living room.

She had picked this apartment, together with him.

Our home.

The memories of going to look at cabinets for the kitchen together, choosing a sofa together, fucking on said sofa, overtake his mind before he can distract himself.

‘As you slowly go away from me’

When he realised that she’d left and wouldn’t come back, he tried to erase her from the space, shoving all of her belongings into one of the wardrobes in the spare bedroom.

He couldn’t bear to throw them out. He couldn’t bear to see them either. She’d left behind everything he’d ever given her; all gifts he’d carefully picked out for her. Seeing her wedding ring on top of the kitchen island, next to the divorce papers and the shattered plate on the floor had made his stomach turn when he came home from the hospital.

‘This is only another test’

He’d suffered much harsher trials than this.

When he lost his eye in a car crash at only 10 years old, he suffered through the most excruciating pain of his life. He had to relearn everything; how to focus his gaze, how to read and write without developing a headache, how to play his favourite sports without running into his opponents. 

He’d managed all that, yet this time he felt consumed by an aching sense of dread.

A hopelessness deep in his chest.

‘Every night you do not come’

It was all too late. No turning back.

‘Your softness fades away’

He knows that the aching dread is the longing he feels for her. The thought of never touching her again, never being close to her again. 

Never being in her embrace again.

He feels a chill run through his body as he settles on the armchair placed by the wall, overlooking the bright lights of King’s Landing.

Reaching for the pack of cigarettes on the nearby table, he takes one out and lights it before taking a long drag, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back to rest against the back of the chair.

She’d chosen the patio furniture as well.

He fucking resents himself in this moment. Why is his body, his mind, incapable of doing what he wants? Forget her. She sure as hell wants to forget him.

‘Did I ever really care that much’

‘Is there anything left to say’

When she left during the fight backstage last week, he had wanted to run after her. But then he threw one quick glance at his older brother, and could barely see his expression due to all the blood smeared over his face.

He called out to him, but Aegon didn’t answer, laying limply on the old leather sofa with one arm hanging from the side and his mouth open. That was when Jace had come back in, face turning white in an instance as he was confronted with the scene before him, pulling out his phone from his pocket with a shaky hand to call an ambulance.

Aemond went with his brother to hospital, waiting by his side until he regained consciousness while trying to calm his distressed mother and wide-eyed sister. They had looked at him in the same way she had; eyes filled with animosity. He could barely meet their gazes as shame left his cheeks scalding.

‘Every hour of fear I spend’

‘My body tries to cry’

All he could think of at that moment was coming home. Home to her. To her warmth.

‘Living through each empty night’

‘A deadly call inside’

He takes another drag of his cigarette. Not being able to sleep, to eat, to think clearly is so foreign to him. It’s like when he lost his eye; he has to relearn everything. How to fucking breath.

There’s this restlessness inside him that won’t disappear, no matter how hard he tries to exorcise it. He’d tried going for walks; his usual go-to when he needed to clear his mind.

On one of those walks he’d smoked an entire pack of cigarettes.

How much time had passed? How long had he been out? He could hardly remember where he’d gone, what he’d seen or what time of day it’d been.

He’s lucky to have grown up in the centre of King’s Landing, knowing every street by heart, intuition leading his steps as he eventually finds his way back home. To an empty flat, haunted only by the memory of her.

She haunts him worst internally though, through his own mind.

There, in the eye of his mind, he sees his greatest fear; her with another man.

Any time he closes his eyes, the same image greets him; her, naked in the arms of another, throwing her head back in bliss.

She sighs and moans, letting her new man know how good he’s making her feel. She tells him too; that he’s the best she’s ever had.

She runs her hand down his cheek, unmarred and smooth. No harshly red scar, no unpleasant raised skin. Someone pretty, like her.

‘I haven’t felt this way I feel’

‘Since many a years ago’

He tried drinking; Aegon’s lobotomy of choice.

After downing two bottles of the Dornish red he’d received from some business associate when he was still working with his grandfather, he found sleep for 1 hour and 12 minutes before waking up with a racing heart and body covered in a slick sheet of cold sweat.

He would have tried talking to someone, if the only person he wanted to speak to hadn’t blocked his number. He’d realised that after being connected directly to voicemail each time he called her. That didn’t stop him from leaving messages though. First, they were filled with apologies and promises of never losing his cool again, of being better for her, of reassurance that he loves her. But as he grew to understand that she wouldn’t come back, his frustrations got the best of him.

He called her just to scream at her, into the nothingness that was her disconnected voicemail.

“I always knew you’d leave me! You fucking liar”, he spat as he threw his phone against the same wall he’d smashed the plate against.

It doesn’t matter. She’ll never hear them anyway.

The tiny bit of relief he felt afterwards hadn’t made any significant difference. He still couldn’t sleep, couldn’t find even a moment of tranquillity.

He places the cigarette between his teeth as he reaches forward to grab the notebook on the patio table next to his seat.

There’s one thing he still hasn’t tried.

As he plucks the pencil from where it's hanging on the side of the hardcover, he begins writing without thinking too much of what’s coming out, letting his hand guide his thoughts as he brings his plagued mind down on the paper.

‘In those years and the lifetimes past’

‘I did not deal with you, I know’

‘Though the love has always been’

His most recent attempt at finding respite from his mind was sleeping in his bed.

Our bed, he corrects himself with a wince.

He’d met Alys Rivers, manager at Riverland Creative Agency, earlier that day when he stopped for a drink during his quotidian nightly walk. She recognised him instantly, swiftly approaching him to mask her true intentions with some saccharine small talk. He knew she wanted to inquire about his band’s management; if they were satisfied with Tyland or if they’d be persuaded into joining her instead.

But all he could focus on was her hand casually placed on his shoulder as she spoke, her large, green eyes locking with his as she playfully teased him about his stoicism.

The heat radiating from her palm alone lit a fire inside of him, but rather than lust, he felt something akin to longing.

Yearning.

For warmth.

He asked her if she’d like to have a drink at his house, and when she replied with a wink and a cheeky retort, he knew she’d give him what he craved.

‘So I search to find an answer there’

‘So I can truly win’

Alys didn’t feel like her. Didn’t set the fire within him ablaze. Nor did she extinguish it. He didn’t feel better; he felt the same.

Restless.

Uneasy.

Different.

Broken.

‘Every hour of fear I spend’

‘My body tries to cry’

‘Living through each empty night’

‘A deadly call inside’

His hand moves on its own accord, words pouring out from him without having a chance to pass through his consciousness.

‘So I try to say goodbye, my friend’

‘I’d like to leave you with something warm’

Maybe he never gave her comfort?

Maybe all he did was take?

No. He knows he’s been a dutiful husband. He’s always been by her side, supporting her no matter what.

Unlike his own father; a shitty husband who was more of a burden on his mother’s shoulders than a pillar to lean on. Aemond knows that he’s nothing like his father. He gave his marriage his all; he never neglected his wife. 

He gave her all of him.

‘But never have I been a blue calm sea’

‘I’ve always been a storm’

But she didn’t want his love. She didn’t appreciate all he’d done for her. She didn’t understand him, not really. If she did, she wouldn’t shut him out like this.

Fuck her selfishness.

When he left his grandfather's firm to pursue music full-time, Otto Hightower had threatened to disown him, telling him that he’d make sure all ties Aemond had to the Hightower name would be cut off.

All he knew was how to be a good son and grandson. How to please his grandfather and mother. But when he confided in her about his predicament, asking her for advice on how to handle his grandfather's wrath, she’d cupped his cheeks and gazed into his eyes as she reassured,

“I am your family now, Aemond. We’ll always have each other” 

Liar.

He feels bile rise in the back of his throat as he keeps writing, allowing the feelings he didn’t know how to express some outlet. The thought of her now makes him feel sick.

‘Always been a storm’

‘We were frail’

He feels stupid; blinded by the light of her love.

‘She said, “Every night he will break your heart”’

‘I should have known from the first, I’d be the broken hearted’

Being given such warmth from another person. That’s what made him addicted to her.

He’d never experienced that before, not even from his mother or sister. There was always this restraint; this rift between them, for as long as he could remember.

But she let him in with open arms; let him into her comfort without resistance.

And now she’d taken that away from him.

‘I loved you from the start’

Looking at the lyrics written down in front of him, he doesn’t feel better. His shoulders don’t feel lighter. His chest doesn’t feel less tight. All he knows is that she did this. She promised to be by his side forever and broke that vow.

He leans back in the chair, fiddling with his lighter in one hand as he reads over the text again. What would she say if she saw how much she hurt him?

Would she come back?

The fleeting thought makes a tight knot form in his throat and he swallows forcefully to make it go away.

She’ll never come back.

He picks up the paper, letting the fire from the lighter in his other hand grace over the bottom corner, and sets it alight.

A/N: No, this is not a song form Rumours 🤭 but technically he doesn’t record it, so I think it’s fair! Tysm for reading 🩵

[my-religion-greek-myth]

Forever beyond

This one-shot is written purely for the last part of the story (only 740 words), but the story itself got a little bigger, so it became nearly 16k words.. 🫠 Twisted ver. of maiden, mother, crone

Fem Reader X Agatha X Rio, mainly fem Reader X Agatha

Warning: Depictions of birth (which I've no idea if I did right), blood and character death that may be disturbing to some readers

The moon hung heavy in the inky sky, its silver light slicing through the thick trees. Agatha griped your hand tightly, her blue eyes darting back and forth as the two of you ran through the underbrush. Each step sent tremors through your body, your other hand clutching your heavily pregnant belly.

“Agatha,” you panted, your voice trembling with exhaustion. “I—I can’t… we need to stop.”

“We can’t stop!” Agatha yelled, though her tone was tinged with worry. Her grip on your hand tightened, her own breath ragged. “We’re almost there. Just a little further, love.”

You whimpered, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks as you stumble. Agatha caught you, steadying you before pulling you along again. Every muscle in your body screamed in protest, and your swollen belly felt impossibly heavy.

Ahead of you, the shadows shifted, alive with something unnatural. Agatha’s jaw clenched, her glowing hands sparking with magic as she glanced behind you. “Don’t look back,” she whispered harshly. “Keep moving.”

But the pain became unbearable. You cried out, doubling over and clutching your stomach. Agatha froze, her face twisting with fear as she turned back to you. “Love, you have to—”

“I can’t!” you sobbed, your knees buckling. “The baby… something’s wrong. It’s too much.”

Before Agatha could answer, a figure emerged from the shadows ahead. Clad in black, with raven hair gleaming under the moonlight, she stepped into the clearing. Her dark eyes shimmered with an unsettling calm, though her face carried the weight of sorrow.

“Rio,” Agatha snarled, her voice thick with rage and desperation.

Rio—your Rio, your lover, and Death—stood motionless. Her presence was an unbearable weight, the air chilling around her. “It’s time,” she said softly, her voice hollow. “You know I can’t fight this.”

“Like hell you can’t!” Agatha hissed, stepping protectively in front of you as you trembled and whimpered in pain on the ground. “You’re not taking them. You’re not taking either of them!”

Rio’s gaze flickered between you and Agatha, and for a moment, her mask slipped. Her voice cracked as she spoke. “Agatha… I don’t want this. Do you think I want this?”

“Then stay back!” Agatha snapped, her voice venomous as her magic surged. A violet shockwave rippled through the clearing, forcing Rio a step back. “You don’t get to touch her!”

Rio raised her hands, her voice trembling with uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Agatha, please. I just want to—”

“No!” Agatha cut her off, her eyes blazing with tears and fury. “You think I’ll let you take her? Take our child? Over my dead body.”

Rio’s dark eyes softened, and her voice faltered. “Agatha,” she whispered. “I don’t want to take her. You know that.”

“Then leave!” Agatha’s magic flared again, cracking through the clearing like thunder. The shadows around Rio wavered, but she didn’t retreat fully. “If you come any closer, I’ll destroy you. I swear I will.”

Rio’s shoulders tense, her face a mask of anguish. “Agatha, I can’t just walk away. I didn’t choose this. It’s fate. The Fate… it’s stronger than I am.”

“Then fight it!” Agatha screamed, tears streaming down her face. “If you ever loved her—if you ever loved me—you’ll stay away.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists as her shadowy form flickers. “You think I haven’t tried? You think I don’t want to break this? I have loved you both more than you’ll ever know, but I can’t defy Fate.”

“You can,” Agatha growled, her voice raw and ragged. “You’re just too much of a coward to try.”

You cry out again, clutching at your belly as a fresh wave of pain tears through you. Agatha immediately dropped to her knees, her hands trembling as they cradled your face. “Stay with me, love,” she whispered, pressing her forehead against yours. “I’ll fix this. I’ll fix everything.”

Your voice was barely a whisper, trembling with fear and pain. “Agatha… I don’t want to go.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” she promised fiercely, her voice breaking. Her hands glowed brighter as she channelled her magic, pouring every ounce of her strength into you.

Rio stepped forward again, her dark form wavering as she kneeled near your side. Agatha’s head snapped up, her hand shooting out as another wave of magic struck Rio square in the chest, sending her backward.

“I said stay away!” Agatha roared, her voice thick with rage. “You don’t get to touch her!”

Rio rose slowly, her shadowy form flickering. “Agatha, I can’t do anything,” she said, her voice raw. “If I don’t guide her… if I don’t do this, it could cost both of them.”

“You’re lying!” Agatha screamed, her magic lashing out again, though Rio steadied herself against the impact. “You’re Death! All you do is take! You don’t help anyone!”

Rio flinched but didn’t argue. Instead, she stepped back into the edge of the shadows, her voice soft but firm. “Do what you can, Agatha. I’ll give you time. But I can’t hold this off forever.”

Agatha didn’t waste another second. Her magic surged, brighter and more desperate than ever, as she pressed her glowing hands to your belly. Tears streaked her face as she whispered frantic promises, her voice cracking with emotion.

“You’re staying with me,” she murmurs, her forehead pressed against yours. “Both of you. You’re not leaving me. I won’t let her have you.”

The forest hummed with power, Agatha’s magic blazing like fire as she fought against the inevitable.

And though Death lingered, watching from the shadows, Agatha refused to give up. She would fight until the last spark of her magic burned out—for you, for your child, for the life the three of you had built together.

No matter the cost.

Agatha’s hands trembled as the faint purple glow pulsed from her palms, weaving fragile tendrils of magic around your swollen belly. Each flicker of light was a plea, a desperate attempt to hold onto both you and the unborn child she had promised to protect. Sweat beaded on Agatha’s forehead, her dark curls sticking to her skin as her magic strained under the weight of her determination.

Your breaths came in shallow, laboured gasps, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet hers. Fear clouded your gaze, tears mingling with the sheen of sweat on your flushed cheeks. “Agatha,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling. “I’m scared.”

Agatha’s chest tightened as if your words had physically struck her. “Don’t be, love,” she murmured, though her own fear pressed against her ribs like a vice. “I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Just hold on for me.”

Your lips curved into the faintest of smiles, weak but trusting, as your trembling hand reached up to brush against her face. “You always say that,” you whispered, your voice a ghost of its usual warmth. “And I believe you.”

The glow of Agatha’s magic faltered momentarily, dimming as exhaustion crept in. Panic surged through her veins like fire. “No,” she hissed, her tone sharp as she refocused, pouring more of herself into the spell. “You’re not leaving me. Not like this.”

Behind her, Rio lingered, a cold weight pressing against the clearing as her presence loomed. Agatha didn’t need to turn around to know she was there, silent and watchful. The thought made her fury burn brighter, her determination more unrelenting.

“Stop hovering,” Agatha snapped, her voice biting even as her attention remained fixed on you. “You’re not taking her. Not now, not ever.”

Rio stepped closer, her dark eyes unreadable as she knelt beside the two of you. The air chilled further as her raven hair shimmered in the dim light of Agatha’s magic. “You’re fighting against nature, Agatha,” she said quietly, her voice calm but laden with sorrow. “Even your magic has limits.”

“Shut up,” Agatha growled, her violet energy flaring like a flame fed by gasoline. “I’ll decide when I’ve hit my limit, not you.”

Rio exhaled slowly, her hand twitching as though she wanted to reach for you but restrained herself. Her voice cracked with emotion. “Do you think this is what I want? To stand here, powerless, while you break yourself trying to save her?” She swallowed hard. “Do you think I want to take her from you? From us?”

“Then don’t,” Agatha bit out, her voice as sharp as a blade, cutting through the tension like steel. “Walk away, Rio. Just this once.”

Rio’s shoulders sagged slightly, but her gaze didn’t waver. “You know it doesn’t work like that,” she replied softly, her voice tinged with helplessness. “Fate doesn’t care about what I want.”

A sharp cry from you pulled their attention back to where you lay. Your body convulsed slightly, your hands clawing weakly at the earth as pain wracked your form. “Agatha,” you whimpered, your voice cracking. “The baby…”

Agatha’s heart shattered at the sound of your pain. “I’m here, love,” she said urgently, her hands glowing brighter as she pushed everything she had into stabilising you. “I’m right here. I won’t let you go.”

“She’s slipping,” Rio said softly, her voice almost inaudible over the hum of Agatha’s magic. “Agatha, you need to make a choice.”

“I already made my choice!” Agatha snarled, her magic flaring violently, illuminating the clearing in a burst of violet light. “I’m saving them both.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she moved closer, her hands hovering hesitantly over your stomach. A faint green glow began to emanate from her palms as she channelled her energy into supporting Agatha’s spell.

“What are you doing?” Agatha demanded, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“Helping,” Rio said simply, her tone devoid of its usual teasing lilt. “You’re not the only one who loves her, Agatha.”

The admission sent a jolt through Agatha, but there was no time to dwell on it. Together, their magic wove a fragile cocoon around you, a blend of purple and green light that pulsed rhythmically with the faint heartbeat of your child.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as the two women worked in silence, their energies entwined in a delicate balance. Your breathing began to steady, the sharp cries of pain fading into soft whimpers as the tension in your body eased.

Finally, Agatha collapsed back onto her heels, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. “She’s stable,” she whispered hoarsely. “For now.”

Rio remained kneeling, her gaze fixed on your peaceful face, her expression unreadable. “You bought her time,” she said quietly. “But this isn’t over.”

Agatha’s blue eyes burned as she turned to Rio. “Then we keep buying her time,” she said, her voice resolute. “As much as it takes.”

Rio hesitated, her gaze dropping to your belly. “Agatha,” she began, her voice low and measured. “If it comes down to it… if you have to choose—”

“I won’t,” Agatha interrupted fiercely, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips. “Don’t you dare ask me to.”

Rio met her gaze evenly, sadness and resolve etched into her features. “You might not have a choice.”

“I always have a choice,” Agatha snapped, her fists clenching as fresh tears burned her eyes. “And I’ll find another way. I always do.”

The tension between them hung heavy in the air, but the stillness was broken when your fingers twitched and your lips parted with a faint murmur. Agatha immediately leaned forward, brushing a damp curl from your forehead. “I’m here, love,” she whispered, her voice softening. “We’re both here.”

Rio reached out hesitantly, her hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “You’re safe,” she said softly. “We’ve got you.”

Your eyes fluttered open, unfocused but filled with a faint glimmer of recognition. A weak smile tugged at your lips as you looked between them. “You… you’re both here,” you murmured faintly.

Agatha pressed a kiss to your forehead, her tears mingling with the sweat on your skin. “Always,” she said firmly. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Rio nodded silently, her hand lingering on your shoulder as she exchanged a look with Agatha. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the two women shared a moment of unspoken understanding.

No matter what lay ahead, they would face it together.

And for you, they would fight until their last breath.

The cottage was tucked deep into the woods, shrouded in the earthy embrace of ancient trees and the faint hum of magic that Agatha had woven around its perimeter. The air inside was warm, the faint scent of herbs and candles lingering from spells cast earlier in the day. The soft glow of a fire crackled in the stone hearth, its light casting flickering shadows on the walls.

You rested in a small bed nestled against the corner of the room, bundled in blankets. The tension in your body had eased since Agatha and Rio brought you here, but your movements were still slow, your breaths faint and uneven. Agatha had barely left your side since they’d arrived, her hand often resting on yours, as if her touch alone could anchor you to the mortal world.

Rio stood in the doorway, her dark eyes scanning the room as though she didn’t belong there. She lingered, silent but watchful, her presence heavy with something unspoken. Agatha's shoulders tensed every time her gaze flicked toward you, her hand instinctively tightening over yours.

“Are you just going to stand there?” Agatha snapped, not looking up from where she was adjusting the edge of your blanket. Her voice was sharp, brimming with the exhaustion of someone who had barely slept in days. “Or do you have something useful to say?”

Rio stepped further into the room, the firelight catching the glint of her raven hair. “I came to check on her,” she said evenly, her tone measured. “I wasn’t sure if you’d let me.”

“Let you?” Agatha scoffed, finally lifting her eyes to glare at Rio. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you out of the forest entirely.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t argue. Instead, her gaze softened as it settled on you. “She’s still weak. If there’s anything I can do—”

“You’ve done enough,” Agatha interrupted, her voice dropping to a low growl. She shifted slightly, her body moving to shield you from Rio’s view. “I’m not letting you anywhere near her.”

Rio’s brow furrowed, her expression twisting with something between hurt and frustration. “Agatha,” she said quietly, her voice almost pleading. “You know I’m not here to take her soul. If I wanted to… it would’ve happened already.”

“And I’m supposed to trust that?” Agatha hissed, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips. “After everything? After you stood there in the clearing, ready to let fate take her from me?”

“I didn’t want to—” Rio started, but her voice faltered as she caught the venom in Agatha’s glare. She sighed, the weight of her eternal role hanging heavily on her shoulders. “You think I had a choice. You always think that. But I didn’t.”

“You always have a choice!” Agatha snapped, her voice rising as she stood, her posture stiff and protective. “You just chose wrong.”

The tension between them thickened, the unspoken wounds of their fractured relationship rising to the surface. Rio’s hands clenched at her sides, and she took a step back, her dark eyes glimmering with frustration. “You think this is easy for me?” she asked, her voice low. “Do you think it doesn’t kill me to see her like this? To see us like this?”

Agatha laughed bitterly, though there was no humour in it. “Don’t you dare make this about you,” she spat. “You don’t get to feel sorry for yourself. Not when she’s the one who nearly died because of you.”

Your fingers twitched weakly against the blanket, and Agatha immediately knelt beside you, her attention snapping back to you as though you were the only thing supporting her. “Love,” she murmured, her voice softening as her hand brushed your cheek. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You opened your eyes slowly, your gaze hazy as you blinked up at her. “Agatha,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “Rio… is she—?”

“She’s here,” Agatha said quickly, her lips pressing into a thin line as her other hand ran through your hair. “But you don’t need to worry about her. She’s not going to touch you.”

Rio stepped closer, her footsteps hesitant. “I wouldn’t hurt her voluntarily,” she said softly, though her words were directed more at you than Agatha. “You know I wouldn’t.”

Agatha’s eyes flashed, and she turned her head sharply to glare at Rio. “Don’t come any closer,” she growled, her magic crackling faintly in the air around her. “I’m warning you.”

Rio froze, her dark eyes filled with something that looked like regret. “Agatha—”

“Don’t test me,” Agatha snarled, her voice low and dangerous. “I’ll fight you again if I have to.”

You weakly reached for Agatha’s hand, your fingers curling around hers in an effort to ease the tension. “Stop,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. “Please… don’t fight.”

Agatha’s expression softened immediately as she turned back to you, her shoulders relaxing as she leaned closer. “I’m sorry, love,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Rio remained where she was, her hands clenched at her sides. She looked at you, her gaze heavy with longing, but she didn’t dare take another step. “I just want to help,” she said quietly. “If you’ll let me.”

Agatha didn’t respond, her focus entirely on you as she brushed a stray curl from your forehead. Her voice was a murmur, meant only for you. “I’m not letting her take you. Not now, not ever.”

Rio lingered in the doorway, the distance between her and the two of you feeling impossibly vast. The rift between them remained, but in the quiet of the cottage, the weight of their love—for you and each other— was like a fragile thread, threatening to snap with the slightest tension.

And as the fire crackled softly, you closed your eyes, exhaustion pulling you under again. Agatha’s touch remained a constant anchor, but even in the haze of sleep, you could feel the heavy presence of Rio, watching from a distance, unable to leave but unable to stay.

The dim light of the realm flickered as Agatha paced back and forth, her blue eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and desperation. Tendrils of purple magic sparked at her fingertips, crackling in the heavy air like distant thunder. Each step she took reverberated with the weight of her emotions. On the other side of the room, Rio leaned against a worn stone pillar, her dark eyes calm but shadowed with an emotion she rarely let surface—guilt.

“You’re telling me you can’t do anything?” Agatha’s voice sliced through the suffocating silence like a blade. Her hands clenched into fists, and the air around her vibrated with the barely restrained power of her magic. “You’re Death, Rio. Death! You’re supposed to have power over this.”

Rio straightened, her dark hair falling around her sharp features like a veil. “And because I’m Death, I know the limits,” she said evenly, though the edge in her voice betrayed her own frustration. “I’ve bought her time. More time than I should have. But it’s catching up, Agatha. You know it as well as I do.”

“Don’t.” Agatha stopped pacing abruptly, turning to face Rio with a look that could have scorched the ground beneath them. Her blue eyes bore into Rio’s, daring her to say more. “Don’t you dare talk about her like she’s just another soul. She’s not some name on your ledger!”

“I never said she was,” Rio snapped, her voice rising as her own composure cracked. She pushed off the pillar and took a step forward, her presence suddenly more commanding. “Do you think this is easy for me? Watching her? Watching you? Knowing I can’t stop what’s coming? Do you think I don’t feel it too?”

Agatha’s chest heaved, her magic flaring dangerously as she closed the distance between them. “Then do something!” she growled, her voice low and venomous. “You have the power, Rio. Use it. Fix this.”

Rio’s expression darkened, her jaw tightening as she stepped even closer. “You think I haven’t tried?” she shot back, her voice breaking with a rare rawness. “You think I don’t want to tear apart every law of existence just to keep her safe? But this isn’t something I can fix with a snap of my fingers. It’s her time, Agatha. And every second I’ve delayed it, I’ve risked tearing everything apart.”

Agatha’s entire body trembled, her hands shaking with the effort of restraining her magic. Her voice cracked as she hissed, “I don’t care about balance. I don’t care about the universe. I care about her. I care about our family. And if you can’t do anything—if you won’t do anything—then what the hell are we even fighting for?”

Rio’s eyes softened, her own frustration melting into an aching sorrow that she couldn’t fully mask. “Agatha,” she said quietly, her voice losing its sharpness. “You know I love her. You know I’d give anything to keep her here. But even I have limits. Even I can’t outrun death forever.”

For a moment, the only sound between them was the faint hum of Agatha’s magic, pulsing in rhythm with her ragged breaths. The silence was heavy, filled with unspoken fears and shared pain that neither of them knew how to voice. Slowly, the violet glow at Agatha’s fingertips dimmed, though her hands still trembled with the weight of her emotions.

“She’s not just anyone,” Agatha whispered, her voice raw with anguish. “She’s F/N. She’s ours.”

Rio nodded, her calm facade cracking just enough to reveal the depths of her pain. “I know,” she said softly, her voice laced with regret. She took another cautious step forward. “But what do you want me to do? Steal time from the universe? Take life from others to give it to her? You know she wouldn’t want that.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, her gaze dropping to the ground as her voice faltered. “I just… I can’t lose her,” she admitted, the words barely audible, trembling in the air like fragile glass. “I can’t lose her again.”

Rio hesitated before reaching out, her hand brushing against Agatha’s arm with a gentleness that felt foreign in the heavy atmosphere. “Neither can I,” she murmured, her voice steady but heavy with sorrow. “But if we keep holding on too tightly, we’ll lose more than just her. We’ll lose ourselves. And she’d never forgive us for that.”

Agatha’s shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her as Rio’s words seeped into her defences. The sparks of magic around her hands flickered and faded, leaving only a faint hum in the air. Her voice trembled as she finally spoke. “You’re asking me to let her go.”

Rio shook her head slowly, her dark eyes locked onto Agatha’s. “I’m asking you to love her in the way she needs—to let her live without the weight of our desperation crushing her.” She paused, her gaze unwavering. “And to let me do my job when the time comes.”

Agatha looked up, her blue eyes glistening with unshed tears. Her lips quivered as she whispered, “I hate you.”

Rio’s lips curled into a faint, bittersweet smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “I know,” she said softly.

For a moment, the two women stood in silence, their love for you and their pain for what they couldn’t control binding them together even as it tore them apart. Agatha’s fists tightened at her sides, and she turned away, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’ll stay away from her for now.”

Rio hesitated but eventually nodded, stepping back into the shadows. “For now,” she agreed, her voice hollow.

As the light in the realm dimmed once more, Agatha stood frozen, her heart shattering under the weight of what she could not stop. Even as Rio disappeared from view, the heaviness in the air lingered—a reminder of the love they shared for you and the cruel fate that bound them all.

The quiet of the night enveloped the room, broken only by the crackling of the small fire in the hearth. You lay propped up against a mountain of pillows, your face pale but serene, the shadows of exhaustion softening your features. Your hands rested on your swollen belly, your fingers tracing slow, soothing circles. Agatha sat beside you, holding your hand tightly, her piercing blue eyes never straying far from your face. The tension in her body was palpable, every muscle coiled, ready to protect you from a threat she couldn’t touch.

Rio lingered in the doorway, her dark eyes shadowed as she watched the two of you. Her presence was heavy, her silence filled with unspoken words she didn’t know how to say. The air between her and Agatha crackled faintly, not with magic but with the weight of everything unsaid.

Your voice broke the stillness, soft and fragile like the first crack of ice on a frozen lake. “Agatha,” you began, your gaze shifting to meet hers. The intensity of her eyes—the way they softened for you—made your heart ache. “I need you to promise me something.”

Agatha’s brow furrowed deeply, her grip on your hand tightening as though holding you tethered to her would keep you safe. “Anything,” she said immediately, her voice firm despite the emotion trembling beneath it. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

A faint smile flickered across your lips, your hand brushing against hers. “If something happens to me during the birth…” You hesitated, swallowing hard, the words heavy and bitter on your tongue. “Promise me you’ll save the baby.”

Agatha’s expression froze, the colour draining from her face as if the words had struck her physically. Her body stiffened, her entire being rejecting the thought. “Don’t,” she said sharply, her voice low and strained. “Don’t say that. You’re going to be fine. We’re all going to be fine.”

“Agatha.” Your tone was firm, cutting through her resistance as your fingers tightened around hers. “Listen to me. Please. I need you to hear this.”

From the doorway, Rio’s voice came, soft but weighted with the gravity of her role. “She’s right, Agatha,” she said, stepping forward cautiously, her shadow stretching across the room. “You need to—”

“Not now,” you said, raising a hand to silence her, your gaze never leaving Agatha. “This is between me and her.”

Agatha’s jaw clenched, her breathing uneven as she shook her head. “I’m not making that promise,” she said, her voice laced with defiance. The faint purple glow of her magic sparked at her fingertips, betraying the storm raging inside her. “I refuse to make that choice. I won’t lose you, not again. Not after everything we’ve fought for.”

Tears welled in your eyes, though you tried to keep your voice steady. “It’s not about losing me,” you said gently. “It’s about giving our baby a chance to live, to grow, to have a future. You can’t fight Death forever, Agatha. Not even for me.”

Agatha’s gaze dropped to your joined hands, her silence thick with turmoil. When she finally spoke, her voice was hoarse, cracked by the weight of her emotions. “You’re asking me to give up the person I love most in this world.”

“And I’m asking you to love our child enough to do what’s right,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute. “Agatha, I need to know that our baby will have you, even if I can’t be there.”

Rio stepped closer, her movements slow, cautious. Her dark eyes softened as they flicked to you. “She’s not wrong,” she said quietly, her tone steady but carrying a deep sadness. “I’ll be here. I’ll do everything I can to make sure our child makes it through.”

You turned your gaze to Rio, offering her a faint, weary smile. “I trust you, Rio,” you murmured. “But this isn’t about magic or power. It’s about being prepared for the worst.” Your attention shifted back to Agatha, your voice breaking as you added, “I need you to promise me.”

Agatha’s shoulders trembled as she inhaled shakily, her lips pressing into a thin, defiant line. The weight of your plea crushed her, an immovable force against the love that burned inside her. Slowly, reluctantly, she nodded, her voice barely audible as she whispered, “I promise.”

You let out a shaky breath, relief mingling with the sadness in your eyes. “Thank you,” you said softly, your fingers brushing against her cheek. “I love you.”

Agatha leaned forward, pressing her forehead against yours. The tears she had held back slipped free, streaking down her cheeks as her voice cracked. “I love you more than anything,” she whispered fiercely. “More than life itself.”

Rio stood silently, her chest tight as she watched the exchange. The shadow of her role as Death loomed over her like a silent spectre, a reminder of what might come. Her hands twitched at her sides, her heart aching with the knowledge of the inevitabilities she could not change.

Agatha turned slightly, her gaze finding Rio as if sensing her presence. “Stay where you are,” she said sharply, her voice low and dangerous. “I don’t want you near her.”

Rio’s brows furrowed, the faintest flicker of pain crossing her face. “Agatha—”

“I said stay back!” Agatha growled, her magic sparking faintly around her. “You’ve already taken enough from us.”

Rio hesitated but nodded, retreating a step, her expression one of quiet understanding. “I’ll be here,” she murmured, her voice soft but resolute. “If you need me.”

The quiet returned, broken only by the crackle of the fire as Agatha’s hand brushed gently against your hair. “Rest,” she murmured, her voice trembling but tender. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

Rio lingered by the doorway, her shadow blending with the flickering light of the fire. Though the bond between the three of you had frayed under the weight of loss and love, her presence remained a silent promise, her own love for you holding her in place.

And as your eyes fluttered closed, Agatha and Rio remained rooted in their shared pain and devotion, bound by the fragile thread of hope that still held you all together.

The room was silent after you drifted back to sleep, your breathing steady, your hand still clutching Agatha’s like a lifeline. Agatha sat motionless beside you, her fingers intertwined with yours as if letting go would allow you to slip away. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering shadows that danced on the walls, but even its warmth couldn’t ease the chill settling over her heart.

Rio leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. The faint glow of the firelight reflected in her dark eyes, but the shadows beneath them betrayed the weight she carried. Finally, after a long moment, she broke the silence, her voice low and cautious. “She’s braver than both of us.”

Agatha didn’t look up, focusing entirely on you as her thumb brushed over your knuckles in a steady rhythm. Her jaw tightened, and her voice, when it came, was thick with restrained emotion. “She shouldn’t have to be,” she murmured. “I’m supposed to protect her. I promised her a life of love, not… this.”

Rio pushed off the doorframe, her movements slow and deliberate as she stepped closer. Her dark eyes softened as she took in the scene before her—the woman she loved, the fragile person they both adored, lying between them like the thread that bound their fractured relationship together. “Agatha,” she said gently, her tone careful. “You’ve done everything you can to keep her safe. You can’t carry all of this on your shoulders.”

“Can’t I?” Agatha’s head snapped up, her sharp blue eyes blazing with frustration. “I’ve spent my life mastering magic, bending the rules of nature itself, to make sure she’d never know this kind of pain. And yet, here we are.”

Rio hesitated, but she moved closer, her hands still at her sides as though afraid to reach out. “You’ve done more than anyone else could,” she said quietly. “More than anyone else ever would. But there are limits to what even you can do, Agatha.”

Agatha’s glare hardened. “Don’t you dare talk to me about limits,” she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut. “You don’t know what it’s like. You stand there and watch—you let this happen—because you’re too bound by your so-called rules to fight for her.”

Rio flinched, her composure cracking for just a moment before she schooled her features into calm again. “Do you think I don’t feel it too?” she said softly, her voice raw despite her restraint. “Do you think I don’t love her enough to want to change all of this? But you know what I am. You know what I’m bound to.”

Agatha let out a bitter laugh, though it was thick with pain. “You’re Death. The one thing no one can escape. And now you expect me to just sit here and wait for you to take her away.”

“I don’t expect you to do anything,” Rio replied, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I would never want to take her from you. From us.” Her dark eyes flicked to you, lingering on the peaceful rise and fall of your chest. “But this isn’t something I can control, Agatha. No matter how much I might want to.”

Agatha’s fingers tightened around yours, her free hand trembling as she smoothed a stray lock of hair from your forehead. “She made me promise,” she said, her voice breaking under the weight of the memory. “She asked me to choose the baby over her if it came to that.”

Rio’s gaze softened further, and she crouched down beside Agatha, though she made sure to keep her distance. “She doesn’t want you to carry more pain than you already have,” she murmured. “She loves you enough to think of your future, even if it doesn’t include her.”

“It feels like betrayal,” Agatha admitted, her voice trembling. “How can I promise to let her go when every part of me is screaming to hold on?”

Rio didn’t answer immediately. She stayed still, her presence steady even as her own emotions simmered beneath the surface. Finally, she said softly, “Because that’s what love is, Agatha. It’s not just holding on—it’s knowing when to let go. Even when it breaks you.”

Agatha’s head lowered, her tears falling silently as her shoulders shook. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she whispered, “I hate this. I hate you for being part of it.”

Rio’s dark eyes glistened with unspoken sorrow, but she nodded, her voice steady despite the crack threatening to break it. “I know,” she said simply. “And I’m sorry.”

For a moment, the two women sat in silence, their shared burden heavy between them. Agatha’s anger and Rio’s guilt coiled tightly in the air, but both of them stayed where they were, bound by the love they shared for you and the impossible choices looming ahead.

The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its glow painting the room in shades of warmth and shadow. Agatha’s hand brushed gently against yours as she pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, her voice trembling as she whispered, “I won’t lose you. I can’t.”

Rio didn’t reply. She stayed there, her gaze fixed on you, her hands clenched at her sides. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—speak the truth that hung in the back of her mind: that when the time came, she might not have a choice. Because to say it would only fuel Agatha’s rage, and because, deep down, it was the one inevitability that broke her just as much as it broke Agatha.

The silence stretched long into the night, filled with unspoken fears and a fragile hope that none of them dared to voice. For now, Rio remained in the shadows, watching as Agatha held you close, her love burning brighter than ever.

As the weeks passed, you grew quieter, your strength waning as your belly swelled with the life inside you. Agatha became your constant shadow, rarely leaving your side for more than a few moments. Her entire world seemed to narrow to you and the child you carried, her fierce protectiveness manifesting in every glance, every touch, and every whispered reassurance. She hovered over you like a storm, her presence an unrelenting shield against the world.

Rio, meanwhile, managed the day-to-day practicalities. She ensured the cottage was well-stocked, checked and rechecked the magical wards surrounding the property, and kept watch over the realm for any signs of danger. Her movements were efficient and deliberate, but there was an unspoken heaviness in her gaze whenever it landed on you. She tried not to linger near you and Agatha too long, knowing her presence only added to the tension that simmered beneath the surface.

One evening, as the setting sun bathed the sitting room in warm hues of amber and gold, you lay curled up on the chaise with Agatha. Your head rested against her shoulder as she read to you from an old, leather-bound book, her voice soft and soothing. Her arm was draped protectively around you, her free hand absently tracing circles over your belly. You felt the vibrations of her voice through her chest, supporting you in a way that no spell or charm ever could.

The door creaked open, and Rio entered carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. She hesitated in the doorway for a moment, her dark eyes flicking between the two of you. Her usual calm exterior didn’t waver, but there was a subtle tension in the way she held the tray, as though she were bracing herself.

She set the tray down on the small table near the fire and crossed her arms, leaning against the edge of the chair across the room. “You two look cosy,” she said lightly, her voice tinged with her usual light humour.

You opened your eyes halfway, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite the exhaustion that weighed on you. “You’re jealous,” you murmured, your tone playful even though it came out weak.

Rio’s lips curved into a small smile, though her gaze softened. “Always,” she replied simply, her voice quieter now.

Agatha didn’t respond, focusing entirely on you as she continued tracing gentle patterns on your arm. Her sharp eyes flicked briefly toward Rio but quickly returned to you as if any moment spent acknowledging Rio’s presence might give her an opening to do what Agatha feared most.

You shifted slightly, placing your hand over Agatha’s as you glanced at Rio with a tired but teasing grin. “Lucky kid,” you said softly, your voice carrying a faint lilt of humour. “Gets to have Death as his mama.”

The air in the room shifted, the playful remark landing heavier than you likely intended. Agatha stiffened beside you, her body tensing as her jaw tightened. Her hand stopped moving against your arm, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.

Rio chuckled faintly, though the sound didn’t carry much humour. “He’ll be luckier to have two mothers who’d do anything for him,” she said, her tone gentle but steady. She didn’t move closer, staying rooted in her spot across the room as her dark gaze lingered on you.

You looked between the two women, sensing the unspoken tension that had grown thicker over the past weeks. Your hand tightened slightly over Agatha’s, supporting her as you leaned back into her warmth. “Do you think he’ll be okay?” you asked softly, your other hand moving to rest on your swollen belly. “Our baby?”

Agatha’s lips parted as if to speak, but her voice faltered. She swallowed hard, her hand covering yours over your belly. It was Rio who broke the silence, her voice steady but low. “He’ll be perfect,” she said firmly, her eyes locking on yours. “And we’ll make sure he’s safe.”

Agatha’s hand trembled slightly as she nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’ll have everything we didn’t,” she murmured. “Love, safety, and… a future.”

You smiled faintly, the weight of the conversation pulling at your features. “A future,” you repeated softly, your eyes drifting closed for a moment. “That’s all I want for him.”

Agatha’s grip on you tightened imperceptibly, her chin brushing against your hair as she pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Rest, love,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Rio stayed where she was, her arms crossed as she watched the two of you. The faintest flicker of a smile touched her lips, but her eyes were heavy with emotions she couldn’t voice. She wanted to step closer, to sit with you and reassure you as much as Agatha did, but she knew better. Agatha’s protectiveness over you had only grown sharper with time, and any attempt to close the distance now would only stoke the flames of her fear.

The firelight flickered softly as the room settled into silence again. Agatha remained at your side, her hand resting protectively on your belly, while Rio lingered in the background, her shadow stretching across the floor. Though they didn’t speak to each other, the love they both felt for you filled the space between them—a love that bound them even as it fractured the fragile balance of their relationship.

And as the fire crackled and you drifted into a light sleep, Agatha’s hold on you didn’t loosen. Her sharp eyes darted briefly to Rio, her jaw tightening as though daring her to make a move. Rio didn’t. She stayed rooted in place, her expression unreadable, her presence a silent reminder of the inevitability neither of them wanted to face.

For now, the tension remained unspoken, the fragile peace held together by their shared devotion to you and the life growing within you.

The days blurred into an anxious haze as your due date crept closer, each moment heavy with anticipation and dread. The tension in the cottage was palpable, a shadow that seemed to stretch across every interaction. Agatha barely left your side, her eyes constantly scanning you for any sign of discomfort or distress. Her presence was fierce and protective, an unrelenting force that seemed determined to shield you from the world.

Rio, ever the silent observer, hovered at the edges of the household. She rarely spoke, her dark eyes watchful and brooding as she moved through the space, preparing for every possibility. Her presence, though quiet, was impossible to ignore—a constant reminder of the inevitabilities that hung over all of you.

One evening, as you leaned against a mountain of pillows in the sitting room, you tried to lighten the mood. “You two are going to smother me before this baby even arrives,” you teased, a faint smile gracing your lips despite the exhaustion etched into your features. Your hands rested protectively on your belly, the simple gesture grounding you amidst the whirlwind of emotions.

“Smothering?” Agatha scoffed, though the faint flicker of purple magic at her fingertips betrayed her anxiety. “I call it being attentive, thank you very much.”

From the doorway, Rio leaned casually against the frame, her dark hair brushing her shoulders as she raised a brow. “Attentive?” she drawled. “More like borderline obsessive.”

Agatha’s head snapped up, her icy eyes narrowing into a sharp glare. “This from the woman who refuses to leave the house because ‘something might happen,’” she shot back, her voice laced with tension.

“Guilty,” Rio admitted unapologetically, her grin faint but genuine. “But let’s not pretend you’re subtle, Agatha. The moment she so much as sneezes, you act like the world’s ending.”

You laughed softly, though the sound carried a hint of weariness. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you two are more nervous than I am.”

“Nervous doesn’t begin to cover it,” Agatha muttered, her voice softening as she reached out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. Her touch lingered, her hand trembling slightly as her gaze searched yours for reassurance. “This baby means everything to us. You mean everything to us.”

Rio’s expression shifted, her usual sharpness giving way to a rare vulnerability. She glanced at you, then at Agatha, her voice quiet when she finally spoke. “You’ve been through a lot,” she admitted, the words tinged with an uncharacteristic rawness. “But this? This is something we can’t afford to lose.”

Your heart ached at the emotion in their voices, the love and fear that bound the three of you together despite the fractures in your relationship. You reached out, taking both of their hands in yours. Agatha’s hand tightened instinctively, while Rio hesitated for a brief moment before letting your fingers close around hers.

“We won’t lose,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the tears glistening in your eyes. “We’ve made it this far together. We’ll make it through this too.”

The words echoed, a balm that eased the tension in the room, if only for a moment. Agatha said nothing, her jaw tight as she looked down at your joined hands. Rio, too, remained quiet, her dark eyes shadowed with something unreadable. Yet, the weight in the room lifted slightly, giving way to a fragile peace.

But as the days passed, the reality of your condition became harder to ignore. The once-fragile peace began to crack under the strain of what lay ahead.

It was early morning when the first sharp pain woke you. The cottage was still, the faint glow of dawn just beginning to peek through the curtains. You gasped, your hand flying instinctively to your belly as a wave of nausea rolled over you, leaving you breathless.

Agatha was at your side in an instant, her blue eyes wide with concern. “What is it?” she said urgently, her hands hovering just above you, trembling slightly as if afraid to touch you and make it worse. “What’s wrong?”

You winced, struggling to steady your breathing as the pain rippled through you again. “I… I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice strained. “It feels… different.”

The door to the room creaked open, and Rio appeared moments later. She didn’t say anything at first, her dark eyes narrowing as she took in the scene—Agatha kneeling by your side, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips, and you, trembling and clutching your belly.

“Is it time?” Rio asked finally, her voice low but tense. She stayed near the door, her presence looming but not invasive.

Agatha shot her a quick glare, her jaw tightening. “I don’t know,” she admitted through gritted teeth. Her focus returned to you, her hands moving carefully to help you sit up. “But we’re not taking any chances.”

Rio didn’t move closer, her arms crossing tightly over her chest as she stayed rooted near the doorway. Agatha, for her part, barely acknowledged her presence, her attention consumed by you. Her hands brushed over your hair, her voice softening as she murmured, “I’m here, love. I’ve got you.”

You leaned into Agatha’s touch, the pain ebbing slightly under the weight of her presence. Your breath came in shallow gasps, but you managed to nod, gripping her arm weakly. “I… I think it might be starting,” you whispered.

Agatha’s magic surged faintly in response, the violet light at her fingertips casting flickering shadows across the walls. Her expression hardened with determination, even as a flicker of fear glimmered in her blue eyes. “Then we’re ready,” she said, her voice steady but strained.

Rio lingered silently, her gaze fixed on you. Her hands clenched at her sides, but she didn’t move closer. Agatha’s protectiveness burned like a shield around you, and Rio knew better than to test it now. Instead, she stayed where she was, her dark eyes heavy with the weight of everything she couldn’t say.

The tension in the room was palpable, the air charged with both love and fear. And as the morning light crept further into the room, you gripped Agatha’s hand tightly, bracing yourself for what was to come.

The labour room was a maelstrom of chaos and emotion, tension thick enough to suffocate. Your cries of pain tore through the air, raw and unrelenting, as Agatha clung to your hand like it was the only anchor she had left. Blood soaked the sheets beneath you, vivid and horrifying against the white fabric, spilling far too freely for anyone’s comfort. Agatha’s eyes darted between your pale, sweat-slicked face and the midwife’s grim expression, her panic barely restrained behind a mask of determination.

“Push, doll,” Agatha urged, her voice steady despite the tremor of fear deep in her core. She leaned close, brushing damp strands of hair from your flushed face, her grip on your hand unrelenting. “You’re almost there. Just one more.”

Your chest heaved, your breathing ragged as the contraction wracked your body. Tears streaked your cheeks, and your voice broke with exhaustion as you whimpered, “I can’t… I can’t do this… It hurts so much.”

“You can,” Agatha said firmly, her voice commanding and unwavering. “You’re stronger than this. You’ve come too far to stop now. You’re almost there, love.”

The midwife worked frantically at the foot of the bed, barking orders to her assistant, who scrambled to fetch more cloth. Blood was everywhere, a terrifying reminder of the precariousness of the moment. Agatha’s mind raced with incantations, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips as she searched desperately for something—anything—that could help. But magic, her greatest strength, felt useless here. She couldn’t destroy what threatened to take you from her. And for the first time in centuries, she felt truly powerless.

Rio stood silently in the corner of the room, her dark eyes fixed on you. Her presence was heavy, oppressive even, though her usual commanding aura was muted. Death lingered in her stance, in the tightness of her jaw, in the way her lips pressed into a grim line. She didn’t need to speak for Agatha to feel it—time was slipping away.

“Do something!” Agatha snarled suddenly, her head snapping toward Rio. Her voice was venomous, her blue eyes blazing with fury. “You can’t just stand there and watch!”

Rio’s gaze didn’t waver. Her voice, when it came, was low but steady. “You know I can’t interfere.”

“Like hell you can’t!” Agatha spat, her grip tightening on your hand as another contraction tore through you, wrenching a scream from your throat. “This isn’t just some arbitrary soul, Rio. This is her. This is our life. And I’ll be damned if you take her from me!”

“Agatha…” you whimpered weakly, your voice barely audible over the chaos. Your head rolled to the side as fresh tears slipped down your cheeks. “Stop… please… don’t fight…”

Agatha’s sharp gaze softened, vulnerability cracking through her unyielding façade as she turned back to you. “You have to stay with me,” she whispered fiercely, her hand trembling as she cupped your face. “You hear me? You have to stay.”

Another contraction hit, and you screamed, your body arching as blood poured from you in unrelenting waves. The midwife’s assistant hurriedly replaced the soaked cloth, her hands shaking. “The baby is close,” the midwife said urgently, her tone grim, “but the mother—she’s losing too much blood.”

You gasped faintly, your strength fading. “Save… the baby,” you murmured, your voice so weak it was almost lost beneath the midwife’s hurried commands.

“No,” Agatha barked, her head snapping toward you. “Don’t you dare say that!”

“Please,” you whispered, tears spilling freely now. “Promise me…”

Agatha’s hands trembled as she cradled your face, her magic sparking erratically. “No, love. We’re not doing that,” she choked out, her voice breaking. “You’re going to make it. Both of you are going to make it.”

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch as your final scream shattered the air. Then, finally, the sharp cry of the baby cut through the chaos. The sound was piercing, raw, and beautiful all at once, and for a brief, miraculous moment, the room seemed to pause.

“It’s a boy,” the midwife announced, wrapping the squirming infant in a bloodied cloth before holding him out to Agatha.

Agatha took the tiny bundle into her arms, her breath catching as she stared down at him. His cries were strong, his little fists flailing as if protesting the ordeal of his arrival. “He’s perfect,” Agatha murmured, her tears falling freely as she looked at him. “Absolutely perfect.”

But the moment shattered as you gasped sharply, your body convulsing. Agatha’s head snapped back to you, panic flooding her expression. “No, no, no. F/N!” she cried, clutching your hand. Blood continued to pour from you, staining everything in its path.

“She’s fading,” Rio said quietly, stepping forward. Her voice was steady, but the tightness in her expression betrayed the depth of her own pain.

“No!” Agatha snarled, her magic flaring violently, the room trembling with the force of her power. “You’re not taking her, Rio! I’ll destroy everything if you try.”

Your hand weakly brushed against Agatha’s arm, drawing her attention. “Agatha…” you murmured, your voice faint but full of love. “Stop… I love you…”

“Don’t you dare leave me,” Agatha whispered, her tears falling faster as she pressed a kiss to your clammy forehead. “You stay with me, you hear me?”

Rio knelt beside you both, her expression unreadable as she extended her hands. “Agatha,” she said firmly, “I can help. But you must let me.”

Agatha hesitated, her entire body trembling. For a moment, her magic surged again, crackling in the air around her, but then she relented. Slowly, reluctantly, she loosened her grip on her power. “Do it,” she growled. “But if you take her…”

“I won’t,” Rio said quietly, her hands glowing faintly as her power washed over you like a soft, steady wave. The bleeding slowed, though it didn’t stop completely. Sweat beaded on Rio’s brow as she pushed against her own limits. “This will buy her time,” she said through gritted teeth. “But it’s up to her now.”

Agatha sobbed, clutching the baby close as she pressed another kiss to your forehead. “You hear that, love? You fight. You hold on for us.”

Your lips twitched into a faint smile as your eyes fluttered closed. “Nicky,” you murmured softly.

Agatha’s heart clenched, her voice breaking as she repeated, “Nicky. Our Nicholas.”

The baby’s cries softened as if soothed by your voice. Agatha held him close, her tears falling freely as she whispered, “He’s perfect, F/N. Just like you.”

Rio sat back slightly, her dark eyes heavy as she watched you breathe, each rise and fall of your chest a fragile miracle. Agatha didn’t look at her; her entire world was consumed by you and the tiny life in her arms. For now, you had survived. But the weight of what had almost been lingered between them, a reminder of how close they had come to losing everything.

The tension in the dimly lit room was suffocating, pressing down on every breath. The midwife and her assistant moved swiftly, their hands deft and precise as they worked to stabilise you. The bleeding had slowed, but their faces remained pale with worry. When your breathing evened out, and you fell into a fragile sleep, the midwife looked to Agatha, her voice low but urgent. “She’s stable, for now.”

Agatha nodded sharply, her expression carved from stone. “Thank you,” she said curtly, her voice tight with exhaustion. The midwife hesitated as her gaze flicked between Agatha, you, and the baby in Agatha's arms, but finally, she turned to leave. She and her assistant exited quietly, the door clicking shut behind them.

The silence followed was heavy and oppressive, broken only by the crackling fire and your soft, laboured breaths. Agatha stood at the edge of the bed, her blue eyes fixed on you. Your face, pale and damp with sweat, was peaceful in sleep, though the strain lingered faintly in the lines of your brow. Nicky stirred in Agatha's arms, his tiny body warm and content, blissfully unaware of the storm surrounding him.

Rio stepped forward from her place by the door, her dark eyes shadowed with regret. “She’s alive,” she said quietly, her voice heavy. “For now.”

Agatha didn’t look at her, her attention fixed on you as she carefully craded Nicky. The baby whimpered faintly at the movement, but she pulled him close, murmuring softly until he settled against her chest. “And she’ll stay that way,” Agatha said, her voice low and dangerous.

“You know the cost,” Rio said, her voice carrying an unmistakable weight. “You know what it’ll take.”

Agatha finally turned to her, her blue eyes blazing with unrelenting resolve. “I don’t care.”

Rio hesitated, her dark gaze flicking between Agatha and the child she held. “You’re talking about taking lives, Agatha. This isn’t something you can undo.”

“I don’t want to undo it,” Agatha snapped, her magic sparking faintly at her fingertips. “I’ll give you whatever you need. Whoever you need. Just tell me what to do.”

Rio’s lips tightened into a thin line, her usual calm cracking under the weight of Agatha’s determination. “This isn’t a game,” she said quietly. “These are lives—souls that don’t deserve to be taken.”

“Don’t talk to me about who deserves what,” Agatha hissed, her grip tightening around Nicky protectively. “You want to talk about fairness? About justice? After everything that’s been taken from us?” Her voice cracked slightly, but the fire in her gaze didn’t waver. “If I have to destroy the lives of strangers to save the only family I have, then so be it.”

Rio’s expression softened for a moment, sorrow flickering in her dark eyes. “You’re sure?” she asked quietly, though the answer was already clear.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” Agatha said firmly, her voice cold with finality. She glanced down at you, her expression softening as her hand brushed against your damp forehead. “She’s everything. He’s everything. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”

Rio exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging as she stepped closer. “It’s not just the souls,” she murmured. “Once this starts, you’ll have to live with what you’ve done. You’ll carry that weight forever.”

“Then I’ll carry it,” Agatha shot back without hesitation. “I’ll carry it for her. For him. It doesn’t matter what it costs me. I’ll pay it.”

Nicky shifted slightly in her arms, his tiny hand brushing against her chest, and Agatha leaned down to press a kiss to the top of his head. Her magic crackled faintly in the air around her, charged with the intensity of her resolve. “You tell me what you need, Rio,” she said, her voice dropping to a low growl. “And I’ll deliver it.”

Rio nodded slowly, her gaze lingering on you as you slept. “You’re not afraid of becoming the monster, are you?” she asked softly, her voice laced with sadness.

Agatha’s laugh was bitter, her eyes narrowing. “If being a monster means keeping her alive, then yes,” she said fiercely. “I’ll be whatever I need to be.”

The fire crackled softly, its light casting flickering shadows across the room. Rio stood silent for a moment, her expression unreadable, before she took a step back. “You’ve made your choice,” she said quietly. “I won’t stop you.”

Agatha turned back to you and Nicky, her focus unyielding. She adjusted the baby in her arms, holding him close as she sat carefully on the edge of the bed. Her free hand brushed against your cheek, her voice softening as she whispered, “You’re going to stay with us, doll. No matter what it takes.”

And as the firelight glimmered in her eyes, there was no hesitation in her heart. Whatever the price, Agatha would pay it. For you. For Nicky. For the family she refused to lose.

Agatha’s determination was as unyielding as the magic crackling at her fingertips. She had made her choice—whatever it took to save you and Nicky, she would do. The cost didn’t matter. The lives she would trade meant nothing compared to the life she had built with you. No one, not even Rio, could dissuade her from the path she had chosen. Agatha Harkness was a witch of extraordinary power, and now, she would wield every ounce of it to keep her family intact.

The coven of witches she sought was notorious—ruthless, power-hungry, and always eager to expand their strength through dangerous and questionable rituals. They were powerful, yes, but not as powerful as Agatha. She arrived at their hidden lair with precision, her expression cold and unyielding. Purple energy sparked faintly at her fingertips as she pushed open the heavy wooden doors with a mere flick of her wrist.

Inside, the witches turned, their eyes narrowing with suspicion and unease. The eldest of the coven, a tall woman with wild grey-streaked hair, stepped forward. “Agatha Harkness,” she said sharply, her tone laced with disdain. “What business do you have here?”

Agatha’s lips curved into a cold smile, her blue eyes gleaming with purpose. “An opportunity,” she said smoothly, her voice steady and confident. “A trade that will give you more power than you’ve ever dreamed of.”

The coven exchanged wary glances, their curiosity battling their mistrust. The leader tilted her head, studying Agatha carefully. “And why would a witch of your strength offer us such a thing?” she asked, her tone biting.

“Because I need something in return,” Agatha replied, stepping forward. The purple glow of her magic intensified slightly, casting flickering shadows across the room. “Something only you can provide.”

The leader’s suspicion deepened, but there was temptation in her gaze. “And what, exactly, do you seek, Harkness?”

Agatha’s smile widened, but it didn’t soften. “Your power,” she said simply, her voice like steel. “All of it.”

Realisation dawned on the witches, and the room erupted into chaos. Spells were cast with desperate speed, bolts of magic crackling through the air as they hurled their attacks at Agatha. But Agatha didn’t flinch. She didn’t need to. As the first strike hit her, her magic flared in response, absorbing the energy like a sponge.

The witches’ attacks fed her power, each strike siphoned into her own magic, amplifying it. The violet tendrils surrounding her lashed out, wrapping around the witches like serpents. They screamed as their energy was torn from them, their bodies withering as their life force drained away. Skin shrivelled, eyes hollowed, and one by one, they collapsed to the floor, their lifeless forms little more than dried husks.

The leader, the last to fall, clawed at the air as Agatha’s magic coiled around her throat. “Mercy,” she croaked, her voice barely audible over the crackling energy.

Agatha tilted her head, her smile fading into something colder. “There’s no mercy here,” she said quietly before the final tendril of magic surged forward, leaving the leader’s body crumpled alongside the others.

When the last echo of their screams faded, Agatha stood in the centre of the carnage, her chest heaving. The power coursing through her was immense, nearly overwhelming, but she embraced it. It was enough. It had to be enough. She’d done it. It was enough—for now.

When Agatha returned to the cottage, the night was unnervingly quiet. Inside, you were sitting by the fire, Nicky cradled in your arms. Your eyes lit up with relief when you saw her, but your face was pale, exhaustion still etched into your features.

“Agatha,” you said softly, your voice faint but warm. “You’re back.”

“I’m here, doll,” she replied, her voice calm despite the raw energy still humming through her veins. She knelt beside you, her eyes softening as they fell on you and the baby. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” you admitted, leaning into her touch as she brushed a curl from your forehead. “But better.”

“Good,” Agatha murmured. Her hand lingered on your cheek as she pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re going to be fine. Both of you.”

You nodded, your grip on Nicky loosening slightly as the baby stirred in your arms. “I was worried,” you whispered. “You were gone so long.”

“I had to make sure everything was safe,” Agatha said, her voice low and soothing. “But you don’t need to worry anymore. I’ll take care of everything.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as sleep pulled you under, your breathing evening out. Agatha carefully lifted Nicky from your arms, cradling him close as she stood. She rocked him gently, her lips brushing his soft forehead. “You’ll be safe,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “I’ll keep you safe.”

When she was sure you were asleep, she turned toward the doorway. Rio stepped out from the shadows, her dark eyes heavy with something between sorrow and resignation. “It won’t last forever,” Rio said quietly. “You know that.”

“I’ll do what I have to,” Agatha replied sharply, her blue eyes blazing. “I’ll find more. As many as it takes.”

“You’re hunting witches,” Rio said softly, her voice laced with regret. “Draining their lives, stealing their power. How many will it take to keep her alive? How long can you keep this up?”

“As long as I need to,” Agatha said firmly, her grip on Nicky tightening. “I’ll hunt every witch, every creature with the power to give if it means keeping her here.”

Rio’s expression flickered, but she didn’t argue. “And when she finds out?”

“She won’t,” Agatha said quickly, her voice hardening. “She doesn’t need to know. All she needs is to live. That’s all that matters.”

Rio sighed, stepping back into the shadows. “You’ve made your choice, Agatha,” she said softly before disappearing into the night.

Agatha stood for a long moment, her gaze shifting between you and the firelight flickering across the room. She kissed Nicky’s forehead again, holding him close as a faint tremor ran through her. Soon, she would have to leave again. Soon, she would have to hunt. But for now, she knelt beside you, her hand brushing over your sleeping face.

“You’ll never know,” she whispered, her voice a mix of love and despair. “You’ll never know what I’ve done for you.”

And as the fire crackled softly, Agatha’s resolve burned brighter than ever. She would keep you alive—whatever it took, whoever it cost.

The years had not softened Agatha’s resolve nor eased the strain on your heart. Six years had passed since your lives had irreversibly changed—since Rio left not long before Nicky’s birth, leaving you with an ache that had never fully healed. Six years since Agatha made the unrelenting choice to do whatever it took to keep you alive. The three of you moved constantly, never lingering in one place for too long, always leaving whispers of a powerful witch and her family in your wake. No matter how far you travelled, the shadows of the past always followed.

Nicky, now six years old, was the brightest light in your life. He was quick-witted, curious, and kind, with your quiet determination, Agatha’s sharpness, and a smile that was unmistakably Rio’s. That smile—radiant and full of life—warmed your heart and broke it all at once, a reminder of what you had lost and what you still carried.

Tonight, under a canopy of stars, Nicky lay curled against you, his small fingers clasping yours as you hummed a soft lullaby. The fire crackled softly nearby, its warm glow casting flickering shadows. Agatha sat a short distance away, her piercing eyes scanning the horizon. Even in these quiet moments, her vigilance never wavered. She wasn’t just protecting you and Nicky—she was a predator, honed and fierce, her magic thrumming with the energy she had stolen from others. You knew this because you had pieced it together over the years, even if she had never told you.

“Mummy,” Nicky mumbled, his voice muffled as he burrowed against your side, “do you think the stars are watching us?”

You smiled faintly, brushing a strand of dark hair from his forehead. “Maybe, sweetheart,” you said softly. “Maybe they’re watching and keeping us safe.”

He shifted slightly, his bright eyes glancing toward Agatha. “What about you, Mum? Do you think the stars are magic?”

Agatha’s expression softened, and a rare smile touched her lips. “The stars?” she repeated, her tone lighter than usual. “Oh, they’re magic, alright. But they can’t compare to you, my little star.”

Nicky giggled, his laughter warm and unguarded, as he buried his face against you. “I’m not magic, Mum.”

Agatha smirked as she stood, dusting off her hands. “Not yet,” she teased, though her tone carried a seriousness that made your chest tighten.

You glanced at her, smiling softly as you stroked Nicky’s hair. “As long as he’s safe,” you said quietly, “and if one day he can help people who need it… that would be my dream.”

Agatha turned to look at you, her blue eyes flickering with something unreadable before she returned her gaze to the horizon. She didn’t respond, and the silence that followed felt heavier than it should have.

Nicky’s breathing slowed as he drifted into sleep, his small hand relaxing in yours. You stared at his peaceful face, your heart twisting at the sight. There were moments when you saw so much of yourself and Agatha in him—his determination, his sharpness, his playful nature. But then there was his smile, that radiant, mischievous grin that was pure Rio. It was a bittersweet reminder of the love you’d shared and the loss that still haunted you.

You looked at Agatha as she stood watch, her silhouette framed by the firelight. You knew what she had done—the lives she had taken, the sacrifices she had made to keep you alive. You knew because of the way she avoided your eyes after her “trips,” the faint hum of power clinging to her like an echo of her deeds. But you didn’t say anything. How could you? She had done it for you, for Nicky, and the weight of that truth sat like a stone in your chest.

The fire crackled softly, the night air cool against your skin. You leaned down to kiss Nicky’s forehead, your voice a soft whisper. “You’ll grow up safe, my love,” you murmured. “You’ll grow up to help people, to make the world better.”

Agatha turned slightly as though sensing your words. Her blue eyes flickered in the firelight, but she didn’t speak, and you didn’t meet her gaze.

Instead, you rested your cheek against Nicky’s soft curls, letting the silence stretch between you and Agatha. You carried the knowledge of her actions alone, blaming yourself for the path she had taken. If you had been stronger, if you hadn’t needed saving, maybe she wouldn’t have become a killer. Maybe Rio wouldn’t have left. Maybe your family wouldn’t feel so fractured, even in such moments.

You tightened your hold on Nicky as if to ward off the weight of your thoughts. The stars twinkled above, indifferent to your struggles, and the fire crackled softly at your feet. You closed your eyes, letting the night’s quiet lull you into a fragile peace.

But as the night deepened and the fire burned low, your thoughts turned darker. You couldn’t let this continue. Agatha carried the weight of her actions for you, and the love that drove her to do so was breaking her. You couldn’t stand to watch her bear that burden any longer.

Your jaw tightened, your resolve solidifying. It was time to end this. Agatha had fought long enough and sacrificed too much. You owed her more than just gratitude. You owed her freedom—from the guilt, the killing, the endless hunt.

You stroked Nicky’s hair one last time, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. As you stared into the embers of the dying fire, your heart ached with the enormity of what you would have to do.

It’s time, you thought to yourself. Time to end this and free her from the burden.

The night was unnervingly quiet, the kind of silence that pressed heavily on your ears and amplified the flicker of dying embers. You sat near the fire, your fingers tracing absent patterns on the soft blanket draped over your legs. Nicky was fast asleep in the tent behind you, his small chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His peaceful slumber was a reminder of innocence untouched by the turmoil surrounding your family. He had your resilience, Agatha’s sharpness, and—painfully—Rio’s depth, a complexity he carried in his quiet moments and, most strikingly, in his radiant smile.

Agatha was away for the night, having gone to a nearby town to gather supplies. Before leaving, she had lingered, her eyes scanning the perimeter as she conjured a powerful magical shield around the campsite. “Nothing gets in,” she’d said firmly, her tone brooking no argument. “You and Nicky are safe.”

You had nodded, offering her a faint smile as she reluctantly departed, though the unease in your chest lingered. Even with Agatha’s magic protecting you, the absence of her presence felt like a vulnerability you couldn’t shake. Tonight, that vulnerability sharpened, your senses pricking as the air shifted.

It was faint but unmistakable—a presence, cold and familiar, brushing against your awareness like an unseen hand.

“Rio,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. You didn’t need to look. You knew she was there.

From the shadows, she emerged, her figure cloaked in an ethereal shimmer. The faint moonlight caught her dark eyes, making them glint like polished onyx as she stepped closer. She looked just as you remembered—beautiful, commanding, hauntingly familiar. Yet now, she carried something else: an aura of power that was both awe-inspiring and deeply unsettling. She was Death, and she was here for you.

“You always know when I’m near,” Rio murmured, her voice low and melodic, resonating with a weight that tugged at your soul.

You exhaled shakily, turning to meet her gaze. “How could I not?” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re a part of me, Rio. You always have been.”

Rio’s lips pressed into a thin line as she stepped closer, her movements deliberate. The firelight flickered across her sharp features, casting her face in a blend of light and shadow. “It’s been years,” she said softly, her voice carrying a mix of grief and regret. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“You left,” you said, your voice breaking slightly. “You walked away when I needed you most.”

Rio flinched, her gaze faltering briefly before returning to yours. “You were dying,” she said quietly. “And I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stand to watch her sacrifice everything for you.”

Tears welled in your eyes, and you shook your head. “She’s destroying herself,” you whispered. “Killing witches, taking their power, becoming someone I barely recognise. All for me.”

Rio’s jaw tightened, her shoulders squaring. “I warned her. There’s always a price.”

“And what about me?” you asked, your voice trembling. “What’s my price, Rio? To watch her turn into this? To let Nicky grow up with a mother consumed by darkness?”

Rio knelt in front of you, her movements slow and deliberate. Her hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly, but she didn’t touch you. “You know what you’re asking,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Take me,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “If that’s what it takes to save her, to save Nicky, then take me.”

Rio’s dark eyes narrowed, her brow furrowing deeply as her voice hardened. “You don’t know what you’re offering.”

“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, your voice steadier now. “You’re Death, Rio. You can end this. You can give her peace. You can give Nicky a mother who’s still herself, not someone breaking under the weight of everything she’s done.”

Rio rose abruptly, her figure towering over you as her cloak of shadows shifted and swirled. “You think it’s that simple? That taking you will fix everything?”

You stood too, squaring your shoulders despite the trembling in your frame. “I don’t care if it doesn’t fix everything,” you said fiercely. “I just want it to stop. I want her to stop hurting herself. I want Nicky to have the mother he deserves.”

Rio’s gaze softened, but her voice remained firm. “And what about you? Do you think Agatha will survive losing you?”

You hesitated, your throat tightening as you glanced toward the tent where Nicky slept. “She’ll survive,” you said softly, tears spilling freely now. “She’ll survive because Nicky needs her. She’ll hate you for it, but she’ll survive. For him.”

Rio’s silence stretched unbearably between you, her dark eyes flickering with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, trembling faintly. “You’re asking me to do what I couldn’t before.”

“I’m asking you to save her,” you said, stepping closer to her. “Please.”

Rio’s hands trembled as she reached out again, this time cupping your face with a gentleness that made your chest ache. Her cold touch sent a shiver through you, but it wasn’t fear—it was grief, love, and finality all woven into one. “F/N,” she murmured.

For a moment, she hesitated, her dark eyes searching yours. Then, with a trembling breath, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to hers. The kiss was desperate and tender, filled with all the things you couldn’t say. It was both an ending and a beginning, a goodbye and a promise.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against hers as you whispered, “Please. End this.”

Rio closed her eyes, her breath trembling against your skin. “I love you,” she murmured, her voice breaking. Then, in a movement so swift and gentle it felt like a dream, her arms wrapped around you, pulling you into an embrace as the world faded.

The fire’s glow dimmed, and the stars above blurred into nothingness. All that remained was the sensation of Rio’s cold lips brushing against your forehead one last time, and the weight of her love and sorrow as she carried you away.

The dawn broke the light yet to be touching the forest. Agatha stirred, her body weary from the journey to the nearby town. A faint smile tugged at her lips as she imagined Nicky’s excitement when she returned with the small treats he had begged for. She turned over, expecting to find F/N resting beside her, warm and safe.

“F/N,” Agatha murmured softly, reaching out. Her fingers brushed against the cool fabric of the blanket draped over F/N’s sleeping form. Something about the stillness of her body made Agatha’s stomach twist.

“F/N?” Agatha’s voice sharpened, her eyes flying open as she sat up, leaning closer. Her hand cupped F/N’s cheek, and the icy chill of her skin sent a jolt through her chest.

“No. No, no, no.” Her voice cracked, panic gripping her as she shook F/N gently at first, then more forcefully. “Wake up, doll. Please, wake up.”

But F/N didn’t move. Her body remained lifeless, her serene face untouched by the pain that now tore through Agatha. Her lips still carried the faintest hint of a smile, as if she had left in peace. It was a look that should have comforted Agatha, but it only shattered her further.

Nicky stirred in his bedroll nearby, his small murmurs pulling Agatha momentarily back to the present. She glanced at him, her heart pounding as if hoping against reason that this was some kind of nightmare. But when her gaze returned to F/N, reality hit with the force of a tidal wave.

She leaned over F/N, her hands trembling as she whispered desperate words, magic crackling faintly at her fingertips. She tried everything—spells, incantations, pouring what energy she could into F/N’s unresponsive form. But no amount of magic could undo what had already been done.

And then she felt it.

Her head snapped up, her icy eyes locking on the treeline in the distance. A shimmer of movement caught her attention, and she stood abruptly, her body trembling with rage and grief.

Rio.

The figure stepped into view, her form cloaked in shadows, her dark eyes glinting with an emotion that Death rarely showed—sorrow. She stood silently, her head bowing slightly as Agatha approached, her steps quick and unrelenting.

“You,” Agatha spat, her voice a venomous growl as she stormed toward Rio. Purple sparks of magic crackled at her fingertips, barely restrained as her fury boiled over. “You took her from me. You took her!”

Rio didn’t flinch. She stood her ground, her gaze heavy with emotion. “She asked me,” Rio said quietly, her voice steady but pained. “She chose this, Agatha. For you. For Nicky.”

“Don’t you dare tell me this was her choice!” Agatha screamed, her magic flaring uncontrollably around her. “She was mine, Rio! Mine to love, mine to protect! And you took her—just like you always take everything!”

Rio’s composure faltered, the weight of Agatha’s words slicing through her. “She was dying,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “Slowly. Painfully. She couldn’t bear to watch you destroy yourself, to watch Nicky lose both his mothers.”

Agatha’s magic lashed out, striking the ground near Rio, causing the earth to tremble. “And now he’s lost her anyway!” she roared. “He’s lost her, and it’s your fault!”

Rio stood motionless, her shoulders sagging under the weight of Agatha’s anger. “It’s my fault,” she admitted quietly. “But it’s also what she wanted. Her last kiss, her last breath—they were mine. She gave them to me so you could live, so Nicky could have you.”

Agatha’s knees buckled, and she collapsed to the ground, her hands clawing at the dirt as a raw, animalistic sob tore from her throat. “You took her from me,” she whispered brokenly, her voice barely audible. “You took my heart.”

Rio stepped closer, her movements hesitant. She crouched beside Agatha, her hand hovering over her shoulder before finally resting there gently. “I loved her too,” Rio murmured, her voice cracking. “I always did.”

When Agatha finally returned to the tent, Nicky was awake, crouched beside F/N’s still form. His small hands rested on hers, his tiny fingers trembling as he gently shook her shoulder. His wide eyes, filled with confusion, turned to Agatha as she entered. “Mummy won’t wake up,” he said softly, his voice quivering. “Why won’t she wake up?”

Agatha’s breath caught in her throat as her heart shattered anew. She knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she pulled him into her arms. He came willingly, clutching her tightly as if she could provide the answers he sought.

“She’s gone, sweetheart,” Agatha whispered, her voice breaking as she stroked his hair. “Mummy’s gone.”

Nicky stiffened in her arms, his small sobs breaking free as he buried his face in her shoulder. Agatha held him tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of his head, her tears falling freely as she whispered soothing words.

After a long moment, Nicky’s tearful voice broke the heavy silence. “Where did she go? Is she… gone forever?”

Agatha swallowed hard, struggling to find the words. She leaned back slightly, cupping his tear-streaked face with both hands. “She’s not gone forever, my little star,” she said softly, her blue eyes glistening. “She’s up there now, with the stars, watching over you.”

Nicky sniffled, his eyes lifting to the darkening sky outside the tent. “Like… a star?”

Agatha nodded, her lips trembling as she forced a small smile. “Yes, sweetheart. Mummy’s become the brightest star up there. She’ll always be looking down on you, protecting you, loving you, no matter where you are.”

Nicky’s gaze lingered on the sky, his sobs quieting as the weight of her words settled. “Will she ever come back?” he whispered, his voice trembling with hope.

Agatha’s chest ached, but she kept her voice gentle. “No, love,” she said, stroking his hair. “But every time you look up at the stars, you’ll see her. And she’ll always be with us in our hearts.”

Nicky nodded slowly, his small hands clutching the feather he had been holding earlier. “Do you think she’ll see me if I wave to her?”

Agatha’s tears slipped silently down her cheeks as she kissed his forehead. “I know she will, darling. She’ll see you, and she’ll be so proud of you.”

As the sun climbed higher into the sky, Agatha sat motionless, cradling Nicky as he drifted in and out of restless sleep. Her mind churned with plans, questions, and the single, searing truth that F/N was gone. The weight of her grief pressed down on her, unrelenting, as Nicky’s small body trembled against hers.

Hours passed, and as the day slipped into evening, Agatha rose silently. Her movements were stiff as she began to build a pyre, each action a painful reminder of what she was about to do. The wood creaked under her hands, and the firelight danced faintly in the distance as the stars began to appear.

When the pyre was ready, Agatha carried F/N’s body carefully from the tent, her arms trembling under the weight of love and loss. She cradled F/N as though she were still alive, her face serene, untouched by the agony that gripped Agatha’s heart. Agatha laid her atop the pyre with the same tenderness she had shown her in life, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Nicky stood nearby, clutching a small black feather he had found earlier. His young face was streaked with tears, and he looked at Agatha with wide, questioning eyes. She knelt beside him, brushing a tear from his cheek. “She’s with the stars now, sweetheart,” Agatha whispered, her voice soft but trembling. “She’s watching over us.”

“Will she see me?” Nicky asked, his voice quivering as he glanced at the sky.

Agatha pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Always,” she said. “She’ll see you every time you smile, every time you look up at the stars. She’ll be so proud of you.”

Nicky nodded slowly, his small hands gripping the feather tightly as Agatha rose and whispered a spell. The flames flickered to life, their glow illuminating the grief etched into her features. Nicky’s tearful gaze stayed on the fire, and he raised the feather as if offering it to the sky. Agatha stood beside him, her hand firmly holding his.

As the fire consumed the only love Agatha had ever truly known, she stood tall, her grief mingling with her resolve. She didn’t speak; there were no words for the depth of her sorrow. But as the flames burned low, she whispered into the night, “I’ll protect him, F/N. I promise.”

Together, they sat quietly as the last embers faded into ash. Nicky stared up at the darkening sky, his eyes scanning for the star Agatha had promised would now guide him. Agatha held him close, her arms wrapping tightly around his small form. Her heart ached, but there was a faint comfort in knowing that F/N’s love would always shine, forever watching over the child they had both cherished.

Somewhere, far beyond the veil, Rio watched silently. Her dark eyes glistened with unshed tears as she turned and dissolved into shadow once more.

Death moved on, as it always did. But this time, it carried the weight of a love it could never claim.

Years passed, and time softened the edges of Agatha’s pain, though it never truly faded. She and Nicky settled in a small, quiet town, far from the memories of the past. Agatha raised him with fierce love, determined to honour F/N’s sacrifice by giving Nicky the life she would have wanted for him.

Nicky grew into a strong and kind-hearted young man, his laughter a balm to Agatha’s weary soul. He inherited F/N’s quiet determination and Rio’s sharp instincts, and though he sometimes asked about his mother, Agatha always told him the truth.

“She loved you more than anything,” Agatha would say, her voice soft but steady. “She gave everything so you could live, so we could be together. She’s always with us, Nicky. In you, in me. Always.”

And sometimes, when Nicky smiled, Agatha’s chest ached with bittersweet emotion. She thought back to when you used to say his smile was Rio’s—mischievous, radiant, and full of life. And maybe you were right. But for Agatha, every time Nicky smiled, she didn’t see Rio. She saw you. She saw the warmth in your eyes, the love you poured into every moment, and the strength that had carried their family through even the darkest of times. Nicky’s smile wasn’t just Rio’s or yours—it was a blend of all the love that had created him.

In the quiet moments of the night, Agatha swore she could feel your presence—the warmth of your touch, the sound of your laughter. On those nights, she would sit outside under the stars, staring at the sky and wondering which star was yours, watching over them. It was enough to keep her going, enough to remind her that even in death, love never truly faded.

It lived on. In memory, in laughter, in Nicky’s smile.

Forever.

---RAR---

The sky stretched endlessly, painted in hues of gold and lavender, as Agatha opened her eyes. The world around her was soft, timeless, an ethereal plane that hummed with peace. She blinked, her crystal blue eyes taking in the surreal landscape. For a moment, she felt weightless, free of the burdens she’d carried for so long.

“You’re here,” Rio’s voice broke the stillness, steady and familiar. Agatha turned to find her standing there, her black hair cascading like a dark river. Her face was calm, yet her deep brown eyes carried the weight of centuries—a mix of sorrow and acceptance.

Agatha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “So, it’s done,” she said softly, no bitterness in her tone, just quiet resignation.

Rio nodded. “You lived well, Agatha. For Nicky, for yourself. For her.”

The mention of F/N sent a pang through her, though it was no longer sharp. It was more like a gentle tug, a reminder of a love that had burned brighter than anything in her life. “And now?”

Rio tilted her head, her gaze warm despite its depth. “Now, I guide you. As I do all souls.”

Agatha scoffed lightly, though there was no real bite in her voice. “Is that what you told F/N?”

Rio didn’t flinch, her expression softening. “No. She waited for you. She didn’t need my guidance. She knew exactly where she wanted to be.”

Agatha’s breath hitched, her stoic exterior faltering for a moment. “She waited?” Her voice trembled slightly.

“Always,” Rio replied simply, stepping aside and gesturing toward the horizon.

Agatha turned, and there she was.

F/N stood under a sprawling tree atop a gentle hill, her hair shining in the soft, eternal light. She was dressed simply, her form radiant, as though untouched by the years and hardships they had endured together. As Agatha stared, F/N seemed to sense her gaze and turned. A smile broke across her face—warm, familiar, and full of love.

Agatha’s legs moved before she could think, her steps quickening until she was running up the hill. Her heart thundered in her chest, her breath catching with every step. When she reached the top, F/N opened her arms without hesitation.

“Welcome home, Agatha,” F/N said softly, her voice carrying the same tender warmth it always had.

Agatha stumbled into her embrace, her arms wrapping around F/N tightly as tears streamed down her face. She clung to her as though she might vanish, but F/N held her just as firmly, grounding her.

“I’m sorry,” Agatha whispered, her voice breaking. “For everything—for failing you, for—”

“Shh,” F/N murmured, pulling back just enough to cup Agatha’s face. Her thumbs brushed away the tears as her eyes searched Agatha’s. “You didn’t fail me. You gave me everything. And now we have forever.”

Agatha closed her eyes, leaning into F/N’s touch. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the weight of guilt, pain, and loneliness lifted. She felt whole again.

A soft sound drew Agatha’s attention, and she turned to see Rio walking up the hill toward them. Her usual sharpness was tempered by something lighter—a sense of belonging. She stopped a few feet away, her gaze meeting Agatha’s briefly before shifting to F/N.

“I couldn’t stay away,” Rio said, her voice tinged with emotion. “Not anymore.”

F/N smiled warmly, extending her hand toward Rio. “We’ve been waiting for you, too.”

Rio hesitated for a moment before stepping forward, taking F/N’s hand in her own. Agatha watched as F/N guided Rio to sit with them under the tree, the three of them settling into a comfortable, familiar closeness that felt like coming home.

The breeze carried their laughter, soft and unburdened, as they spoke of everything and nothing. Nicky’s name came up often, their love for him weaving through their conversation like a golden thread. Though separated by the veil, they knew his life was their greatest legacy—a living testament to the love they had shared.

As the eternal sun warmed their skin, Agatha looked between F/N and Rio, her heart swelling with a peace she hadn’t known in years. This was home—not a place, but the people who had shaped her, loved her, and stood by her through it all.

The three of them sat together, their fingers intertwined, and for the first time, Agatha truly understood. They were together, they were whole, and they were finally at peace.

Forever.

[teatroll]

+18 NSFW content ahead; MDNI

NANAMI KENTO SPICY HEADCANONS

Includes: fem!reader; inappropriate usage of showers and inaccurate depiction of shower shreks (water ain't lube, hons); unprotected piv; praising; + a bit more add-ons (headcanons, duh)

Note: should've been less detailed but i messed up halfway and it looks like a fic if you squint (oops?). anywho, thank my bestie, she buzzed off my ears 'bout this man and made this happen. (also not betaread) @cafekitsune and @saradika - banners ♡

♡ Nanami Kento is a busy man. So his world precisely revolves around his job as a sorcerer. So does his free time. Whenever he gets home, he's too exhausted to indulge into anything but sleep.

♡ Although, he's not opposed to taking a hot steamy shower or a relaxing bath with you. It's only logical - practical AND pleasant. Two birds, one stone. Quick and easy quality time.

♡ That's what he hoped for before he found his mind wandering places when your hands started massaging shampoo into his scalp.

♡ Steam fogging up the glass shower doors; hot streams washing off soapy foam down your naked form; your glistening eyes searching for his and that tender smile that he cherishes so much...

♡ Yeah, his mind was in the gutter straight away and refused to crawl out from that pit. And he knows that's on him, because it's been way too long since the last time both of you spent some actual quality time together. Better fix this now than never, right?

♡ His touches are slow and gentle as his hands start to roam free, fingertips caressing your skin with utmost care. Nanami's heart flutters as you softly sigh close to his ear.

♡ That gives him the confidence to take it up a notch and glide his hands down to cup your rear; your sweet mewls shortly turning into whimpers as you crook your head to the side, giving him access to leave teasing nibbles on your neck.

♡ It's not long before you feel his hardened length between your thighs as he deliberately rocks his hips into yours.

♡ The sound you made afterwards made him softly hiss through gritted teeth.

♡ Normally he'd choose a different (read as more secure, because he's intolerant to bullshit) place, but with the way you cling to him now, he decides to indulge into such a messy activity as shower sex. After all, he's got places to be tomorrow, so he needs to wake up early. Two birds, one stone yet again.

(This man is practical and rational from the top of his head down to his toenails, what did you expect?)

♡ You gasp when his cock starts to slide back and forth between your thighs, teasing your clit. Your pussy clenches over nothing as you let out a needy whine into his shoulder.

♡ "Shh, baby. It's okay." His voice is a bit raspy as he coos in your ear, caressing your sides. "Let me take care of you."

♡ Another gasp escapes from you as he scoops you into his arms and lifts you up by your hips. Your legs instinctively wrapping around him, so do your arms to support your weight on him.

(But, frankly, that much is not needed. Nanami can lift you up with a single hand and still be able to sip his morning coffee with a straight face.)

♡ With his tip now pushing past your entrance, he lets out a shaky breath; his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment. The sight is divine, least to say; and you'd gladly enjoy it all day long but the way his cock slowly stretches your velvety walls makes your vision blurry.

♡ You squirm and pant into the crook of his neck as his grip on you tightens ever so slightly while he slides all the way in.

♡ There's a pause as he lets you adjust to the feeling, whispering so sweetly in your ear it almost melts your brain into mush.

♡ That man will be giving you a praise kink of the century, there's ZERO debate here. And a simple "good girl" won't cut it either.

♡ He'll shower you in praises for how well you're taking him, for how delightful your moans are, for how cute the blush spreads across your cheeks and neck. Basically, anything his senses pick up on, he'll put on a pedestal.

♡ His thrusts are slow, deep, and so fucking sensual it almost feels like a torture. Of pleasure, obviously. Doesn't dismiss the fact you crave more and make it know as you pull him into the kiss by the back of his neck.

♡ He catches your moans with his lips, savors them like candy. It heats up every nerve in his body, makes his muscles tense as he picks up the pace.

♡ How can he not provide his sweet girl with what she truly wants? Denying you of anything feels so wrong that he can't help but indulge into it all over again.

(Is it a flock of birds, one giant rock now? Probably is.)

♡ He's definitely panting. Maybe even whimpers a bit, but the sound is muffled by your lips on his and hushed by the shower, so you can't really be sure.

♡ What you can be sure of, though, is that familiar knot forming in your core. And that feeling gradually increases with each grind of his. There's quite a bit more force to it now, so that previous tenderness is replaced by pure passion.

♡ There's no escaping a headcanon of Nanami guiding you through your orgasm. Because he definitely does so.

♡ "That's it, just a little more. You can do this, baby." AND "You're so precious. Let me hear those pretty sounds, come on."

♡ SPEAKING OF WHICH, definitely tries to maintain eye contact as you finish.

♡ He wants to feel as your walls clench around him, wants to hear you gasp a choked moan, he craves to watch you crumble on his cock.

♡ That sets him off more than anything as he follows you shortly after, spilling inside you with an ecstatic grunt.

♡ Normally, he'd pull out for sure. But since you're already in the shower, why not to indulge into yet another shower session? But this time, it's your turn to be on the receiving end.

♡ After a short cock warming session as you both try to catch your breath.

(And who knows, maybe this time he'll be able to contain himself and actually just do a simple mundane activity and not waste water for half an hour.)

(Fingers crossed, but the bill will be enormous either way.)

♡ Nanami would definitely kiss your jaw/line of pulse lazily and nibble on your neck.

♡ Praising is obviously a part of aftercare as well, how can he set that aside??

♡ Would leave a gentle peck on the sweet spot just below your ear.

"Now, now, darling. Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

♡ EXTRA ♡

♡ Missionary is his "to go to", because that way he can witness every little change in your expression.

♡ He's leaning closer to vanilla tbh.

♡ BUT, if he's frustrated, there will be a quickie on his desk.

♡ Dead ass will ruin you. Your hips will be sore for a week.

(Everything will be sore since we're at it.)

♡ Not to mention there WILL be hair pulling. (I see you, horny people. I know what you want.)

♡ Aftercare now involves him doing everything in his power to soothe you.

♡ Will definitely think you're sobbing because he hurt you, when, on the contrary, that was pure bliss.

♡ Remind that man of it, he tends to forget that vanilla isn't the only thing that exists.

♡ High chance he adores watching you please yourself. Both with fingers and toys.

♡ Hey, he knows you'd rather feel full on his cock, but he's not opposed to teasing.

♡ He might be pure vanilla (hello cookie run lmao), but even so, Nanami can add some spice to your shared love life once in a while.

♡ Especially when it involves giving you the best of times. (Yes, with teasing too.)

♡ SUKUNA RYOMEN ♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO ♡

[dreamwritesimagines]

The Eye of the Hurricane [10] - Family Dinner

A.N: Here’s the new chapter my loves! ❤️ Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback, you made my day! ❤️I hope you’ll like this chapter as well and please don’t forget to tell me what you think! ❤️

Summary: Happy news can make a dinner so much better.

Word Count: 3800

Pairing: MobBoss!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: Violence, death, guns, crime, blood, explicit language, drinking. This is an AU, friendly reminder that I don’t condone any of the actions depicted on this story and please read with care.

Series Masterlist

“I’m sorry, did you just say marriage?”

You sipped your coffee before shooting Becca and Sarah a grin, then popped a piece of your croissant in your mouth.

“Mm hm.”

“You’re getting married to-to my—” Becca stammered. “To my brother?”

“Yeah,” you said and looked around. “Do you guys think we should get mimosas?”

“What the fuck?!” Becca exclaimed. “Since when?”

“It’d better be this morning, Y/N,” Sarah said and you shrugged your shoulders.

“Technically around 48 hours ago.”

Becca gawked at you. “Y/N, I’m going to kill you.”

“Listen, I didn’t—” you waved your hands in the air. “I figured you’d want to hear it in person! It’s kind of a big deal, you know?”

“Jesus Christ…”

“Wait, start from the beginning,” Sarah said. “How did that happen?”

“I had a talk with my dad,” you said, biting inside your cheek. “He’s going to choose Ian.”

Sarah frowned while Becca pulled back slightly.

“He made up his mind?”

“Mm hm.”

“You’re sure you can’t convince him?”

You shook your head.

“No,” you said, your stomach doing a tense flip. “I thought I could but…he was very clear. He will not name me his heir, it’s going to be Ian.”

“That will mess everything up,” Becca said. “Including the truce, because—”

“Bucky won’t do business with him, neither will Sam or Steve,” you finished her sentence for her. “I told my father that but it didn’t even make him think twice.”

“Great,” Sarah muttered, and you shook your head.

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” you said. “I’m done waiting around for him to give me a chance. If he doesn’t want to give me power, I’ll take it for myself.”

“And that’s where Bucky enters the picture?”

“Exactly,” you said. “He will give me a way in, and once everything is in place I’ll take over.”

“Before Ian can?”

You nodded your head. “I’ll force my dad’s hand if I have to.”

“He’s not going to like it,” Becca sang in a teasing manner and you scoffed.

“It’s either that or we risk another war between the families,” you said. “To be honest with you, I don’t really care whether he likes it or not anymore. I’m the firstborn and it’s my right, he promised it to me all those years ago.”

“What happens when you take over though?” Sarah asked. “You and Bucky…?”

“We’ll get a divorce.”

Becca arched a brow and suppressed a smile. “Just like that?”

“Yeah, why not?” you said. “He doesn’t want to stay married to me a minute longer than it’s necessary, and I share the sentiment.”

Becca exchanged a knowing glance with Sarah, her smile widening before she turned to you.

“If you say so,” she muttered, taking a sip of her coffee and as if on cue, your phone started vibrating on the table. You checked the name on the screen, then answered it.

“Yeah?”

“Hi there, fiancée.”

You could already tell he was smiling from the tone of his voice and you rolled your eyes, then motioned at Becca and Sarah to give you a moment before getting up from your seat to walk out of the restaurant.

“What do you want?” you asked and he tsk tsked.

“Babe…”

“Don’t call me that.”

“My beautiful wife?”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“Mrs. Barnes?”

“There’s going to be another last name there as well, don’t forget about that one,” you said. “It’s hyphenated.”

“Yeah, for some reason…” he grumbled and you heaved a sigh.

“Is there a point to this conversation? Because if there isn’t, I’m going to hang up now.”

“Yeah,” he said. “There is actually. Before tonight’s dinner, I just figured you’d want to know that your father knows.”

Your eyes widened. “You told him about the engagement?”

“What? No!” he said quickly. “But he knows we’re together.”

“Except we’re not.”

“Well fine, he knows we’ve been spending time in the honeymoon suit.”

You leaned back to the wall and pinched the bridge of your nose before clearing your throat.

“He called you?”

“Not yet but my parents did.”

“That sounds like a fun conversation,” you said, smiling slightly. “What did they say?”

Bucky chuckled.

“My mom just asked how you were,” he said. “That’s her being subtle. And my dad told me to not fuck it up so, went as expected. Arthur didn’t call you?”

“He did, I just didn’t answer,” you said, pursing your lips together. “I don’t want to talk to him yet, so…”

“But are you going to be okay tonight?” he asked and you pulled your brows together.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Can I not ask about your wellbeing?”

“No,” your reply came way too fast. “That’s not on the prenup.”

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered and you checked your watch, then pushed yourself off the wall.

“So you’re going to the restaurant before me then?”

“Yeah, I think it’d be better if I got on your father’s good side before that conversation,” he said. “Considering I didn’t even give him a heads up—unless you want to go together?”

You scrunched up your nose. “Absolutely not,” you said. “Playing the dumbass in love will be even more difficult if I spend more than an hour with you.”

“I think you like spending time with me,” he said with a teasing tone and you scoffed.

“I’m hanging up now,” you said. “Don’t be late tonight.”

“Of course, wife.”

“Stop calling me that!” you snapped and hung up, then let out a breath.

“I can’t believe I’m marrying this asshole…” you murmured to yourself, then made your way back into the restaurant.

                                                 *

Tonight’s dinner was not going to be very easy to handle, you could already tell. Becca had always been too good at reading your mood, so as soon as you two stepped out of the car, she reached out to hold your hand, making you turn your head.

“It’ll be fine,” she said before you could even say anything and you licked your lips.

“It makes it official,” you muttered. “All of it.”

Becca paused for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders.

“What does it matter?” she asked. “If you’re going to get a divorce eventually…”

“Of course we will,” you said. “But it’s not just that, you know? Starting tonight, I’m going against everything my dad wants.”

Becca nodded her head.

“You are,” she said airily. “But if he didn’t want you to take over eventually, he shouldn’t have raised you as his heir to begin with. That shit is not a game, he can’t just change his mind.”

You pursed your lips together, keeping your eyes on the restaurant.

“People won’t be happy about it,” you muttered. “Me being an actual rival, or taking over.”

 “You’re the firstborn,” she reminded you. “It’s your right. And that’s what you want, so fuck what everyone else will think. You’re going to do amazing.”

You stole a look at him, fear churning your insides.

“You think so?” you rasped out, desperate to hear it out loud and Becca nodded fervently.

“I wouldn’t be here if I thought you couldn’t pull it off,” she said. “You’re going to be much better than your father. Trust me.”

You squeezed her hand. “Thanks Becca.”

“Keep in mind how helpful I am when you’re picking your bridesmaid gown colors,” she said, making you let out a laugh. “Friendly reminder, I don’t like lilac.”

“I know, I know…” you told her, throwing an arm over her shoulder to press a kiss on her cheek, then you both walked into the restaurant.

As usual, either your father or Bucky’s father had it closed down for the night so that you all could enjoy your dinner without any strangers around. The hostess greeted you and led you to your usual table which was already occupied by Bucky’s family and yours. Your father stood up as soon as he saw you and made his way to you.

“Good luck,” Becca muttered and smiled at him. “Hi Arthur!”

“Becca my dear, welcome!” your father said as she kissed his cheek.

“I’m starving already,” she said and went to sit down while your father turned to you.

“So?” he said. “You cannot pick up the phone, Y/N?”

You shrugged your shoulders. “I was busy.”

“Really?” he asked. “Too busy to send a text?”

You shrugged your shoulders again, pursing your lips together and he heaved a sigh.

“Sweetheart…” he said. “I don’t like this, you know that. I understand that we can have our disagreements but moving out of the house?”

“I didn’t move out of the house,” you said. “My stuff is still there.”

“But you’re not staying there?”

“I felt like a change of scenery.”

“Is that all?” he asked and you cleared your throat.

“Sort of.”

“Because what I’ve been hearing…” he said. “Not to mention, both you and Bucky planning this dinner?”

“I think we should wait for him to have this conversation—where is he anyway?” you asked, looking around the restaurant and your father frowned slightly.

“We thought you two were coming together.”

“He’s late?” you asked, nervousness shooting through you and your father waved a hand in the air.

“There’s a reason for that I’m sure,” he said. “Come on, sit down. We started already.”

“Great,” you muttered to yourself and followed him to the table and waved at Bucky’s parents Winnifred and George.

“Y/N, hello!” Winnifred stood up to hug you and you hugged her back before pulling back to wave at George.

“We were going to wait for you but you know how your father is,” Winnifred said and your father chuckled, gesturing surrender.

“I don’t mind,” you said, sitting down next to Becca as you nodded in Ian’s direction. “Ian.”

“Y/N.”

“So, what is this dinner about?” George asked and Winnifred shot him a look.

“George.”

“What? I’m curious. You would think this is a life-and-death situation the way Bucky talked about it.”

“I think we should uh…we should wait for him for that one,” you said and turned to the waiter who filled your glass.

“The chef is preparing your usual, ma'am."

“Thank you,” you said and sat up straighter while George smiled at Becca.

“Do you know what this is about?”

“Of course,” Becca said with a smile. “But I’m special.”

“Will this dinner take long?” Ian asked you, checking his phone. “I have plans for 10.”

“You’re welcome to leave,” you told him but before he could retort, Becca waved at someone by the entrance and you looked over your shoulder to see Bucky walk into the restaurant. You cleared your throat, then pushed your seat back.

“Excuse me for a moment,” you said and made your way to him.

“Charm, hey—”

“With me,” you said without even stopping and he turned around to follow you out of the restaurant, and you whirled around on your heels the moment you stepped outside, raising your brows at him.

“Are you serious right now?” you asked. “You were supposed to be here before me, that was the plan!”

“Okay, I know I’m late but in my defense—”

“No no, you said—”

“Job got in the way, I didn’t even get the chance to change,” he cut you off and raised his wrist so that you could see the sleeve of his white shirt. “I still have blood on my sleeve, look!”

“Do I look like your drycleaner from where you’re standing?” you snapped back in a whisper. “You said you’d come before me, and considering your relationships I’d say you’re used to that!”

He rolled his eyes. “To repeat, job got in the way.”

“You’re late to dinner because you were too busy punching someone and that’s a good excuse?”

“It was necessary!”

“It was necessary for it to be you punching that person, is that right?”

“Excuse me, lovebirds,” Becca’s voice reached you and you both turned to look at her as she leaned sideways to the entrance. “Have your fight later on, they’re getting restless.”

You ran a hand over your face.

“Alright,” you said. “So okay, when are we telling them?”

“My plate is already there and I’d rather if you did it right away,” Becca said, pointing back with her thumb. “They don’t look like they’ll stop asking what this dinner is about anytime soon.”

“You just don’t want mom to ask you about Leila,” Bucky told her and Becca shrugged her shoulders.

“I mean would it kill you to do something nice for me?” she asked, making him shake his head slightly. You bit back a smile and threw your shoulders back, trying to get rid of the tension in your body.

“Let’s get this over with,” you muttered more to yourself and made your way back to the table with Becca and Bucky following you.

“Good evening,” Bucky greeted everyone at the table with a smile. “Sorry I was late, it’s just…work.”

Becca went to sit down on her seat as you eyed your food, but stood beside Bucky, clenching and unclenching your fist just so that you could focus on something else other than the nervousness pulsing in your veins.

“Is everything alright?” Winnifred asked Bucky and he nodded his head.

“Oh yeah, two meetings clashed,” he lied, subtly rolling the sleeve of his shirt up. “There was a moment of chaos but it’s fixed.”

“So can we learn what this whole secrecy and emergency dinner is about now?” George said with a knowing smile and you stole a look at your father who looked almost impatient. Knowing them, every single person at the table except Becca thought Bucky and you were about to tell them you were dating, so you were sure that the news was going to be completely unexpected for all of them.

“Yeah,” you said, reminding yourself to smile as you leaned sideways to Bucky’s arm. “You can. Sorry about the secrecy, we just wanted it to be a surprise.”

Ian scoffed a small laugh.

“You staying in a hotel in his territory might have ruined that surprise,” he said and Bucky’s eyes narrowed but you elbowed him while your father gave Ian a warning glare, making him sit up straighter.

“So uh, it happened very recently,” you said, ignoring Ian. “And normally you would have heard beforehand.”

“For which I take full responsibility,” Bucky added with a smirk. “That’s on me.”

“I mean you know we’ve had this…strange dynamic for a while.”

“Ten years,” Becca muttered into her wine glass. “Not that anyone is counting.”

“But once we actually talked to each other, something happened,” you lied through your teeth, Bucky’s arm snaking around your waist as he nuzzled to the top of your head, making your heart skip a beat but you forced yourself to remember that it was all an act. Winnifred pressed a hand on her chest as if she was lost in her emotions while your father and George exchanged glances, both smiling slightly.

“And I hope that you’ll be happy for us,” you said and waited for a second, then cleared your throat. “Because we’re getting married.”

The impact of your words was immediate and very visible. Ian’s head shot up as Winnifred gasped in shock and your father’s eyes widened while George’s jaw dropped. Becca stifled a laugh, taking another sip of her wine as she leaned back in her seat.

“Married?!” Winnifred exclaimed as she jumped on her feet. “Oh thank God, this is the best news I could ever hope for!”

“Trust me mom, I was as surprised as you are,” Bucky said with a chuckle while Winnifred pulled you into a tight hug and your father tried to pull himself together.

“Married?” he repeated and you nodded when Winnifred pulled back to hug Bucky.

“Yeah.”

“That’s…uh—” your father stammered. “That’s wonderful news honey but you two have been dating for what? Two days?”

“Three days,” you said helpfully and Bucky hissed in a breath.

“I was going to get your permission, Arthur.”

“Why didn’t you?” your father asked him, looking him in the eye but Bucky didn’t look intimidated in the slightest.

“Oh come on Arthur, don’t be so traditional!” George said with a laugh. “They’re in love, and it’s not like they met three days ago. They’ve known each other their whole lives, I for one have been hoping for this to happen for almost ten years!”

“And we already know we want to spend the rest of our lives together.”

“Speaking of, where’s the ring?” Winnifred asked, making you and Bucky exchange glances before you turned to her.

Shit.

Of course he was supposed to have proposed with a ring.

“The ring!” you said. “Right, uh…Bucky?”

Bucky swallowed thickly and waved a hand in the air.

“The ring, that’s—that’s a funny story actually,” he said. “You see, we um—”

“My overly confident brother didn’t bother asking the best friend,” Becca cut him off airily, pointing at herself. “Surprise surprise; it was the wrong size. We went to the jewelers today to get it fixed, they said it’ll be ready within the week.”

Dear God, you loved Becca.

You subtly mouthed ‘thank you’ to her while George stood up to come closer to you.

“Congratulations son,” he said as he pulled him into a hug to slap him on the back. “You sure took your time. And Y/N, welcome to the family sweetheart.”

“Congratulations,” Ian said from where he was sitting and your father sighed, then stood up to hug you.

“We still need to talk about this,” he said. “But I’m very happy for you two.”

“Thanks dad,” you muttered as the waiters brought your food and you all sat down. You took your fork into your hand and George raised his glass.

“To happy couple!”

You and Bucky raised your glasses as well and your father took a sip of his drink, then leaned back in his seat.

“See, Y/N,” he said. “I know you’re still a bit angry at me but I told you. This right here will make you much happier than what we talked about earlier. That’s what matters.”

You arched a brow as Bucky turned to look at you better with a smirk and you stole a glance at him, a sly smile curling your lips as well.

Oh.

Of course your father naively believed that something as trivial as marriage could keep you from what you wanted. It was almost condescending at this point but you managed to hold back the retort, then clicked your tongue.

“Oh yeah,” you said, making Bucky chuckle. “I have a very clear idea of what’s actually important now, and I’ll make sure everyone else sees that as well.”

                                        *

When it was time to leave the restaurant, everyone was in a wonderful mood. Winnifred had so many ideas about the wedding, and as far as you could tell, your father had gotten over the annoyance of Bucky not having asked for his permission.

“So, are you coming home?” he asked you as George and Winnifred’s car drove off and you looked at Bucky who was talking to Becca by her car.

“Maybe later,” you said with a shake of your head. “Me and Bucky have things to talk about, so…”

Your father hummed.

“Alright,” he said. “What do you say we grab lunch tomorrow then?”

You thought for a moment, then shifted your weight.

“Sure, why not?”

“Good,” he said and hugged you. “You know I don’t like it when we fight.”

You pursed your lips together. “I know, I know...”

“I’ll see you tomorrow honey, please be careful,” he said and got in the car while Ian seemed to be in a deep discussion with Ryan. Ryan’s gaze found you over Ian’s shoulder and you offered him a small smile, then turned your head when you heard Becca say your name.

“Y/N are we meeting tomorrow?”

“Yeah after lunch,” you answered. “I’ve just promised my dad I’d have lunch with him, so…”

She nodded. “Okay, I’ll text you then?”

“Sounds great!” you said as she got into her car and the driver closed her door before getting into the driver’s seat. You looked into your purse, then let out a groan when you couldn’t find your phone.

“Great,” you muttered and made your way into the restaurant, the waiter stopping in his tracks the moment he saw you.

“Ma’am?”

“Hi again, I left my phone at the table,” you told him with a small laugh and he nodded.

“I’ll get it for you right away,” he said and went inside, then in a minute he was back with your phone. “Here.”

“Thank you so much,” you said. “Have a nice night!”

“You too ma’am,” he said and you left the restaurant again, then frowned as soon as you saw Ian talking to Bucky by his car while Ryan waited with Ian’s other bodyguards close by. You took a step towards them but neither of them seemed to notice you, and judging by the stern look in Bucky’s eyes, it wasn’t because they were having a fun conversation.

“…And that’s what she wants in case she didn’t tell you,” Ian said and Bucky narrowed his eyes at him.

“I know that.”

Ian shook his head slightly. “Don’t get me wrong, but—”

“Let me stop you right there Ian,” Bucky said, glaring daggers at him. “You’re not going to say anything that I might get wrong about the woman I love.”

Your stomach did a happy flip but you quickly frowned at yourself. It was just Bucky selling this whole idea that you were in love; it wasn’t as if you and he could ever fall in love or anything.

Even the thought of it was absolutely absurd.

You cleared your throat to announce you were there and they both turned to look at you.

“Hey babe,” Bucky said. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” you said without even sparing a glance at Ian as the driver opened the car door for you and you got in with Bucky following you suit. You massaged your temples, then leaned your head back when the driver started the car.

“You okay?” Bucky asked and you gritted your teeth, crossing your arms over your chest.

“The way my dad talks to me…” you muttered and Bucky scoffed a dry laugh.

“I know,” he said. “Trust me, I get it.”

“I don’t think you do,” you rasped out. “George never underestimated you or replaced you with another heir.”

That made him pause for a moment, a dark shadow crossing his eyes before he took a deep breath.

“No worries Charm,” he said. “He won’t get to underestimate you again once you get that crown.”

You felt a small smile curl your lips as you turned your gaze to the city lights outside, then heaved a sigh.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I like the sound of that.”

Chapter 11

[stromblessed]

Mizu's spectacles, and the levels of her disguise

In drafting some more Blue Eye Samurai meta posts, I find myself writing out the comparisons between what Mizu can and cannot hide about herself, and how that affects how she moves through the world.

Like, I get the jokes about Mizu's glasses, if only color contacts had existed back then, etc. etc., and I think (hope) that most viewers don't take the glasses jokes seriously, as in "I don't care about the suspension of disbelief because BES is a cartoon." But I wanted to write these thoughts out anyway without burying them in a text post about something else.

I think the points I'm going to lay out here are viewed very differently by different people, so please feel free to add to this post, reply, or put your thoughts in the tags!

Not only do Mizu's glasses not actually help her that much, there's surely more to Mizu's mixed race appearance than just the color of her eyes.

In my view, this was pointed out in episode 1:

I'm willing to bet most of us were expecting young Taigen to say "blue eyes," not "ROUND eyes."

Obviously this is still about Mizu's eyes, but not even spectacles can hide their shape.

I don't think the show is obligated to point out everything about Mizu's face that isn't quite as Japanese as the people around her expect. Though the creators have said that they specifically designed Mizu - and her clothes - to read both as "white" and as "Japanese," as well as both male and female. I think there's more about Mizu's features that read as "white" than just her eyes.

This is where my own headcanons start entering the picture, but it's my impression that people can just tell that Mizu looks different, whether or not they can put a finger on exactly how.

There's the little girl who looks at Mizu and then hides on the way into Kyoto:

When there's more to your face you'd like to cover up than just your eyes, big hats are a big help!

By the way, most of these examples have to come from the first half of the season, since by the second half, either Mizu is too preoccupied with fighting henchmen, or everyone Mizu is facing knows who she is already, and she therefore has no reason to hide her mixed race identity.

It's worth mentioning that the mere fact that Mizu has to hide multiple aspects of her identity - her mixed race and her sex - results in her having to choose clothes that really, really cover her up, which doesn't win her any favors either:

(Zatoichi reference, anyone?)

If it were as easy as, for example, tying her glasses to her head and wa-lah, nobody would ever know she was half-white - then (1) Mizu would've just done that long ago, and (2) Mizu wouldn't be so on guard and on tenterhooks 100% of the time the way she's depicted in the show, even when her glasses are on.

Her spectacles sure don't help her in the brothel, which is full of observant women who are trying to seduce her, meaning they get good long looks at her:

Mizu never takes her glasses off, but they still send a woman to her who has light eyes, thinking that must be what will interest a blue-eyed man:

No wonder Mizu gets mad after this, lol

So Mizu never takes her spectacles off in the brothel, it's dimly lit inside, and the women can still tell that she has blue eyes. I'm getting the sense that Mizu putting on her spectacles isn't a guarantee that people suddenly can't tell that she looks different.

And yet no one spots that she's female.

Mizu can hide her breasts, can wear her hair in the right style, can hide what's between her legs, can walk and talk and behave like a man - and she's been doing it for almost her entire life, to the point that not only is she very good at it, but the threat of being found out as female is deadly, but isn't presented in the show as omnipresent.

Let me explain.

She threatens Ringo for nearly saying the word "girl" out loud, because while she's constantly ostracized for being mixed race, being a woman traveling without a chaperone, carrying a sword, and disguised as a man will get her killed or flogged or arrested or some combination of these things.

But in addition, it's been drilled into her since she was a child that if she is discovered as female, the combination of her being mixed race and female will identify her as someone extremely specific, someone known to some bad people, and she will be killed:

I think of it as Mizu thinking to herself, "Being found out as mixed race means I'm treated badly. Being found out as mixed race and a woman means I'm dead."

Mizu's hair is cut as a child. But she isn't made to wear a big hat, or cover her eyes somehow, or anything like that. Because hiding her sex is a more successful endeavor than hiding her race.

Ringo finds out she's female by accident, but once Mizu accepts the fact that he won't rat her out, she relaxes pretty early on in the season. Because the threat of being found out as female is mitigated pretty much 99.9%, since Mizu has gotten so good at being a man. And also, because most of the time, people see what they want to see. Even if Mizu's face makes her stand out as "not 100% Japanese," no one in the world of BES looks at Mizu's clothes, her bearing, her sword, hears her voice, and will ever in a million years conclude that she is a woman, because expectations around gender roles in the Edo period were so rigid and so widely enforced.

One detail that proved this to me is after the Four Fangs fight:

Ringo takes off Mizu's clothes so he can stitch her up, then leaves her clothes off even after he's done. He doesn't even throw her cloak over her as a blanket or anything. There's a little a straw (pallet?) as a divider there on the left, but anyone could just peek around it and see Mizu and her chest bindings. (I think it's mostly there as a windbreaker.)

And Taigen is right there, but he doesn't give a shit:

Opinions probably vary hugely on this, but my impression is that because the show doesn't make any kind of deal about Taigen being in the room with Mizu here, my guess is that Mizu isn't in any danger of Taigen thinking she's female. Even when I watched the show for the first time, I assumed that Taigen had seen Mizu out of her clothes here, and that he thought nothing of it.

Eat your heart out, Li Shang (Mulan 1998). I actually do think that this scene is a direct and purposeful side-eye to that movie, lol

There's obviously some nuance to how "severe" being mixed race is compared to how "severe" being a woman is for Mizu:

After all, Swordfather can't bear to listen to Mizu confess to being a woman.

So a Japanese man can go wherever he wants, whenever he wants in BES. A Japanese woman has limited options: marriage, religion, or a brothel. A mixed-race man is an eyesore in this story. A mixed-race woman is a death sentence.

May as well eliminate the female aspect, and do what you can about the mixed-race aspect. Because that's just realistic.

Meaning Mizu can avoid the strictures Edo society places on women. But she can't avoid the repercussions that come with being mixed race. And I truly don't think that it's just because "there's no brown contacts yet."

[cecilysass]

Mulder’s Depressed Vampire Sex: Me on 3

You know, I like the episode 3. I mean, not the casefile part of 3, which is whatever whatever, but the important part: the blood fetishist lady has her way with Mulder and then he cries.

I definitely loathed the episode back when the show was airing. Back then it seemed like it was intentionally hostile to the ship—like going out of its way to be hostile, having Kristen tell Mulder shit like “I can tell you’re missing someone, but attention please: just a friend. Definitely not more!!!” I honestly kind of felt like she was looking out of the screen directly at me when she said it.

But looking back, knowing that MSR was endgame (and that fans kinda took over the narrative anyway), I definitely see the episode totally differently.

From a Mulder character arc point of view, this episode is all about him being a sad, sad boy. It is all about his depression, his hopelessness, his grief for Scully. It’s also about his drive to try to save women and girls in order to save himself. And he so often seems to fail at this when it is someone he cares about (or even when it is someone he has a fleeting connection with, like Kristen). And that’s so, so devastating for him. In that sense, this episode is a really desperate expression of his grief and frustration.

The HIV/AIDS angle to this ep is super important, too, so we have to make sure we’re getting into the full 1994 mindset on this. Mulder says in alarm to Kristen back in the club, when she’s playing fast and loose with blood: “AIDS. Aren’t you afraid?” (To which she responds that she wants to die.) Mulder knows that HIV transmission through sharing fluids is no joke in 1994 (it probably really shouldn’t be now either, but that’s not today’s lecture). Yet later, when Kristen is shaving him and he’s nicked, he allows this to be the catalyst for sex, even as he makes attempts to stop her from tasting his blood.

So his choice to have sex with Kristen is depicted as reckless, with someone who has been shown being careless about HIV. And he is doing it not just because he is turned on, but because he is being intentionally reckless with himself, clearly knowing the consequences. He shows concern for her, yes, but he’s also self destructive. He wants to fuck the hot vampire, but he also wants to fuck with death.

In other words, there’s a difference between what the episode tells us about Mulder’s relationship to Scully and what it shows us. And what the episode shows us about their relationship is that Scully is central enough in his life that everything is fundamentally affected by her abduction. He’s broken. He’s visibly depressed. He makes decisions that risk his job and his life. All the while he is actually choosing to wear her cross: a symbol that traditionally wards off vampires, as Kristen observes, but also keeps Scully’s presence in his mind constantly and in every frame of the episode he's in. And the episode ends with him looking like a hero in a romance novel mournfully casting his eyes to the hills clutching her cross in his hand.

None of this obviously communicates “I miss my work friend,” right? No objective observer would see this and say, “ah, he clearly is missing someone—most likely a friend, I would say.” But probably that’s exactly why they included Kristen’s “just a friend” line. They knew his grief in this episode was reading very powerfully, and they didn’t want it to seem overtly romantic.

I also feel like it’s kind of significant that the only time we actually see Mulder have confirmed sex with someone (besides Scully later) is when he’s depressed and Scully is gone. Linking his grief for Scully to his very-rarely-seen acting out on sexual desire like this also seems kind of psychologically sus to me, but I don’t know, I read a lot of fanfic.

Speaking of which, I did a little fanfic search for 3. And unless I am missing obvious fics (always a possibility), it was kind of difficult. Partly because this is a stupidly hard episode to look in search engines for. (No one should ever name episodes after numbers, although this one I will forgive because it’s from 1994 and they couldn’t have fully understood about Google and AO3.)

But also I just think there hasn’t been a ton of 3 fanfic, probably because this episode isn’t very well-liked. And listen, I get that Scully isn’t in it, which is often unappealing for writers, and there is Mulder/other, which people don’t like. But I feel like there are a lot of possibilities for story ideas here that don’t necessarily take place during the events of the episode. Like: how does it affect them later? Personally I like fics where Mulder and Scully discuss the events of the episode long after (actually I wrote one, which I included in my recs because I’m not that cool). I also think Mulder’s angst and depression has a lot of ways it could go—not to mention it’s the last canonically confirmed time he has sex before like 2000 or something. And it seems like AU takes on what happened to Kristen could be interesting. So what I'm saying is: maybe try writing 3 fics.

3 Fanfic Recs

Three is a Crowd - wendelah1 Mulder has sex with Kristen but can’t stop thinking of Scully.

Analgesic- settledownfrohike Mulder has sex with Kristen but can’t stop being a self-loathing, self-destructive mess. And thinking of Scully.

The Woman In His Heart - Spangle This shorter piece frames Mulder’s time with Kristen as a revelation about his feelings. Angsty and nicely observed. A 2005 Spooky winner, evidently.

False Dawn - emmbright A sharply etched portrait of how Mulder moves through his life between 3 and One Breath. For me this fills in the blanks perfectly.

Dreams - Characteristically_Exuberant This is actually a (great) post-ep for Field Trip, and the events of 3 aren’t the main focus of the fic. But I like how this author discusses what happened with Mulder in that episode and contextualizes it for both agents.

We’re Not Here To Get Involved In Personal Problems - cecily_sass This is mine, also not really a 3 post-ep; it’s an X-Cops post-ep. I feel a little silly including it. But I had them discuss the events of 3 in this fic in a way that sort of lays out my own thesis of the episode, and I thought, hey, it’s my list. Mulder and Scully walk to a gas station in Willow Park in Los Angeles the morning after X-Cops; they discuss plenty.

Any others? I feel like I probably missed some.

[lipstickchainsaw]

Arcane season 2 has touched on religious themes considerably more than season 1 did. This has expressed itself primarily in Viktor's prophet narrative (no, he is not a god, he is being guided by one), but we also see it in a lot of Janna worship showing up in Zaun, especially among the most impoverished.

And her most prominent depiction is in the stage Jinx sets for her fight with Vi. This seems relevant, so let's dig into that for a moment.

The stage Jinx has set is deep underground, in the ruins of what seems to have once been a grand temple (with an altar, but we'll get to that), which Jinx has repurposed as a monument to the tragedies of her own life, but I don't think this is portrayed as a desecration of this temple. Rather, I think it's a set-up for where we're going.

Over the course of their fight, Vi and Jinx destroy the pillar showing their childhood, which could be read as the definitive destruction of their sisterhood, but, given how things end, I think it's more likely the destruction of the specific dynamic: Vi can no longer be the protector, and Jinx does not need to be protected.

The conclusion of that fight has Jinx held down on the altar, which seemed to be very much on purpose, because she wants to die, and her decision to do it like this is important. She wanted to go out in a grand, important way. Like a ritual sacrifice on the altar to a god, with a grand ceremony in the form of the paint bombs to mark the occasion.

But the world won't let Jinx die, forces her to live, in this case in the form of Isha bodily getting in the way of the people trying to kill her, which doesn't strip this religious ritual from its meaning, but it changes it from a sacrifice to... something else.

At the end of season 1, Vi and her sister had to make a choice between Jinx and Powder, but they got neither. This isn't the Jinx that they thought they were choosing, and it isn't the Powder that wants to die, either. So if this is not a death, perhaps it is a rebirth, but as what?

Anyway, all of that sells the significance of the religious imagery, but it doesn't explain why Janna, specifically.

Fittingly, Jinx introduces us to who Janna is as a deity, and equally fittingly, she presents this as a non-believer:

"Don't you remember the old Janna bedtime stories Vander used to tell us? Miners trapped underground. Air running thin! But then some wispy wind woman wafts to their rescue. Wild the kind of crap people get up to when you choke them out."

Janna is fresh air to those about to choke. Life to those about to die. It is a second wind when poison threatens to end you. Jinx, at this point, probably thinks of this as a hallucination by people who were just rescued and interpreted the source of the fresh air as something it wasn't (after all, she's well familiar with what a person's brain can come up with when put under significant strain).

But the Strike Team was threatening to choke the Undercity, with the Gray being an expression of Caitlyn's grief forced upon the citizens of Zaun, and Jinx' ritual sacrifice gets interrupted by Isha (and Sevika) rescuing her, all culminating in them blowing up a seal depicting Janna that was holding back a massive gust of fresh air that turned the poison against those using it.

So with this being a rebirth for Jinx, I think it points out in a certain direction.

For one thing, while she has been associated with smoke (see also: Powder), the way her tattoos show that smoke is very much a depiction of it being stirred by wind. For another, it involves her both rescuing and being rescued, becoming both Vi and Powder. She reflexively protects Isha, and finds in that a reason, perhaps, to live.

But this has only delayed matters, not solved the problem, with Caitlyn's grief now wielding the military might of Noxus (noxious) to choke the Zaun once more, and it once again needs its fresh air to survive.

So perhaps Jinx can find a renewed purpose. Can find meaning in a life where she protects and supports people. Can become Zaun's hero, instead of simply Piltover's villain.

And perhaps Janna finally has a herald to fight for the city under her banner.

[fortunxa]

I gave myself some time to think after watching act III, and I can finally share my thoughts. Let me break it down episode by episode so it’s more coherent because I’m itching to talk about it. Buckle up because this won’t be short.

cw: mentions of sh, depression, borderline personality disorder, suicidal tendencies

episode 7 — Pretend Like It’s the First Time

This whole episode felt like pure fanfiction and fan service, and I genuinely can’t believe how Timebomb shippers are still standing after this. Throughout this whole episode, it’s been clearly shown how Ekko will only accept one version of Jinx—the easy to digest one. The one that hasn’t been traumatized. How can someone call it love? Love isn’t picking and choosing what you accept, you either love the whole person or you don’t. Alternate universe Powder is the epitome of the manic pixie dream girl archetype for the current timeline Ekko. Would Timebomb work in that alternate universe? Sure, but that’s because it’s their reality. They don’t know anything else—Powder doesn’t become the Jinx we know now. Alternate universe Ekko isn’t faced with Jinx’s mental health problems—he has nothing to pick and choose from.

Do I hate Ekko? No, I actually like his character, but he’s torn between reality and fantasy. Can I blame him? Also no, because we’ve seen his childhood. We can only imagine what damage losing everyone he loved and cared about at such a young age (and so suddenly) did to him mentally. I can’t fault him for holding onto the past (even if he denies doing so), but it is an issue that stands in the way of current timeline Timebomb.

To him, there’s only Powder or Jinx, but she’s so much more complex than that. It’s been shown repeatedly how Jinx is a part of Powder (the whole act I of season 1), and how Powder is still a part of Jinx (until the very end, no matter how hard she tried to get rid of her).

BONUS: The necklace Powder has speaks for itself. A blue rose represents, and I quote, “Unrequited love, a longing for the impossible. A yearning for someone out of reach or a relationship that cannot be fully realized.” Both Ekko’s and Powder’s side profiles aren’t on the same side of the necklace to begin with. They only merge once she spins it.

BONUS 2: Other than “Ma meilleure ennemie” by Stromae & Pomme being an absolute bop, some of you simply didn’t translate it, and it shows. Here are some highlights, specifically Pomme’s lyrics (clearly depicting Jinx):

episode 8 — Killing Is a Cycle

The episode that started to break me. We see Jinx, absolutely drained, sitting in that cell because Isha’s death was her breaking point. No one and I mean no one, showed that girl the love and acceptance she needed and deserved other than Isha. Not Silco, not Vi, not Ekko. Building that beautiful storyline for two acts straight just to rip it away from her in such a traumatizing way—a parallel to the explosion at the warehouse, too? Wow. They were setting the stage for Jinx’s breakdown since the very beginning of this season. Making us watch the hope in her bloom, find something (or someone in this case) worth living for again, be loved and accepted for who she is just to watch it all burn and leave her with nothing again—pure evil.

“I didn’t know your mom was there.” Can you hear my heart breaking even further? That brings me to my next point: Jinx in relation to Caitvi.

After watching all of what Caitlyn did this season, not only to the city but to Vi, and then still believing Caitvi is healthy? Are we watching the same show? Season 1 Caitvi stood a chance, but this? So shallow and underdeveloped. Cait became a whole dictator. She was Vi’s breaking point, too, and the reason why she hit rock bottom in the first place. Jinx saw that firsthand, and she still thinks she’s the one standing in the way of Vi’s happiness? The only person standing in the way of that is Caitlyn herself, who isn’t even being held accountable for her actions whatsoever at any point. “We can’t erase our mistakes.” but we clearly can pretend they never happened, right?

“She’s being held in the bunker while I decide what to do.” What exactly did Cait expect from that? Telling Vi, her apparent love interest—who knows what it’s like to suffer in prison, not even physically but straight up mentally—that she’s keeping her mentally ill little sister in a cell while she decides what to do? What’s there to decide? And who are you to decide?

“I’m giving you this one chance to account for your actions, all the pain you’ve caused.” Is this projecting I hear from Cait? Can’t even tell since she never did what she’s expecting from Jinx, having done far worse things than her by that point. She let martial law take place for fuck’s sake. She used the grey to gas the Undercity (which still boggles me that Vi agreed to it). She was ready to risk Isha’s safety (a CHILD) just to get to Jinx.

BONUS (while I’m at it): Caitlyn would’ve missed the final shot, no matter how much she believed that she wouldn’t. She missed the shot twice right before that: first, when she shot Jinx’s finger off, and second, when she accidentally shot at Vi. They gave us this shot of Cait looking crazed out for a reason. She was losing her mind.

She was blinded by grief, yes, but I was waiting for the moment where she finally admits to her wrongdoings (other than screaming “I know!” while tossing a boat figurine, that is). “No amount of good deeds can undo our crimes.” Sure, and a lousy sex scene can?

Let’s talk about it.

When Jinx leaves Vi in the cell, she’s clearly suicidal and mentally unwell—even more than what we’ve seen from her so far. The dialogue they gave her, again, making her believe that she was the issue all along was just heartbreaking to hear. Yes, it’s Jinx’s perception of herself, going back to her believing she’s a jinx and how everyone close to her dies, but that perception of herself shifted when Isha came into the picture. And like I said, they took that away, so going back to the topic at hand.

Vi just being ready to hear another ‘I told you so’ from Caitlyn when she finds her, and then they just end up having “sex” (or actually, just giving Cait the pleasure Vi deserved instead after everything she put her through). We’ve seen crumbs of unsatisfying communication between them about what happened, and that sex scene in the cell was the last straw for me at this point. What do you mean Vi saw her suicidal sister sitting in that very same cell (starving and self-harming herself, may I add) and instead of running after her, she pounces on Cait?

“But the parallel to their first meeting back in s1!” I don’t care. That’s just fucked up to witness. In what world would Vi—who swears to care about her family—do that? We see her as this family-oriented person, who doesn’t give up on Jinx despite it all, and this was just so out of character in the name of fan service.

episode 9 — The Dirt Under Your Nails

Starting off strong, we see depressed and suicidal Jinx right off the bat. How did Ekko manage to get through to her? Well, it’s not like he would’ve stopped either way. He would’ve kept using his z-drive over and over again until he finally got it right.

What do we gain from that? Hopeful Jinx again, yippee! Wrong. She’s back for her sister, and it’s beautiful to witness. “I’m always with you. Even when we’re worlds apart.” Fighting with and for her, ready to die for her—we saw time and time again how Jinx was never the true jinx she believed she was. She managed to fix things with Vi—and even Ekko at this point—and managed to find and bring joy. That was the true ending both sisters deserved.

What do we get instead? Implying that Jinx sacrifices herself for Vi. Other than the pure rollercoaster of emotions they put Jinx through, making a suicidal character kill themselves (or even implying so) is just plain insensitive. What message does that send? As I said in a comment section, the writers aren’t blind, and they’re not dumb either. They know how many mentally ill fans Jinx herself has. As someone who struggles with bpd too, I related to her character in so many ways. More than I’m willing to share in this post, so that finale just left a bitter taste in my mouth. Speaking with other people who are struggling with their mental health helped me see that I wasn’t the only one affected by it. Quoting my friend: “We need to normalize considering the effects of the narrative on the fans.” And this isn’t to say that every suicidal character should magically get better, this isn’t how the real world works. But Jinx’s storyline had no reason to end on that note by that point. Forced and rushed.

Dead or runaway, leaving her with the “everybody’s better off without me” narrative was just the wrong way to go about it. Plain and simple. It was rubbing salt into the wound, spitting in the face of her development. They decided to end the show with an underdeveloped Caitvi “endgame” when they spent all this time developing Jinx’s arc. And all of this for what? Such a disappointing way to wrap things up, with literal crumbs as hints that maybe she’s still alive.

And the bitter cherry on top of Caitvi’s messy relationship this season, other than the complete lack of communication—Vi comparing herself to the dirt under Cait’s nails. What a cute (not really) way to remind us of their differences and Piltover’s stance on Zaun for the majority of the show—seen as nothing more than dirt. When Sevika joins the Council after the war, she’s still being looked down on. This just makes me sick.

BONUS: No mentions of Isha in Act III was pure evil (no, the paint on Jinx’s new outfit, the bunny ears on the balloon or even Isha’s doll were not enough. I wanted her death to be properly acknowledged. No, I don’t think it was too much to ask for). We got this beautiful found family arc between her, Jinx, and Sevika, only for it to be completely forgotten the moment Jinx reconciles with Vi.

BONUS 2: Jayce and Viktor were the perfect example of bromance. A friendship between two men can be gentle, affectionate, and loving without them being gay. No need for the ship, but I guess that’s the least of my worries.

BONUS 3: If anyone brings up the “beauty in imperfections” monologue to defend the ending, know that I’m not listening. They had such a beautiful show going for so long. Imperfections aren’t the problem here, it’s the plain disappointment.

EDIT BONUS 4: Singed out of all people getting a happy ending was so disrespectful. What a cockroach that man is. Nothing and no one can get rid of him.

Media literacy is important. Thanks for coming to my rant.

disclaimer: this isn’t me saying that the entire season was bad. But damn, do better.

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

why is headless women art bad? i can see why it's seen as objectifying but why is it such a big deal to make art out of the female form? (sorry if i sound agressive this is a genuine question)

Hi anon! You certainly don’t sound aggressive - I’m actually very grateful for the opportunity to collate my current thoughts in one place, so thank you for the prompt. I’m going to try my hardest to keep this short.

For any women who haven’t seen posts on this topic previously, some examples of the ‘headless women art’ trend I’ve been talking about for a while now are below. They’re often missing their limbs, at various points of amputation, as well as all or part of their heads (if she has her eyes, I generally don’t count it). Sometimes their heads have been ‘replaced’ with other objects, typically plants or mushrooms, though I wouldn’t count a woman with an animal or bird’s head. They’re often naked.

So, per Anon’s question, why is it a ‘big deal’?

I mean, really, it’s not. It’s an absolutely minuscule deal - it’s as dwarfed by the issues of the sex industry, femicide, and systemic sex inequality, as we are by the Sun. And yet, much as our bodies are made of particles formed in dying stars, I see elements of the large within the small… ok, I’m not getting poetic.

It’s not a big deal, and I don’t necessarily think it’s wholly terrible either, which is why in my analysis posts on the topic I try to ask questions more than criticise, and criticise gently when I do so. What it comes down to is that I spotted a pattern, and wanted to acknowledge that pattern, think about it, and ask other women for their thoughts on it.

With that said, there are certain things that I question particularly, and have seen other women question, which I’ll list:

Remove her legs and she can’t run, remove her arms and she can’t fight, remove her mouth and she can’t shout, and remove her eyes and she can’t look back at you. You totally disempower her when you remove almost every body part capable of action.

By removing her head you also remove her brain (her personality and internal identity), and her face (her visible external identity). By anonymising her you strip her of her individuality, and depict all female people as a result - so what message are you sending about all female people with your depiction of us, naked and dismembered?

A (living) woman’s neutral existence requires her to have her head. By removing it, you are making an active choice to step away from the neutral (and it’s on you to defend that choice), and you are also by necessity depicting a dead woman. You ask about ‘art out of the female form’ - the living female form has a head. Why remove it?

The simplest test of whether something might be sexist, is to see whether it applies to men and women equally. Are (straight) men decorating their homes with ‘bits’ of male bodies? Do men in general feel conscious enough of, yet alienated enough from, the appearance of their bodies that they seek out their representation, sans heads, to reflect back at them? Why not, if women are? Would it be strange if they did?

As a follow up, since many of these pieces are made by women (often straight women), are (straight) men often focusing their artistic output on depicting ‘bits’ of male bodies? Do men regularly choose to create art intended to depict the ‘beauty’ of the male form? If not, why not?

You mention objectification - what links are there between objectification and violence? Could self-objectification be used to normalise violence against the self, or even excuse it? What about violence against others who are like the self (ie violence against other women)?

As I say, I’m not necessarily saying this artistic trend is exclusively a bad one, or that people/women in particular shouldn’t be decorating their homes however they please. It’s just something I’ve noted and found interesting, and like many apparently free choices, I think feminist women have a responsibility to interrogate their own and others’ motivations.

This is a hasty overview, and I’ve probably missed things - I’ll reblog with additions if I think of any, but you can also see my previous posts on this topic, and other women’s contributions, under my “Headless Women Art” tag. Thanks again for the question!

[greenboyfriend]

choose something cold... (tarot card reading)

"what do you need to know?"

image 1: it's cold. I mean, really cold. but your blood is warm, even if your fingers are blue. where's your soul? image 2: a framed painting depicting a wintry landscape, complete with a log cabin, whose blue smoke trickles from its chimney and blends in with the world around it. image 3: three ornate glasses, made of ice. are those cracks intentional? or just by virtue of its design? image source not everything may resonate with you, and that's ok! take what does & leave the rest. don't force it.

1.・。.・゜✭

there’s an opportunity being presented to you. it may be a celebration of some kind, or just something that has a lot of excitement surrounding it. what i’m getting most of all is that this may be a chance to find freedom. with the seven of swords reversed, maybe you’re the type of person to handle your problems on your own, “lone wolf” style. there’s a million reasons why someone might do this, but for you, you’re afraid or distrusting in others. when you opened up in the past, maybe it didn’t end up so well for you, and this has made you keep things mostly to yourself.  however, the four of wands reversed tells us that this lone wolf energy is blocking you from fully enjoying yourself. “freedom”, in this sense, is the freedom from yourself, or rather, your fear. in the original Rider-Waite-Smith deck, the seven of swords shows us a man with his arms full of swords, shirking off to his own devices. for you, these swords represent an unnecessary burden, being wary or even afraid of others to see your true colors/problems/ect. opening yourself back up again is a task much easier said than done, i know. but the 6 of cups shows us what this looks like, once fully realized. when we talk about our problems and emotions, we’re able to release and/or deal with them more easily. i’ve definitely been in the position of worrying endlessly about something, just to finally open up to someone, and realize that the answer was sitting in front of me all along. the six of cups represents this as having a “clean conscience.” being, you’ve released yourself from carrying a burden all alone, and have found freedom– the four of wands. finally, the king of cups reversed reminds you to have patience, and to be tolerant of others. not just one person can supply you with all the information or support you need.

(6 of cups, 7 of swords reversed, 4 of wands reversed, king of cups reversed)

2.・。.・゜✭

you’re in a period of transition, be that between attitudes or people. this change has you feeling down. maybe not emotionally destitute, but not in the best spot, either. as you wade through these waters, know that the queen of swords is by your side, and will lead you to better times. the queen of swords is someone with a good head on her shoulders, and will always tell the truth. she is very forthright, and doesn’t do any under-the-table dealings. she holds herself to these standards because of her past experiences, and knows that an honest, open approach will best suit her motives. you may embody the queen of swords already, and if you do, great! if you don’t, that’s ok, too. but it’s time to start really leaning into that kind of energy. don’t conceal the truth– both to yourself and others–, and let yourself have a laugh every once in a while! the thing about being experienced is that you know not to take everything so seriously. the queen of swords can see the big picture, and knows that, even if right now is tough, later will be much better. the place/person/vibe you’re coming from is represented by the knight of wands. i’m getting, cockiness– to the point where you/they were being presumptuous. this might also have had to do with someone being hot tempered, and restless, where they couldn’t handle being bored, so they’d decide to pick a fight. this energy is still here, but not necessarily causing harm just yet. what’s really impeding your path towards healing is the knight of cups. the knight of cups reversed is in direct opposition with the queen of swords, in the sense that he allows his emotions to take control of him, rather than accurately assessing the truth of his situation. he may let his imagination become overactive, and begin believing things that aren’t true. where the queen of swords faces all her dealings head on, the knight of cups may shade the truth, dance around the issue, or simply hope someone else will deal with it. he may also tend to isolate himself from others, which only worsens his imagination into spurring up unrealistic scenarios and focusing too much on his own “failings.” i’m thinking… you’re going to need to temper the knight of cups with the knight of wands. use that fiery, self confident energy to seek out the truth, rather than make assumptions. and, in turn, the knight of cups can help to deplete those feelings of restlessness through introspection. most importantly, keep your head level, and honor the truth above all.

(queen of swords, 6 of swords, knight of wands, knight of cups reversed)

3.・。.・゜✭

so… there’s a lot to unpack here, image 3! i’ll start with this, the energy of the queens of wands and of pentacles are important right now. the queen of wands seems to be especially important, urging you to work hard to maintain her optimism, confidence, and enthusiasm. this situation will require you to be a sort of “soft” leader for others, where you can be looked to for inspiration. if you’re able to serve as a role model through keeping your head up even when the going gets tough, and to do so with strength and vigor, it will not only help you and your purposes, but will also inspire those around you to do the same. the opportunity to embody this energy is not fully here yet, but once you hear the call, you’ll know it’s for you. strike the iron while it’s hot and give it your all! no time for dilly dallying. in being a leader (even if you’re not completely cognizant of it) you will have to temper your generosity with what you know to be true. so, for example, if someone is late to a meeting one time, you may give them the benefit of the doubt. but if they’re continuously late, some changes need to be made. this can also apply to other situations, where you will need to decide between your loyalties and what’s true & just. you may have already experienced scenarios like this in the past, so it will help you to call back to those times for foresight. doing what is fair may be difficult in the moment, but will lead to the best outcome. the queens come together here to guide you on your way. keep trying! you know that you’re resourceful, so don’t be afraid to try your hand at solving problems. it may also benefit you to remain down to earth during this time, and not to try to control what others think or say. at the end of the day, you are your own person, and what a wonderful person you are!  finally, we arrive at the page of cups. i’m getting a very loving, forgiving energy from this card. it may benefit you to invite that energy into your life, both towards yourself and others. when a challenge faces you, or someone is less than nice, decide to turn away that anger with love. consider, what may compel them to act this way? maybe they’re going through something you don’t know about. it’s not that you need to nurture them back to good health, but realize that maybe, they’re just not worth your time, and a simple nod & turning of the cheek will do you both some good. most of all, listen to your intuition to tell you whether or not this argument/situation is really worth getting into.

(queen of wands, 8 of pentacles reversed, 8 of wands reversed, queen of pentacles, ace of swords, 3 of wands reversed, page of cups)

[antianakin]

I feel like fan reactions to Naboo and their elected monarch system and Padme's part in it is QUICKLY becoming as onerous as the way fans react to the Jedi and the Padawans.

"Naboo relies on children to run its government"

Does it though?

Two out of the four most canonical Naboo queens we've ever seen were fully adults as far as we can tell. Only Padme and Apailana are actually children, but Jamillia is very clearly adult and Neyutnee doesn't seem to be a child either. Padme makes a comment that obviously does tell us that she's not the first child queen nor the youngest queen ever elected, but this doesn't necessarily mean that Naboo REQUIRES its queens to be children or even that it PREDOMINANTLY elects child queens. As far as that quote tells us, Padme could literally be only the SECOND child queen ever elected. Just because she isn't the youngest ever doesn't mean there was any more than one other child queen elected before her and that one person happened to be elected younger than 14. That's just as accurate of a headcanon to make as the one that says that most queens are elected as children.

We also don't see children in any other positions of power during either TPM or TCW. The governor of Theed is clearly an older man, Palpatine is clearly an adult as the Senator (and Padme herself is an adult when SHE becomes the Senator), and there's nobody else that we ever see other than Padme and her handmaidens who is clearly a child in the scenes depicting Naboo's government. So it seems just a little unfair to claim that Naboo relies on children to run its government. EVEN IF we pretended that it only ever or mostly elected child queens, the vast majority of the people making political decisions appear to be adults still.

From a meta perspective, Naboo having child queens appears to be just another aspect of the message about the wisdom of children (note the clear foil between Padme and Palpatine as two politicians from the same planet, but she is the wise child and he is the corrupt adult). It comes up again in AOTC with Yoda asking the younglings to help Obi-Wan with his question about the missing planet and then saying that the mind of a child is wondrous. It's not some sort of hidden message about Naboo being a corrupt piece of shit hiding underneath natural beauty.

"Padme was raised to be a politician/child queen"

Was she though?

Her mother appears to be an educator and her father works in some sort of refugee organization, neither of them is a politician themselves nor are we ever told that they are, and in the deleted scenes from AOTC, we hear that they're actually not SUPER happy about Padme still being a politician because of how dangerous it is for her and would presumably prefer if she quit her job as a Senator and came back to Naboo to live a quieter life. This is an opinion they're so open about that Padme has to ask Anakin to lie about what he is and why he's traveling with her to try to keep her parents from getting anxious and when he chooses to reveal that information anyway, they instantly start talking about how much they don't like how dangerous Padme's job is. That doesn't sound like the kind of people who would've required or even encouraged Padme to go after a political job as a child. They clearly chose to SUPPORT her political interests early on, but that doesn't mean they RAISED HER with that expectation on her.

Padme appears to have chosen to become a politician and to campaign to be Queen all of her own free will and because she wanted to pursue that path for herself. Why do we need to take that agency away from her? Even if she says she believes she was too young for it and seems to regret the path she chose now that she's an adult, it doesn't mean it was FORCED upon her. The parallel between her and Anakin is RIGHT THERE, they both chose a career path that they believed was what they wanted, but the reality of it turned out to be something different than they thought and they both feel trapped within a cage of their own making. The whole point is that they can LEAVE this cage any time they want, that they made the choices that led them to where they are and they can MAKE DIFFERENT CHOICES if they want to, but some part of them clings to this path they're on rather than embrace the uncertainty of letting it go for something that could make them happier.

[shadowgast-recs-weekly]

Good/Complicated Mom Deirta

This week, we've got ten fics that feature a Deirta Thelyss as either a good - or at least complicated mother. Check them out underneath the cut, and comment and kudos if you like them!

What Luminous Worlds Await by essektheyless (divinationwizard) (178674, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

After a thousand years of sleep, the Luxon's Champion reawakens to a changed Exandria. The memory of Caleb is ever present, the soul of his mother is tucked in the beacon he carries, and Leylas' madness is tumbling the world toward war again.

Reccer says: The second person narrative gives this such an immediacy! This fic makes me wish I could temporarily forget everything I know about CR so I could try reading it completely fresh; I think it would hold up and be a very cool way to be introduced to the world.

some things time can't fix by Chrome (25930, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek is arrested for treason. The Dynasty severs the daemons of prisoners before executing them so they can’t be reborn.

Reccer says: great hurt comfort and an AU, but also a nice depiction of a caring Deirta

Lay Your Bones by LadyOrpheus (53578, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Thinking only of justice and restoring his family's honor after Essek's betrayal, Verin Thelyss finds something he never expected, an Essek he never expected. A mission for justice turns into a race against time and a family finds their world upended.

Reccer says: I love how complicated Deirta is in this fic - that she's bound by her station but still finding ways to act on Essek's behalf

Not the Needle, Nor the Thread by Operafloozy (2149, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Consecuted Deirta is forced to live with her son from another life, it's Essek, things are complicated.

Reccer says: It's part of a series and I loved the series so much, this installment really focusses on Deirta and Essek and also the hurt they caused eachother and how to continue on now that they are both different people.

(and) i'll come running if you call by vagabondfirelily (6489, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Essek goes to Bazzoxan to save Verin. Doing that, he runs into his mother.

Reccer says: It is so bittersweet and so realistic. A very good portray of a complicated relationship between two very similar people. And Verin is there!

until it doesn't hurt by breitweisergallery (3.8k, General) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

5 times Deirta sends to her sons and one time they send to her

Reccer says: I liked it!

When Broken Shells Make Christmas Bells by LuckyOwlsFoot (12348, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Rape/Non-con, Dubcon/Consensual Non Consent, Non-consensual arranged marriage, threats of rape (nothing explicitly happens)

Essek gets forced into an arranged marriage to avoid execution and Caleb rescues him at the altar.

Reccer says: Lots of Essek angst and comfort and support from Deirta and Verin

a star in your sunset by Laeveteinn (2200, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Discussion or implications of a suicide attempt

When I find you at the foot of the stairs, my first thought is that a stranger is wearing my son’s face, because there is a standing call for Essek Thelyss's arrest the moment he is seen this side of the Ashkeepers.

Reccer says: It's from Deirta's point of view - which feels rare, and the way that the author shows how well Deirta actually knows and loves Essek - how much we can figure out about Essek's emotional state and probable motives - is amazing, especially with how little is said.

And then we have multiple recs for these last two fics!

And After the Scripture (Your Mother Beside Me) by SaltCore (9531, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Major Character Death

Essek is so very loved - so much so, that when he dies, his mother enlists the Nein to smuggle him out of Rosohna so that he may live again.

Reccer 1 says: What isn't there to like? Deirta gets explored as a mother, as a leader, and as a person. The Drow society gets examined and sketched out, painted with a history that reaches back before the Calamity. We get to see more of the Thelyss family, and we see the respect that these strangers give to the Nein solely based on the fact that Essek loved them. The interactions Deirta have with the Nein (mostly Caleb) highlight how shrewd and savvy she is, completely zooms in on what it must be like to be an Umavi, even from the Nein's POV. It's such a stunning story, both in craft and content! Reccer 2 says: the characterization in this fic is incredible. for a character who never appears on screen, deirta has a real tendency to haunt the narrative for a lot of shadowgast writers. the version of her who appears here is a completely convincing—and heartbreaking—portrayal of both one of the most powerful people in the dynasty and someone who is fundamentally essek's mother in spite of that. it makes me cry every time i read it, in the best possible way. mind the warnings—but even as someone who has a hard time with major character death fics, this one is completely worth the read. Reccer 3 says: Genuinely my favorite depiction of Deirta Thelyss I’ve seen. Incredibly complicated but so clearly loves her children in a way that makes sense for a woman that old.

Starburst Hearts by kaeda (4805, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Told from Deirta’s pov. A meeting between mother and son while Essek has been on the run.

Reccer 1 says: One of my favorite characterizations for Deirta as a complicated person who loves her son but struggles to show it and doesn’t understand him well. Also a lovely outsider’s perspective on the dynamic of the Mighty Nein as well as Caleb/Essek. Reccer 2 says: It's so wonderfully bittersweet! Also the outsider perspective on the rest of the Nein is very funny

Want more fics with Deirta? Check out our reclist themed with featuring another Thelyss!

This is one of our weekly communally-generated shadowgast rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. 

And hey, anyone includes you, if you're so inclined!

Next week, we'll be featuring fics with Astrid and/or Eadwulf in them. Any fics coming to mind? Well, then use this form to submit!

[maybe-boys-do-love]

The Trainee, Episode 10: Direction

Take a break from the discourse around the couples to appreciate the references to directing in this episode! From the literal meanings to directions in life.

We open on Ryan's dad directing Jane's photoshoot. lol. You fix those clothes, Ryan ;) And Jane, give us a smile like your falling head over heels for someone.

2. Then we get Pah (making friends with every single person at the office, as usual) directing the front desk assistant (I haven't caught her name and she's not on the mydramalist or imdb cast and crew list) to a spot for lunch. Then we have the accounting manager come in and show us how her and Pah's relationship has grown. The scene reminds us that Pah, since early on in the show, has demonstrated incredible relationship building skills--a necessity for any director. And these relationships come to a beautiful fruition in this episode.

3. Tae, on the other hand, emerges as a directionless ghost, jump-scare appearance and all! Heartbroken and provided with downtime by his department for the first time during his internship, he has no idea what to do with himself.

4. Pi and Ryan are seemingly talking about the controversial Todd Haynes film, Joker, from 2019. If you're either knowledgeable about the Batman franchises or interested like me in trying to figure out why the writers chose this film to include as a conversation point, you'll realize that Harvey Dent was not in Joker. He was, however, in The Dark Knight in 2008, directed by Christopher Nolan. This mix-up between the movies seems intentional when we look at the theories of directing and humanity the show is exploring, which I'll expand on in number 5! In Joker, we get a depiction of a single misunderstood victim genius who takes out his suffering and any failures of his art on others and inspires other people who feel hurt and misunderstood to do the same. In Dark Knight, we have the day saved thanks to a collective group of people's refusal to harm others despite threats that others will be forced to harm them, and, as far as Harvey Dent, his reputation is preserved despite his failings because of the hope it can bring others. The comparison sets up a comparison between the individual heroes and villains versus the collective, which is a really important comparison to ideas the show explores about directors (and is just really important in general theories of direction like conversations about auteur theory, etc.). Note that Jane says in this ep that he doesn't like hero movies...

5. We then see Judy directing Ba Mhee on how to correct her typo on a document. She's checking over a draft before it goes out, like a good director ought to, but Judy's direction of Ba Mhee, of course, gets taken up as a motif and major sticking point for their dynamic in this episode as it encroaches into personal time rather than just work. We have witnessed that outside of work, Ba Mhee is actually quite capable and eager to play the directing role.

I want to point to the specific typo mistake that read "God Pick" instead of the company's name of "Good Pick," though, because it seems to refer to one view of a director's role. Alfred Hitchcock explained, "...in fiction film the director is god; he must create life. And in the process of that creation, there are lots of feelings, forms of expression, and viewpoints that have to be juxtaposed. We should have total freedom to do as we like." So this moment of direction gives us two references, for the price of one!

Even more, it presents us with the theory of auteur Directors, that the show has been actively engaging with through the whole series. Does the director have a god-like power to pick and choose what they want their work to be without any input from others? Do individuals, as directors of our lives, get to pick and choose what we create out of them without others' input? To both answers, the show has emphatically replied, no! The studio is not called God Pick, it's 'Good Pick.' The director, just like each of us, is working on communicating with a whole massive team of people to bring a certain vision of theirs' to life within quite constrained limits. From budgets to time, from client desires to our own insecurities, we do our best to be good knowing that mistakes will be made and we can pick up and keep on going.

6. Baimon, the director of the studio, instructs Pie on some of the grunt work of directing. He's been presented as so flighty in the series, so it was nice to see him getting down to business in this fashion. That business, however, was printed upon the backs of some big emotions, which I think, in addition to being a funny little gag about Jane and Ryan's hidden relationship, is a beautiful metaphor about the combination of emotional and logistic work that directors, especially, are tasked with performing. A vulnerability lies under each shot and camera angle.

7. Idk if this was intentional, but the choice to show sticky-notes as the art department's current medium for this scene reminded me of directors story-boarding with sticky notes. It's also the moment Tae is encouraged to make an attempt at directing himself and providing his direction to his relationship with BaMhee in a way that's considerate of her desires.

8. Baimon directs Jane and Ryan in another intimate scene lol. He's staging them, referencing the storyboard, checking the camera, doing all the director jobs! And, of course, instead of a perfect god, he makes a mistake with the very basics of left and right that his intern corrects for him, and this mistake is not used by the show to signal to us as the audience that he's incompetent. It's to show that the people with 'big' dreams, visions, careers, or awards are not more special than those who choose to do the small tasks in life. Directors are the first job Ryan lists to Jane when talking about adults with special talents that he feels like he's supposed to aspire towards. Jane asks Ryan "Why must people want to become something big?"

There's also a development in Ryan and Jane's performance here. They're playing and improvising in the scene. It's a nice development for them as character and a sweet commentary on directors allowing actors to perform with some flexibility. Based on what I've read about Gun and Off's development as actors and a pair, their characters' development in their different stand-in moments almost seems like a commentary on Gun and Off's growth as a performing pairing, but that's just a fun stretch. Really, I'd say it's more representative of the growing comfort of actors in film work.

9. How could I not discuss one of my favorite sequences in the show (right up there with BaMhee's chase scene)?! Pah has been amassing a crew of comrades at the studio throughout the series, and I knew it was building towards something. I stated during the first shoot when he was a part of Unit B that I could see his arc leading him to becoming a director because he was just so good at befriending and organizing people. And here's where he becomes the director! Not through his personal auteur vision, but through his communication with others!

I had been imagining this plot development in some fashion for a while. Getting it would've satisfied me. Great comedy for me, however, is about seeing a well-constructed set-up pay off for a better value than you could've expected. The Alfred Hitchcock quote above comes from a portion of an interview about plausibility in fiction and his films. He ends the quote by saying, "A critic who talks to me about plausibility is a dull fellow." The moment Pah slid off his sling, The Trainee leapt out of the realm of plausibility it had meticulously built to give us a stratospheric pay-off to the joke it had been building for 9 episodes. And it was a joke grounded in the deepest themes of the show, praising every creator and assistant working in the background of this show and all the shows we love. It made my heart so full. It presented a democratic vision of a director's role (in a country where people continue to need to fight for their democratic values). And, it did it all while making me laugh.

10. Despite all the people running this scene and Judy giving Ba Mhee so much direction in the workplace, it's Ba Mhee who finally gets to realize her direction in life here. Notably, she's let go of the big overly romantic dreams and visions. She's come to appreciate and understand the importance of the seemingly mundane aspects of her relationships, the day-to-day jobs of directing one's life, and she's directing Tae to commit to this direction, too. Directing involves paying attention to the small things, the communication, and the people who help make them meaningful.

There's a beautiful transition between Judy's conversation with BaMhee and Tae's where they fade into one another exactly, letting us know in some ways that Judy and BaMhee could've had a conversation and started growing and finding a direction together, too. The problem as BaMhee points out is not finding an exact right fit. She just still has feelings for Tae, which would make developing a relationship with Judy more challenging. It was mature and honest, and that precious little fade let us know the show saw the possibilities for BaMhee to love them both. Has a film cutting choice ever been so bisexually coded???

10. It's a cute little reversal that our final scene is one of the first steps in directing: the concept stage. We also get Jane's appreciation, not only for Ryan's ideas here, but for all the things Ryan does at his family's business that align with the same kind of work happening in a production house. It sets the two of them on equal footing, disrupting this fantasy of the film industry and the class systems that could divide them. And Ryan's other insecurity about feeling too immature and un-adult to compare to the people at the office, which is a another division that might separate Jane and Ryan (HOW OLD IS JANE!?!?!?!) also got a dressing down ;) during this episode. We're getting ever closer to Ryan feeling ready to direct his own life!!!

[utilitycaster]

To expand that point about queerphobia (also, to an extent, gender equality) from the tags on someone else's post and sort of tying it back to my post yesterday about wanting to see characters work through similar experiences: I think it makes a lot of sense in the case of Exandria and Hale to build a world that does not have queerphobia and to allow people to choose to insert it if that is something their table wishes to explore. It's very much a case of wanting to build a diverse but non-utopian world that is welcoming to a wide variety of players.

I think it's a very understandable urge to want to see characters deal with the same challenges we face, and I think there are TTRPG settings that have done a good job depicting homophobia or transphobia; it's present though not common in Fantasy High, and The Unsleeping City is very close to the modern-day real world and has, well, period-typical attitudes.

The reason I get frustrated when it comes up in discussion of Exandria, and now Hale is that it's almost always used for one of two reasons: explaining why people (either specifically or generally) don't like a character; or even more frequently, explaining hesitancy between two characters in a ship. It's a convenient way to say "this person is oppressed or afraid for reasons that are objectively in no way their fault and which make the people who dislike them objectively bigoted and wrong". The problem is, while that's a valid story to tell it's often really not the story the cast is telling with these characters. Even more frustratingly, it often is used to steamroll other stories that may place those characters in just as innocent a position.

Some good examples in which this has happened in the fandom are Jester and Dorian. Jester lives on the Menagerie Coast, which is referred to a pretty wide variety of materials as being a place that is especially trans friendly (in a world where trans and nb characters already frequently occupy prominent positions and are not depicted as experiencing pushback). Her mother, a courtesan, indicates that she takes clients of varying genders. The biggest influences on her life are her mother and an otherworldly fey entity who famously can shapeshift. There is absolutely no canonical evidence that Jester would be unaware of the broad range of genders and sexualities in the world nor that she would feel obligated to embrace one that she is not; in fact there is quite strong evidence to the contrary. But if you claim that she's experiencing compulsive heterosexuality, it excuses you from having to consider that Jester is genuinely not interested in Beau, or at the very least is genuinely interested in Fjord.

Similarly, it was, at least prior to the reveals of early Campaign 3, common to headcanon that Dorian had run away from his parents because he was trans and they were transphobic. A trans reading of Dorian is still obviously entirely valid, but he left because his parents were suffocating and overbearing and often pit him against his brother. Dorian is still absolutely the victim in this! It's a valuable thing to relate to for people who have experienced parental abuse and impossible expectations. But it does still force you to think about Dorian's parents as complex people who came to this conclusion of childrearing (even if they are still in the wrong) and not just mindless bigots to be disregarded. And I think the former is nearly always a better story than the latter.

What also frustrates me is that this rarely works through the ramifications. The systemic queerphobia that would be required to put compulsory heterosexuality in place still exists once someone overcomes that and comes out; but that never comes into play when people are talking about the ship, because it's only ever used to explain why the ship hasn't happened yet, never as a significant part of the world that would affect the characters throughout their entire lives.

These are only two examples; there are countless others, some particularly egregious (*cough* Essek comes from a society that explicitly believes in reincarnation across bodies of varying genders and the queen for eternal life is in a lesbian relationship, I promise you his fraught relationships with his parents are way more complicated than simple homophobia or transphobia) but all of which seek to incorporate bigotry not as the destructive and deadly phenomenon it is, to be explored in the safe space of fiction, but as an incredibly lazy shortcut to be discarded as a continuity error once it's served its purpose.

[aliciavance4228]

Before starting to talk about this subject I want to make one thing clear: Hephaestus is one of my favourite Greek Gods (either in Top 5 or Top 10), so I'm not writing this post because I dislike him, but because I cannot stand superficial/surfface-level depictions of greek gods' personalities, nor the simplification of them and the erasure of their nuances (either through romanticization or demonization).

I do appreciate the fact that a lot of people start to realize that the relationship between Aphrodite and Hephaestus was a disfunctional one and that both of them are happier with different people (Ares and Aglaea, respectively). However, the fact that many people are usually focusing only on Aphrodite's actions and ignore Hephaestus' abusiveness rubs me in a wrong way.

Now, referring to Hephaestus as an Incel or choosing to villainize him for that is not the best solution either. He wasn't the only god asking Zeus for a wife, nor the only one who presents a more or less misogynistic attitude towards women. We're talking here about Ancient Greece, so expecting the deities to act how we would expect them to act based on nowdays' principles and standards is unrealistic and juvenile. I would also like to point out the fact that Hephaestus is, according to Hesiod's Theogony, happily married with Aglaea, who is also described as his first and only wife. They also have four daughters according to Orphic Rhapsodies Frag. And yet he is the exact same deity that you guys claim to be an Incel, which is a contraditiction to the original meaning of the term. The word was ment to reffer to a category of men who blame their appearance for not being able to have sex (when in truth the reason why women don't want them is rather due to their personality and beliefs; and by beliefs I mean their tendency of objectifying women and having ridiculously high standards for their future wives while simultaneously getting offended when a woman has her own standards too). I can see Apollo and Hades falling into more Incel Stereotypes than him, considering the fact that one of them cursed many women for refusing to sleep with him, whereas the other literally had to kidnap a woman in order to have a wife. And yet nobody dares to call them Incels, just because they two aren’t described as being disabled nor falsely considered unattractive, unlike Hephaestus.

That being said, negating his wrongs and turning him into a woobie who did nothing wrong just because you cannot stand Aphrodite isn't a good way of perceiving their relationship either. While Aphrodite was indeed manipulative towards Hephaestus and her sleeping with his own brother in his bed was hardly admirable, I would also like to point out the fact that Hephaestus was pretty much toxic and revengeful towards her too.

Now, there are a lot of versions on how they got married as well as a lot of lost fragments, which leads to speculations rather than something 100% certain. So I won't talk about it purely because I want to avoid misinterpretiation and misinformation, and discuss directly about what intetests me the most.

Wheter or not Aphrodite willingly married him or loved him, what do we know for sure is that she preffered Ares more and had an affair with him all this time. Being cheated on is a form a betrayal from a partner, so Hephaestus being angry on her is understandable. However, instead of divorcing her directly, he decided to humiliate her in one of the worst ways possible before separating from her:

Quintus Smyrnaeus, Fall of Troy 14. 40 ff (trans. Way) (Greek epic C4th A.D.) :

"With cheek shame-crimsoned, like the Queen of Love, what time the Heaven-abiders saw her clasped in Ares' arms, shaming in sight of all the marriage-bed, trapped in the myriad-meshed toils of Hephaistos : tangled there she lay in agony of shame, while thronged around the Blessed, and there stood Hephaistos' self: for fearful it is for wives to be beheld by husbands' eyes doing the deed of shame."

On top of that, Hephaestus directed his wrath towards one of Aphrodite and Ares' daughters (Harmonia) and her descendants as well, despite the fact it wasn't technically her fault that she was fathered by his brother:

Statius, Thebaid 2. 265 ff (trans. Mozley) (Roman epic C1st A.D.) :

"The dread necklace of Harmonia . . . The Lemnian [Hephaistos], so they of old believed, long time distressed at Mars' [Ares'] deceit and seeing that no punishment gave hindrance to the disclosed armour, and the avenging chains removed not the offence [of his affair with Hephaistos' then wife Aphrodite], wrought this [a cursed necklace] for Harmonia on her bridal day to be the glory of her dower [description of the necklace follows] . . .

The work first proved its worth, when Harmonia's complaints turned to dreadful hissing, and she bore company to grovelling Cadmus, and with long trailing breast drew furrows in the Illyrian fields [the pair were turned into serpents in Illyria]. Next, scarce had shameless Semele [their daughter] put the hurtful gift about her neck, when lying Juno [Hera] crossed her threshold. Thou too, unhappy Jocasta, didst, as they say, possess the beauteous, baleful thing, and didst deck thy countenance with its praise - on what a couch, alas! to find favour; and many more beside. Last Argia shines in the splendour of the gift, and in pride of ornament and accursed gold surpassed her sister's mean attiring. The wife of the doomed prophet [Eriphyle wife of Amphiaraus] beheld it, and at every shrine and banquet in secret cherished fierce jealousy, if only it might be granted her to possess the terrible jewel, nought profited, alas!"

Furthermore, I would also like to emphasize the fact that Hephaestus had a considerable amount of lovers. And while timeline is another uncertain aspect and he might have slept with those women before he married Aphrodite and/or between the moment when he divorced her and the one when he remarried, the possibility of him cheating on Aphrodite isn't an impossible one. In this case, that could be taken as a Double Standard, and his reaction when he found out that Aphrodite was cheating on him would be completely hypocritical.

As I said, Aphrodite was abusive and toxic towards him as well. But deciding to solely demonize her instead of acknowledging that both of them were abusive and toxic towards each other -I don't like to use this term but I can't find another one for the moment- is purely slut-shaming. Some of you guys are complaining about how "Hera has no agency" and were praising Kaos for portraying her as cheating on Zeus despite the fact that this is out of her character because "He finally got a taste of his own medicine", yet when Aphrodite cheats on her possible unfaithful husband she's suddenly a whore. You guys want a goddess who can be sexually active without any sort of inhibitions, yet when Aphrodite is brought into discussion there's at least one person who won't hesitate to call her all slurs for that, whereas Demeter is turned into a prude on top of being a Helicopter Parent in many fanfictions and retellings (because apparently when a woman becomes a mother she cannot care about anything else).

So instead of choosing one extreme or another where a) Aphrodite is a brainless slut and Hephaestus a poor woobie or b) Aphrodite is a helpless victim and Hephaestus an Incel who deserved to be cheated on, perhaps it would be a better idea to treat them as humane, realistic figures, instead of some sort of cartoonish caricatures who can easily fit into whatever labels and tropes you want them to fit in.