#and everyone that is suffering around the world

[holyschnitzel]

Christmas 2024

Hey, I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but today my town became the target of an attack on our Christmas market. Though I wasn’t there, I’m deeply shaken and horrified by such a vile act. This is a time meant for love and family, when people around the world come together to help those in need. Yet it was shamelessly exploited to inflict as much pain as possible. This year, Christmas was stolen from us. Loved ones were taken from us. For many here, it has become a time of mourning and fear. My thoughts are with all those who have been traumatized by this event and those who have suffered unimaginable losses. While the perpetrator has been caught, the damage to my town and its people cannot be undone. Some family members will not be coming home tonight. It still feels surreal 😔 It’s easy to think something like this could never happen where you live — until it does. Though I’ll spend this holiday season in shock, I refuse to live in fear. The Christmas markets should continue to open in the years ahead, because the last thing we can allow is for terror to win. I hope you all have a better holiday than we will. Thanks for reading. Take care everyone.

[azrielandhisshadows]

The Shadow of Her Love

pairing: azriel x reader

word count: 2.1k

summary: Azriel has been waiting for his mate to return from UTM after Amarantha's defeat; however, when Rhys returns without her, Azriel is forced to face the past 50 years of grief and anticipation while making connections with a new face.

warnings: talks of under the mountain, death, angst

a/n: I don't know if I know how to write anything happy

~~~~~~~~~~

Winds whipped around the balcony at the house of wind as two figures winnowed into sight. Azriel, Cassian, Mor, and Amren ran from the dining room in anticipation of the reunion they’ve waited 50 years for. Rhys and Y/N had survived 50 years of torment under Amarantha’s reign and had returned home.

Mor ran to embrace Rhys as he fell to his knees. Sobs erupted from his chest as he clung to Mor, as half a century of suffering finally crashing down on him in waves. Cassian knelt beside him, his face a mixture of relief and anguish, his hand gripping Rhys's shoulder tightly as though grounding him to the present.

Amren stood nearby, her usually sharp gaze softened as she studied her High Lord, a flicker of rare emotion crossing her face. Even she could not hide the relief that her family was whole again.

“Mate. She’s my mate.”

His family knew who Rhys meant without question. Feyre Cursebreaker, the human who saved everyone from Amarantha. Cassian and Mor continued to comfort Rhys as he brokenly muttered about Feyre. Shadows snaked toward Azriel frantically, whispering in his ear.

Not her. Not Y/N.

Azriel froze, his breath hitching in his throat. His hazel eyes darted to the figure standing behind Rhys. His shadows were right. It wasn’t Y/N.

His heart pounded against his chest and he reached for the golden thread of his bond. Cold, empty silence sat at the end of the bond just as it had the past 50 years. 

His voice broke as he stepped forward, cutting through Rhys’s rambling. “Where is she?”

The air seemed to shift, all relief vanishing from the room as silence fell. Rhys stiffened in Mor’s arms. Cassian and Mor looked at each other, confusion dawning on their faces, but Azriel’s voice rose, harder this time.

“Where is Y/N?”

Rhys lifted his head slowly, his grief-stricken gaze locking with Azriel’s. Violet eyes, heavy with sorrow, gave him the answer before the words left his mouth.

“She’s gone,” Rhys whispered, his voice hoarse and broken. “Y/N didn’t make it.”

The world stopped under Azriel’s feet as he fell to the ground. He grabbed at the leather tunic that clothed his chest, his shadows matching his frantic breaths. “No,” he spat, “you’re lying. Where is Y/N?”

Rhys fell to hold his brother, guilt living on his features. “I’m not lying,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible over the sound of Azriel’s ragged breaths. “I—I’m so sorry, Azriel. She’s gone.”

“No,” Azriel growled, his voice low and dangerous. His hazel eyes burned with fury and desperation as he surged to his feet. His shadows lashed out wildly, writhing like living extensions of his anguish. “She can’t be gone. She wouldn’t just leave me—she wouldn’t leave us!”

The tension shattered when Amren’s sharp voice cut through the room, her silver eyes narrowing. “If Y/N is dead, then who is that?”

The winds stilled as all eyes locked on the girl hovering at the edge of the balcony. Azriel’s shadows curled protectively around him, hesitant to retreat even as the girl cautiously stepped forward. The light from the House of Wind caught the golden strands of her hair, casting a faint halo around her, but it was her face—the familiar set of her jaw, the curve of her lips, the hesitation in her hazel eyes—that froze the room. She looked like Y/N – so much like Y/N that it was a cruel mirage.

“Who are you?” Azriel asked, his voice cutting through the silence. His tone riddled with raw desperation. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his entire body coiled with tension as though preparing for a blow.

The girl flinched at the question, her sunken hazel eyes darting between the group before landing on Rhys. Her eyes pleading desperately for his help. Rhys stood frozen, his guilt-lined face softening for the young girl, encouraging her to come closer. “I... I’m not here to hurt you,” she said softly, her voice trembling but steady enough to carry. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“That’s not an answer,” Cassian said, his voice low and gruff, his body a wall of muscle as he placed himself between Mor and the girl. “Start talking. Now.”

The girl took another step back, her hands still raised in a gesture of peace. “I—my name is Lyra,” she said, her voice faltering slightly. “Y/N is… was my mother.”

Her words shook the group like thunder, reverberating in the stunned silence that followed. Azriel’s breath hitched audibly, and he staggered backward as though struck. His shadows lashed out wildly, betraying his internal turmoil.

“That’s impossible,” Mor whispered, her voice trembling as she clung to Cassian for support. “Y/N would’ve told us—she wouldn’t have kept this from us.”

“She didn’t have a choice,” Rhys said, his voice cracking under the weight of the truth. His shoulders sagged, and his gaze dropped to the floor as he took a steadying breath. “She didn’t know she was pregnant until after we were captured.”

Azriel’s sharp intake of breath broke the fragile silence. He turned on Rhys, his hazel eyes blazing with fury and anguish. “You knew?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “You knew she was pregnant, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t know until after our magic was taken away,” Rhys replied, his voice thick with guilt. “Amarantha found out before I did. She used it against her. Against both of us.”

Azriel’s fists clenched tighter, his shadows writhing furiously. “What do you mean?” he demanded, his voice trembling. “What did she do to her?”

“She delighted in tormenting Y/N,” Rhys said hoarsely, his violet eyes glistening with tears. “She forced her into tasks that no one should endure—tasks that risked her life and Lyra’s. She threatened to harm her every time Y/N showed defiance. She… she made sure Y/N lived in constant fear. Y/N tried to hold on as long as she could, but she became too weak.”

Lyra’s quiet voice cut through the raging emotions, “I watched her fade away into a shell of herself. She tried to be strong for me… to protect me. She died with your name on her last breath. She always made sure I knew you – knew my father.”

Azriel’s knees buckled, only the force from Cassian and Mor keeping him upright. Lyra cautiously walked closer to her father, placing a soft hand on his cheek. “She always told me stories about you. About how brave and kind you were, even when the world wasn’t kind to you. I was never scared of shadows growing up because she always spoke of how shadows reminded her of you. Most importantly, she told me how much you would’ve loved me and how you loved her.”

Azriel’s heart seemed to stop at Lyra’s words. His breath hitched, and a cold emptiness settled deep within him. Every word she spoke only deepened the wound he’d been carrying for the last fifty years. He had failed her mother. He wasn’t there when she needed him most. He had never even known.

His body trembled as his mind raced with a thousand thoughts, none of them making sense. How could this be real? The shock was still fresh, still numbing. The bond he’d kept waiting on, hoping for a sign, was still silent. He had felt it—the absence of her—and now, the reality hit harder than he could have ever imagined.

Lyra’s hand lingered on his cheek, a small act of comfort, but to Azriel, it felt like a reminder of everything he had lost. His eyes flickered to the girl who stood before him, the child that was a piece of Y/N, and the hole in his chest deepened. She died with my name on her lips... he couldn't escape the echo of those words.

He could feel the weight of those final moments Y/N had endured, alone and terrified. She had been strong, but the cruelty of Amarantha had worn her down. It had stolen so much from her, from them all.

Azriel’s voice cracked as he forced the words from his mouth, each one laced with sorrow and regret. “I should have known. I should have been there for her. I—” His voice faltered, the guilt too much to carry.

Lyra’s eyes softened as she gently wiped a stray tear from his face, her touch surprisingly steady despite the tremor in her own hands. “She never blamed you,” Lyra said softly, her voice full of a wisdom that belied her young age. “She always spoke of you as if you were still there, still fighting for her. She believed you would come. But…” Lyra paused, her own grief surfacing. “Amarantha made sure she couldn’t fight anymore. And I…” She swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “I wasn’t enough to save her.”

Azriel staggered back, his mind reeling as his shadows lashed out violently. I wasn’t there. I wasn’t enough either. The thought consumed him, driving him to his knees. His shadows wrapped around him, moving like an extension of his agony.

“No,” Azriel whispered, the word barely audible as his hand pressed to his chest. “It should have been me. I should’ve been the one to protect her. Not... not like this.” His entire body trembled with the weight of the loss that seemed too vast to bear.

Cassian and Mor remained by his side, not daring to speak, understanding that no words could reach him in this moment. Even Rhys, whose grief had been shattered by the loss of Feyre, seemed unable to find a way to comfort his brother now.

Lyra stepped closer, lowering herself to sit next to Azriel, her young hands trembling as she reached out. “You are enough,” she said quietly, her voice soft but filled with the weight of everything Y/N had shared with her. “She loved you. I know she did.”

Azriel looked up at her, his expression raw. The brokenness in his eyes mirrored the emptiness he felt. His shadows wrapped around Lyra protectively, unsure of how to respond to the child who was now the last piece of the love he’d lost. She should be here. Y/N should be here, with us.

“I don’t know how to be enough for you,” Azriel whispered, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know how to be a father to you. I wasn’t there when she needed me. I failed her.”

Lyra’s eyes softened even further, her own grief evident but tinged with understanding. She placed her hand on his, the touch grounding him in a way he hadn’t expected. “I don’t need you to be perfect. She wasn’t perfect either, but she was the best mother I could’ve asked for. And I know… I know she would have wanted you to try.”

Azriel felt the weight of her words settle on him like a stone, but it didn’t feel like the crushing weight of guilt that had been suffocating him. Instead, it felt like something different—a soft light, a faint warmth. It didn’t heal the wound, but it gave him a moment of clarity.

“I’ll try,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “But I don’t know if it will ever be enough.”

Lyra squeezed his hand, offering him a quiet understanding, though the sadness still lingered in her eyes. "You don't have to make up for anything. You don't have to be the hero. I only need you to be here for me."

For the first time in years, Azriel didn’t feel entirely alone. As he looked at Lyra, her face so like Y/N's, his heart ached, but there was a flicker of something else—something he hadn’t felt in so long. It was hope. A fragile, painful hope.

And as he sat there, surrounded by the family who had waited so long for a reunion, Azriel felt a shift. His shadows, though still swirling with grief, seemed less wild now. The presence of Lyra—of Y/N’s memory—offered him a small measure of peace. There was still so much pain, so much loss, but perhaps, just perhaps, he could find a way to heal.

“I’ll be here,” he said, his voice breaking but firm. “I’ll be here for you. I’ll be the father you need.”

Lyra smiled softly, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I’ve waited so long to hear those words”

And for the first time in fifty years, Azriel felt a glimmer of hope for the future. It wouldn’t be easy, and the pain would never fully go away, but in that moment, as he looked into the eyes of the daughter he never knew he had, he felt a new beginning. A chance to rebuild what had been broken. A chance to love again.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 7: Lightning and Rust]

A/N: Only 3 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), babies and parenthood, blood and violence, character deaths, I really cannot summarize this chapter you just gotta experience it, I'll pray for you 🙏

Word count: 6.8k

💙 All my writing can be found HERE! ❤️

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

You’re curled up in bed with a velvet pouch of hot stones that have gone cold, bloody rags bunched between your thighs, trying desperately to sleep, and outside a storm is brewing over Blackwater Bay and bringing with it dark skies and strikes of lightning that stalk ever-closer. Through the open window, the air tasting like late-summer rain, you can hear Helaena and the maids corralling the children back into the Red Keep. They are laughing because nobody is dead yet, not even the ailing and absent King Viserys, not even doomed little Luke Strong.

Aemond lets himself into your chambers and stands over your bed, staring down at you with some combination of annoyance and concern. You have failed him. You were not where he wanted you to be. “Why weren’t you at the beach?” Playing with your niece and nephews, collecting your seashells.

“Because women are cursed.”

Aemond smiles, perhaps a bit relieved; he has his answer. “And you more than any of them, because you’re so wicked.”

“Maester Orwyle says I can’t have more milk of the poppy for two hours.”

“Then we must listen to him. It is a powerful remedy, and we cannot endanger you.” He takes off his boots and climbs into bed, lying behind you, one hand following the curve of your waist to settle on your lower belly. “I can relax the muscles. It might ease your suffering.”

Right now? “Oh no, no, you don’t want to do that,” you warn him. “It’s very messy.”

“You think I’m afraid of your blood?” Aemond says, amused. “Everything we’re built of is the same.” He lifts the hem of your silk nightgown and reaches underneath the nest of rags, sliding there in the coppery wetness as you inhale sharply, startled but not unwilling. When Aemond removes his hand, the carnage he is stained with is bright crimson but dotted with clots. Then he licks the blood from his fingers and paints his tongue red. You can’t keep the shock from your face. Aemond grins, wets his hand again, draws a heart on your left cheek just beneath your eye. You laugh and pretend to try to shove him away.

“You’re deranged, you’re a monster—”

“Let me help you,” Aemond whispers, nuzzling blood from his lips into your silver hair. “Let me take your pain away like you quiet mine.”

And you surrender to him like you always do—worn down, overpowered, intoxicated, bewitched, seduced, perhaps all at once—and as Aemond’s hand works and the gory metallic ether of blood fills both of your lungs, the cramps dissolve into nothingness and then build to desire, and you’re opening your thighs for him and the rags are whisked away, unnecessary, forgotten, and now there is blood on the bedsheets and your fingers are twisting into the pillows strewn around you, and it doesn’t feel shameful at all anymore, because what is blood if not made from the same minerals as coins and blades and ocean and ash, and what is lust if not a fire that burns the constraints of the world away?

You kiss him as you come, moaning into his bloodstained mouth, biting his lower lip, and if the careless pressure of your teeth makes him bleed then that’s just more iron and copper and steel to add to the molten sea you are marooned in, more magma, more rust. “Enough,” you gasp when the last of the waves have passed and you are emptied and too sensitive, and Aemond knows to listen. Then you reach for Aemond’s trousers, where you can see he is hard. You are abruptly and ruinously exhausted—you struggle to keep your eyes open—but it feels wrong to not take care of him in return.

It shouldn’t take long, he’s already flushed, he’s already dripping sweat—

“No need,” Aemond says, gently stopping your hands. And as you burrow into the pillows and your eyes dip closed, your skin and hair still splattered with red, he slips away silently so you can sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to leave you,” Jace says, knowing that he has to anyway. “Either of you.”

You are nursing the baby in a chair by the fireplace; you needed a change of scenery from the bed. The upholstery is pale blue velvet. The blanket the baby is swathed in is embroidered with pine trees and foxes, and far beyond your skill; Lady Caro made it. She is nearly as gifted with a needle as Helaena. On the walls of the bedchamber you share with your husband are mosaics you’ve pieced together over the past nine months here at the modest castle of Heart’s Home in a cold, remote corner of the Vale. The fractured faces look in on you like curious gazes through clear windows: Aegon, Helaena, Daeron, Jaehaera, Maelor, Mother, Criston. You aren’t any closer to them now, but you feel like you are. The world seems softer, warmer, smaller.

You smile as you ghost a fingerprint over the baby’s faint dark eyebrows. He’s half-asleep as he suckles, hushed and content and entirely helpless. He has Jace’s coloring, but something about the shape of his eyes reminds you of Aegon. “We’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

“I think he looks a lot like Luke,” Jace says, admiring the baby. He’s standing with one arm draped over the back of your chair and the flickering firelight from the hearth on his face, turning his skin from snow to sunstone. “And Joffrey. His face is rounder than mine.”

“Have you been to the Eyrie to see them since the war began?” Joffrey, Rhaena, Rhaenyra’s young white-haired sons Aegon and Viserys.

Jace shakes his head. “I never wanted to be away from you for longer than necessary. I didn’t want to risk being spotted and revealing where they’ve been hidden. And I didn’t know what to say.” About us, about our marriage, about our baby.

“You should visit them, Jace. I would visit Helaena and her children if I could.” You leave out the others intentionally; Helaena is your only sibling that Jace considers blameless. You miss Aegon and Daeron just as much, but in the solitude of your own heart—in the stillness, in the silence—you aren’t sure if you want to see Aemond again. You don’t know if he will be soft with you, or vengeful or cold, or if he has filled the void of your absence with a lover, something that you cannot think about without your stomach lurching and your skull aching, and so you put him out of your mind as much as you can and stay here with the baby instead.

Jace rests a hand on your shoulder reassuringly, then strokes your cheek. He says, meaning the baby: “We’ll have to get him his own egg.”

“I hope he won’t inherit my affliction,” you murmur somberly. “I hope he’ll have a dragon someday.” Without them, we are powerless. Without them, we aren’t real Targaryens.

“Maybe there’s something you need to do first.”

You look up at Jace, not understanding.

“I’ve spent a lot of time considering what inspires a dragon to bond to someone,” he says. And you think, feeling a fleeting stab of betrayal before you stitch the wound closed with invisible thread: Because you’ve been helping the Blacks search for riders. “It seems that each creature has their own preferences. Meleys favored women who were spirited and highly intelligent. Dreamfyre has chosen two riders, both gentle, shy, and fond of animals. Seasmoke bonded to two sons of Corlys Velaryon with similar temperaments, agreeable and charismatic, Quicksilver to a father and son who were both considered weak and died young. Caraxes seems to have an affinity for warriors.” It does not escape you that Jace neglects to mention Vhagar, as if through his silence he can make the beast and her rider vanish. “And Vermithor…” Jace offers you a small, sympathetic smile, remembering that you once wanted him. “The Bronze Fury bonds to riders who are imposing in body and ambitious in spirit. And I suspect he only likes men.”

“So it was always hopeless,” you say gloomily. You recall the miniature Vermithor that Aegon once carved for you out of oak wood. You hope that Aegon is still alive somewhere, scarred but lying in wait, always underestimated, always so much deeper than he seems, an ocean that Mother and Father mistook for a puddle, messy and marginal and inconvenient.

“I believe dragons often gravitate towards riders who are mirrors of themselves. Even Vermax, he is…” Jace considers this. “He’s proud, and he’s clever, but he’s not as formidable as he imagines himself to be.”

“Like you,” you say before you can stop to consider whether Jace will be offended by it, and he gives you an amused smirk. The baby has stopped nursing and fallen asleep; you fix the bodice of your gown and cradle him against you. There are maids to take him when you’re tired, and Jace loves holding him, and Lady Caro steals him away often, but right now you don’t want your freedom. You don’t want your mind to be untethered and to wander to all the places you’re not supposed to be.

Jace continues: “What I mean is, perhaps there is some quality you must cultivate within yourself before the beast you are meant to have judges you worthy.”

“Hardly any unclaimed dragons are left now.” Then you tease: “Do you suggest I become quiet and timid so Grey Ghost will like me?”

Jace laughs. “No, I fear that’s a lost cause, princess. You could never be timid.”

You are intrigued. “Then what am I?”

“I think you’re hungry,” Jace decides. “I think you always want more.”

“I never wanted that many things.” Aemond. My family to be safe. And I wanted Vermithor.

“Every line that is drawn, every place you’re told not to go or act you’re not supposed to do, you insist upon overreaching.”

Is that why Aemond and I were so drawn to each other? you think doubtfully. Because it was forbidden? Because it horrified people who climbed high enough to live alongside Targaryens but could never understand them?

“I think Meleys would have been a good match for you,” Jace says after a while. “If she hadn’t already been claimed by Grandmother.”

“And now the Red Queen is dead.” Like Arrax, and Moondancer, and Seasmoke, and probably Sunfyre too. How many dragons will be left when this is over? How many Targaryens? You clutch the baby closer to you; he stirs in his sleep, tiny fingers grasping at nothing. “What sort of rider does Silverwing favor? What could this illiterate drunk Ulf the White possibly have in common with Good Queen Alysanne?”

Jace snickers. “That’s a good question. I’ve been ruminating on it. My theory is that since Silverwing was never ridden into battle, and has always been relatively docile and accustomed to living peacefully near humans, she was attracted to Ulf’s…how to describe it? His lack of military prowess. Or, alternatively, once Vermithor was claimed Silverwing was very, very lonely.”

You smile, and then it dies. It must be indescribably painful to be separated from one’s mate after a century together. Unsurvivable, even. “Can Silverwing fight, do you think?”

Jace heaves a sigh and shrugs. “I’m not sure if either of them can. Ulf will try, at least. Hopefully it won’t come to that, and Vermithor is enough to protect King’s Landing. Hugh Hammer is an inexperienced rider, but he’s brave and he’s committed. Each time I see him he’s better than he was before.”

Hugh Hammer is a bastard blacksmith, but he has more power in this war than I do. Ulf the White is an idiot and a drunk, but he’s a true Targaryen and I’m not. You rock your sleeping child in your arms, quieting the voices that flutter in your skull like bat wings. You kiss his wisps of dark curls and breathe in his warmth and newness and blood that is interwoven with yours.

“You could learn how to hate your own kind and claim the Cannibal,” Jace jokes.

You chuckle. “I don’t hate anyone.” Not here, not now.

Lady Caro arrives in the doorway carrying a tray of cinnamon tea. “I have come offering a trade,” she says, grinning, and shuffles excitedly across the room. She sets the tray down on the table by your chair and holds out her hands. Reluctantly, you surrender the baby. Lady Caro coos and beams at him as you and Jace sip cinnamon tea, sweet and loosing steam like morning mist into the air. “Surely by now you’ve made the logical decision to name him in my honor.”

“Carolei would be a very strange thing to call a boy,” Jace says.

“Caroson,” she jests.

You add: “Carogon. Carocaerys.”

“Awful!” Jace says, laughing.

“Have you been feeding the baby again?” Lady Caro scolds you. “We have wetnurses for that.”

“They get him all night. I want time with him too.”

“You’re barely even producing any milk. You’d make for a terrible goat.”

“Then I’ll nurse him for as long as I can.”

“You’ll end up with pitiful floppy breasts like mine.”

“Isn’t this what they’re for? Nourishing children, not being gawked at and tugged on by some man?”

Lady Caro turns to Jace, exasperated. “She has some disease. She can’t listen to anyone.”

He smiles. “She’s an untamable beast, I’m afraid. Burns up anyone who makes the attempt.”

Lord Corbray walks in, and nestled in his ancient arthritic hands is a sword in a sheath. There is a large heart-shaped ruby in the hilt. “Prince Jacaerys, I cannot begin to tell you what an honor it has been not only to host you and the princess here in our humble castle, but also to have a future king of the Seven Kingdoms born within our walls.”

Jace stands up straighter, as his mother would want him to. He’ll never look like the heir to the throne, like a Targaryen, but he can act like one. “We continue to be grateful for your hospitality.”

“To commemorate this happy occasion, I wish to gift you a cherished heirloom of my house. This is Lady Forlorn, made of Valyrian steel. She came to House Corbray over a century ago, and now I bequeath her to you. I hope she will aid you in your victory in this unjust war, and that all the realm will soon be at peace and under competent rulership.”

Jace looks at you uneasily; you pretend to be preoccupied drinking your tea. You ignore Lord Corbray’s slight against the Greens. You don’t have much choice, and you’ve had plenty of practice. Jace takes Lady Forlorn from Lord Corbray and unsheathes her, studying his reflection in the cold smoke-colored grey of the blade. His face is grave. Now he feels the weight on his shoulders of being not just a prince, an heir, a soldier, and a husband, but a father as well, something he himself never had in a way that was truthful and pure. You are alarmed to see tears gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Jace?” you say, touching his arm.

He regains his composure. “Thank you, Lord Corbray. I will treasure Lady Forlorn, and I will endeavor to always use her wisely.”

Lord Corbray smiles fondly at the slumbering baby in Lady Caro’s arms. Across the Riverlands, their sole surviving child, Jessamyn, is in hiding with her husband and children. At Lady Caro’s insistence, they fled from the Mallisters’ castle at Seagard in case Aemond and Vhagar descend upon it. He is still burning. A monster? you think. “I assume you’ve named your firstborn?”

You and Jace exchange a glance. You haven’t yet; you are afraid to discuss it with each other. There are so many possibilities—Targaryen or Velaryon or Strong—and none seem to be without some unspoken allegiance or condemnation. There are so few guiltless names left. But you think you know what Jace would choose if he dared to speak it aloud.

“We should name him after Luke,” you say. A boy, an innocent. A victim of a horrific accident that started this war.

Jace is surprised, but there is relief in his face too. “Lucerys?” he says, trying it out. Then he is solemn again. “It feels wrong to use the exact same name. Like I’m trying to replace him.”

“Lucerion,” Lady Caro suggests, still holding the baby. “It sounds like a prince’s name. It sounds like a king’s.”

Jace attaches Lady Forlorn to his belt and then takes the baby, obviously against Lady Caro’s will. “Lucerion,” Jace murmurs, smiling down at his son who is stirring awake and beginning to whimper. “Is that your name? Is that what we’ll call you?”

“Perhaps Luca for short,” you say from your chair, feeling drained and like you need to lie down. You’ll have to change your rags again soon, or you’ll bleed through them.

“Luca, the littlest dragon,” Jace proclaims, touching his fingertip to the baby’s puggish nose. Then he turns to you. “Did you have a nickname as a child? I always did and still do, of course. And Luke…” Jace trails off, thinking of his dead brother, murdered by yours.

You see your red bat traveling around the board; you feel the warmth of blood on your cheek. “They called me Red.”

“Red?” Jace is baffled. “Like the color?”

“There was a game we played when we were young, and my piece…” You close your eyes, not wanting to remember, not wanting to feel the weight of their absence. “It doesn’t matter. It was so long ago.” And you fear that Jace will hear the evasiveness in your voice and ask you more questions; but he is absorbed with the baby, and he has already forgotten.

Two days later Jace and Vermax fly south to King’s Landing, and you and Luca are left in the care of the Corbrays and the maids and the ghosts that haunt the drafty stone corridors of Heart’s Home, soldiers killed in the Riverlands and the Reach, women and children burned and starved, bones devoured by dragons, generations of names forgotten.

Sometimes you giggle with Lady Caro as you drink cinnamon tea in the Great Hall. Sometimes you stand in the castle rookery listening to the ravens caw and stare out into the cold mist of the mountains, wondering what is happening in the world outside. And sometimes you have Luca nestled in your arms and walk with him around your bedchamber, introducing him to the faces of the people you left in your old life, when you were called Red and you believed you could be someone like Visenya. But you never mention Aemond, and not just because there are no mosaics of him on the wall.

You wouldn’t know what to say. You wouldn’t know where to begin.

~~~~~~~~~~

You learn Jace is back when he climbs into bed just as you are drifting off one night, silver moonlight spilling in through the glass of the window, his body folding into you, his arm skating over your waist to find your hand and weave his fingers through yours. Two months have passed since he left, moons that grow full and then vanish, milk that dries up and blood that ceases flowing and rebuilds inside you for the next child, if there will be one, when there will be one. Luca is sleeping in his own room with his maids and wetnurses. Jace’s curls tickle your throat as he nuzzles into you as if he wants to disappear.

He says: “The littlest dragon is much bigger than I remember.”

“How was Helaena?”

“Troubled, as is to be expected, but in good health. Jaehaera and Maelor are well too. King’s Landing is cold some days now. I think they’ll have snow soon. The taxes, the riots, the stockpiling of food as the Reach and the Riverlands burn…it’s a disaster. Mother is desperate. She misses Luke, I think. And Baela, and Daemon. She’s lost so much weight I barely recognized her. But she was very, very happy to hear about Luca. Hopefully she can meet him soon. Although we’ll have to be careful traveling with him while he’s so small, we’ll have to ensure he’s warm enough.”

Winter is coming, you think, remembering Cregan Stark’s army under the protection of Daemon and Caraxes. “Did you see Rhaena and the boys at the Eyrie?”

“I did,” Jace admits, as if it was a fraught experience.

“And what happened?”

“Rhaena called me a traitor.”

“For marrying and fathering a son with me?”

“No, that she understands,” Jace says. “But it is treason to love you.”

You turn around to look at him in the shadows, in the moonlight. “You told her?”

“She could tell. I cannot hide it. I am a glass jar and you and Luca are the butterflies inside.” And Jace kisses you softly, his fingers hooked beneath your chin, his flesh coming alive again after so long away: managing and conciliating, lifting Rhaenyra’s spirits, pawing through the heaps of bastards in King’s Landing for dragonriders, flying on Vermax through storms and snow.

When you kiss Jace back, when your hands go to his chest and his jaw and his face, when you open his tunic so you can feel the heat of his skin underneath, you are aware that parts of you are waking up again as well. There is a dull but definite ache of lust beginning to bloom like a blood drop soaking into white cotton.

“Are you…” Jace begins. “Do you think you’re healed enough, I mean…have you stopped bleeding?”

You hesitate. “I have.” You think of your first time with him and how painful it was, the sensation of burning, of tearing, and you can only assume it will be worse now. “But I’m rather terrified too.”

“No, no, don’t be afraid,” Jace whispers, he pleads, running his fingers through your long unbound hair. “We don’t have to do that. I won’t hurt you. I’ll wait for as long as you want.” His dark eyes travel down the white nightgown that clings to your body, your breasts, your belly, and then lower. “Can I…can I try something?”

“Try what?” you ask, bewildered. Then as Jace begins to push the hem of your nightgown up over your hips to your waist, you grin and kiss him again in the dim celestial light, cool night air rushing up over your bare legs, blood surging through your arteries to where he bends low to taste you once—a long, slow, tentative drag of the tongue—and then moans quietly and pushes your thighs further apart so he can bury himself there and lick, suck, swallow down your clear mineral wetness as it pools for him.

Something isn’t quite right—not enough pressure, not the ideal angle—but it’s exquisite to be reacquainted with this side of yourself, to know you can feel this way again, insatiable and desired. When you reach to touch Jace, there is a moment when you are startled to find dark curly hair in place of silk-smooth silver, and there is a ghost in the room like a voyeur watching, and you think dazedly: If Aemond knew about this, would he kill me?

“There,” you gasp, jolting as your husband stumbles upon the perfect place and rhythm. “Jace, right there…”

He listens, he is groaning with desperation for you, and you roll into a climax that is brief and sharp and a little painful, but good. Instead of being extinguished, you are a kindled flame. You turn over, straddle Jace, and unfasten his trousers. You begin kissing your way down his belly, nipping at him, your palm kneading his hardness, and you know he wants you but for some reason when you go to take him in your mouth, he pushes you away.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jace says, alarmed.

“I know. I want to.”

“No, seriously. Stop.”

You look at him, wounded, rejected. “Jace, I’m not doing this out of obligation. I enjoy it.”

He is staring at the wall. “I just…for you to…I’m sorry, it just feels wrong.”

“I can do things you believe are only for whores and still be your wife.”

“Shh,” he says, and his voice is gentle but his face is pained. You think of something Criston once told you when you were collecting bones from the Godswood of the Red Keep: Red, it hurts your mother when you’re like this. Are you cursed to disappoint people, to repulse them, to be eternally misunderstood? “I have a gift for you.”

“A gift?”

Jace gets out of bed and fetches a small wooden box he must have brought into the room with him when you were still half-asleep. He opens the box, debates whether to reach in, decides against it and passes you the whole box instead. “I asked the castle maester to procure some while I was away…”

You squeal with delight when you see what’s inside: three black and white bats the same breed as Sapphire was, large fanlike ears and wiggling noses and small black eyes that peer curiously up at you. When you offer them your open palms, they immediately scramble into them.

“I hope they’re good ones.” Jace chuckles nervously. “I don’t really know what makes a bat suitable or not.”

“They’re perfect,” you say, smiling. “I’ll build them a roost. I’ll introduce them to Luca.”

Yet you cannot stop yourself from thinking: Aemond wouldn’t have cared if I was still bleeding.

~~~~~~~~~~

You are snuggled up with Luca in your chair by the fire, cool midday light—the color of steel, smoke, rainclouds, ash—streaming in through the windows. The baby’s eyes have turned dark like Jace’s, and his curls grow longer. He is only half-awake and blinking drowsily, his diminutive hands clasping your fingers. He doesn’t cry often, but he doesn’t smile either. Lady Caro believes he already has the temperament of a good king, a calmness, a graveness. She says: How improper would it be for him to be full of complaints or cheerfulness, the way the world is right now? No, he ought to be serious. He ought to be grateful he’s not starving or being roasted alive.

“I have some new friends,” you whisper to the baby like a secret or a myth. “They’re asleep right now. They sleep all day, kind of like you do. But then at night they come alive and they’re free, and they fly around like hawks or dragons.”

You speak for Luca, a soft bird-trill of a voice: “What are their names?”

“Good question,” you say, smiling. “Iris, Shark, and Flood. And you’ll meet them soon.” Your eyes go to the mosaics on the walls. Jace hasn’t asked you to take them down, but he doesn’t acknowledge them either, except for the mosaic you made of him that hangs by the headboard of the bed. He beams at that one and calls it fine work. “You’ll meet the people I grew up with too. Aegon will make you wood carvings. Helaena will sew you blankets. Daeron will take you on adventures. Jaehaera and Maelor will play games with you. And Mother and Criston will love you because you won’t be like me. You’ll be sweet-tempered and honorable, and when you’re old enough you’ll have a dragon to help protect us with.”

There is a knock on the doorframe; one of Luca’s wetnurses has arrived to feed him. You regret that you can’t anymore. Lady Caro was right; you’d be a terrible goat or cow or yak.

“Princess,” the wetnurse says, curtsying before she takes the baby from you. You watch her leave with him for his own bedchamber—Lady Caro has already filled it with toys and children’s books—and as soon as they are out of sight, the darkness of your losses creeps back in like spiders scurrying down the corridors of your veins and arteries, like rust growing over steel. Then you hear the rumbling of voices downstairs in the Great Hall.

You stand and swish in your gown—one of the Vale’s anemic colors, a faint dusky rose—through the hallway and down the spiral staircase of the tower. In the belly of the castle, the commotion is louder, and you sweep into the Great Hall to find men gathered around the table closest to the roaring hearth, Lord Corbray and his knights and the maester, and Lady Caro too looking on anxiously. Jace is holding a piece of parchment in his hands, presumably just delivered by a raven. He shakes his head as he reads it. Outside, snow is falling.

Lady Caro is saying: “Well you’ll have to tell her. Oh, the poor dear, as if everything else isn’t bad enough. And only the gods know where Aemond is, he hasn’t been spotted in the Riverlands for days…” Then she spies you and shoos Lord Corbray and his men from the room. They bow to you as they depart, swift little bobs of the head. They have to; you are now both the wife and mother of future kings.

“Jace?” you say when the Great Hall is empty except for the two of you and Lady Caro.

Jace’s face is stricken. Lady Forlorn hangs from his belt. The letter is still clutched in his left hand; the right grips the hilt of his Valyrian steel sword. “I’m so sorry.”

“What?” you ask, immediately horrified. Aegon dead of his burns, Daeron killed in battle, Mother executed for treason, Aemond…? “What happened?”

“You have to believe that I had no idea about any of this, I never would have given Hugh the order if I’d been there, or let Mother do it—”

“Jace, please tell me.”

Aemond, Aemond, Aemond??

Instead, Jace says absurdly: “It’s Helaena.”

You stare at him. “Helaena isn’t a warrior.”

“No,” he agrees. “But she got to Dreamfyre somehow and tried to escape the city.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

That’s impossible. She wouldn’t leave Mother and the children. “No, she couldn’t have, she—”

“She took flight,” Jace insists. “And my mother sent Hugh Hammer after her on Vermithor.”

Vermithor was supposed to be mine, you think numbly. “And Helaena, she…she was…?”

Jace is trying to keep his voice steady; his dark eyes gleam, begging you not to hate him. “Dreamfyre attacked when Vermithor flew close to her. She wasn’t an especially aggressive dragon, but she was large and formidable, and she fought to defend her own life and that of her rider. Vermithor ripped out her throat, though Hugh was burned to death in the saddle. Then Vermithor flew eastward, and no one knows where he is now. Dreamfyre crashed to the earth, and Helaena with her. Their bodies were found on the beach outside the Red Keep.”

She can’t be dead. She never hurt anyone. She just wanted to be with her creatures and her family. She embroidered my blankets with red bats, she put ladybugs into my open palms. “Why would Helaena try to run, why would she do that?”

“I don’t know.”

You think nonsensically, as you have no way of knowing this: Because she was trying to stop something terrible from happening. “I told you to give her more freedom. And that freedom allowed her to sneak away to the Dragonpit.”

Jace reaches for you. “This isn’t your fault—”

“All of it ismy fault!” you shout at him, and Lady Caro shrinks away and covers her mouth with her hands. “If I’d had Vermithor, the Greens would have been unstoppable! And Rhaenyra never would have tried to claim the throne, and Aemond wouldn’t have been sent to Storm’s End, and Luke and Jaehaerys and Baela wouldn’t have died, and Aegon wouldn’t have been burned, and Aemond wouldn’t be destroying the Riverlands, and Helaena would still be alive, but instead I’ve always been useless!”

“You aren’t useless,” Jace pleads.

“Not normal enough to be a good wife or daughter, not extraordinary enough to have a dragon!”

Again, Jace tries to touch you, to soothe you. “Please don’t—”

You fling his hands away. “What was our marriage for if not to stop this from happening?! To end the dying, to protect the people we have left?” You whirl away from him and flee from the Great Hall, the castle, yourself. Behind you, Lady Caro is comforting Jace with soft tenderness you’ve never been capable of.

“Let her go, my prince,” she is counselling. “Give her a moment to grieve…”

You throw open the first door you pass and trudge out into the snow, no fox fur coat, bare feet. The cold stings and then your skin goes numb and it doesn’t bother you anymore. The icy mountain wind tears at your hair, flowing in long waves like the women of the Vale wear it, delicate and feminine, pretty and powerless. Tears cascade down your face; currents of red magma scorch your throat. When you close your eyes, you see the yellow butterfly that was once Helaena’s game piece.

She never hurt anyone. She never did anything wrong.

Now you are under the shadows of the soaring pine trees, their green needles so thick you cannot see the grey of the sky.

She never met Luca.

You gaze up into the branches, covered with tufts of white snow and icicles like fangs, and you have the overwhelming, ravenous feeling that you need to go home. You don’t belong in the Vale. The Vale almost killed you when you were a child, Aemond’s hands shoving you into a rushing stream freckled with ice.

And then all at once—like you’ve been hit, like you’ve been stabbed with a blade—you are flying high above the castle and the wind is raking over your cheeks, but it is not your face but Aemond’s, half-blind and half-scarred, torrential red waves of a sea of blood in his skull.

He’s here, he’s here—

And if he’s able to see through your eyes that you are outside in the forest…

The castle!!!

You bolt through the trees back towards Heart’s Home, your bare feet leaving tracks in the fresh powdery snow that is nearly up to your knees, and you stumble out of the shadows just as Vhagar soars overhead and unleashes her flames on the castle, wood burning, stones collapsing, people inside shrieking as they incinerate. You’re screaming for Aemond to stop, but he does not hear you and he does not see you either, he is high above in a place you’ve never been and never will be, he is flying, and he is hearing only devastation and he is breathing in its dark, intoxicating smoke, and as Vhagar swoops by the stable and it bursts into an inferno—horses galloping loose and engulfed in fire, dead but not knowing it yet—you run into the crumbling castle.

“Jace?!” you shout, but the air is full of smoke and the sounds of wood cracking and stones caving in are deafening. You feel blindly for the spiral staircase that leads up to the tower where your and Luca’s bedchambers are located. From the part of the castle that was once the Great Hall, you can hear Lord Corbray and Lady Caro screaming as their skin blisters and sloughs away and their flesh is cooked and their bones are charred black, and when the flames reach their lungs the screams go quiet. You cannot think about them. You don’t have any time; you must think of Luca and Jace. “Jace!” you bellow through the smoke.

And then there is a weak reply: “Here.”

You follow it into the stairwell. Parts of the wall have been blasted away; you can see the pine forest outside, the cold barren sky, the Mountains of the Moon. Jace is halfway up the steps, slumped against the fractured wall and pinned there by stones that have rained down on his legs. His bones must be broken; his face is bloodless and his curls matted to his forehead by sweat. His right hand fumbles futilely for the hilt of Lady Forlorn. Now, dimly, you can hear Luca crying.

Jace rasps as he stares vacantly up at you: “I tried to get to him. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Jace, I can do it.”

“I love you.”

“I’ll be right back.”

You climb over him and chase Luca’s wails up the staircase. Vhagar is back, and the ruins of the castle tremble when she roars, and you feel the heat of her flames radiating up through the floor. You lose your footing and clamber up the last few steps on your hands and knees, then manage to stand again and careen into Luca’s room. Half the roof has collapsed; a wetnurse is sprawled on the floor and half-buried in fallen stones, blood hemorrhaging out of her mouth and ears. You grab the baby out of his cradle and quickly bundle him in his blanket patterned with blue dragonflies. His tiny hands grasp at your face and your hair as you rush back down the spiral staircase to help Jace. Smoke needles your eyes; you and Luca are both coughing as you try to clear your lungs.

You reach Jace and kneel beside him, holding Luca in your left arm and using your right to try to roll the stones off Jace’s legs, but he’s not helping you.

“Jace, please, we have to go now,” you say, but when you look at his face he’s not there. His dark eyes are glassy, his chest doesn’t rise and fall with the tide of air.

He’s gone, you think. Like Father, Luke, Jaehaerys, Baela, Rhaenys, Helaena. And you are struck by an excruciating pang of fondness for Jace more forceful than anything you ever felt for him when he was alive, and you cannot leave him here. He was your husband, he was Luca’s father. And he loved you. He must have. He said it over and over again.

“Jace?” you sob. But outside Vhagar is still flying—the gales churned up by her wings gust into the jagged holes in the castle walls—and she could be coming back, she could be returning to burn you, and Jace is dead but the baby is still alive.

You clutch Luca to you as he cries and you race down the steps, following the smoke-filled, twisted passageway. The heat is suffocating, the sounds of a dying castle engulfing, Heart’s Home turned into a graveyard, into a shattered skeleton, charred and cursed like Harrenhal. You crash through the door at the base of the stairwell and into the ground level of the castle, and you are almost out—

Something ignites, something explodes, and stones from the castle wall you are feeling your way along rip out of their centuries-old mortar and collide with you. Your ribs crack, you are thrown to the floor, but even as you scream and claw your way out of the rubble you don’t let go of the baby. You force yourself upright and stagger with Luca towards a gaping chasm where there was once a wall. There is a tremor like an earthquake. Outside, Vhagar must be landing.

Now you are in the snow again, bare feet and a gown covered with soot and wreckage. The baby isn’t crying anymore. When you glance down at the blanket he is swaddled in, the white space between the blue dots of dragonflies is turning red with blood.

Blood?

You can’t look. You can’t allow yourself to feel it; it will consume you until there is nothing left. The last vestiges of the castle are crumpling. Across the field, Vhagar is devouring Vermax’s small, broken corpse, crushing his bones in her massive, monstrous jaws.

Blood??

Aemond’s footsteps are behind you, crunching in the snow. His cloak cracks in the frigid wind like the sails of a ship. His words are full of dark, euphoric, lethal triumph, a high like nothing he’s ever known, not even when he claimed Vhagar, not even what he imagined he would feel on your wedding day when you’d be bound to each other with fire and blood in the tradition of Old Valyria. “I said I would find you, and I did.”

You hear your own voice as if from a very far distance, lightning strikes miles away but moving closer. “You killed him.”

Aemond is puzzled. You are supposed to be happy. You are saved, you are home. “Killed who?”

“He’s dead, and there will never be another. Not like this one. Jace was his father, but Jace is gone. You killed him too.”

And you turn to face him, and Aemond sees what you are holding in your arms, and only then does he understand.

[inotakumagf]

the strength to push forward

✶ gojo satoru x gn!reader

word count ✺ 1.6K

summary ✺ your mission goes terribly wrong. gojo is there to pick up the pieces.

warning ✺ the shitty side of being a sorcerer. hurt/comfort. everything sucks, but husband!gojo is there to take care of you. slight descriptions of injuries, blood, and death. reblogs & comments r appreciated ^u^

There is always the risk, as a jujutsu sorcerer. There is always going to be a threat that's larger than life, and there are always going to be people to save. You do what you can, and you always push yourself past your limits for the sake of your vow to protect and defend. Fight, protect, defend. Those words—those promises—circle your mind during every mission. You can never allow yourself to slip, not for a single moment. The higher ups demand perfection.

You must be perfect on every mission, because there is no room for error. You cannot fail, ever. You have been bound to perfection ever since you were promoted to Grade 1 sorcerer in your third year of high school. You were too young, too hopeful for what the world did to you. Your husband feels this pressure tenfold, because he has been viewed as a weapon for the sorcery world since he was born. The two of you have been spread thin with all the missions and assignments that you’ve taken on over the years, all for the sake of keeping everyone safe.

Tragedy after tragedy has wrought you weary, but you find strength in your husband. Not because his power and his technique make him “the strongest”. You have stood by him, and you’ve seen everything that he has suffered through. All that pain and loss, yet he still endures it for the sake of others, all with a smile on his face. He wants nothing more than to protect his students, non-sorcerers, and you. 

He is your strength, he keeps you fighting. And even now, as you watch the world fall apart around you, you can only think of Satoru.

You’ve been sent out on another mission. The briefing is the same as all the others: a Grade 1 curse is tormenting a small village, and you’ve been summoned to exorcise it. By all means, it should be an easy mission given the details you’ve been provided. But you had only just gotten back from another grueling mission, and because of that you haven’t slept in over 24 hours.

And the creature before you is not a Grade 1 curse.

It takes you only a moment to sense that this is a Special Grade. You’ve fought Special Grades before, but your body has already been pushed to the edge in this past week alone. A feeling of despair sinks into your gut. Fight, protect, defend. You clench your fists and summon your technique. You will die before you let this curse cause any more harm.

For a few minutes, you’re certain that you have the upper hand on the curse. But the damage that it causes is too much. You heave after every use of your cursed energy. Your technique has weakened, and your blows roll off the curse like air. It overwhelms you, and you sink to your knees. There are crumbled buildings around you. The village had begun its evacuation, but you know how many people have already died. You think this is where you meet your end. When you shut your eyes, you can see your husband as clear as day. He has a stupid joke on the tip of his tongue, as usual. You need to see him again. Your eyes snap open, and you face the curse head on.

It takes you a minute of fiddling to get the front door open. It’s difficult, with the arm you have pressed against the wound at your side. You could have—should have—gone to see Shoko when you completed your mission. But the only thing keeping you on your feet after exorcising the curse was the thought of your husband. A soft chant of Satoru, Satoru, Satoru has been the mantra to get you to stand and to move and to survive.

It is well past midnight, but you know Satoru will be up waiting for you. You hate for him to see you like this, but there is nothing you can do. As soon as you push the door open, you startle at the sight of him right before you. But of course, with his Six Eyes, he was expecting you. His uncovered eyes roam your injured body, and he pulls you into his arms.

“Sweetheart,” he breathes, and you can see the pain in his face. You don’t say a word. You can’t in this state. The mission has left you numb and nonverbal. You want to scrub each layer of your skin off until there’s nothing left to remember. 

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers into your skin. His touch, his voice knocks something loose inside of you. It pulls you back down to Earth.

You sob into his neck, pulling him as close as you can. You want his energy to swallow you whole. “I-I couldn’t…so many people are dead because of me. I failed.” The confession comes out in a whisper, and the shame makes your tears multiply.

Satoru cradles your head against his chest, soothing your shaking frame as best as he can. He doesn’t speak as he pulls you silently towards the bathroom.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his reassurance in the way that he gently cleans and bandages your wounds. You feel it in the way that he stares at you, and in the way that he presses fluttering kisses along every inch of your skin. He is here, with you. Everything else is secondary to that.

He draws a warm bath for you, and he even adds in the fancy aromatherapy soap that you save for special occasions. He is uncharacteristically quiet as he scrubs you clean, trailing kisses along your sore arms up to your shoulders. He rubs body soap into your skin, letting you rest your head against his solid arm. Once the water has gone cold, Satoru helps you stand so that he can wrap a towel around your shivering body. He sweeps you off your feet and lifts you up bridal-style, which gets a laugh of surprise past your lips. You link your hands around his neck, tucking your face into his chest. He refuses to let you down, instead pulling you closer to him. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead, “My wonderful, wonderful other half.”

You don’t respond. Because you know you’ll just try to deny it. You just acknowledge his words with a delicate kiss on his jawline. A thank you for putting up with you, even though you know he’ll insist he isn’t “putting up” with anything.

He picks out comfortable pajamas, and he even helps you change into them. The feeling of his warm, gentle hands running over your body makes you want to sob all over again. When you’re dressed, he pulls you beside him under the covers of your shared bed. You rest face-to-face, and he leans even closer to brush his nose against yours. He lays one leg over your hip, tangling the other between your own legs. Satoru traces his fingers over your body, flexing his hand into your skin every few seconds, as if still convincing himself that you made it back. It makes you feel terrible, because you can’t stop thinking about how many people don’t have the same privilege of being with their loved ones. How many of them still have people waiting anxiously, hoping that they’re just late when really they’re gone? How many people will have empty graves, because there were no bodies to recover? How many–

“Hey,” Satoru whispers.

You pull yourself out of your head. You whisper back just as softly, “Hi.”

“I missed you today. The kids were acting stupid, and I thought of you.”

You hum. “What happened?”

His hand trails over your side gently as he recounts his day. “Yuji and Nobara challenged each other to a mochi-eating contest. I don’t even remember what prize they had agreed to. Megumi said I wasn’t allowed to participate. Said I’d eat all the mochi on my own.” He pouts, and you lean forward to kiss it away. You laugh when you taste the sweet dough on his tongue.

You pull back to give him a look. He pretends he doesn’t see it, snuggling into you sweetly. “Really, Satoru?”

He grins. “What? The kids don’t like kikufuku. I had to eat it, or else it would have gone to waste.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile at your husband’s antics. He nuzzles his nose against your cheek. “Don’t worry, I saved some black sesame mochi for you. Snatched it up before anyone else could take it.”

You know he’s jesting, because he always buys way too many sweets for the kids. But the mental image of him fighting his own students to save you your favorite flavor makes you smile.

“I love you,” he mutters into your skin, as if he’s storing his love there.

“I love you, too.”

He pulls you closer, if that’s even possible. This is where you belong. This is where you store your strength, your motivation to continue when everything has gone to shit—it lives here, with your beloved husband. You know that no matter how difficult everything gets, no matter how much you lose, Satoru will be here for you, and you will be here for him. Always.

[ahmadhassansworld]

PLEASE DON’T SKIP🍉🇵🇸

Hello everyone 👋🏻🍉

I am Nour Mohammed Al-Zamili, I am 21 years old, I am from Gaza City

I feel mixed feelings of anxiety and hesitation, but I fully understand the need of the Nour family to help them get out of Gaza. The whole family is trapped there and the situation is tense, and I urgently need your help to save them. Please help me in this difficult moment.

I am facing an urgent challenge: getting my relatives out of Gaza through the Rafah crossing. This task is not just an ordinary challenge; it is a looming nightmare, and it requires huge costs that are beyond the means of the average person. The cost of leaving one person is more than $5,000 for adults and $2,500 for children, in addition to many other costs that stand in the way of our escape from this death.

In every war around the world, escape and survival are two options, but unfortunately, in Gaza, the walls of the siege stand like prison walls, forcing everyone to face their fate in different ways. There is the indiscriminate bombing that causes countless victims, there is the oppression and fear that creeps into our hearts at every moment, and there is the hunger that devours our souls and dreams. I can't wait to witness all this suffering that Nour's family has endured. Please let your support and help be a ray of hope in the genocide we are witnessing.

On behalf of my relatives, I am doing this donation campaign. My relatives are now in the Gaza Strip, and the cost of each person leaving the Gaza Strip to Egypt is 5000 Euros. My family consists of nine people

Nour Mohammed Al-Zamili

22/10/2003

And her mother Sanaa Ahmed Al-Zamili

2/5/1882

Mohammed Musa Al-Zamili

8/9/1882

And there are also 6 young children

They are Anas Al-Zamili, Wizan Al-Zamili, Moataz Al-Zamili, Rahaf Al-Zamili, Hour Al-Zamili and Nada Al-Zamili

They are ambitious individuals who deserve to live in peace, which gives them a chance to prove to the world that they are not just numbers. They all fled their homes in Rafah after the building they were living in was bombed, and they miraculously survived thanks to God. They then moved to live in a school after the school was bombed and Nour's father was seriously injured in his feet and head. They then went to live in a small tent, but the situation worsened, as they suffered from scarcity of resources, high prices and danger since the first day. After receiving threats of bombing Rafah, they do not know where to go, and they are now in very difficult and dangerous conditions.

I cannot wait any longer because I cannot afford to evacuate them from under this violent bombing. This helplessness is more painful than you can imagine.

I appeal to you to contribute with all you can and spread this appeal among your circles to help me save my beloved family.

The money will be sent via MoneyGram to my relatives, Nour's family.

We thank you for your understanding and cooperation in this difficult moment.

[truearchangel]

ㅤ"I understand that, I really do—" the guard, the walls, the fear of letting people close. Maybe to Alastor he can't understand an angel relating to those emotions, but he does. He genuinely does understand where those sorts of feelings come from. The idea that you can't let anyone close enough to you without them leaving you hurt and suffering. That they'll betray you and rip you piece by piece until there isn't anything left.

ㅤAfter his brother had shut him out, after he had destroyed Michael so horribly, he had shut it all out. The entire world, his other siblings, himself. Nothing can hurt you if you don't let it back in. They can't ruin you if you don't give them the chance. If you shelter your heart and lock it away from everyone and everything.

ㅤBut he had realized after what happened with the exterminations that if you shut so much out—you start to miss what's important. Michael can't see what's actually going on in Heaven and Hell if he doesn't attempt to be part of all of it. If he doesn't focus on the world around him and see what's actually happening.

ㅤBut Alastor doesn't seem to want to hear that as he seems to he walking away already and continuing their journey. Letting out a soft breath he shakes his head and clenches his hands at his side, trying to relax his body a bit before turning to follow Alastor. He tucked his hands behind his back, gripping his wrist as he fell in step beside the other once more, turning his head a bit to the side to glance over at him.

ㅤ"I'm sorry, I seem to have brought the mood down."

ㅤThat wasn't his intention and he hadn't wanted to make the other uncomfortable either. He was just answering the question and Alastor had asked him. Maybe he should have kept that fact about Heaven from the other though.

Power had a tendency to make one both feared and desired. The boldest of Sinners often made attempts at his life - to usurp the radio demon's power would cement one rather quickly as one of Hell's strongest overlords. To rival the Vees was no small feat. And though he did not necessarily worry that anyone would, it was enough to know that there were some Sinners who had the audacity to try.

It was a reality of his station. What he'd bargained for at the beginning of it all.

As a result... no one saw him for who he was. Only what he was. A thing - a concept. A tall tower meant to be toppled.

By Heaven or Hell, it seemed. At Michael's explanation, Alastor glanced away, staring off into the distance as he listened to the straight-forward way Michael spoke of it. It did not surprise him of the other's nonchalant demeanor in regards to the subject. To be killed or not be killed? By the leader of the angels, no less...?

How comical.

The mention of his vanishing forced him to swallow back the briefest of lumps in his throat. He did not quite know what to do if Michael were to ever determine the reason for that vanishing - or if he would do much of anything at all. Why would it concern him? And what sway would he have - or bother to exercise - against the queen? His precious brother's former matriarch?

It would be foolish to believe he would.

But Michael's assessment of his character now made him pause, uncertain as to the level of sincerity he was being presented with. At least until the other turned to catch his attention properly, their eyes locked. And he blinked - in some surprise - at the other's assessment of his guarded nature.

"Let my-"

He almost laughed. But he did not think that to do him much good with the archangel. So he simply gave a small snuff of amusement. It was such a naïve perspective.

"...The guard exists for a reason," he explained, though his tone was muted - to hint that what he was saying was best kept between them. "To be open; to be vulnerable here is a death sentence. And not just a temporary one." Reaching out, he briefly rested a hand atop Michael's head.

"You will learn that eventually."

And he turned to continue walking.

[cybershock24601]

I’ve been stewing on more alternate time travel au where the Veilguard sends themselves to the past trying to rip Rook out of the fade because there’s nothing like trying to save your bestie to make you turn to dangerous and unstable magic

Lucanis spends most of his time helping Harding out with her scout work yet refuses to wear the Inquisition uniform because he is still a Crow at heart which means he wouldn’t be caught dead in such an ugly uniform

Turns out the Orlaisean noble woman Emmrich had a thing with one summer was the wife of the Duke Vivienne’s with and the two of them get together to gossip. Vivienne wishes Emmrich wouldn’t drag along his skeleton every time but he is Nevarran so she will let it go. She also assists in giving Manfred etiquette lessons alongside Emmrich because it’s not like she can let the poor thing go around with such poor diction.

Mentioned this before but Dorian’s crush on Emmrich comes back full force and whoever is romancing him whether it be the Inquisitor or Iron Bull ends up wildly jealous of Emmrich

Hardings new connection with the Stone possibly helping soothe Cullen’s lyrium induced issues

Chess pieces from all over Skyhold start going missing because Cole keeps giving all the rooks to the Veilguard

Leliana offers Bellara a nug and she accepts and now walks around Skyhold with the most adorable nug the world has ever seen

If you thought Emmrich and Davrin were insufferable before, their dad off gets a thousand times worse when Davrin's new mabari starts stealing Manfred's bones and Davrin refuses to admit his good boy did anything wrong even if he is privately scolding the mabari.

Davrin and Cullen end up bonding over the mabari as Cullen ends up offering Davrin some advice on how to train the dog. Turns out mabari are not any easier to train then griffons as both are hyper intelligent animals and require different tactics though bribery seems to be working as well on the dog as it did Assan

Manfred starts copying Cole by giving people random objects but unlike Cole who has some weird esoteric logic behind it, Manfred is really just picking up a cool rock he found on the ground and handing it off to the first person he sees and crying out "HELPING" in his little skeleton voice

Harding is now the one in the awkward age gap relationship because what are you supposed to do when your significant other is now physically 13 years old but still mentally an adult but it’s not like anyone but your close friends know that because to everyone else they’re just 13? Hell if Harding knows

The Veilguard collectively gaslighting the Inquisition about Spite because people down south aren’t nearly going to be as cool about the whole possession situation and their assurances that Spite is chill so every time someone tries to bring up the glowing eyes or wings they come up with some bullshit excuse and stick to it no matter how ridiculous and some of them get real stupid

Neve sees Cullen practically falling asleep on his feet and offers him her cup of coffee. This is a mistake because now Cullen is using his new caffeine addiction to deal with his lyrium withdrawals and the man has never been so productive or strung out. Lucanis is suffering in the background because Cullen makes and drinks the same sort of sludge Neve survives off of.

Josephine and Lucanis end up bonding over their shared disgust over the sort of vile concoctions Neve and Cullen keep producing. Leliana also joins in because Josephine already introduced her to good coffee and she also has strong opinions on the culinary crimes they’re committing. She also has a whole lot to add when Lucanis brings up some of Harding’s more adventurous kitchen adventures because after a year of traveling around Ferelden during the Blight, Leliana has some stories of her own to share about Ferelden cuisine.

Solas who hates tea and wants an in to try to figure out what is going on and how much these people know approaches Lucanis about trying some coffee too only for Lucanis who can be one spiteful motherfucker even without accounting for Spite to essentially pull a “I suddenly don’t know how to read” and brew the most black, vile, and disgusting sludge like pot of coffee for Solas to drink. It would have been kinder for Lucanis to have just spiked his coffee with poison. Spite is in the background cackling at the barely concealed disgust on Solas’ face as Solas pretends he can’t hear Spite’s delighted laughter at Solas’ predicament

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

It’s incredibly brave of Blake to take a stand and make all this public. Or rather, that she bided her time, let the process do its thing, and seemingly compiled such a strong case against Justin Baldoni and basically let him and his team hang themselves with their own hubris. And like many others have said, the fact that she was arguably the most powerful person in that production and he and his team thought they could treat her the way they did and subsequently handily “bury her” speaks volumes on the rampant misogyny in the industry, and about how if it was this bad *for her*, imagine how bad is must be for people who don’t have the protection of her level of fame and wealth and privilege.

It’s so weird because obviously I like I think many of us knew things were bad during the movie’s press tour; with the whole cast unfollowing him, everyone distancing themselves from him, the comments, etc., I figured something happened along “creative differences” and that he was evidently not well-liked, but I never imagined it was this insidious or conspiratorial. How could one B-list one-time CW actor cause that much damage on a set? Well, it turns out, extremely easily. Because systems are in place to protect these men, no matter how privileged on paper the women around them are. The depths to which this team sought to ruin her, as an assault on all fronts, is truly Machiavellian.

Blake was “lucky” because she had people who believed her and had the resources and access to protect herself and advocate for change on her set, but she should never have had to protect herself like this in the first place. She went through traumatic incidents at the hands of these men, ones that had tangible consequences on both her mental and physical health and that of her child. And again: if this is how awful the experience was for her at the top of the call sheet, how many other people on this set and others suffer in silence too? How much do these ill-intended people in positions of power get away with that never get brought to light?

I find myself so rattled by this, even though on paper, I shouldn’t be. But it’s just like… We hear about the Harvey Weinsteins and Johnny Depps of the world, the industry titans who prey on people with less power all over the place. Yet for every Harvey Weinstein there’s a Justin Baldoni, just Some Dude who thinks by virtue of their privilege can act with impunity. (And yes, I know the man was a “successful” actor, but he wasn’t Ryan Reynolds-level successful. And I’m not saying success = permission to act this way, I’m saying the abusers are painted as these nearly godlike levels of fame and power, and the reality is that literally anyone can be an abuser and turn a situation into an unsafe power dynamic.)

And not to bring Taylor into it and make everything about her, but I also can’t help but think about the 2016 of it all, let alone situations she’d been in long before that. And how so many things happened to her: the revenge porn music video, the phone call, the smear campaign deliberately orchestrated by the Kardashians, Kanye’s link to Scooter, the internet harassment, etc. The difference was that everything was an onslaught, and Taylor didn’t have the public support or sadly, the evidence, to back up her experience. How different could things have gone if she’d been able to speak up? If she’d been able to counteract the obvious lies? Been able to call out the music video for what it was? She couldn’t for a million reasons, and we now have a glimpse into how traumatic that forced silence was for her. One of the differences between Taylor’s experience then and Blake’s now is that in some ways, folks are smarter about how social media is manipulated (but in others, they’re also much, much more gullible). Taylor had the entire media it seemed out to get her; Blake seemed to be following suit, until her own actions proved the lies incontrovertible so that she couldn’t be silenced.

I don’t really know where I’m going with this, except: it doesn’t matter if you’re one of the most famous people in the world, like Taylor was then and exponentially more so now. It doesn’t matter if you’re an industry veteran like Blake, with a husband who’s one of the most recognizable and powerful figures in the industry himself. Predators will prey on people they want to conquer and put in their place, and they will think they can do so without consequence. The cruelty, as always, is the point.

[silkenwinger]

lightning crashes

umm. yellowjackets lite, post plane crash (and post getting shot) johnny soap mactavish x reader.

tw for misogynistic language

part 1. read on ao3

It's a perfect time for hunting.

Ammo has to be counted by the units, the rifles rigidly cleaned until they almost shine their rustled parts. Because the rules are so strict, you’re sure it will be a successful session. A deer, maybe even a moose. The mountains are harsh, but rewarding, if one threads them with care and respect.

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

“Here,” says John, or should you say Johnny, as he brings you a heavy blanket, one of the first you found in that decrepit cabin. It’s been you, him, and ten other people for months now. You were more when the plane fell, in between bodies and steaming metal. The stench of death and fire is still clear on your mind, the aftermath clear as a polaroid picture.

You don’t remember Johnny on the plane. All you can recall from the day before everything ended was the rigid cold of the early morning when you departed and the insipid food that was served for lunch.

“Thank you,” you tell him, and he flashes you a full teeth smile. Still annoyingly white, it is.

You use the blanket to tuck in poor Aurora, another survivor who has gotten sick recently. While she shows signs of improvement and has even started eating something again, you’re worried about her condition. You hope she can recover quickly, else she might lose all strength to keep going. It has happened to two other survivors, but you can’t bear to see it again– a slow death, a complete surrender of the soul. It harms those around, too.

Climbing out of the seat, safety belt still locked in, you thought you were in hell already. You’d made your way out of the plane limping, only to be grabbed by your arms and shaken firmly– the tears had fully started to fall down by then, but at least you realized fully that you were alive. And in company, too.

Back then, it was Johnny– a super fit man whose only injury appeared to be a cut on his forehead and an inability to shut up . But while he kept screaming, hurting your ears, you realized he was trying to find as many living people as possible.

He was military, he told you later, and it was just instinct– sorry about that, lass. You simply nodded, head far removed from the situation. Mind elsewhere, and now as well the memories of the first days are quite foggy. The forest expanded like an ocean in front and behind you, all around, the mountains high in the background. There seemed to be no sign of human life, like an untouched corner of the world. Impossible, as you would discover later.

There were fifteen of you. Mostly men, four women counting you. Everyone tried to use their phones, but it was no use. No reception. The pilots were dead. So many people died. Somehow, the fire had stopped by itself: you don’t remember raining but it might as well have. Johnny and the other men had used some metal parts of the plane to make roofs, where you slept the nights away warmed by fires. Two survivors died from the wounds they suffered during the crash in the first week. You still recalled the coldness of their skin when you tried to wake them, their necks marble hard.

You’d been scared for your life, and panicking, and totally useless. A little information from your childhood, when you looked for mushrooms with your grandpa, was what you could offer. What plants were edible and which were not, but a continent away, in a man regulated environment, millennia of hunting and foraging. Here, in the wilderness, there was another set of rules in place. But you could look for signs of danger, still. And you began looking for food with the others. This, you thought, is my purpose. Gathering food.

One day, Johnny and other men had scrambled back to the crash site and yelled that there was a cabin not too far. Four great walls, a roof on top. Basically a haven. You looked up, down, sides, up and down again. Before you could hear him, Johnny slid next to you, your eyes level with the scar on the side of his head when you turned.

“Nice place, huh? And that’s not all. There’s weapons as well.”

“Really?” you beamed, and he grinned back.

“Huh-uh. Hunting rifles, of course. I bet some old man lived off the land in his last years.”

“It’s, uhm,” you stuttered, looking at the bare bones decor and the old moose head hanging on the fireplace, “a bit spartan.”

“Ha! Spartan, she says,” he laughed and you felt blood rushing to your face, “sure. It really is, uh?”

You shrugged, embarrassed. The rest of the guys shuffling in took in the place without even sending a glance your way.

It was spring back then. It’s now fall and winter is approaching. Still no sign anybody is looking for you. It’s unthinkable, really, that no signal has gone off and told the rescuers your position. Sometimes you think you're being left here on purpose, that they don’t want you back.

Or, it doesn’t want to let go of you.

You help Aurora rise a bit to make her drink water from the flask and she thanks you, still a bit breathless. You pet her hair without even thinking about it. A bit further away, just outside the cabin, someone is talking. An undertone of demand, of anger.

It’s Oliver, one of the main hunters, and Johnny. Oliver is one of those people who always seem mad. Easy to be so, here. Harder to be kind, and helpful, the way Johnny is. But it’s plain to see the reason why Oliver is always angry, boiling. He can’t handle Johnny being the de facto leader, threatened in his macho man facade. Johnny defuses, his hands up, tone firm and unafraid. Real hostage crisis experience. In comparison to the men he dealt with before, you think, guys who peaked as quarterbacks in highschool are like fussy children to him.

But also, in comparison to these men, you’re a burden and a nullity. Your weeds will die come winter, and you’ll be left with dust in your hands. Whatever is left in the cabin will finish, too. Johnny has taught you how to shoot, with a bit of remorse on your part– not enough bullets for you to really learn, you told him as much. It would be a waste, it’s much better for him to use the ammunition to hunt. He replied that you had to learn anyway. So you’d learn. The doubt remained on why he decided you should learn how to and not the others who couldn’t, but you let it go.

You remember his body pressing into yours, his hands on your arms, the squeeze of his index and thumb on them. Up, down, left, right. You could have sworn he whispered something in your ear, a question perhaps by its tone, but it went away with the wind, or maybe that’s what it was in the first place.

Johnny, for some reason that is still unknown to you, likes you. What he likes is unclear– maybe you’re his type or something, but he hasn’t pushed, or prodded, for anything more than platonic companionship. He simply talks to you, listens to your odd dreams, teaches you stuff and asks about plants.

He talks about his previous job, too.

“Used to be Special Forces,” he’d said, and your mouth hung open in the dim light of the cabin. “Secret operations against terrorism. I can’t tell you more, bonnie, even though I’m retired.” He pointed to the scars on his head, the heat coming from his body comforting at your side. Sometimes you wondered if he was making it all up, but his size and the way he handled the guns corroborated his version in your mind.

“I was in a special team, handpicked. Good lads they are. Bet they’re going to find us before anyone else,” he remarked, and you felt it again, that spike of hope in your heart. Kill it, your mind said. Think of the present only.

You exit the cabin to see what’s going on outside. Martha, clad only in a t-shirt and her leggings, is cutting wood by the side, huffing and puffing. Another chronic people-pleaser. You are friends with her, feet warming the others under the covers in the evening. She seems totally uncaring of the men arguing some feet away, and you can’t blame her.

“I’m saying we are going to fucking die here,” pleads George, always very levelheaded and unemotional. He clutches at his already ratty shirt, torn apart by branches and the incident. His eyes are focused on Johnny, glossy. The ex soldier doesn’t move an inch, apparently unaffected by the crying request.

“I agree,” says Oliver, tall in his convictions now that he’s not the only one going against the grain. Johnny shakes his head.

“You’re mental. You have no idea of what’s out there, and the further we get from the crash site the harder it is for them to find us. Besides,” he turns to nod at you and Martha with his chin, “I’m not going to abandon them.”

“They’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, right girls?” Asks Oliver, and your eyebrows wrinkle together. You’re not exactly elated to be left here, probably without any of the three rifles. Martha just keeps chopping wood. The embarrassed silence that falls is answer enough. Oliver goes red in the face, wrath coming and boiling over.

“Whatever, MacTavish. We don’t need you. I know how to shoot, and Chris was a scout. I bet there’s a town south. We will go tomorrow morning.”

“Sure, do whatever you want. But,” he squares the other two up once and for all, “you’re only taking one rifle with you.”

Oliver opens his mouth, ready to oppose, but Johnny continues.

“You’re in no danger other than some big animals. There’s three of you, keep watch at night and you’ll scare all critters anyway. You’re grown,” an hint of contempt, “and vaccinated, I hope. See what comes out of it.”

It feels like a scolding, the knowing words of someone who’s been there before. But where has he been, really? And is it really wise to send them off on their own without him?

You ask him as much when you’re washing a few clothes by the river that passes near. When you’d first found it, you were hopeful: a river always accompanied human settlements ever since civilizations started. But even retracing it, you found nothing more than rocks and plants and nature.

Johnny, who’s doing pretty much nothing but watching you wash the clothes, laughs.

“You heard them, didn’t you, bonnie? They’re strong and brave. Determined. If they think they can save us all, I say let them.” He looks down then, a bit wistful. You think he’s reminiscing on something. Maybe when he used to think he could save everyone, too? You twist the soapwort leaves between your fingers, and then brush them against a blood stain on the shirt you’re washing. It’s one of Johnny’s.

His profile comes right into your view when he sits on the bank next to you. A straight nose and thick eyebrows. Ice blue eyes that looks muted in the diminishing sunlight. His original, if a little unfashionable mohawk that has started to grow longer at its sides. A classical hero, the protagonist of the story. You dry your left hand on your jeans and pat his shoulder, tentatively. Johnny is usually cheery and headstrong, and you don’t want to see him down. He twitches at your touch, which makes you remove your hand immediately. His expression changes at that, a small wrinkle appearing on his forehead– before you can even put your hand back in the water, he shifts closer to you and leans his whole shoulder so that it touches yours. You blink at that, but don’t move. You can feel his nose on the exposed skin of your neck. An inhale.

“Johnny!” Booms a voice feet away, and your whole body moves to the side, startled. You hear Johnny barely suppress a growl. It’s Chris, the other guy who’s supposed to leave tomorrow. He’s nondescript. Doesn’t leave an impression on you, whether negative or positive, although you suppose that’s an impression, too. Chris calls out Johnny’s name one more time before the wanted man rises to his feet, ruffles your hair in the process, and sighs while he leaves for the cabin.

You keep washing the clothes. Your fingers have pruned, the movements not fast or constant enough to mitigate the cold water. Shivering, you bring your gaze to the mountains in the distance, and to the patch of forest directly under it, the tall spruces and pines shadowing the understory, the true heart of the wood. If you could cross the river, you would probably find mushrooms and plants you’ve already picked off on this side of the bank. If, if, if…

You feel a presence on your side, and while you think it’s Johnny that has returned to you, you have enough awareness to realize it isn’t so before you even look. It’s Oliver. He’s standing up, looking down at you still crouched. He says your name, like you already don’t know he wants to speak with you.

“Did you tell Johnny to remain here?” He questions, eyebrows furrowed, locks of dark hair falling over them. You don’t care for his attempt at intimidating you.

“No.”

“Then why isn’t he coming with us?”

“He told you, didn’t he? I’m not the boss of him.” You roll your eyes and keep washing the grass off someone’s pants. You think they might be Martha’s.

“Listen, bitch,” your hackles rise at that, and he gets closer, “you don’t talk to me like that. He wasn’t like this at the start, he would have come immediately. Whatever you’ve done to him made him a pussy.” His face is a splotchy red. Your instincts and your mind are at odds. The former tells you to cower and fawn, to appease an angry man. But your mind is wiser. It knows he’s no danger. So long as Johnny is around.

“Maybe it’s just a stupid idea. I’d trust the trained soldier over myself and you.” You rise to your feet and tap your wet hands with a stray rag. There’s a part of you that wishes you could be more direct in your approach, look at Oliver in the eyes, but instead you’re looking at the ground, pebbles and mud.

Martha calls for you, and you rush to put the wet clothes in the bag and get the hell out of there. He’s a bully, but you know he won’t dare to push you around the other survivors. For all his strength and character, he’s not well liked. And that’s all that matters around people, is it not?

[rhaellatully]

B-Side (Fanfiction)

AO3

FF.net

AN/ Congratulation to Arcane for making me write again after 4 years... I really need to get back to my WIPs...

Anyway, a very very big thank you to @beforetimes who beta this fic and made it some much better (and also went through the trouble of correcting all of my mistakes)

She looks at her father in the eye one more time before she pulls the pin. She doesn’t hear the boom, instead she sees this orb, and she is being torn apart by it. The world spins around her. It pulls her in all directions. She can’t tell where is up or down. She wants to throw up. It spins, it shakes, she can’t see, until the kaleidoscope appears. She doesn’t hear the boom, but she hears her screams.

Something escapes her hands, followed by a loud noise. Beer spills on a wooden floor. 

Jinx stares at her hands: something is... different. Are her nails shorter and-

“Everything alright, Powder?”  A familiar voice calls.

She turns around and looks up. And there he is, standing behind the bar, like he always did.

“Vander?”

He looks normal, but older. Grey hairs and wrinkles are accentuated by the frown on his face.

“Are you okay?” He says, a worried look on his face.

Jinx saw and heard him so many times before, but never like this. He looks like he should have been. Like the doctor never found him. Like she never gave him to the doctor. Like she never killed him the first time, or the second. Like she never jinxed him.

What is going on? They should be dead. They were meant to die together. To free Vi from all the pain and suffering they bring. All the horrors she created were meant to be blown away. Reduced to ashes. Nothing but a bad memory. One that the Piltie would kiss away and make better.

So, why?

Vander is stepping away from the bar now. He’s coming toward her. She doesn’t know how to move anymore. She can’t run, but she can’t stay. 

The bell rings. Her head snaps toward it and the air is gone from her lungs. Mylo and Claggor walk toward her. They’re different too. They’re bigger. Claggor’s cheeks are smaller. Mylo’s hair is shorter than it should, and he has this moustache. They never looked like this, she never thought of them looking like this before. They’re different but they’re good different.

Vander’s hand is on her shoulder. It’s warm, so warm. His other hand came to wipe away a tear she hadn’t realised was on her face.

“What’s going on Powder?”

Uh, she made it to heaven, somehow.

She’s good different too, she finds out, looking at herself in the mirror after Vander sends her downstairs. He thinks she pulled one-too-many all nighters lately. Yet, the bags under her eyes are the smallest she’s ever seen. Her cheeks also look fuller. Her hair is shorter- no longer, she had cut it, then Ekko fixed it shorter. And there’s this pink strand, the same colour as Vi’s hair.

And her eyes too, no more shimmer, probably no more use for it here.

She doesn’t get to look at them for long, because a hand comes to cover them. In less than a second she spins her attacker around and he’s pinned against the wall. 

“Ouch! Sorry! Sorry!”

With trembling hands, she lets go of him.

“Ekko?” She asks, and a part of her wants to be wrong, wants him to have survived the battle. He had his time loop thingy, he shouldn’t have been able to lose. He should be alive, he has no business being here. He’s the boy savior. Unless he sacrificed himself to save someone, or everyone. He shouldn’t have died. People like her should die, not people like him. He wanted to make a good world, a better world. That’s what he should be doing, not being dead here with her.

But then, he gives her that kind smile as he rubs the back of his neck.

“Okay, I won’t try to surprise you anymore.” He says, and she doesn’t care anymore.

He’s dragging her through the streets as she tries to keep up while having no idea where they’re going. He won’t let go of her hand. He grabbed it at the Last Drop, and insisted that they had to go. She wanted to ask where, but lost the ability the second they stepped out. 

Zaun is good different, too. There’s so much light. The air smells better and it feels easier to breathe, almost like Topside. The buildings are not on the verge of collapsing. The people are walking around carefree, the children are running down the street laughing.

Heaven is a nice place.

They reach the bridge, there are no barricades, just shops, people and enforcers who look... friendly. She remembers the bridge of her life. She passes the spot where her parents died. A man is selling food there. 

Ekko guides her to where they could have died together and she loses her footing. He catches her. 

“Sorry,” he says, an apologetic smile on his face, “Maybe we should walk.”

Jinx wants to say no, because if they are not running, why would he hold her hand? But he doesn’t let go. 

They reach their destination. It’s the academy. She doesn’t understand what they’re doing here. Or why so many people are trying to get there. Ekko keeps walking but she doesn’t move. He stops rather than letting go of her hand.

He smiles at her again.

“I’m sure we made it. They’ve increased the number of seats available again. And even if they hadn’t, we’re not the ones who need it.”

She thinks she understands what he’s saying, but it doesn’t make sense. It can’t make sense.

He starts walking, and she follows all the way to the walls where the results of the entrance exam are plastered. 

“Let’s start at the bottom.” he says, and she lets him. Because if their names are on the boards somewhere, it has to be at the bottom, right? They’re brilliant, she knows it, but the Pilties and their academies care more for prim and proper language than groundbreaking ideas. Even with all the brains in the world, all it takes is one Piltie with a nice bag of money and their sit goes to someone else. Why bother trying? Just to be stuck in a classroom full of Pilties and fancy professors trying to teach them stuff they could learn on their own from books. They’d have easy access to the library, though.

They make their way up and their names don’t seem to be there. He seems so focused, as if he was looking for the solution to a complex equation. She sees him swallow hard as his hand rises higher. Will she see his face break again?

Then he laughs his hand is at the top of the board, and so are their names. Ekko first place, her second. 

“How?” It escapes her lips before she can think ‘it’s heaven, of course they’re there’. But Jinx never wanted to join the academy. So, why?

“Did you fill out the exam in crayon?” He asks with that damn smile on his face. 

Right, it’s his heaven too.

“We’re in the fucking academy,” she says, and she hears him laugh again.

This time he grabs her and swipes her off her feet. He spins her around once, before putting her down, still holding her. His forehead pressed against hers. She’s crying again. She doesn’t know why. 

Ekko’s hands leave her sides to grab her face again. His thumbs wipe away the tears. And he looks at her, that same way he looked at her toward the end. There’s something she doesn’t understand in his eyes. Until he looks down at her lips. Is he going to… kiss her?

He leans toward her, she leans away. He freezes and looks at her, confused. She leans toward him. Their lips meet. It’s nicer than she imagined.

Heaven really is a nice place.

They return to the Last Drop. The second they walk through the door, silence falls, and all the heads turn toward them. Everyone is here; Vander, Mylo, Claggor, Benzo. She sees more familiar faces around, and even Babette is looking at her with hope in her eyes.

“We made it!” shouts Ekko, and cheers erupt all around them.

Mylo almost runs at her arms stretched out, she expects him to strangle her, but he hugs her. She doesn’t have time to react before Claggor joins him. Jinx feels warm, like the sun itself is holding her.

“Vi would be so proud of you,” Mylo whispers and she feels cold all over.

She thinks she’s going to cry again, but she hears someone say, “Let her breathe.”

She almost fights her way out of their arms to turn around.

He’s here.

And he’s good different, too.

His eye. He doesn’t need her to give him his medicine. His scar doesn’t look as bad as it used to. He stands straighter. His skin is pinker. 

His smile is brighter than she’s ever seen it.

“Well done, Powder,” he says as he hugs her, “I knew you’d do great.”

“Silco,” she doesn’t cry, this time she laughs.

Heaven really is a place worth dying for.

The next day she’s nursing a violent hangover.

“I’ve never seen you indulge yourself so much before.” Vander tells her.

“Oh, she deserves it!” Silco joins in, “Before long, the two of them will be sitting on the Council.”

“Or not, if they don’t want to.”

“Of course!”

“As happy as I am to see the two of you like this, can you go do it elsewhere? My head is killing me.”

“Of course, Powder.”

It feels weird to hear Silco call her that, but she could get used to it.

She feels better in the afternoon when Ekko comes to find her. He says they should go tell Vi. She doesn’t understand what he means. But ever since she died, she’s learned to go with the flow.

They go to her lair. Even that place is brighter and warmer. There are different trinkets everywhere, and railings. It still feels like her, but a different her. A happier her, maybe.

They go to the tent. There’s a shrine to Vi. Why is there a shrine to Vi? She survived, she made sure she survived, so she can’t be here, but why is there a shrine?

“She looks so young,” Jinx comments when she looks at the painting of Vi.

Ekko takes her hand as they sit down. “If she could see you…” He doesn’t finish, Jinx is grateful for it.

She will see me, she wants to say, when she dies too she’ll see all of this and she’ll love it.

Jinx is making her way to Benzo’s shop with food to share with Ekko when she sees her. Her hair is brown again. She’s running around with a group of children, laughing so hard as she does. She knew they would meet here eventually. She skips toward her. Her heart swells with every step that brings her closer to her. 

She sees her trip on the ground. Jinx gaps and starts running, but another woman gets to her first. She picks her up and starts whispering sweet things at her.

They have the same eyes.

It makes sense. It’s heaven, so Isha has her first family back too. She’s safe and happy. And she doesn’t need Jinx. 

That’s a good thing. 

So why does her heart ache?

“Are you okay?” Ekko asks her.

“Yeah.” She doesn’t want to talk about Isha with him, especially when she has no reason to feel bad. Isha is with her other family, and so is she. It would have been better if they had never met anyway.

“Pow-pow,” Ekko calls to make her look at him, “ever since the entrance exam result, you’ve been… different. Are you still unsure?”

“No.” Well, maybe I never wanted to go to this academy anyway.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t want to. I just think with it, we can accomplish great things. There’s still so much to do for the undercity. And I know that together, we can do anything.”

Jinx has heard that last one before, when they were getting ready to go kick some Noxian butts. She smiles.

I am glad we died together this time.

After a while in the tunnels she recognises the way they’re going. He’s taking her to the Firelight’s hideout. She remembers when he first took her there, after she had let the grenade fall beneath them and let him guide her out of her lair. He had shown her his mural with her face at the centre. To remember and honour everyone they’ve lost. 

“To keep them in our hearts and move forward,” he had said, handing her paint, “What did she look like?”

And Isha had joined the mural as close to her as possible.

Jinx wonders what this place is now. Maybe there are people living there. Ekko had built this place to be a refuge. People don’t need  a refuge like back when she was alive here, though. It could be a playground, there were so many children there. Maybe here it belongs to them, and they play all day, just like she and Ekko did in the junkyard.

There’s water on the floor, it’s not deep, but it splashes when they walk. Once they’re inside she looks up, and freezes.

This is Vi. Her Vi. She’s not supposed to- Why is she-? How is she-?

Her breath quickens and they all start screaming at her. 

What have you done? You’ve managed to kill one of us after all! Why are you surprised? You’re a jinx. You cannot change your own nature. Jinx! You will never belong in heaven! Why would any God let you in? So that you can burn the place to the ground! You’re going to jinx us all again! This is a special hell crafted just for you! You’re a jinx! You’re not meant to be happy. Murderers don’t get happiness. You jinx everything!

“Shut up!” she shouts, throat raw.

She runs away. When she hears Ekko shouting after her, she runs faster.

She ran but had no idea where to run. She couldn’t go to her lair, it was different, it wasn’t hers. Nothing here was hers. Not the Last Drop and not the wrong Vander, or wrong Silco, Mylo, Claggor, or wrong everyone.

She ran to the cannery, this was a place for her. The place of Jinx’s birth. That’s where she belongs. But as she got closer she noticed the people going toward it. They looked sick and broken. This should have been a good sign but when she got there she saw in large bold letters the word ‘hospital’.

They have hospitals, the fucking cannery became a hospital.

Jinx ran away from that too. She went into the fissures, where the Grey still filled the air. They hadn’t fully eliminated it, they couldn’t fix everything. 

She sat down where she could see it fester below without coughing her lungs out. That’s where he found her, because of course he found her.

“You’re not my Powder, are you?” She hears him call behind her.

She chuckles humorlessly, “Nope, I’m Jinx.” Now, go away.

“Are you from the same place as the other Ekko?”

She sighs, “I guess.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Was he ever going to leave? “I didn’t realise- he didn’t give me details, okay!”

She needs him to shut up. To stop talking to her as if she was Powder. To not be so nice to her. To not be here. She can feel him standing away from her. She can picture his face, with his eyes full of hope, just like that day on the edge of the turbine. She doesn’t want to see this fake Ekko and his perfect life with his perfect Powder. 

“Are you okay?”

Why does he have to be like this? Why is it that in every universe he’s like that? Always trying to save her.

“I’m not Powder, okay? Now leave.”

“Look, I’m just trying to help you.”

She turns to face him. He looks worried: of course he does. He doesn't understand that she's nothing like her.

“Just because I have her face doesn’t mean you have to care.”

“Actually you have more than her face, you are inhabiting her body.” He says with a cheeky look on his face, as if they were friends.

“Well, I don’t know how to leave it, so…”

“Powder, Heimerdiger and the other Ekko created a machine that could send him back. With their notes I’m sure we can figure it out.”

“Good for you.”

Powder and Heimerdiger aren’t here anymore. If he wants to build his machine, let him have a crack at it, but leave her out of it. Give the machine to her, she’ll probably find a way to blow the entire city up with it.

“Look, Powder-”

“Jinx! My name is Jinx.” She almost screams it at him. He flinches, and that’s how it should go.

“He did say you were different.” He says, not backing down, always the brave one.

“Oh, really?”

“He also said your ideas changed the world.”

She burst out laughing. That’s one way to put it!

“Do you know what I’ve done? Did he tell her?”

He looks at her with the same terror her Ekko used to. She laughs, almost manically. The way only a Jinx would laugh. The laugh that does nothing but scare people.

“I’ve killed them,” Jinx whispers at him and laughs some more, even when nothing feels funny at all. “Vander, Mylo and Claggor, all in one go. Silco too,” she pauses, “But that was later.” She gives him her smile and it makes him flinch. “And I killed so many of your friends in between.”

He stares at her and says nothing. 

“And I killed them on purpose! Unlike everyone else. Everyone who gets close to me dies… one way or another. Except you. The boy saviour always makes it.”

Jinx sits back on her spot. He should leave now: Jinx can tell that he’s scared. He should leave before she jinxes him, too. She can hear his footsteps, but they’re not getting softer. They’re getting louder.

He sits next to her. “I gave her the tip.”

Jinx looks up at him. 

“I gave her the tip, and they all went while having no idea what was actually up there. If I hadn’t they would never have found the crystals. They would never have fallen to the ground. There would never have been an explosion. If it weren’t for me, Vi would still be alive.” He sighed, it’s a heavy sigh, filled with sorrow. “Everyone tells me it’s not my fault, but there’s still a part of me that,” He pauses to take a shaky breath, “That still feels like I killed her.”

There are no tears in his eyes, but she hears them in his voice.

“It’s not the same. You couldn’t have known there'd be an explosion, it was a good tip.”

“Whatever you did to kill them, did you know it would?”

Jinx doesn’t have the strength to answer, so she just cries. Because she didn’t know. She only wanted to help. 

In between sobs, she lets out, “What about everyone else?”

“I don’t know, you’ll have to ask your Ekko.”

Going through the notes is more difficult than she thought. They don’t use big fancy words like Talys and his partner did, but the doodles, the discussion in the margins, all the little things in the pages tell her how much fun they had. He had more fun with me.

Or maybe, he only had fun with her when he thought of the other her.

Other Ekko works dutifully on the project. Seemingly unbothered by her, which still baffles her. He probably doesn’t understand what she is, and what she’s done. 

It’s better not to explain it to him. Just get back and then… 

The first night, when their stomachs start to growl, he proposes to go “home” to eat. She can’t. She refuses, and when he ducks out anyway, he comes back with food. Says he told the others they were working on a project, that they let him come back here, but are worried.

Powder doesn’t go around disappearing. Jinx hopes they finish this fast.

Working with this Ekko is not the same as working with her Ekko, but it’s close enough. There’s something about the way they bounce ideas off of each other. Like the gears inside her head turn faster. It brings her back to when they were children, when they were searching for books in trash, trying to understand mechanisms by taking gadgets apart and rebuilding them. There’s something comforting about it. But it lacks the excitement of working with her Ekko. 

She always ends up thinking of the days they spent preparing to fight the Noxians. Making her lair airborne had been a crazy idea that somehow worked. Jinx couldn’t have done it with this world’s Ekko; he wouldn’t have taken the risk. 

That’s the thing about her Ekko–he’s a daredevil. He’ll jump off an airship to reach his goal. He’d face an explosion again and again to save her. Was he always like that? Or is it just having her around that makes him as crazy as she is? 

She believed that when she pulled the pin, but now, with this Ekko, the one who has never met a Jinx before, she sees cracks. He will redraw the same schematics six times, perfectly identical, always. He will violently rip off pages of his notebook and throw it away when he realizes he‘s made a mistake. He forgets to eat. Apparently it happens when he’s focused and Powder is the one to remind him, usually. He starts breathing really fast and clutching his head one day, because he has just realized he made a mistake yesterday. 

Maybe that’s not something she screwed up, then. Maybe her Ekko was always a bit insane, too.

“It’s the power source,” she says one day, “We’re screwed.”

“What do you mean?”

“What they used were crystal shards, not a real Hex-crystal. That’s why Heimerdiger had to step out to make adjustments during the process.”

“To redirect the energy!” He exclaims before rushing toward Vi’s shrine.

“We don’t have an actual crystal, we can’t-”

Before she can finish, Ekko shows her a bag full of crystals.

“We had sworn to never use them,” he explains, “but given the circumstances, I think she’ll understand.”

She didn’t want to go back to the Last Drop. What would she do there? Talk to the other Vander, Silco, Claggor and Mylo, and pretend that she was their Powder? As if she had any idea how to be like her. She’d probably manage to kill them, too, given enough time. But then the other Ekko had told her, “why don’t you let yourself enjoy some of your time here? your me definitely did.”

They had been humour in his tone and she had no idea what he meant, but her curiosity had pushed her to take his advice. If spending time with those people had led Ekko to want to see her again, then she’d like to know what he had seen.

So now Jinx sits at a diner table with Claggor at her right, Mylo at her left and Silco and Vander across from her.  

“So what’s that project you guys are working on?” Claggor asks with excitement in his voice.

“Secret,” she answers before stuffing her mouth.

The food was rich in taste and homely, Vander must have cooked it, it tastes like something from a memory.

“Since when do you keep secrets?”

A cold chill washed over her. Coming here was a bad idea. They were going to figure out there was something wrong with her. They were going to get mad. They would be scared and confused, all shouting at her. And that’s when it’ll happen. That’s when they all die.

“I think she’s not making anything,” exclaims Mylo, snapping her attention to him “She’s just getting more alone time with her boyfriend!”

She stares at him and feels her cheeks warming. Laughter erupts around her.

“Really?” This time it’s Silco that calls her attention. “You’re about to spend the next couple of years locked with him at the academy, and yet you’d rather spend your time with him rather than with us?”

Mylo and Claggor laugh even harder and she can barely hear herself say, “I’m sorry.”

“Leave her be,” Vander comes to her rescue, “She spent more than enough time taking care of us, let her have some fun.”

She doesn’t know how to describe the look he gives her. It’s the kind of look he would give Vi. She thinks it means, ‘I’m proud of you,’ or something. Definitely not the kind of look he should be giving her.

“Seriously,” says Claggor, “it’s going to be weird not having you around all the time.”

She feels terrified. It must be visible because Claggor keeps sending worried glances over at Mylo.

“We’re grown men. It’s about time we stop holding you back and learn to take care of ourselves.”

Jinx manages to divert attention from herself for the rest of the evening. 

It’s a strange thing. One moment she’s laughing, smiling and content, the next she remembers that this is the life she could have lived, had she not fucked everything up. It’s like being built up and broken over and over again.

By the time Vander asks someone to clean the dishes she volunteers just to be alone. And yet she wants to go back to them: it hurts but it’s also so wonderful to have them alive. It almost feels worth the pain.

She doesn’t linger on this for long because Vander joins her. She’s scared of what he’s going to say but he just quietly helps her with the dishes. She’s not very good at it, mostly because she doesn’t always clean. Hell, most of the time she doesn’t even use dishes. Vander just chuckles and helps her.

“You know you don’t have to feel guilty.”

She drops a plate. It doesn’t shatter, just falls into the water with a quiet splash. 

“Joining the academy is a good thing, and if it means you have less time for your family it’s fine. We can manage on our own and we’re not going anywhere. It’s about time you use all your smarts to make something out of your life.”

Her eyes are watery, Jinx knows those words are not for her but she can’t help but reply, “What if nothing I make is good? What if I just make everything worse?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” He tells her with a smile. She feels the tears rolling down her cheeks and he quickly adds, “And if you struggle you can always turn to Ekko or your brother, or even Silco and me. I mean, we’re not geniuses but we can give good advice when it’s needed.”

She wraps her arms around him. The tears are still falling but they don’t feel like sad tears anymore.

“You’re not alone, Powder.” He says before holding her tight.

As she makes her way to her bedroom she spots Silco writing in a journal.

“Still working?” She asks.

“Yes, I’m afraid my work is never done,” he sighs heavily, “I’m going to have to leave again in a few days.”

“I’m glad you were here.”

He smiles at her, “Me too. And I’ll be back soon, don’t worry.”

“I’m gonna miss you.”

He gets up and walks toward her.

“Now, now, you’re a big girl, I’m sure you don’t need me anymore.”

She pulls him into a hug and hides her face into his shoulder. “I’m always going to need you.”

He hugs her back and says, “Please, I’ve always needed you more than you needed me. You’ll be fine.”

“Here.”

Ekko hands her a pendant, on it there’s a flower. It’s pretty, and it spins. Looking closer she can see their faces carve in the petals.

Before she can ask him anything he says, “He gave it to her, but she says she didn’t think it was meant for her.”

She stares at it again. It’s meticulous work, detailed but not excessive, his style. A small smile forces its way onto her face. Jinx puts it around her neck.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t blow up in our faces.”

First the lightning comes, like at the cannery, they all start to scream and she doesn’t know if she’s going to be able to stand it. But it’s all cut off when the sphere appears around her. She breathes in and this time, she’s ready.

The last thing she sees is the other Ekko holding the other her in his arms. He smiles up at her.

He keeps himself busy. It’s the best way to avoid falling apart. Scar tells him that they have no one to fight, and they are not alone in helping anymore, that he can take a break. Ekko begs him for a job, any job, instead.     

He needs something to do, anything. The look he, and all of the other Fireslights, gives him feels like a stab in the heart, because it’s just another reminder of what could have been.

He repairs the roof. He teaches the children how to fly a hoverboard. He helps cook dinner for everyone. He talks with Sevika about the meeting and what they could and should be doing. He tries to come up with a new and more efficient energy storage device.

It helps, but never for long. Because, they sat on that roof the first night she spent at the hideout. Because, one of the children has dyed his hair blue and swears he's going to be just like her one day. Because, they cooked together the night before the battle. Because, Sevika has to say that she was easier to deal with than the Council. Because, working on anything reminds him of the time they spent transforming her lair.

The nights are the worst, when nothing can distract him from his grief. It’s the third time. It should be easier by now. But it’s worse. It’s so much worse. This time he’s not just grieving what was, he’s grieving what could have been.

After having seen the other universe. After having convinced her to drop the bomb and step off the ledge. After rallying the under-city together. After fighting side by side. He had hope that they would get a future together.

He knew things would never be as they were. That they would never be like the other Ekko and Powder. But he thought that they could build something new. 

Maybe Jinx would have stayed with the Firelight, she had liked it there during the few days before the battle. It might have taken her some time. They could have worked on projects together. That had come to them just as naturally as it had before. Eventually, she would have started to play with the children. That would have won over the few Firelights that were still wary of her. They would have visited Vi together, if only to remind her that she was a Zaunite and always would be. She would have spent a lot of time with Sevika, much to the Council’s annoyance. 

She would have cooked weird things and forced him to try them. He would have fought her, but ultimately conceded, always. He would have taken her flying on his hoverboard, far above Zaun, even higher than the Hex-gate. She would have modified the overboard, in a seemingly superfluous and random way, but a surprisingly useful one. They would have fought about that, and about her idea of games appropriate for children, and about the priorities for the Firelights, and what music to play during the day, and the right flavour of pancakes. They would have laughed, too. About her hair, his clothes, Sevika, Scar, and about the Pilties. They would have spent nights awake making fun of Pilties. 

And on one of those nights he would have looked into her eyes. She would have looked back confused. He would have leaned toward her. She would have frozen at first, but then she would have closed her eyes and leaned back.

But none of that would ever happen. Instead, he would remember all the time they played as children. All the time they fought as teens. Eventually the childhood memories would fade and the only moments left would be those last few days. 

Three days, that’s all he had been given. Three days they spent arguing with the rest of undercity, and trying desperately to build everything on time. They barely had any moments alone together. They never even got to paint together. They transformed her hideout while shouting orders at everyone else. They only got to laugh when painting each other. He only got to hold her twice. Once right after she stepped away from the ledge. And again right before the battle. He only held her hand once, when he brought her to their sanctuary.

He got to kiss her once and it wasn’t even her.

Sometimes he thinks about what it would have been like to kiss his Jinx. It would have been more wild, he thinks, probably with more teeth. It makes him chuckle. Then the hurt comes back, because he doesn’t know, and he never will.

He never told Vi. He can’t. He doesn’t want to burden her with the knowledge of the happiness they could have had. He doesn’t want her to know that their world would have been better if she had died. He hates himself for thinking it, but he knows that, for him at least, it’s true. And he fears it would break her in a way even Caitlyn can’t fix.

He builds her a shrine, like Powder had for Vi. He prays and talks to her, like they had over there. He tells her about his day. About what Vi is up to. He tells her about the changes in Zaun. He tells her he wishes she was here. And some nights, when the pain is too great he begs her to come back. To pull another miracle. You’ve done twice already, why not a third?

He has a lot to tell her today. For starters, mister I’ll-be-just-like-Jinx-one-day thought it would be a great idea to try and jump off his hoverboard mid-flight. He broke his leg. Ekko tried to lecture him. He got too angry, though, and almost yelled at the poor kid. Thankfully Scar took him away quickly. He hates that he lost control like this, especially in front of a child. He barely had time to apologise to the kid before he was informed that Sevika was looking for him. 

Ekko knew that was bad news before he even reached her: Sevika only ever wants to see him when things go to shit. Turns out the Council thinks the factories need to reach their pre-war quotas before the end of the month. How they’re supposed to do that when half of their population is still wounded and recovering, he has no idea. She wants the Firelights to help her make a show of force in front of the Council, to remind them that the undercity is a united front. 

And there’s another problem: A few days ago, the Jinxers put on a little homage to Jinx, to celebrate her sacrifice. Ekko didn’t go. He didn’t want to see what a group of people who never knew her would do. Apparently they just threw a bunch of paint explosives around town, landmarks associated with Jinx, including the building she blew up on Progress Day and the Council chambers. 

Needless to say, the Council are not happy about that. As far as they are concerned this is “in very bad taste” and all those involved “need to be disciplined.” The little dictator that put Noxus on their doorstep can go home scott-free, but a bunch of kids throw paints on their precious building and suddenly there’s a need for discipline. Some things never change. 

After an entire evening locked with Sevika, Babette and her other “advisors” to try to find a solution, he returns home, skips dinner and goes straight to his quarters. 

He wants to go to her, pretend she can hear him, imagine her thoughts, her voice. Give himself whatever comfort she can give him. And collapse on his bed feeling a little bit less shitty about everything.

He pushes the door open and there’s someone before his shrine. She has her back turned to him, all he can see is a cloth wrapped around her skinny frame and short blue air, when she turns around his heart stops.

He thinks he is dreaming. She can’t be standing in front of him. But she’s here. She looks real. Like he had last seen her. His eyes run across her, trying to find a trick, hoping to find a confirmation. That’s when he sees the necklace.

She notices and touches it, “He said she thought you made it for me.”

His breath shakes and he throws his arms around her, his tears run down the crook of her neck. He feels her arms coming around him, Jinx clings to him, just like he’s clinging to her.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that. He is scared that if he lets go she’ll vanish.

Finally, with her voice shaking she asks, “Can I stay here, at least for while?”

Ekko sobs as he says, “Please don’t leave, not again.”

AN: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, writing Jinx pov is difficult I hope I got it right. Writing the alternate universe is also fun, Silco and alt-Silco are two very different people...

[heartinhyacinth]

Please read fully if possible.

For a brief moment, I was unsure about sharing this here. Then I remember the scene from TGCF between Xie Lian and a farmer from Yushi Huang’s kingdom.

“If I am causing trouble for the rain master, I will not pester any further.”

However, the farmer said, “why won’t you pester? Because it’s shameful? This is about the survival of your {kingdom}—shouldn’t you pester us to death? Is it so hard to lower yourself and ask?”

Then I remember Hua Cheng. To watch your beloved in pain with your own eyes and be unable to do anything—that’s the worst suffering in the world.

The doctors, as well as I, strongly suspect cancer. Amputation was recommended as pretty much the only option to reduce pain, but there lies the risk that the cancer has metastasized to her chest or throughout other areas of her body. We cannot afford to do both. If we take more X-rays and find out it hasn’t spread, we cannot afford to amputate her paw before it does. If we do not check if it has spread, we may go into debt and put her through more suffering only for it to be too late for amputation to help much anyway. We would not be able to afford any more treatment after that.

If you had asked me before what the worst pain of my life was, I’d have said something along the lines of suspected gastroparesis or the time I had to get surgery for a badly infected ingrown toenail when I was thirteen—nitroglycerin was sprayed on my toe as a numbing agent before a needle as thick as spaghetti was inserted into it and a quarter of my nail was removed nearly all the way up to the joint.

However, If you’d ask me today what the worst pain of my life was, it would be this. If you’d ask me a week from now, it would be this. If you’d ask me in a year, though perhaps as soon as even a month, I fear it would be something far worse.

She is in pain and action needs to be taken as soon as possible. This world thrives on insisting upon every chance imaginable that money and independence should live as the core themes of humanity. So far, it is getting its way about the ‘money’ part. I ask that it does not about the ‘alone’ part.

Her name is Lily. She is the friendliest cat you will ever meet in your entire life. She does not care if you are a human, a dog, a cat, or even a rock—she will love you. She sleeps in my jacket when it’s cold. She lays on my face. She sits on wrapping paper like the gift that she is. She loves bread and tortillas and cheese. She sticks her head in my water glass when I’m not looking. She bosses around her best friend—a cat twice her size that everyone else is scared of. She cuddles with her and sleeps with her head tucked in the crook of her neck. She sticks her whiskers up my nose when I’m sad and makes me laugh and licks my tears away. She sits on my shoulder like a bird. She sleeps between my arms with her head on my pillow next to mine. She walks on the piano and plays music. She loves kisses more than air itself and perks up when she knows they’re coming. She cuddles up so close to me I always say it’s like she’s trying to crawl inside my mouth. She purrs more than she doesn’t. She is sassy and will bite your nose or your toes if you put them by her. She looks at me like I’m her entire world and she is mine. She’s my bright-eyed girl who was happy from the moment she arrived.

She is my child. She is my best friend. She is in pain.

This world says her life is not worth it if I cannot pay. This world will not compromise.

This world says If I cannot do it, I am alone. I am asking you to be the compromise. I am asking you to say this is not our world. I can’t do this alone.

Anything at all is appreciated more than you can ever know. Even if all you’re able to do right now is share this ❤️

[elpida]

it was probably and very ironically, the most at peace she'd looked for a while, she didn't stir, she just continued to breath softly and at ease until she was blinking. everything was quiet, for the most she didn't remember what'd happened, she couldn't really put it together, the moments she'd reached out for him, or when she passed out, but she knew the sound of the children and their peaceful heavy breaths of sleep. turning her head, she saw asher, the way his head was in his hands.

"i owe you answers..." she spoke softly, a whisper into what was now delicate hours of the night. she felt the coolness on her forehead, saw the damp cloth in his hand and wandered just how long he'd sat there, making sure she wasn't burning up or suffering. she wondered but daren't ask, had the children cared? she knew that in her heart it was best for them to not see her as mommy but... without a doubt when they saw her on the ground, they'd fretted for their mom. maybe not by birth, but she was meant to be theirs. they were meant to be each others. ever so gentle in her movements she shuffled, enough that there was a space beside her and pulled at the blankets bundled around her. "lay down, you'll get cold sat there all night." even then, when she must have felt so fragile, she cared about him. god, she cared about him so much that she'd turned to him in those moments of feeling so vulnerable. the children lay sound asleep, she'd always said that they slept as if nothing was wrong in the world, heavy and undisturbed.

"i was sick.. before everything went wrong with the world." this was the hard part, the part she'd not told a single soul, because she felt so.. incapable. what good was she if she couldn't even keep up now? "and i suppose and i'm sick again, my medication ran out a while ago... that's why i started keeping more to the house and when i went out, i was hoping i'd find something that'd make do, or at least help in some way until i figured a way to tell you." the more she tried to find the words, the more she felt tears well up in her eyes, a clog in her throat when she first tried to open her mouth to say it. "i have a heart murmur.. i have for a long time it was just.. to a point where they were going to do something about it. they never got the chance to operate and i only had enough medication to last me a couple of weeks. i was really sparing with it, i'd have kept up better had i had more and it's not always bad, not all the time, some days are just worse but.." eden couldn't look at him for this growing fear he'd turn away from her, that he'd be angry at her, that he might see her as useless. "if i'd been the odd one out, the weakest of the group, if i'd been everyone's burden-" she closed her eyes, lip quivering. "i didn't want to be... your burden. i didn't then and i don't know so if you.. if... you want to go, i'd understand. if it's a matter of knowing your chances are better without me slowing you down... i'd get it."

he'd wanted to get some sort of answer that night, but the opportunity had never presented itself. it had quickly become clear that this stop was only temporary - that the need to move on would fall far sooner than he would have liked. the house was largely picked clean of any essentials, leaving the four of them cramming into one room that evening rather than spreading out more comfortably, and eden was asleep just as quickly as the children ( and that was not something he'd disturb ). it hadn't stopped him from eyeing her skeptically the following morning - from considering staying at least another day before ultimately deciding they needed to push forward. he'd led them slower that day - his steps more cautious, his frame stiff and alert ( on the lookout for others and eden ).

when they'd stopped that second night, asher had once again left the little trio at the front door as he'd moved to clear the rest of the house and ensure the windows were properly covered before ushering them further into the space. distracted by the excitement of the two children when they'd learned there was a playroom, asher didn't hear the first call of his name. it was only his need to ensure the woman was alright that caused him to look back. his brow furrowed when he took her in - skin far more pale than usual - and when she seemed to sway forward, he was already moving. a curse escaped him - just managing to snag onto her frame but not preventing them from tumbling down to the floor. the next few moments were chaos - the kids were screaming, asher was groaning in pain from ramming his side into the corner of a table while scrambling to push eden's limp form away from him - hand taping at her face to try to wake her up before pressing against her throat. the uneven thump-thump-thump that met his touch was the only thing to get him to calm.

picking her up and bringing her up into one of the bedrooms, he'd slouched against the side and cradled the two children - murmuring soft reassurances until they'd grown drowsy. dragging a second mattress into the space and convincing them onto it rather than curled against eden's side proved more difficult than he'd anticipated, but by the time they'd truly settled, asher was exhausted and fucking terrified. seated beside the bed with a damp washcloth, the man was hunched over himself - head cradled within his hands, mentally berating himself for not just questioning her the night before as he'd originally intended.

[fantasma-de-la-cueva]

Solo quiero recordarles que si apoyan cualquier tipo de injusticia contra la gente y la violación de derechos humanos solo porque los tiranos comparten vuestra misma ideología entonces mejor bloquéenme, no me sigan, vayanse fuera de mi perfil porque no los quiero ver, me dais asco la gente así y os odio.

Eng: I just want to remind you that if you support any kind of injustice against people and the violation of human rights just because the tyrants share the same ideology as you then block me, don't follow me, go out of my profile because I don't want to see you, I'm disgusted by people like you and I hate you.

[sissytobitch10seconds]

I don't think that the majority of people being mad on the internet actually hate s4. I think that they're grieving something that they held very close to their hearts and are in the anger stage of the process. It'll be interesting to see in the next few months what the attitude around the season comes to be.

[stepbackattack]

SCOLLACE SWEEP🗣️🧹

[ronkeyroo]

Want to perish but hanging on 👍