#this is the last thing you see before you die

[nesmamomen]

Maybe her last wish before death‼️

Not to arouse pity, something happened to me today and I wanted to tell you about it. Today my sister shared with me a simple but deep and touching dream... She dreamed that she was eating chocolate - a small pleasure but dear to her heart. In all innocence, she told me that she wished to die so that she could eat everything she loved in heaven. Cuz for 400 days in this war we have not tasted chocolate and many things due to famine. Maybe it was a simple dream, but her thinking made me see life in a different way, how many small pleasures we sometimes deprive ourselves of, and now we realize them in the midst of this war.

Donate the price of the chocolate you love🤍

My family and I may die in this war but your help gives us happiness and hope in our lives and if we die the money will go to save the poor and treat animals as well♥️

My campaign verified

@\nabulsi here @\el-shab-hussein here

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[drjdorr]

Got inspired to do fan fic of a d and d game I play in(in the d and d setting) from this prompt but it was Looooong so I put a "read more" so it doesn't fill people's entire dash

Jysgo is brought out, not wearing his customarily finery since they didn't want to risk him inevitably having a hidden dagger they failed to find, to a massive arena. He nodded in something that could almost be praise, he had asked for his execution to be a spectacle, Sinabi had delivered.

The stands were crowded with spectators, while most looked at Jysgo with hatred, many even futility trying to throw stuff at him, he did notice more than a few sending a bit of that venom in the king's direction. Probably wasn't a good look doing the very thing that the giants the rebelled against did, even if it was at the condemned's request.

Jysgo gave a smug smirk towards Sinabi who fumed back in return. Jysgo was sure the human could work around this, adapt, the cleverness was something that Jysgo almost respected about the surface dweller.

Looking around the stadium, Jysgo saw the rest of the royal entourage scattered throughout. The elven Queen Maeralya of course sitting next to her husband, she looked more outfitted for court than battle Jysgo noticed, though he knew with her being a wizard looks could be deceiving. Khar along with his cult of gnolls wasn't hard to find with their distinctively colored cloaks. Neither was Zzissu with her contrasting Abeil stripes, buzzing overhead. And hard to miss the brightly colored 15 foot mushroom that was known as the Monkanid. Jysgo had to scan the crowd for the half elf Hugo, they didn't look that threatening with only a bow out, but Jysgo had seen just how deadly that bow could be. And glancing at the armored soldiers across from him, Jysgo felt no surprise seeing the dromite Kato.

"Jysgo Olar-" Sinabi began

"Spymaster Jysgo Olar, Giant Slayer, Troll Slayer, and the elf responsible for doing what was needed to save this kingdom" Jysgo corrected

"Jysgo Olar," Sinabi persisted with a snarl, refusing to use the drow's mostly self appointed titles, "for the massacre of innocent people, you have been sentenced to death by a method of Your Own choosing," He gestures around, "that being by combat against armed combatants while you yourself are armed with a wooden training sword."

"I felt like the challenge." Jysgo said to the guard holding him who seemed less than amused

"Have you any last words?" Sinabi regretted the words almost as soon as they left his mouth

"But of course." Jysgo said with a grin, "people of this fine kingdom, I admit it, I killed those innocent people." He let the expectation angry responses die down before he continued, "but all I did was what I was paid to do. I was paid to fix problems, and the best solution to the problem had those dozens of people die, so thousands of people could live." He emphasizes his statement by gesturing out at the crowd with his shackled hands.

"We don't trade innocent lives"

"Sure you do, what would you call it when innocent people join your army. You traded their innocent lives for them to fight to protect all of their innocent lives. How is what I did any worse?"

"Because they chose to fight to protect others, the people you killed didn't choose!"

"But do they really know what they will face joining your ar-"

Thunder interrupts Jysgo's rebuttal as Sinabi stands, "you had your trial, this is your execution! Bailiff, give him his sword!"

Jysgo could barely hide his smile as the guard pushes a wooden practice sword into his hands, he had annoyed the man and better yet, people had begun to whisper among the crowd. Didn't matter how accurate what he said was, so long as it got people questioning the current regime, though that out burst certainly didn't hurt.

As the bailiff started walking away Jysgo held up his shackled hands, "aren't these going to be unlocked?"

"I had assumed they already had been"

Jysgo shrugged as he flicked them open, "I mean you aren't wrong. Though it is interesting how you are so quick to execute the person with the most dirt o-"

"Enough," thunder rolled before he turned to the warriors across from Jysgo, "just get this over with already"

Jysgo crouched into a fighting stance as the armored fighters charged at him. At a glance he counted 9 besides Kato.

The first one arrived and swung his sword, which Jysgo blocked with a slashing motion, taking careful steps, one at a time, to get the best positions.

Wood slivers flew from his blade with every blocked strike whittling away his sword till he suddenly dodged to the side avoiding the warhammer that crumpled in the breastplate Jysgo had seen the strike coming in.

"You seem to have missed," Jysgo mocked as he began dodging the swings of the warhammer. "Slow, predictable, and," he stabbed his sharpened training sword under the armpit causing a gurgling gasp as his opponent dropped his hammer, "leaves you open." As he withdrew the blade he mused, "seems I hit a lung. I'm not use to using such off balance weapons, I was aiming for the heart." He casually side stepped a flail before closing the distance and shoving the tip in a small gap under the chest before withdrawing it to a collapsed opponent, "that's better."

He rolled away as a man whose armor was more spikes than armor tried to grab him before giving a sigh, "too easy." He ducked under the next swing of his arms, snapping one hand cuff onto him before yanking his arm to block an oncoming glaive, "not wanting to wait your turn?" He then yanked the spiked armored warrior's arm to stab his own head, "very well, I was just finishing with him," before he blocked the next swing and pinned it down with the cross guard of his training sword, running down the haft to be right in front of him and in a movement faster than the eye could follow, Jysgo's blade slid into the eye slit of his opponent.

"This is fun and all but this will be easier like this," with a few quick gestures and words he was seemingly gone. And quickly the vulnerabilities of their armors were shown to all as bleeding holes opened up on them one by one as they desperately looked and flailed around for the invisible drow, an occasional amused chuckle being all any of them had to guess on till the only ones left on the field were Kato, a young goliath with a mace, and that drow.

"On our right" Kato called out in time for the goliath to turn his shield and hear wood on metal as a smiling drow suddenly appeared

"And here I was worried that this would be boring" Jysgo joked before recasting his invisibility before an ax swung just close enough that a few white hairs fluttered to the arena floor.

"You can't sneak up on us traitor, I can smell you approach." Kato said, making sure they were close enough to the goliath to give him fair warning Also how in the hive do you smell so clean, you've been locked in a cell!"

"It's called proper hygiene. Surely with such cramped living conditions, you dromites are familiar." The sound of wood on wood can be heard as Kato blocks a strike, "and being a traitor would require I was on your side. You of all people should understand I was only ever on my side"

A few moments of silence. A small puff of dust is kicked up.

"Ignore it," Kato tells the goliath as he turns his shield in that direction, "it's an obvious mis- LEFT!"

The two quickly turn in the direction of the drow who only gives the slight crunch of moving sand as he twists past the goliath's shield and Kato feels a few warm droplets before swinging their shield and sending the revisible drow tumbling as the goliath collapses, the blade having snuck under the edge of his helmet into the soft lower pallet.

"Not my cleanest work," Jysgo said as he stands, flicking blood off his blade giving his shoulder a little roll, "your nasty trick of being able to smell me made an inconvenient-" he barely had time to jump back as Kato's ax swung were his unprotected intestines were a moment ago, the proximity to the enchanted weapon leaving a line of frost across Jysgo's shirt.

They went back and forth, Kato almost casually blocking every strike from Jysgo and Jysgo dodging the lethal swings of Kato's ax sometimes only by a hair with Kato moving in as quickly as his little legs can carry him

At one point Jysgo has a moment of time and goes invisible again.

"I thought we established this traitor!" Kato yelled, their eyes trained as close onto where they smelt Jysgo as they could, "I! Can! Smell! You!"

Jysgo didn't respond before suddenly charging at the dromite, his blade dragging in the sand, kicking it up in a clear line.

Kato had no time to guess what he was doing before the blade was picked up from the ground, Kato's shield braced when they smelled the drow go up. A great strategy for anyone who couldn't smell him Kato thought to themself as they raised their shield to follow the drow's arc before they felt a pair of soft impacts, not like wood on wood, more like... Kato suddenly realizes what's happening as they notice they're right next to the wall

Jysgo jumped off the dromite's shield and manged to grab the edge of the wall and pulled himself up

"He's making a break for it!" Kato shouted as the rest of the royal entourage moves into action.

Jysgo begins to book it ,he knows how fast they can move as he hears Sinabi order the arena locked down, no one in or out.

He ducks behind a pillar as his invisibility drops, already partway through a spell to disguise himself. He has moments before- he leaps out of the way as a lightning bolt crashes into where he was just standing. Good news, people are panicking and that can provide cover. Bad news, the abeil had found him before he could get a disguise up.

He started moving with the crowd, the worst attacks most of them had hit wide areas, they wouldn't risk firing them into a crowd. Unfortunately people in the crowd where recognizing him and moving away. Also Unfortunately from the slight rumble, the giant mushroom was approaching fast.

Suddenly a nearby section of the stands burst into flames, and then another and another. Suddenly the crowd was less concerned with the condemned criminal and more concerned with getting away from the flames. It also distracted the entourage long enough for Jysgo to slip into one of the interior tunnels along with some of the crowd.

Taking this quick window Jysgo brought up his disguise, an older human man, and especially made sure to disguise his prisoner rags. Right as the glamor finished the hulking form of the myconid entered the hall, its head going side to side, searching the crowd as a faint amount of spores drifted from it.

Obviously nothing dangerous, Sinabi would never allow it... but comunication spores he probably would. Easy enough to work around, Jysgo thought, just don't think into the group. Easy.

And suddenly the minds of everyone in that hall was bombarded by everyone else's thoughts. Jysgo watched on in amusement as everyone suddenly jolted in surprise and confusion, some clutching their heads from their minds suddenly being so filled with others thoughts. It's only as the fungus' face locked onto him and the face of his disguise was broadcasted across the mental link that Jysgo realized his error in staying calm and collected and started shoving through the crowd as in contrast it parted as fast as it could for the usually terrifyingly fast behemoth after him.

Jysgo looked for an escape route that he wouldn't be followed through and never hated living in such an accommodating multi cultural place more. And then he saw a maintenance door and moved towards it.

The slight rumble, far to quite for something of that size, told him how close it was behind him as he reached the door and went to open it. Locked. He slammed his fist against the door, locked. Again, locked. Again, it had unlocked and he slipped inside as he felt the spongy fingers barely miss him before slamming the door shut.

"Hey buddy," A gnome looked at the human(drow) who had just ran into the maintenance area, slightly out of breath, "this is a restricted area. You can't just come in here."

Jysgo took a moment to composed himself before replying, "I am an inspector doing a surprise inspection." He tapped the door he had just come through, "you see this door? I just demonstrated with a proper impact in the right location, the locking mechanism comes undone. That is not a secure door and you should see about getting that replaced."

"...Uh-huh." The gnome slowly responds before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a sending stone and begins talking into it, "Hey central? Can someone let Sinabi kn- ghk" he clutches at his throat which had just had a foot hit full force into it before it stomped onto the stone, breaking it.

"Today has been a bad day," Jysgo says to the slowly passing out gnome, unable to breath past his crushed larynx, "I'm usually great under pressure, but usually I'm aware ahead of time of pressure and usually it's only handling someone as dangerous as one of those guys, I've got seven." Jysgo sighed looking down at the unconscious gnome, "they know what door I went through, I'm sure someone will be here before you suffocate, maybe. Like I said, bad day, usually I'm more professional." Looking at the gnome before heading off he redoes his disguise, it's a bit taller than the gnome should be but should be good enough at a distance.

He heads into the bowels of maintenance, he knew the back areas of the city enough that he could navigate it with his eyes closed. Unfortunately the only places he could navigate in here is other places in this maintenance or the arena above as the arena was a relatively closed system and didn't connect to any other buildings through their tunnels. He would definitely have tried to change that if it wasn't for the wanted for execution thing. Jysgo smiled to himself atleast it's accurate this time and not some sloppy frame job

He finds the door to concessions and goes through. The food prep area was mostly abandoned at this point, and quite a bit of the ingredients had been replaced with flasks of a rather reactive liquid.

"You know," Jysgo turned towards the masked figure sitting behind him, silent as the grave, "you could have set off the fires a little earlier Number Two. Would have made things way easier"

The masked figure slid off his seat to stand before Jysgo and flashing him some quick signs of drow sign language <sorry sir. The abeil found you sooner than expected>

"Whatever. Did you aquire my things?"

<yes, our associate dropped them off after escorting you to the arena> Number Two handed the box of possessions to Jysgo who quickly opened it and began dressing himself in his proper attire.

"You never realize how nice that protective aura of magic is till you lose it." He wiggles his body making sure everything sits correctly as he slides his wooden blade into a loop of his belt. "Is everything in position to move to contingency stage 2?"

<yes sir>

"Then let's do it"

‐---------------------------------------

"Drow matching Jysgo's hight and build heading your way Khar" Zzissu said over the comunication spores

"On it"

The gnoll hid in wait for the drow. Seeing him, he looked like Jysgo, down to the finest detail, but Khar could see he didn't ask like Jysgo. Firstly, moving so openly looking as himself? Standing so casually when he needs to hide? Moving into a sparsely populated area when the entourage is hunting him? Heck he didn't even move like Jysgo.

Khar stepped out startling the imposter who stood tall and held the practice blade in a fencing stance. Khar could see he'd never held a blade like that in his life.

"Alright, you found me. But I will not go down with out a-"

"Where is Jysgo?" Khar interrupted, not having time for this game

"I think clearly I am righ-ugh" a wall of ice slams him into the ceiling, only his head sticking out as Khar repeats the question

"Where is Jysgo?"

"Ow. ow. I don't-ow. I think you broke my- ow everything"

"Hardly. I can demonstrate how wrong you are if I have to repeat myself though"

"I don't- ow know! I- ow don't know! I was to- ow told when I got the call to come in h- ow here, when confr- ow confronted to pretend to be- ow him, you'd go easy on me. And- ow at the end I'd get a hundred gold. I'd be set for li- ow life."

"We got fake Jysgos," Khar reported over the mental link as he left the imposter pinned to the ceiling

"Yeah, I'm starting to notice more than a few suddenly cropping up," Zzissu responded looking over the crowd in the stands

"Just caught 2 in maintenance," Kato reported

"I see one by concessions," the Monkanid passed on

"On just ran by near the main entrance, didn't approach the gate" Maeralya reported in

"Just had one try to attack me in storage" Sinabi continued the trend, "wasn't hard to catch him in his leap and it appears atleast some are in a glamor"

"Just found one mid applying the glamor by Jysgo's cell," Hugo said, "and we may have some unforseen issues. Because this was Jysgo's bailiff"

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

Jysgo looked down at the chaos as his imposters swarmed around the stadium his former allies trying chase them down incase it is him. And yet he easily climbed to the top of the arena once he got his magic focus for longer invisibility and his spider climb cloak.

He took out a sending stone, and checked for any pesky fliers before confirming they were lower down and speaking into it, "I believe it's time for stage 3"

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

"Sir- Sinabi- your grace- sir?"

Sinabi looked at the frazzled individual, a lesser noble, important enough to have been sent to him but not in charge of anything really, "what do you need? We are a little busy right now"

"I know si-sina-your- yes I know, but I was sent to tell you the city is on fire"

"I'm sorry what, actually one moment" Sinabi switches his attention from the noble to Zzissu to communicate over the spores, "Zzissu, you have the easiest access to the sky, I just got told the city is on fire"

Zzissu zoomed up to check and looked out over the city, unaware of the drow sitting and watching invisibly so close

"Yes. Nothing big yet but there is alot of fires, all over the city. Only major areas untouched are the palace and gnoll hill."

Sinabi looked at the noble, "thank you for your warning, we will handle it" and began to head for the exit, informing everyone what needs done when the noble interrupted him

"He did ask me to pass on another message"

Sinabi stopped and turned towards the man, "who?"

"The young gnoll who told me the city was on fire and to tell you. Weirdly clean gnoll too, only gnoll I've ever seen that clean is high priest Khar." Seeing the face on Sinabi's face he got to the message, "right, he told me to tell you, 'how do you think they'll react to the placements?' And asked me to give you this. Said it would explain stuff." He pulls out a small coin marked with symbols, the same kind of coin Jysgo was fond of using as a training tool for his agents.

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

<so sir,> Number Two signed as they and Jysgo slipped through the city, avoiding the entourage as they fought to control the strategically placed infernos, <what are your plans now?>

"Well I certainly can't stay here, and they know where your loyalties lie. Well as much as I do atleast. Probably going to have to lay low for a decade or two." Number Two didn't voice their doubts that Jysgo Could lay low for a full decade let alone two, "but once things have calmed down enough that learning where I am will send them hunting me down? Well, there are plenty of towns, cities, and kingdoms we could rebuild in. But we're definitely going to want to get out of here before stage 4 starts itself and the people tear this place to the ground." He chuckles at the thought

A noble sentenced to die is allowed to choose their execution method. They ask to die in honourable combat against the king's knights, armed with a wooden sword while the knights have real weapons. It's been 24 hours since the execution started and the king is running out of knights.

[alchemistc]

He's drunk when he sends it. Pissed because Buck won't just let this die. Tired of seeing his name flash across his screen, texts full of anger and sadness and hurt.

I suspect you've already met your last and it's not me he sends, and then turns off his phone and reaches for the bottle of whiskey on his top shelf.

---

If he'd been sober he would have known better. It's not even like it's been a pervasive thought - just an inkling at the start of things that seemed to be completely off base once he got to know everyone better, but looking back... He can see it. The built in life. The steadfast support. The knowledge that they'd always, always have each other's back. The kid who hero worshipped him.

The thing is he's fielding texts from Eddie, too, checking in and then circling around to being so goddamn judgmental that it's like they've coordinated their attacks to give Tommy no room to breathe.

He ended it to save himself from slipping so far under the surface he wouldn't make it back.

The fact that he's lost them both to his own fear is icing on the cake for the demon on his shoulder that keeps trying to remind him that once upon a time he'd fully thought Eddie and Buck were amicable exes.

---

He has to blink to figure out who's standing on his doorstep. The mustache is gone.

"If you meant who I think you mean, you're dumber than you look," Eddie says, and shoulders past Tommy before Tommy can even muster an affronted expression.

Tommy wanders after Eddie into his own kitchen, immediately annoyed that he looks more at home there than Tommy has felt in weeks. He'd gotten used to the loft - the space, the echoes, the lights of the city. The smell of his own aftershave on Buck's pillow.

They never spent much time here. The loft was closer - to Harbor, to the 118, to all the things in the city that tempted them out for a night. And staying at the loft meant he wouldn't have the echoes of Buck in every room, around every corner. (The echoes are in him, instead, and he still feels the absence like a lanced wound.) Tommy has always been good at making other people think he's good at putting distance between himself and them.

Eddie digs in a drawer, pulls out the bottle opener shaped like a cow and pops two tops. Holds one out for Tommy and scowls when Tommy wrinkles his nose at the Corona.

"Absolutely screw you if you think I'm driving halfway across town for you just to get the ones you like, right now."

Tommy can't argue that. He takes a drag and swallows. Stares. Is everyone else experiencing whiplash seeing him without the mustache? It looks fine but it'd taken so much fucking work to get used to it and now it's just gone. Clean shaven, an acre of skin he hasn't seen in months.

Tommy blinked and the entire world was different. Tommy freaked and the world changed.

"What are you doing here?"

Eddie's eyebrows both lift, a frank Are You Fucking Serious look on his face that makes Tommy want to take him to the mats and have it out in the garage instead of over beers.

"Buck may be spinning his wheels trying to figure out what the fuck you meant but I know damn well what you were implying."

That seems unlikely. Eddie always seems to be the last person to have a single clue what was going on, with Buck scraping in just before him. It's a tight race.

He used to find it charming.

(He absolutely does not still find it charming, he tells his heart, and wonders if he could hire some tiny asshole gnome to go stomp around in an atrium or two and get it to stop doing what it's doing. Fucking traitor.)

"Do you actually believe that, or is it some dumb excuse because you're terrified of being happy?"

Oh, that's fucking rich.

Tommy opens his mouth to tell him exactly that but Eddie just steamrolls right by him. "You don't have to point out the hypocrisy, jackass. I'm well aware of my own issues. Thing is - you're like, almost right. Buck does make me happy. Next to Chris there's no one else in the world I'd rather have by my side, rain or shine, good or bad. I love him. He's my person."

Tommy rolls his jaw. It's not a vindication to hear it.

"Except I'm not gay, Tommy. And I don't want that. I never have. And neither does Buck, just in case that argument was about to hit the airwaves."

"How do you know?"

Something sparks in the back of Eddie's eyes. Understanding. Triumph.

"You want an itemized list or a demonstration?"

Which is when Tommy knows he's stepped into an absolute minefield. No markers. Just free balling his way through a conversation that could explode with even the slightest pressure.

Eddie's got his phone out.

None of this is ideal.

When he looks up, his eyes land squarely on Tommy, who would like in this moment to be able to curl so far in on himself he gets sucked clean through the other side. "First of all, Buck may have just been improvising his entire journey of sexuality but for once I was trying to get ahead of the curve so that whole starry-eyed newly not straight vision you have of Buck is bullshit. You let him pull you along by the shirt strings for months without pressing pause and then you freak out when he thinks his speed and your speed are the same speed?"

This is feeling a whole lot like an ambush, now.

"Did you ever even try to slow him down?"

Tommy has some choice words that aren't remotely appropriate to say to someone who is at least tangentially still his friend, so he takes another swig of shitty beer. God, this shit is awful.

"You wanna know how I know I'm not his one? How I know he's not mine?"

Tommy really, really doesn't. Honestly he'd like to kick him out.

"Because he went at our friendship at the same warp speed pace he took your relationship and it never fucking scared me."

Proof in the pudding, for Tommy. He's not the sort of jackass who actually thinks he can make a different judgement call on someone else's sexuality than the one they've made themselves, but come on.

"Shannon's been dead for half a decade," Eddie says, voice dropping so suddenly Tommy feels it like an icy draft. "And maybe one day I'll make my peace with that. Maybe one day I'll get out from under it. The point is I've lost them both and the loss wasn't the goddamn same."

"Buck came back," Tommy argues.

Eddie scoffs. Wrinkles his nose. "Jeez, he wasn't kidding about how weird that sounds." His phone buzzes on the countertop, and Tommy wonders what the hell that look on his face means. "Don't change the subject. I'm not here to talk you into anything. I'm just here to drink a beer with you and tell you how goddamn stupid it is to think that an uncertain future with Evan Buckley isn't worth every second of terror it causes you."

"You don't know me as well as you think you do."

Eddie tips the bottle against his lips. Swallows. God, why hadn't Tommy just pursued the self-proclaimed straight guy for a couple weeks before he scratched the itch somewhere else and kept a friend, instead?

"Maybe." Eddie tips his head. "Maybe I do, though. Maybe in the months and months you were invited to all my mopey nights in with Buck and all the crazy crap we end up involved in at the station and all the times you couldn't shut up about him when he wasn't around and all the times I got to see you falling ass over teakettle for my best friend, I learned a fucking thing or two about Tommy Kinard." He wags his head back and forth. "Maybe."

"Is there a point to this?"

Eddie tips his eyes to his phone, and it's probably too late at this point for the suspicion to begin to creep in.

"I mostly just came to confront you about your completely off base bullshit excuses, but there's actually a pretty simple solution to at least one of your multitude of issues, so. Now we're waiting."

Tommy doesn't like the sound of that at all.

"Chris is mad at you, by the way."

It's a distraction. It's fully a - "Why is he mad at me?"

"I should actually thank you, because it's the first time he's actively talked to me in months," Eddie continues, like Tommy hadn't asked a question. "He's pissed because Buck is sad and there's literally nothing in the world that gets a rise out of the Diaz boys like sad Buck."

"You can just say you're pissed at me and go, Eddie."

"Oh I'm angry. Don't think I'm not. Mostly I'm just sad for you. You had six months to get to know Buck and never thought to yourself 'hes going to love me and it's going to hurt' until he skipped too far ahead in the program."

And that's - kind of the final straw. He's let Eddie get his licks in. He deserves it, he knows he does. Honestly it's a little cathartic to hear - to know exactly what Buck has spent his time dissecting post-Tommy. "That's all I ever thought about. Do you think I didn't know going in? I tried to put a stop to it before it even started and he just doubled down! Do you think for a second I wasn't viscously aware that I was setting myself up for -."

No. He's not gonna say it. He's not giving that to Eddie when he couldn't even give it to Ev-Buck. When he couldn't give it to Buck.

Eddie looks victorious anyway.

"And for six months you thought it was worth it."

"For six months I was too much of a coward to stop thinking about it."

Eddie drains the rest of his beer. "I'm not gonna lie. You screwed up pretty bad. Like. Astronomically bad. Giving up your location in a firefight bad."

Tommy does everything he can not to wince.

"It's salvageable, though. If you want it to be. If there's anything I know about Buck it's that second chances are his bread and butter." He's been dancing around saying anything of substance about Buck's feelings, in all of this, but the hints are there. As if the bouts of angry-depressive texts from Buck weren't clue enough.

"And what if it's not what I want?"

Eddie's eyes dart to his phone one more time. "Then you can make it a clean break in about ... three and a half minutes."

Tommy nearly tosses his beer across the room.

[quarterlifekitty]

I'm begging with all the devotion I can muster PLEASSEEEEEE write part two for the goddess reader its such a unique creative concept that was written so well for being so short the people NEED it thank you for your service 🙏🏽

here's a little something something. Also, not really a content warning, but I feel the need to mention: I write intimacy/romance like a freak

cw: non-graphic sexual intimacy, mentioned death of a child

You can only appear to your devoted one through significant offerings. Trapped in the realm of the gods, you are powerless for as long as you lay forgotten by mankind. You tell König that his love is what gives you power.

His usual gifts to you are fruits and jewelry. At the end of his battles, he collects the gear of the fallen– armor, weapons, shields– and has it all melted down. He commissions the best craftsmen to create delicate chains, cameos in your image, beautiful bangles engraved with processions of animals. Rabbits are his favorite to adorn your altar with– representing luck, quickness, numbers… fertility.

His favorite piece for you is a hair pin. He had it made from the guard of a sword he pulled from some foreign noble– embedded with small jewels and molded leaves. He loves to see it glitter in the light as you turn to see him with that inspiring smile when he comes to visit.

Your temple features an impluvium– a tiled pool for catching rainwater. It’s purified from your influence, he’s drank from it many times. And one day, he sees your stolla neatly draped on your pedestal. Gold and silver are the only things decorating your ample form as you relax in the cool water, beckoning him forth like a nymph. He’s never shed his things more quickly.

He’s had women before. Paid women. Women whose time had a price– who wanted him to take what he wanted and leave quickly. He’s an efficient man, and it was never a problem for him, he understood that there was no room for true intimacy in a brothel.

You treat König to something so different it’s almost antithetical. It’s tantric, cool and warm at the same time, as many square inches of your skin pressed to his as possible. You are entwined. He could swear his flesh feels wedded to yours. To part from you would be death– to be alone in his own body.

The last time a person’s touch made him feel beautiful, he was a boy holding the hand of a girl, the young daughter of the man who owned the farm his family worked on. They were children when she died. He has felt robbed, alone, and abandoned ever since. You crack him open by the sternum and climb in between his ribs the same way that she once did. He would die for you and fight his way back from the underworld to die for you again.

[capseycartwright]

you're my sun, my moon, my guiding star

“Fine, let’s have it your way then,” Eddie slammed his phone down on the kitchen table. “You set me up a dating profile then – Hinge, Grindr, whatever you fucking want, Buck. Set me up a dating profile, and you pick which random man I need to sleep with to make it so you feel okay about wanting me.” 

in which evan buckley gets dumped, gets drunk with his best friend, realises he's in love with said best friend, and lets his abandonment issues get the best of him. because your first is never your last, right? so buck can't be eddie's first: he needs to be his last.

ao3 link

Buck was driving himself to Eddie’s before he could really even think about it, the autopilot of his brain engaging and getting him behind the wheel, and on the road to his best friend’s house without needing much thought at all. Eddie was who he needed, in that moment – not Maddie, and her sage advice, not Hen, who’d be clever, and logical about it all. No, he needed Eddie. Eddie, who inexplicably opened the front door in his underwear and a pink shirt. Eddie, who let them sit in silence, a playlist churning out eighties rock for a full twenty-three minutes (Buck checked) before Eddie said anything at all. 

“So,” Eddie set his empty drink down, gesturing to Buck for a second. Buck twisted the cap off before he handed it over, adding to the pile on the coffee table. “What happened? You said that you and Tommy were going to the movies tonight.” 

Buck groaned, the sound loud in the quiet of Eddie’s house. “I was supposed to be,” he slumped back onto the couch. “But then he dumped me.” 

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “He dumped you?”

“He dumped me,” Buck confirmed. “Because I am a deeply unlovable individual who is going to die alone.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “I think you might be being dramatic there.”

“I’m not!” Buck protested. “Eddie, everyone I date dumps me – or leaves me. That apparently doesn’t even change when I’m dating a man. It’s not – I thought it would be different, with Tommy.” 

“Because he’s a man?” Eddie’s confusion wasn’t judgemental – no, Eddie never judged him, Buck was sure of that much. It was sincere confusion, his best friend wanting to understand where Buck was coming from.

“Yeah? No? I mean – maybe,” Buck huffed. He wasn’t entirely sure how to articulate himself. “I guess – I guess I just thought that now I know who I am, that I’m like – consciously aware I’m bisexual – it might be different. That maybe it didn’t work out before because there was this part of me that I didn’t know, or understand, and that had affected my relationships because I wasn’t bringing my like, whole self to the table. But if it didn’t work with Tommy, then that’s not why. Right? Then the problem is me.” 

Eddie’s expression softened. “I don’t think the problem is you, Buck.”

“It has to me! I’m the only common denominator here.”

Buck wanted to cry. He wanted to lie down on Eddie’s couch and cry until he had nothing left – and it wasn’t about Tommy, really, because Buck had liked Tommy, but the end of their relationship wasn’t what was making him feel so devastated. It was the idea of Tommy, more than anything else – what Tommy represented. A happily ever after that Buck was falling short of all over again. 

“What did Tommy say, exactly? Maybe – maybe you’re spiralling, and he gave you a good reason that you’re not seeing.” 

“He – I asked him to move in with me.” 

“Buck.”

Eddie sounded long-suffering. Buck had earned that. He knew that much. “I know,” he knew it had been the wrong move. The words were barely out of his mouth, and Buck knew it had been the wrong move – but that was sort of his thing, to cling desperately to relationships that didn’t work because he was so terrified of being alone. “I just – I felt comfortable with him, and the whole Abby thing was weird.”

“Really weird,” Eddie agreed, wincing. 

“But not the kind of weird I couldn’t get past. Right? He came over tonight, and I told him – why be apart when we could be together. Then, he said he couldn’t move in with me, because if he did, I would only break his heart,” Buck sighed. He wouldn’t intend to. That’s what Tommy had said – but who ever planned to break someone’s heart? No one was that cruel. Maybe they were – but Buck wasn’t. He’d never wanted to break anyone’s heart, even if that had been the end result sometimes. 

Eddie was quiet for a second. “Did he say why he thought you’d break his heart?”

Buck’s beer burned his throat as he took another gulp, the sour taste lingering. “He said that he was my first, but he wasn’t my last.” 

read the rest on ao3

[hotshotsxyz]

heart is beating heavily

(buddie) (s8 spec) (1k) several people asked for more of this town is only gonna eat you so this is that. unfortunately i am still feeling evil, so please enjoy buck's pov of the same events :) btw the title of both of these fics comes from the song bloody shirt by to kill a king, which i played on repeat while writing these cw: mass shooting / gun violence

Buck’s breath leaves him in a sharp exhale when he hits the ground. It hurts, but not—not where it should. His chest, his back, they’re on fire. His head, though, as violently as he was thrown to the ground, never makes contact with the cement.

The only thing he can see now is Eddie. Eddie, hovering above him, eyes wild. He looks—cornered. Trapped. Only he’s the one pressing Buck into the sticky floor of the arena, not the other way around, and he doesn’t understand why.

“Eds,” he tries to say, but it comes out as more of a croak.

Eddie shakes his head sharply, almost—

Panicked.

Buck takes a breath and it hurts. His thoughts feel sluggish in a way they never really are. He tries to take stock of what he knows anyway.

His body is screaming in pain.

Eddie is afraid. (Why is Eddie afraid? What could possibly—)

They’re on the floor. (Eddie pushed him to the floor. Why would he—)

The space around them is filled with a cacophonous noise that Buck can’t quite identify.

Pain. Fear. Sharp popping noises that make Buck’s ears hurt, and—

Screaming.

Oh.

Buck presses his lips together and tips his chin toward his chest in an approximation of a nod. Eddie exhales, warm against his cheek. His face does something complicated, and then—

I’m sorry, Eddie mouths, and before Buck can figure out what for, white hot pain lances through his chest.

In his mind he screams.

In reality, he bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood. They’re in danger, and he won’t—As long as he’s still breathing, Eddie won’t leave him here. Even if he should. He won’t protect himself, won’t run, won’t hide. The least Buck can do is keep from drawing attention toward them, but in the moment, it feels like the hardest thing he’s ever done.

“—so good,” Eddie breathes into his ear. “I got you; I promise.”

Buck wants to believe that almost as much as he wishes Eddie would just save himself. Every breath he takes is harder than the one before, though, and it occurs to him that soon, he might draw his last. If he has to die, Eddie’s face is a pretty incredible last thing to see. He just wishes it wasn’t twisted in pain and fear.

It takes a minute for Buck to catch up with his own thoughts. Pain. That’s—he’s seen it in Eddie’s expression enough times to know it intimately. Why is he in pain? Eddie presses his cheek to Buck’s before he can interrogate the expression further.

“Slow, steady breaths, okay? You have to breathe through it, even if it feels like you can’t.”

The scrape of Eddie’s jaw against his sends something like a shiver down Buck’s spine. There’s something—something important, but—it feels just out of reach.

“You have to, Buck, I can’t—I just need you to hold on,” Eddie whispers, quietly wrecked.

He’s trying. God is he trying. But it’s—every breath feels like pulling fire into his lungs. With every exhale, he feels a tiny bit weaker, a tiny bit worse. Eddie pulls away slightly, and Buck feels the absence like a missing rib.

“Hear that?” Eddie asks, brushing a thumb across Buck’s cheekbone.

He doesn’t—he doesn’t hear anything other than Eddie, but he’s not sure he wants to.

“We’re so close, Buck.”

Something settles in his chest at the sound of his name on Eddie’s lips, louder than before, drenched in something that sounds like relief. He blinks once, twice, slow and heavy.

“Come on, eyes on me,” Eddie says sharply. And—oh, when did he get so far away?

Eddie pulls the hem of his shirt to his teeth and—oh god. That’s not Buck’s blood. He’s—Eddie’s hurt too, but Buck can’t make his mouth work, can’t even keep his eyes open long enough to—

“No!” Eddie commands. A new pain accompanies his voice. “You’re staying right here with me, got it?”

He has to—has to tell Eddie—he doesn’t—

“That’s perfect, you’re perfect,” Eddie says, eyes shining.

A lump forms in his throat.

“Just keep—c’mon Buck, just keep fighting. I need—you have to be okay.”

He does. He does have to be okay because Eddie’s not and he’s acting like he doesn’t even know.

“Hurt,” Buck forces out.

“I know,” Eddie says, but he doesn’t! “I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”

Buck lets out a frustrated groan. He tries to shake his head, and when that fails, to lift his hand to Eddie’s abdomen.

Eddie turns away from him, and if Buck could scream now, he would.

“Alright,” he says, turning back to Buck. “I’m going to get you onto that gurney. Let me do all the work, okay?”

No! No he can’t! Buck tries to tell him again, tries to force anything through his lips that Eddie will understand. You’re—“hurt,” he manages again. He can’t even lift his hand now. He’s dying and he’s going to take Eddie with him.

Eddie says something he can’t parse, and suddenly he’s moving, being lifted dizzyingly high off the ground. He sees—

A body. A swarm of cops. Uniformed paramedics and EMTs running in every direction imaginable.

One of them, he just needs one of them to look at Eddie. He just needs one of them to see. He’s still walking, still talking. He still has time.

Eddie drops him onto what must be a gurney, and immediately it begins to roll. Buck allows his head to loll away from Eddie and towards—

An EMT! She can—she can do something. She can—

She’s not looking at him.

She’s not looking at Eddie either. She’s looking straight ahead and under any other circumstances Buck would compliment her for her pragmatic understanding of the urgency of the situation. But she’s walking too fast and Eddie’s beginning to stumble.

“Diaz, is that—” Yes, yes! Someone sees him. Someone else knows—

“—were you shot?”

Buck gets his head around just in time to watch Eddie collapse into the arms of a firefighter he doesn’t recognize.

He wants to scream, to sob, to thrash against the restraints keeping him on the gurney. He wants to—

Wants to—

Needs—

Eddie.

[lapisamethyst]

Absolutely love these designs. I don't see your lore for them posted yet, I hope you don't mind if I give my impression on each just from the design.

The Magician's wide eyes and overall "poofyness" definitely makes me think of the Damsel. Between the name and other details of the design she also appears to be some form of entertainer.

My speculation would be that she perhaps branches off from the "Deconstructed Damsel" ending, instead of said damsel being taken as-is, something happens during that and you die. The Magician then comes into being as a chapter 3, perhaps tapping into a more lucid control of the scenario like Tower or Apotheosis, but instead of using that lucidity to enforce her own power, she's still in the mindset of wanting to "make you happy." And so that's what she does, or at least tries to do. Clearly the problem last time is that she was too passive, she wasn't entertaining, and so now she's going to fix that, using what limited resources she has. She has this cool knife at least, surely there's some entertaining things she can do with it. From there I could envision either us attempting repeatedly to grab the knife from her only for it to vanish in increasingly cartoony ways, or alternatively her repeatedly nearly killing us with it while insisting she's just trying to entertain and make us happy.

The Masquerade's name alone brings certain concepts to mind, and the design fits into those same concepts. Surely there's some form of deception at work, both with getting to her and with her scenario.

I'd guess that she's either a chapter 2 that you reach similar to the Witch, first approaching with good intentions only to betray her later, or perhaps she's a chapter 3 that splits off from one of the Witch's endings where you kill each other on the stairs. The dance of feigned trust followed by betrayal defines her, and this time she's taking a more active role in it. Perhaps she even starts by pretending to offer a branch before the killings, or attempts to kill, begin.

The Plague definitely evokes similar feelings as the Wraith. There's a certain ghostliness to her and she is definitely out for vengeance.

I can't really guess where she'd split off from, but in terms of her scenario, between the ghostliness and her name, perhaps she'd be an alternative take on The Wild? She's there, ever present, haunting you, a part of you, slowly but surely killing you from within, yet a distinct entity from yourself. Fleeing her is useless, confronting her is pointless. A disease isn't something you can stab to rid yourself of. I can easily see her playing into the themes of inevitable change.

Some fan princesses before i go to bed. Lore on them in the morning if anyone cares put ut in the tags if ya want that ig

[ectoimp]

Ya know what I find interesting. There are almost no "Lewis lives/is resurrected" fics. Fics where he doesnt die, just swap him dying for someone else dying.

If you go to the "lewis lives" tag on ao3 there are 11 works. All except 2 are actually precave, lewis hasnt died yet or the kind where someone else died instead.

and there are 2 resurrection fics and of those one still involves someone else dying (arthur killing himself specifically)

And yeah, Lewis' death is the inciting incident to the series, but I certainly dont think there are no stories to tell there. I think there could be very interesting character drama there. Especially when you dont have the amnesia thing to make it so no one has to deal with the aftermath

With no ghost induced amnesia, Vivi has to deal with the fact that being the leader, Arthur getting hurt was on her. Lewis getting hurt/almost getting hurt is on her. They went cave exploring with no safety gear. In street clothes (chucks for hiking in a wet cave??). They didnt even have a flashlight. And its seems that no one knew they were going into this cave (since it seems like Lewis' corpse is still there) So they broke every basic rule of caving safety https://www.fs.usda.gov/visit/know-before-you-go/cave-safety

Like even if you dont blame her, I think she would blame herself. And its another thing I dont think I saw explored much. I'd see it get mentioned but usually it would immediately get brushed aside, usually by one of the boys.

But with how unsafe there were being....Lewis could have just died from slipping. No possession required. (obviously the doylist reason is because it would be a pain to design whole new outfits for one scene that was added last minute. They would look super cute in little themed caving outfits tho.)

This started out with just me thinking about "Lewis lives" But now its more about how I kinda want more Vivi angst......

Imagine if Lewis knew Arthur was possessed. If Arthur hadnt been clear he didnt want to go in the cave. Imagine if Lewis blamed Vivi.

[derealizationns]

"am i your wallpaper...?"

characters - ryomen sukuna x gn reader

synopsis - sukuna starts feeling unknown, scary emotions when he sees your lock screen wallpaper.

genre - fluff

warnings - sukuna might be a bit ooc, bc its so hard for me to write him...😭

from prompt special request (prompt #10) <3

"get off me, you insolent human." sukuna grumbled the moment that you threw yourself on his lap, whining about your exhausting day.

despite his harsh words, you still stayed in your place on the couch. you knew that man very well, and it wasn’t difficult to notice his smirk (though he tried really hard to hide it). that’s how you ended up with your head on his thighs, playing with the material of his shirt. in the meantime, sukuna was showing the not-so-obvious side of him—he was gently brushing his hand through your hair. even though he shows himself as an intimidating and fearful man, your lover has a soft spot for you. some people that are close with you could even say that you have him “wrapped around your finger," and that wouldn’t be a lie. right now, you’re just relaxing while the pink-haired man scrolls through his phone. he suddenly looks up at you when you start shifting and lift yourself from him.

“where are you going? i did not permit you to leave my side.” he complained, confused by your actions.

you rolled your eyes at his clinginess.

“i’m going to the bathroom; stop acting like you’ll die if i leave your sight, kuna,”you sigh with a smile. he was so cute.

you get up from the sofa and start heading towards the restroom. the moment you were away, sukuna’s smile widened. It was a brief while when he could show that he’s truly pleased by your closeness. suddenly, the king of curses hears something vibrating on the couch. he looks around in search for the source of the noise. that’s when he notices your phone lighting up. he squints his eyes, looking towards the device.

“no, that cannot be right.” your partner mumbles to himself, seeing the picture on your lock screen.

it looked like the one that you took after your last date, when you both were lying in bed. he can swear he’s seeing things, because why would you have this picture there? what was the purpose? sukuna’s chest is full of weird feelings; he’s shure he never felt before. why is he happy? Is that... the thing humans call “excitement”? ... no, that’s wrong. after all, he is the most powerful of all curses; he does not feel those trivial things, right? all of a sudden, he’s thrown out of his thoughts by quiet steps from the bathroom. your lover immediantly switches his attention from your phone to you. as soon as you see sukuna, you can tell that something is bothering him. you already know that he won’t tell you whats wrong, so you decide to bring it up yourself.

“hey, what’s got you so annoyed? you look like you just ate a lemon.” you try to start carefully and a bit playfully, but sukuna does not buy it.

“you, human. what were you thinking when you did that, huh?! i demand an answer.” pink-haired man ordered.

now you were seriously confused. you got him annoyed? but weren’t you just explaining to him that it’s just a quick trip to the bathroom, not a whole ass journey across the world? now you’re getting mad.

“the hell you’re talking about idiot?" you bark at him.

sukuna’s mouth opens but closes a second later.

“come on, spit it out already; you got something to say, then go on.” you force him to explain himself. your partner takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, like he’s bracing himself for an impact.

“am i your wallpaper...?” he almost whispers.

when you hear him, you almost choke on your saliva. what?! he acts all annoyed and everything because you have him on your lock screen?

“wha-...kuna, is that why you looked so dissatisfied earlier? i mean, i can change it if you want,  but...”

“did I say I want you to change it?” he asks loudly.

now he looks at you like you offended him. this man is truly a confusing one.

“no, but...” you try to continue, but he doesn’t let you.

“so be quiet. can’t listen to your rambling” sukuna cuts you off. you can’t help but start giggling. your man’s face is all red from embarrassment. he—ryomen sukuna, the king of curses—is blushing because his partner has him on their wallpaper. you jump back at the couch beside him, taking his face in your hands and squeezing his cheeks. his eyes widen at your action.

“you...how dare you... insolent human, you have the audacity...” he stutters, and you laugh more at him.

“you’re so cute, kuna… so incredibly adorable.” you teased and placed a soft kiss on his lips. when you pulled away, the curse man still had pink cheeks, but additionally a smile on his face.

“i like that picture.” he whispers. 

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ kirara’s notes . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

hi, hello, it’s me again! this is my first work from that prompt special request 🤍 i tried really hard to write sukuna as much in-character as i can, but it’s reallt hard for me to do it correctly 🥹 feel free to leave reviews! likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated <3

and thank you for reading this ~

[buckysfaveplum]

doomsday

summary: missions don't always go according to plan, sometimes you lose people- that's the job. bucky told you that himself.

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

word count: 3k

warnings: violence, character death, um yea this one's sad. OH and Steve is dead in this (I mean he was like 90 something in endgame...)

a/n: GUYS omg i missed youuu i hope you remember me. its been like almost two years? i moved to ireland and started grad school! things are different. buttt here’s a new fic cause i’m back!!! ANGST omg im sorryyyy.... idk I wanted to right something that hurt okay okay bye (:

masterlist | send requests

You hated funerals. 

The suffocating smell of formaldehyde and roses wafted through the wake hall. The sounds of distant friends and relatives feigning grief, playing up small interactions with the deceased as more than just pleasantries while siblings and best friends' voices seem to be gone with a lack of words to express their suffering. The stale cookies and donuts in the hall, as if someone’s lover isn’t lying in a casket 50 feet away. All wrapped up in black dresses, suits, and handkerchiefs.

You hated funerals.

Today was no exception. An agent lost on a routine mission in Guam, taking out an arms dealer terrorizing a village. There were loose connections to Hydra, but just petty violence and shootouts for nothing. It shouldn’t have resulted in the loss of an agent. But sometimes things go wrong. A gun barrel stalls, someone trips, a civilian happens to be in the way. Sometimes people die. That’s how you ended up here.

Sarah was a good agent, a great one. She was top of her class at Westpoint, went straight to the FBI, and was recruited into SHIELD- all before 30. She was good- too good for a slip-up like this.

As speeches wrapped up, family and friends began to say their goodbyes. A line formed at the casket as people poured their hearts out for the redhead you once called a friend. You waited patiently at the back, making sure you were one of the last. You always did. Maybe out of respect, perhaps guilt? Who knows. You always felt guilt, even if there was nothing to be done. There was guilt.

Finally, as the small crowd left the room, flooding into the hall outside, you made your way to the front. Laid out before you, Sarah’s curly and wild hair was in two thick braids on each side of her head, a blue dress covering her as well as a soft cream cardigan. She looked beautiful and peaceful. But she was dead. Your friend was dead. No makeup or pretty clothes would lessen that blow. The plush velvet of the casket seemed to soften the prison that her body would rest in. At every funeral, you were reminded of how you wished to be cremated.

“I’ve never seen her hair so flat,” you turned to see Bucky standing beside you.

“You know, even wet her hair always seemed to spring up. Had a mind of its own,” you said, your gaze resting on him.

He was clad in a simple black suit, an older set you’d gotten him at a vintage shop. Something familiar. A simple cream button-down, no tie. It was simple, but that was him. What was most striking though was his serene demeanor. It never seemed to settle with you how unaffected by death he was. How easily he was able to gather himself and keep going. You couldn’t blame him though, 90 years of pain, death, torture, and violence will do that to you. You’d only seen him torn up once. And it was beyond devastating. Steve. “You okay, kid?” he asked, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. 

He was your partner, in every sense of the word. In the field, as a friend, in life. He was everything. Your taut shoulders melted under the firm comfort of his vibranium arm. You could rest in its embrace a thousand times and never cease to crave its solace when away. He was your rock through every debriefing, call to family, black dress, and smeared mascara. Who knows what you would be without him?

You rested your head on his chest, breathing in the potent smell of his old cologne and something that was distinctly Bucky. 

“I hate funerals.”

——

“Do you ever think about dying?”

Bucky’s grip on you tightened slightly at your words. Wrapped in the soft linen of your duvet and the sunlight streaming in through your windows, his body lay around yours. His short choppy locks were tousled fresh from his slumber. The previous night’s sleep had yet to let go of his consciousness fully, still cozy and relaxed in your shared bed. His vibranium fingers continued to play with your hair as he considered your question.

“Not anymore,” he said.

Your face scrunched in confusion at his words. Your fingers traced gently over the thick scars on his left shoulder. They mangled and twisted, sprouting in angry red from the line where his skin met vibranium. Shuri had done her best to soften the tissue when replacing his arm, but only so much could be done.

“I did a lot when I was first drafted. I was scared of it then. And in those early days under Hydra. It was all-consuming. But at some point, I wasn’t scared of it, I embraced it- prayed for it,” your fingers froze at his words. It was nothing new to you, you had spent countless late nights and early mornings recounting the abuse of his days as the Winter Soldier. But hearing him say flat out how he wished to die. That was jarring. “After the Blip, I’ve just become a bit numb to it. I don’t really think about it if that makes sense. It could always happen.”

His hands danced down your spine as if his words were simple.

“You expect it?” You asked, propping yourself up on your elbow.

“It’s the job, Y/N. It comes with the territory. Sometimes you lose people. And it could always be you,” he said, giving you a soft look. “You know that, doll”.

“I just, I don’t expect it in the field you know?” you relaxed a bit, regretting the subject you forced upon him.

“Hey, maybe that wasn’t the best way to put it,” he said, giving you a ginger smile as he leaned close and cupped your cheeks in his hands. “Death has just followed me for a long time, doll. I mean I’m a 106. I’m just not scared of it anymore.”

You tucked yourself into his chest, his words soothing the fears swirling in your mind. You knew the job was dangerous. That any mission could be the last. You just hoped it would never be him.

“Why do you always pick the heaviest topics of discussion early in the morning?” he asked, his voice still groggy from sleep. He smiled as you chuckled against his chest. 

“Probably cause I’m hungry, Plum,” you said, turning to lay on your back as you smiled up at him. 

“Yea? What could we do about that, huh?” that devilish smirk of his could stop your heart anytime and you’d be grateful. “Pancakes? Clinton St?” 

You nodded eagerly at his suggestion before taking his hand and slipping from the bed.

——

The rumbling of the quinjet shot up your spine. Sam and Bucky’s relentless bickering filled the steel jet as you came closer to your destination. Your gloved hands worked at strapping your knives to your thighs as they quarreled over how best to stain wooden beams in Sam’s living room during your and Bucky’s next trip down to Louisiana.

“No! NO! Buck, that stain doesn’t go with the accent wood in the kitchen! I already told you,” Sam said as he fixed his shield to his back. You chuckled as you walked over to them. Your backup squad, full of agents fresh from SWORD’s training academy, snickered at the two men as Bucky rolled his eyes.

“The beams are in your living room, what does it matter?” He said. 

“I wouldn’t take any interior design advice from him, he wanted a purple couch in our living room,” you said, wrapping your arms around Bucky’s waist. Sam laughed as he turned to grab the mission report. The jet was drawing close, entering stealth mode and preparing for landing.

“It was a plum color,” Bucky grumbled, nuzzling his face into your hair. 

“Okay team, huddle up!” Sam said. “This is just a simple in and out. We gotta get these hostages out safely so no risky moves- I’m lookin’ at you, Buck.”

Bucky threw his hand up in defeat, scoffing jokingly under his breath. 

“I’ll swoop through and scout entrances, Squad Two you’ll be with me for direct combat. We’re clearing out the building. Squad One, you’ll be with Y/N and Bucky, you’re getting those hostages out. You bring them straight back here, got it? There’s four so it shouldn’t be too strenuous,” he said, closing up his report before slipping on his cowl. “Alright team, let’s show ‘em what we got.”

——

Fluorescent red light filtered across your face as you slipped through the hallways. Half the squad led ahead of you, banging on doors in search of the hostages. Bucky hung close behind you, the rest of your squad keeping your entrance open for your escape. His hand rested on the gun strapped to his hip as he kept an eye on your blind spots.

Watching your back on the field was second nature to him. Protecting you, be it on the subway or in an active battle zone, was something he felt born to do. A reason to survive all those years under Hydra.

After several doors, your team stopped; having heard the pleas for help on the other end of the steel doors, they backed up to allow room for an agent to blast the lock. You stumbled back into Bucky, tripping on your own feet. His arms caught you before you could even glance at the floor. You felt his fingers gripping your hips and fidgeting with the straps on your thighs as you straighten.

“Some reflexes you got,” you whispered to him.

“Can’t let my babydoll fall,” he said, kissing the back of your head before his focus shifted back to the lock, now falling to the floor.

The agents flooded into the room, pulling hostages out and bringing them back into the hall. As they streamed out, you realized something was wrong. You only counted 3.

“Where’s the fourth hostage?” you asked. 

Bucky commed Sam, hoping he’d scanned the place and found a lead. As he spoke, you gathered the agents, giving them an order. Lead them through the building, get out to the other half of the squad, and get them into the jet. You’d meet them on the other side. You and Bucky would find the last hostage. The agents fled, leaving you and Bucky alone in the dark hallway. 

“Where are they?” you asked. Bucky sighed, as he grabbed a knife from his hip.

“In the lab in the basement, must’ve been the first to get taken,” he said.

The hostages weren’t nobodies. Prisoners were taken from SWORD on a mission to squash a newly established radical group. A group that seemed to resonate with the ideas of Hydra. This mission was all too familiar to Bucky, and all the more upsetting. You gave his free hand a firm squeeze before you turned and bolted to the lab.

You could feel the heaviness of the lab as soon as you entered the basement. The looming presence of the sterile room filled the hallways as you stalked toward it. Bucky was unusually quiet as he covered you from behind. You knew this was triggering, it had to be. He would always tell you he was beyond triggered episodes, having gotten a firm grasp on his PTSD. But you knew better. The subtle tremor in his brow told you so.

As you reached the eerie room, you stilled. Bucky came up behind you, resting a hand on your waist as you assessed the space. Metal shelves lined the walls full of jars, syringes, and test tubes. Sleek steel tables with rags soaked in blood, white grimy cabinets full of scalpels and needles, and an operating table at the center. The floors were coated in grot, each crack in the tile stained brown. Your mind couldn’t help but wonder if this condition was what Bucky was used to for all those decades.

Realizing the area was clear, you entered. Quickly, you spotted the hostage. Strapped to a chair in the corner with an IV jabbed into his arm. Bucky squeezed your arm as he headed over, slipping his knife back on his hip. 

You felt a pit growing in your stomach. You pulled your gun gently. This hostage didn’t look familiar, you thought Sam said he was a brunette, not blonde.

Bucky began to break the straps holding the man down. Slipping the IV gently from his arms, Bucky eased him up into a sitting position. He spoke to the man calmly, explaining to him who you were and that he was here to get him out. He seemed off, but Bucky just assumed it was the experimentation. He was wrong.

“Do you know who we are?” Bucky asked, helping the man up.

“I know who you are, Soldat,” the man said.

A chill ran through your legs, almost toppling you over. You reached for your gun, but the man was quicker. He was able to log four bullets into Bucky’s chest before you could get one in his skull. 

Shots rang out in the room, flooding your ears. As soon as you pulled the trigger, the man fell to the ground. Your bullet nestled into the side of his head. Your hands were shaky as the gun fell from your grasp, clattering across the floor and sending echoes through the rotting room. Of course it was a trap. The rubber of your boots squeaked as you sprinted your way over to your lover. He stumbled back against the filthy wall, his hands pressing firmly on the holes scattered across his chest.

As soon as you reached him, his legs seemed to give out. Everything in you tried to keep him up, your hands gripping the straps of his suit to keep him from surrendering to the floor. But he was too heavy. You followed him down, gathering him in your arms and holding him close. His breathing was labored and rough. Squeaks and coughs escaping from his punctured lungs haunted your ears, taunting you as you desperately tried to get him to stand.

“Baby, baby come on… you gotta get up, love,” you said, pulling him as you tried to get his attention.

His eyes were fixed on the mess in his chest. Blood bloomed across the fabric of his blue suit like a watercolor painting. His hands slipped from their place over the wounds and grasped yours. 

“Y/N…” he said. You froze at his voice. It was weak and unsteady. His grip on your hand was tight, too tight. He was always so gentle with you. As if you were glass under his hands and he was afraid you cracked. Now, he gripped you so hard you were afraid your bones would fracture.

“Bucky, you gotta get up. You’re gonna be okay,” you said as you tried to stay calm, but your voice failed you. You commed Sam, “Sam, Sam! Bucky’s down, I need help please!” 

You tried your best to stop the bleeding, tearing fabric from your pants to stuff the wound and slow the blood. But it didn’t seem to help. Bucky’s vibranium hand rose to your cheek, holding you steady. You mumbled to yourself, beginning to panic as blood spilled onto your hand; it stained the groves in your knuckles and cakes in your fingertips. Bucky’s coughing finally brought you out of your spiral. Blood began to trickle from his mouth.

“Doll…I can’t- I can’t breathe,” he said, his voice hoarse from the blood filling his throat.

“Bucky, hang on for me okay, please,” you said, your hands grasping his face and pulling yourself closer. You pressed a firm kiss to his forehead. When you pulled back, you could see it in his eyes.

“Y/N, I’m scared…” you felt bile rise in your throat at his words. The reality of the situation began to set in. Sam’s glitchy voice rang through your coms but you barely registered it.

“You’re okay, plum. It’s okay, I’m here. You’re gonna be okay,” you said. Your voice was frantic and distraught. The need to reassure him he would make it was overwhelming. But was it for him or you? Perhaps if you kept repeating it, doomsday would stay at bay.

His hands returned to yours, grabbing them and pulling you close as another cough racked his body. Blood speckled across your hands. You were white in the face, all the color drained.

“I…I love you, kid,” he said, his grip loosening. 

“No, baby, you’re gonna be okay. Sam’s on the way, it’s-”

“Y/N, I love you,” your hands gripped his tighter, wishing the firm hold he had minutes ago would return as his hands became limp in yours.

“… I love you, Buck,” you said softly, resting your forehead on his.

You pulled him close, kissing his lips one last time. You felt his breathing slow, his lips still. You didn’t pull back, you couldn’t. You knew what would await. A thick sob slipped through your chest. 

You tucked yourself further into his body, pulling him close and wrapping your arms around him. His head rested tucked into the crook of your neck, your hand tangled into his hair. You closed your eyes as you pressed your face into his hair, your free hand stroking his back and you rocked his now limp body. And you waited for Sam.

——

The smell of formaldehyde was the same, but no roses- Bucky preferred lilacs. You didn’t want the standard service, but SWORD insisted. No speeches, except for the pastor leading the service. You didn’t want any speeches, you knew Bucky would agree. 

You sat in the back, behind the small crowd of agents, friends, and the team you had come to consider family. Sam kept looking over his shoulder, keeping an arm behind him and resting on your knee. Perhaps he was trying to stop its shaking through the service or just to bring you comfort.

The service was simple, it was quiet. It was small. But it didn’t change anything. 

You hated funerals.

**taglist has been reset! let me know if you'd like to be added**

[seitmai]

Three paces into the hallway, brown wood floors and white walls, you’re met with a smiling family picture. Only, you’re not in it. Because, it’s not a picture of Pete’s family. Pete doesn’t have a family. Pete Mitchell has a daughter from a one night stand with a married woman.

Uff 😬

The nickname stings you. Your name isn’t Mitchell because your biological father had wanted it to be. It’s Mitchell solely because your mother’s husband knew you weren’t his and would rather die before letting you take his name.

Damn

Your throat is thick with the knowledge that all you knew Maverick to be, is now all that he’ll ever be. An absent father, a fantastic pilot, a lousy cook. A thousand more things that you’ll never know.

To know that you don't know a lot and will never know more is rough...

It’s been almost two years since you even set foot in this house last. If you had known that Maverick was going to be gone this soon… you sit and think to yourself about if you would have maybe visited more. Probably not.

Sometimes being honest to oneself is not easy

He stares down at the pizza between the two of you as he chews through a bite, brows drawn together slightly. He hates thin crust pizza — it’s the worst kind of pizza. But, when you had suggested it, he had agreed with a tight-lipped smile.

Hey, nobody slander thin crust there are far worse kind of pizza ☝🏻

“I’m sorry.” Bradley blurts out. You both look across at each other, equally surprised that he has spoken. “…For what?” You ask quietly, lips tugging into a small frown. “I’m sorry that I’m here and he’s not.” He’s just got to say it. He knows you probably wouldn’t bring it up on your own, but there’s a big elephant in this room. Bradley knows what it’s like to sit in your spot, and not know how to talk about it.

God they are lowkey awkward together and neither of them just knows what to do with themselves 🥴

“We weren’t that close.” You tell him, like that’s supposed to make him feel better. It doesn’t. It’s like a blow to the chest. You’ll never get the opportunity to fix things, because of him.

I feel like this maybe hurts Bradley more than her..

Your teeth press into the inside of your cheek. Maverick hadn’t ever described Bradley as this nervous.

👀

Nothing. A couple of beers and a block of good German cheese.

I mean it could be worse lol🤷🏻‍♀️

“Uh... No, not really.” After a routine training presentation at the very beginning of their attachment, Admiral Simpson had once become so agitated by Maverick that he snapped his own reading glasses in half. Mav got a good laugh out of it, at least.

At that I would have laughed too 🤭

It’s an easy answer, rolling off of your tongue with a shrug of your shoulders and a deflated sigh. “People usually put us in the same boat — if they don’t like him, they don’t like me.”

That's really shitty, especially knowing Mav's reputation 🥴

That’s something that he thinks he can understand. There’s not an instant dislike, but there’s a pity that he finds in the eyes of people who once knew his father. 

At that they really share a bit of similar fate

Her boots hit the ground, your lips parting slightly as you realise that she’s headed right for you. Bradley feels your arm tug in his grip and turns his head, taking note of the way you’re trying to shrink behind him. Lynn is a hugger by nature, and she was a good friend of Mav’s for a long time. She means well, but Bradley isn’t going to let her touch you when he can see how unnerved it makes you.

Good thinking Bradley, nothing worse than an unwanted hug by a stranger 🫣

You check back over your shoulder, glancing briefly at the man behind you, who has assumed his best bodyguard impression. 

I'm sure he does 🤭

“Miss Mitchell,” The admiral takes his seat on the other side of his desk once again. “I want to first express my deepest condolences. Your father was a good man, and a… extremely skilled pilot.” Bradley almost scoffs. Even now, Cyclone can’t manage to compliment him.

It seems his feeling run deep 😬

“But— he’s dead.” You frown, rendering Cyclone suddenly quiet. “He’s got to be. It’s been a week. No food, no water, sub-zero temperature. What’s the point in looking?” Bradley grits his teeth. He looks across at you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. There’s nothing in your expression, no fear or sadness. Your father deserved more than that. “The point is to bring him home.” He bites from your side, staring straight ahead at Cyclone.

This is rough... I get her questioning the process, it's not something that someone is usually confronted with..

You’re biting at the inside of your cheek so hard that you must be tasting copper, picking at the seam of your jeans and breathing like you’re trying not to cry.

🥺🥺🥺

“I— fuck. I don’t want to be here. I-I— I’m going to have to find a job, and I’ll have to call my mom, and— and my friends, and—“ “Hey,” Bradley mumbles, resisting the instinct to throw his arms around you. His brows draw together as he reaches out and squeezes your bicep, bending his knees so he can catch your eye. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of it.” You know that he’s just trying to be nice, but really, you’re sick of nice. It’s all that Maverick ever was and it left you with no idea of who he really is.

She has every right to be angry, upset and sad even if he really just ries to be nice, this is just not a good situation anyway and with the news of the investigation it just got SO MUCH worse🥴

He nods, closing his mouth, swallowing dryly. Thinking of what he can, feasibly, take off of your plate for you. The idea sparks in him. “You need a job. I can get you a job. Um, your friends, we can call them and bring them down for a weekend?” He squeezes again at your bicep, nodding his way through his plans, trying to will the tears in your eyes not to spill over.

I like that he is thinking practical!

“I don’t want to go back to his house.” It comes out as a whimper, and really just reminds Bradley that you’re in the same position that he was when he was just a little younger than you. It’s a scared kid type of feeling, being all alone in the world. Being in an empty house had made it even worse. He licks his lips and glances towards the skies, watching the sun pass behind a cloud. “You could stay at my place, for a night or two.” 

Just a night or two, sure 😏🤭

Ashes, Ashes | One | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

masterlist | prologue | next chapter

Synopsis: In which Maverick didn’t make it home after the Uranium mission. He’s missing, presumed dead. There are things that have to be done — someone has to take care of the house, the bills.

So, Maverick’s daughter is back in Fightertown for the first time since she was in elementary school. There’s a gaping hole in both of their lives now, and somehow, the world’s supposed to just keep on turning without him.

Warnings: mitchell!reader, no physical descriptors other than the implication that Bradley is taller, no use of YN, age gap (23/33), smut, angst, hurt / comfort, mentions of character death, mourning, military inaccuracies. This entire fic and my blog is an 18+ space, minors do not interact. Do not repost.

…

Crossing the threshold into Maverick’s home doesn’t come naturally to either one of you. This place is something that you had both left behind. Outgrown. It’s solely his. It’s not your home and it has never been, until now. Now, you’re stuck here until things are figured out.

On that fourteen hour drive down to San Diego, you had a lot of time to think. How long is a person supposed to wait for a body to turn up before they go ahead and throw the funeral without it?

Three paces into the hallway, brown wood floors and white walls, you’re met with a smiling family picture. Only, you’re not in it. 

Because, it’s not a picture of Pete’s family. Pete doesn’t have a family. Pete Mitchell has a daughter from a one night stand with a married woman.

This picture is of a real family. Hung on the wall opposite the front door is a picture of Nick and Carole Bradshaw holding their infant son. He’s bald and gummy. They’re grinning and showing him off like a prize trophy — so proud of him even though all he did in those days was drool and pee himself. 

These days, their infant son is up to more important things. Their infant son grew to an upsettingly grand height and is carrying two of your bags in one hand behind you today.

“C’mon, Mitchell — these are heavy.” Bradley huffs softly from behind you, reminding you that you’re standing stationary and blocking his path. 

The nickname stings you. Your name isn’t Mitchell because your biological father had wanted it to be. It’s Mitchell solely because your mother’s husband knew you weren’t his and would rather die before letting you take his name.

You shrug your duffel bag closer to your body and turn left. Bradley huffs under the weight of your luggage from behind you, watching you walk your cute butt in completely the wrong direction. “Wait, where are you going?”

Not struggling at all under the weight of your single duffel bag, you turn slowly to face him and frown slightly. “My room.” 

You don’t remember Bradley. Not in your own memories, anyway. You know he was around, you’ve seen him in pictures but the image in your head doesn’t match. Not quite right. Like puzzle pieces bent and forced together.

He’s taller than he looked at his high school graduation, which sits pictured and framed above Mav’s mantle. Older, but that’s to be expected. Up close, he looks more like his mother than his father. A slight bump in his nose and scars, nicely healed, but jagged and raised nonetheless dusted his cheek and his throat. 

Even with all those differences, there’s a familiarity to him that makes this all feel a little bit less suffocating.

Bradley’s brows draw together. He gives a small nod in the direction of the spare room. “That’s… I usually stayed in that room.”

“Oh.” You hum. With Bradley being ten years your senior, the room was his long before it was yours. With him growing up so close by, it was probably his much more frequently than it was yours. It’s not like you kept anything here anyway. It’s just a guest room that you would occupy every now and again.

There’s a brief quiet between you. 

“I just figured you could take the big room. ‘Til you get settled. I’ll go home once your car is fixed, if that’s what you want.” Bradley adds on. That sad little look on your face is killing him. 

The big room. The loft room upstairs. You’re pretty sure that you’ve never even been upstairs in this house.

“You’re staying too?” 

Oh. Yeah. He hadn’t addressed that point yet. Truthfully, he hadn’t even been planning to stay. He hasn’t even packed an overnight bag. But, from the second that you stepped out of the car and looked up at the house with that look on your face, he hadn’t even considered leaving you here alone.

“Just ‘til we get your car fixed,” He offers with a small shrug. “I’ll be here to run you around until then.”

Like he’s doing this for your sake. Natasha has her own life to get back to and Bradley can’t stand the thought of going back to his apartment alone. 

“Okay,” You agree, turning to peer down the hall towards the spare room. It’s nothing special — it really never felt like yours. “Alright, I’ll take Pete’s room.”

Pete. You call Maverick ‘Pete’ now. 

Bradley just nods, shifting the weight of your bags and nodding for you to head for the stairs. All the floors in this house are tan oak. The entryway is now herringbone. With the help of a friend, Pete had done the entire thing himself. 

Of course, as you walk silently across it, neither one of you would know that. Neither one of you was speaking to him last May, which was why he had needed a project in the first place.

Natasha’s outside on the phone. Bradley’s footsteps thud on the wood of the stairs behind you, following you up. You stop at the top, leaving just enough room for Bradley to stand there behind you.

The door to Maverick’s room is open. His bed is made. There’s a book thrown on top of it, the spine cracked and used, the pages yellow from years out in the sun.

“No way is he still trying to fucking finish War and Peace.” Bradley steps around you with your bags in his hands and heads straight for the book. Pete started this book before Bradley finished elementary school. Bradley twists and looks back at you. “He always gets bored and stops reading, then forgets his page and starts again.”

Another slow nod. One foot in front of the other, your shoes along the tan oak floors. Your fingers trail the white walls. Maverick wouldn’t have minded. This place was always messy before. It’s not now. 

This house is vacant and quiet, but it’s far from empty. It’s filled to the brim, practically pulling apart at the seams with everything that Maverick was and planned to be. He was finishing War and Peace — he made it to chapter 253 this time; further than he had ever made it before. 

Your throat is thick with the knowledge that all you knew Maverick to be, is now all that he’ll ever be. An absent father, a fantastic pilot, a lousy cook. A thousand more things that you’ll never know.

Four days of knowing, a fourteen hour drive down here, and it’s a book that stings like a cold slap to the face, reminding you of why exactly it is that you’re here.

Fire burns behind your eyes, blistering and stinging as Bradley sets your bags on the floor with a soft thud.

He turns with his attention completely on the book, his fingers extending towards the peeling cover of the paperback. His fingers curl around its weathered pages and he lifts it tenderly, examining the front at first.

It’s too early to start this process bawling your eyes out, and you refuse to let Russian Literature be your downfall, again. That thick feeling sits in your throat like a stack of weights as you sit down on the end of Maverick’s bed. The mattress is soft, taking your weight without a squeak of complaint. Maybe he finally listened to you and got a bed that wasn’t so harsh on his back.

It’s been almost two years since you even set foot in this house last. If you had known that Maverick was going to be gone this soon… you sit and think to yourself about if you would have maybe visited more. Probably not.

“I’ll change the sheets and stuff, then I’ll get out of your hair for a bit.”

Lifting your head, you blink at him. He has already started to pull back the comforter and strip the bottom sheet from the bed, awkwardly forcing you onto your feet again. 

Mobile once more, you turn slowly to take in your surroundings. This is Maverick’s room. It’s his house, you were prepared for that much — but this is his room. The last thing you want is to be alone in it all night.

“Oh. Sure,” You nod, setting into motion to help take the sheets off. You watch him instead of what you’re doing. 

He’s so methodical about it, like none of this phases him at all. But then, you’ve not seen how he has been for the past few days. “I was thinking of just ordering food tonight, since I’m kinda tired — and Pete never had groceries. Would you want… to maybe join?”

“Sure.” Bradley nods, tugging the pillows out of the cases. He glances up to you with a strictly polite, neutral smile. Quiet settles between the two of you until the bed is just a bare mattress and uncovered pillows. 

There’s a moment of total stillness between the two of you. Your gaze flickers up, meeting his, and the realization settles between the two of you. Maverick’s favourite cologne was a French thing that some woman in the eighties had liked. Citrus in the shade of cypress wood. The scent fills the room like he’s standing between the two of you.

Bradley glances down at the white sheets in his hands. The snowy white peaks of those mountains, Maverick’s aircraft spiralling into them, engulfed in flames. In a sick way, Bradley hopes that he didn’t manage to eject. At least then, it would have been instant. Maverick wouldn’t have felt anything.

You watch his adam’s apple bob in his throat from the other side of the bed. The last you had heard, Mav and Bradley weren’t on speaking terms. You wonder if this is as weird for him as it is for you.

“I’ll put these in the washer. You can… unpack, or whatever.” He decides finally, already taking one step backwards, headed for the door. You stand there, blinking at him. Even with those steeped, broad shoulders, he makes it through the doorframe unscathed before he turns to check where he’s going.

He probably knows this house inside and out, just like he knew your dad. Once. 

When it comes to wracking your brain and trying to remember Bradley Bradshaw, you can’t ever come up with anything. Maybe a glimpse, here and there. A blue t-shirt with green stripes. His school backpack accidentally left in the backseat of Maverick’s convertible beside your shoddily installed car seat. 

Truthfully, your experience with Bradley Bradshaw is limited. He’s just as real to you as any of the other guys in the stories you grew up hearing about. Your very own Peter Pan is downstairs right now, trying to figure out Maverick’s ancient washing machine, just so that he doesn’t have to stand up here and stare across at you.

He can’t hide from you forever, though. Evening comes, and so does hunger. 

He stares down at the pizza between the two of you as he chews through a bite, brows drawn together slightly. He hates thin crust pizza — it’s the worst kind of pizza. But, when you had suggested it, he had agreed with a tight-lipped smile.

Natasha has gone home. It’s just the two of you. Sitting in this unchanged, all too familiar kitchen. You’re barely unpacked. You set up a couple of things in Maverick’s bathroom, but it doesn’t feel right to be in the big room upstairs. That wasn’t ever your space to claim.

You chew absentmindedly at the bite you had taken. The TV in the living room is off. The record player is coated in a layer of thin dust already. It’s dead quiet. The kitchen light is dim above your heads.

There’s a chip in the corner of the table on Bradley’s side. It’s there because Bradley was running through this kitchen when he was four years old and had tripped and knocked his front tooth out right here. His thumb trails the tiny mark, wondering how his teeth had ever been that small.

Wondering why you aren’t angry with him, too.

Maverick had picked him up that day, turned him around and held Bradley while he cried, stemming the blood and quickly introducing the concept of the tooth fairy. He had done all that he could, and Bradley still found a way to resent him for what had happened to his own father.

Bradley hasn’t ever done a thing for you. Except maybe pay for this pizza. And here you are, calm as can be. 

The sauce base feels tangy and coppery, and the cheese makes him want to puke. He sets the slice down on his plate and wipes his hands on the paper towel beside him.

Finally, he lifts his head and looks at you. Your hair is up now, tucked out of your way after an afternoon of manual labour upstairs. You’re wearing a stretched out old t-shirt. Bradley assumes you got it from a boyfriend.

Really, he doesn’t think you look that much like your old man. He would really have to search for the resemblance. But, briefly, when you offer him a polite smile across the table, he knows that you’re Mav’s kid.

“I’m sorry.” Bradley blurts out. You both look across at each other, equally surprised that he has spoken.

“…For what?” You ask quietly, lips tugging into a small frown.

“I’m sorry that I’m here and he’s not.” He’s just got to say it. He knows you probably wouldn’t bring it up on your own, but there’s a big elephant in this room. Bradley knows what it’s like to sit in your spot, and not know how to talk about it.

It’s his fault that Maverick didn’t make it home.

You stop chewing. That last bite sits in your mouth, doughy and dry all of a sudden. You stare across at him, awkwardly making yourself swallow down the last of your bite of pizza and picking up the paper towel to wipe at your mouth.

“We weren’t that close.” You tell him, like that’s supposed to make him feel better. It doesn’t. It’s like a blow to the chest. You’ll never get the opportunity to fix things, because of him.

But, he knows what it’s like to be told how to grieve. He just dips his head and nods awkwardly. “Right.” 

“I got a call from an admiral the other day,” You pick up the slice of pizza and pick at its toppings. There’s no one here now to tell you not to play with your food. Mav never really cared anyway. Bradley watches you, unhungry. “Invited me down to Miramar. He said he was a friend of Mav’s and that he could talk me through… this whole thing. How it works.” You explain with a shrug.

Bradley rubs a hand over the neatly trimmed hair above his lip. It feels like he has swallowed a golf ball, sitting here like it’s normal to be discussing the measures.

He knows how it works. It won’t be as simple as it was with his own father. At least Maverick had afforded him something to bury. For you, there’s nothing.

“I’ll have to be there around eleven.” 

“Sure,” Bradley nods, scratching at the back of his neck. His legs tingle with stiffness. Clearing his throat, he shifts in the little wooden chair and stretches, knocking his foot into yours under the table. “Oh. Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Your teeth press into the inside of your cheek. Maverick hadn’t ever described Bradley as this nervous.

“It’s fine.” You hum, pushing back in your chair and standing up from the table. “Well, I’ve been up since like… four, so I might just hit the hay.”

“Sure.” Bradley breathes out, hands braced on his thighs, eyes focussed on that tiny chip in the corner of the table. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

The downstairs bedroom seemed bigger when he was a kid. The twin-sized bunks on the carrier feel bigger than the wooden-framed bed that Maverick put in here. Bradley’s shoulder is practically hanging off the side, and the old frame creaks with each movement he makes.

It’s not like he would be sleeping much anyway. When he closes his eyes, the only thing he can see is the fireball Maverick’s plane had turned into as it fell.

Bradley’s hunched over the coffee pot by the time that you wake up. He hears you coming down the stairs and straightens up like he wasn’t three seconds from throwing the stupid thing at the wall, clearing his throat and turning around.

It occurs to him that he should have put a shirt on. This isn’t his place. It’s yours, now, he guesses — either way, he hadn’t considered making you uncomfortable. He folds his arms over his naked torso as you stroll into the kitchen, hair mussed and rubbing at your eyes.

You’re wearing big socks and the same big t-shirt you had worn to eat the pizza last night. He can’t tell if you’re wearing shorts or not.

“Morning,” He offers up, making you lift your gaze from busily tapping at your phone. Your gaze lands squarely on his navel — more so, how low his shorts sit on his hips and the way a soft trail of brown hair ventures from there to his bellybutton. 

Blinking, you find his face.

“Coffee machine’s broken, we can stop somewhere on the way to base if you like.” He leans down a little bit, like an awkward teenager shrinking away from a family picture. You lock your gaze on his, trying not to glance back down at his muscles. 

“Oh. That’s not broken — if you hit it hard enough, it’ll work.” You head right for him, fuzzy socks padding across the floor so softly that it really does startle him when you grab the copy of War and Peace that now sits on the kitchen counter, and slam the book right into the side of the coffee machine.

He whips around as the machine whirs to life. You set the book back down gently, and look up at him. He sets his jaw, brows knitted together, searching your face.

Maverick never taught Bradley anything like that. In fact — Bradley always, always was taught the opposite. You never take the easy way out; if something’s worth fixing, then you fix it right.

Then you, you on the other hand, beat the thing with the heaviest book you can find? He just doesn’t get it.

“Well. Thanks.” He guesses, turning his bemused expression back to the brewing coffee. 

He hadn’t been expecting you to do that. Doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, given the way he’s still glaring at the machine. That coffee pot is older than you are, and Mav never taught him that trick?

“So this guy, the one who called me,” You skim your fingers along the cool granite countertop, just to have something to do, “He was the guy calling the shots up there?”

Bradley blinks. He doesn’t know how much you know about the way all of this works. He knew everything there is to know long before he ever enlisted, but that was because he wanted to know.

“Um,” Bradley grabs his mug and takes a step back for you to get yourself one.  “He was our mission command so, kind of. He gives orders — but, y’know, everything happens fast, it’s… it’s hard to call the shots from back on the boat.” 

“Did he like Mav much?” You ask, head tucked inside the fridge door as you scan for anything to make your coffee a little less black. Nothing. A couple of beers and a block of good German cheese. You swing it shut with a resigned sigh, wondering if you’ll be here long enough to need groceries.

The thought flashes across your mind — what’ll happen to this place when you leave it behind?

“Uh... No, not really.” After a routine training presentation at the very beginning of their attachment, Admiral Simpson had once become so agitated by Maverick that he snapped his own reading glasses in half. Mav got a good laugh out of it, at least.

“Great.” Agitation creeps into your tone as you curl your fingers around a plain white coffee mug. All of his kitchenware is plain white. 

“What?” Bradley tilts his head, trying to catch a glimpse at the look on your face, stuck between whether you’re sad or pissed off.

It’s an easy answer, rolling off of your tongue with a shrug of your shoulders and a deflated sigh. “People usually put us in the same boat — if they don’t like him, they don’t like me.”

That’s something that he thinks he can understand. There’s not an instant dislike, but there’s a pity that he finds in the eyes of people who once knew his father. 

He screws his mouth up, shaking his head and reaching for you without thought. His palm claps against your shoulder, platonic and soothing, but the first time he has touched you nonetheless. “I’ll be there. He won’t say a thing.”

Glancing upward, while his palm lingers on your shoulder, your eyes flit across his features. He doesn’t know quite what you’re searching for, or whether you find it. His fingers squeeze softly against your skin before the touch is gone all together.

You drink your coffees in parallel, both subtly miserable in your silence but comfortable in it anyway. It’s difficult to prepare for a meeting like this — you don’t have a clue of what to expect. 

Bradley wears black jeans and boots with a plain white t-shirt, which convinces you not to wear the more formal dress you had thought you’d have to wear. You slip into his passenger seat in a skirt and Mary Janes.

He drives a loud, blue vintage Bronco. It sparkles inside and out, and makes your dusty old car look even worse. 

Bradley settles behind the wheel to the sound of chilled seventies music, the radio turned low. He drives with three fingers curled around the bottom of the wheel and the other hand resting absently on the stick shift.

Even though he seems calm enough behind the wheel, you watch him chew at the inside of his cheek for the duration of the drive. Gears tick away inside his head. His knee only stops bouncing nervously when it’s time to press his foot against the pedal.

He’s not as good at pretending as he thinks he is; you silently appreciate that he tries, either way.

Bradley, truthfully, spends the entire drive thinking about the last time he was face to face with Admiral Simpson. ‘Son, I’m doing this for you.’ He had sworn, face sullen, uttering the exact same words Pete Mitchell once had when delivering the words that had torn Bradley from him the first time.

Only, Admiral Simpson wasn’t pulling Bradley’s papers — he was just putting him on a month long bereavement leave. His protests had fallen on deaf ears once again, as they had fifteen years ago. He’s now a week into that leave, but it feels like longer.

It turns out that when you cut sleep from the equation, everything feels a lot longer. In his own apartment, his routine has been getting up at 2am after hours of tossing and turning, going for a run all the way down to the docks, coming back and showering, then waiting for the sun to rise.

Last night, he’d been awake in that creaky old twin bed, struck by the realisation that if he spent all night tossing and turning — one, he might actually break the old bed frame, and two, the squeaking of it would definitely keep you up. 

All it had taken was the focus of trying to sit still for so long to finally knock him out. It was the best that he’d slept since the mission.

He kind of hopes that it’ll take him a while to figure out something to do with your car; at least that way he’ll be able to sleep at night. 

“You ready?” His voice startles you from your daydream, the engine cutting out with a jingle of the keys as he stretches forwards in his seat to shove them into his pocket. “We’re headed just over there.”

“Yeah, let’s get this over with.” You’re stepping down and swinging the heavy door shut before you’re taking your next breath, leaving him to catch up to you. 

His long strides have him at your side before long, reaching ahead of you to pull open the glass door to the post headquarters. 

This process has already been easier with him at your side. He’d coolly handed over his service ID and greeted the guard at the gate by name, and he stops you from turning sharply down the wrong hallway with a soft bump of his shoulder against yours.

He catches your forearm as you try to blow right past the front desk, his grip loose but firm. 

“Rooster.” The woman behind the desk stands up sharply, looking sharp in her service khakis, her entire face creased with a deep worry. She’s older, maybe around Mav’s age. “I heard, I’m so sorry.”

Rooster loosens his hold on your forearm, his lips flattening into a line. He stands up straight, his interaction with the woman nothing if not totally polite. His thumb trails across the bend of your wrist as he nods his head towards you.

“Thank you,” He says softly, seemingly unaware of the way you’ve stiffened in the presence of this woman. “We’re, uh… we’re just here to see Cyclone, Lynn.”

Her warm, brown eyes whip towards you, widening. Recognition floods her features as she pieces together who you must be. 

Her boots hit the ground, your lips parting slightly as you realise that she’s headed right for you. Bradley feels your arm tug in his grip and turns his head, taking note of the way you’re trying to shrink behind him.

Lynn is a hugger by nature, and she was a good friend of Mav’s for a long time. She means well, but Bradley isn’t going to let her touch you when he can see how unnerved it makes you.

“We’re a little late. I’ll catch you at the O-Bar this weekend?” His fingers uncurl from your forearm and his palm falls flat between your shoulder blades, giving you a gentle nudge and silent permission to avoid her hug.

The woman stops and there’s another polite, departing exchange between the two of them while you continue down the hall.

Bradley catches up to you as you rap your knuckles against the doorframe, fingers trembling when they come to settle back against your thighs.

“Miss Mitchell.” A chair scrapes along the tiled floor, Cyclone’s signature rumbling voice carrying out into the hallway. His boots tap across the ground, his face creased with sincerity and his hand outstretched when he notices Bradley standing behind you. “Bradley Bradshaw.”

You check back over your shoulder, glancing briefly at the man behind you, who has assumed his best bodyguard impression. 

Standing tall, his uniform crisp and his greying black hair combed neatly, Admiral Beau Simpson slips his palm into yours and shakes your hand curtly. The sunlight catches on his shining name badge, his face heavy with lines and sharp angles.

Letting your hand go, he then reaches to your right to shake Bradley’s. Bradley’s chest bumps your back as he leans into the handshake.

You step away from him, angling yourself closer to the doorframe. “He just gave me a ride here. Is it okay if he comes in?” You answer.

“Of course,” Cyclone is far more polite to you than he has ever been to Bradley. “Anything you need. Please, take a seat.”

It feels a little bit wrong standing before his boss in jeans, and sitting before him. Everything about this feels a little bit wrong. Bradley rests his chin against his fist.

You sit in the chair beside him, shoving your trembling hands under your thighs, straightening up and trying to look as brave as you can. 

It shouldn’t be this stranger sitting beside you in this meeting — your mother should have come with you.

“Miss Mitchell,” The admiral takes his seat on the other side of his desk once again. “I want to first express my deepest condolences. Your father was a good man, and a… extremely skilled pilot.”

Bradley almost scoffs. Even now, Cyclone can’t manage to compliment him.

“We are forever grateful for his service, and the sacrifices he made on behalf of our country. I understand that this is an extremely difficult time, and I’d just like to say that I’m going to personally make sure that this process is as easy as it can possibly be.”

You blink at him. Jet engines rumble on outside of the window. People bustle on outside of the closed office door.

Cyclone glances towards Bradley. 

“When a man is lost in action, our resolve is to initiate a search and rescue effort as soon as possible,” The admiral explains, leaving out the part where that search and rescue effort had been delayed by seventy-two hours after Mav disappeared. “We’ve been working tirelessly, and our efforts to locate your father are ongoing.”

Your brows knit together.

“But— he’s dead.” You frown, rendering Cyclone suddenly quiet. “He’s got to be. It’s been a week. No food, no water, sub-zero temperature. What’s the point in looking?”

Bradley grits his teeth. He looks across at you, the muscle in his jaw ticking. There’s nothing in your expression, no fear or sadness. Your father deserved more than that.

“The point is to bring him home.” He bites from your side, staring straight ahead at Cyclone.

You shoot him a look. When it’s clear that you aren’t going to say anything else, Cyclone clears his throat to continue. 

“Miss Mitchell, we do have to prepare ourselves for the other outcome. If recovery efforts are unsuccessful, in two weeks time, he will be listed as formally ‘Missing in Action’. If that’s the case, we will honor him with a memorial service and all of his service records and personal effects 

are delivered to you.”

You drag your teeth across your bottom lip, swallowing hard and giving a small nod of your head.

“Okay. Two weeks?”

“This is going to be a longer process,” Cyclone warns you. He’d heard that you had come down specially for this, and he doesn’t want to mislead you about the time frame. “The recovery mission, if unsuccessful, will be suspended in two weeks’ time. After that, we’d like you to be local for the investigation.”

“Investigation?”

“Of ourselves. To ensure that the Navy had performed its due diligence, that kind of thing… I’d expect us to be here for a good few months.” He explains.

After that, it’s like Bradley can see a switch flip for you. 

You’re biting at the inside of your cheek so hard that you must be tasting copper, picking at the seam of your jeans and breathing like you’re trying not to cry.

He’s still confused when he’s all but chasing you across the parking lot, listening to you try to control your breathing.

“Hey, hey, hey,” He tries, approaching you cautiously as you crowd yourself against the passenger side of his car. “It’s alright. We’ll get through it, it’s just a couple of months.”

“I— fuck. I don’t want to be here. I-I— I’m going to have to find a job, and I’ll have to call my mom, and— and my friends, and—“

“Hey,” Bradley mumbles, resisting the instinct to throw his arms around you. His brows draw together as he reaches out and squeezes your bicep, bending his knees so he can catch your eye. “It’s alright. I’ll take care of it.”

You know that he’s just trying to be nice, but really, you’re sick of nice. It’s all that Maverick ever was and it left you with no idea of who he really is. “Of what? There’s so much that I have to—“

He nods, closing his mouth, swallowing dryly. Thinking of what he can, feasibly, take off of your plate for you. The idea sparks in him.

“You need a job. I can get you a job. Um, your friends, we can call them and bring them down for a weekend?” He squeezes again at your bicep, nodding his way through his plans, trying to will the tears in your eyes not to spill over.

You sniff, turning your gaze towards the ground. The lump in your throat burns and bobs as you try to swallow it away. 

Mav really is never coming back.

“I don’t want to go back to his house.” It comes out as a whimper, and really just reminds Bradley that you’re in the same position that he was when he was just a little younger than you. It’s a scared kid type of feeling, being all alone in the world. Being in an empty house had made it even worse.

He licks his lips and glances towards the skies, watching the sun pass behind a cloud. 

“You could stay at my place, for a night or two.” 

…

[leclarifies]

i wish you would love me (CS55)

✰ carlos sainz x verstappen!reader ✰

summary → he would do anything to get you to love him, but he can only watch from the sidelines as you fall in love with his teammate.

genre → angst angst angst (im not sorry), self-indulgent, drabble

word count → 1.5k words

author's note → hello! this is my first iteration of breaking your heart with carlos sainz!!!!!! this is also my first time writing him so i'm sorry if things are a lil ooc, i haven't followed him as much as i do with CL16 & MV33.

carlos had always stole glances, whether he liked to admit it or not. some were lingering, but most of them were fast, quick, not wanting to linger long in case someone would catch him staring, he had grown fond of you.

you were the princess of the paddock, that was your title. some might even say that you're the queen of the paddock but you always denied the nickname, it was a silly nickname that your fans had given you and you didn't particularly feel like claiming it.

but carlos knew that you were indeed a princess, maybe the queen of his heart. he knew that with each second passing, he would slowly fall in love with you, maybe he already was. maybe he just didn't want to admit it to himself, much like the glances he stole.

you were the three time world champion's little sister and that meant that automatically by default, carlos was around you a lot. whether it was max's karting days and you attended his races, or him being on the formula one grid and you attending those races.

it didn't matter to carlos.

you were always nice to him, always smiling, always touchy but it didn't matter as you were touchy with everyone and that made carlos want to die on the inside.

why did you have to touch everyone so casually? why did you have to touch him and why did he feel like he was on top of the world when you did?

"carlos?" you soft voice had broken him out of his train of thought, he looks up to see you. your beautiful self standing in front of him, almost gracing him with your presence, "are you okay? you seem out of it."

"yeah, i'm alright. how are you doing, hermosa?" carlos' heart would not stop beating out of his chest, being in close proximity of you made his heart beat that way. you giggle and wave your hands in front of you, almost as if you were rejecting the small compliment that he gave you.

he found it cute, that you would always reject his compliments that way, whether intentional or not.

you scrunched your face up and rolled your eyes playfully, "you always flatter me with your nicknames, carlos," you giggled further and he stood up from where he was leaning against the wall, "i was going to ask you if you were coming to dinner tonight? you know, the ferrari one?"

carlos raised his eyebrow, how would you know about the ferrari dinner?

"yeah, of course. i am a ferrari driver afterall, aren't i?" carlos teased before you smile and laugh, carlos felt like his heart was going to fall out of his chest by how fast it was beating. you were near him and willing to talk to him, even though it was as simple as asking about a stupid dinner.

"yeah, i was wondering whether you'd come or not. charles invited me to the dinner just last night," your eye-smiles shone bright, even when you didn't mean them to. a pang strikes through carlos' chest, what do you mean by charles invited you?

"charles invited you? since when were you close to charles?" carlos asked, his eyebrow raised again as you were shifting feet to feet, carlos could tell that you were nervous by the question he asked, but you decided to come out clean anyway.

"me and charles have been... seeing eachother so i've been getting invited around ferrari events a lot."

maybe that was the day carlos' heart broke.

seeing you around his side of the paddock was nice, the way you smiled, the way you cheered the team on, it was exciting for carlos. he would be able to see you more often now, ever since you published your relationship with charles.

maybe he should've expected it. maybe he didn't notice it.

while he was stealing glances at you, you were stealing glances at his teammate and that stung like a little bitch.

you were always all smiles, always lovely, always polite, always touchy, and somehow he hated it. he hated the way you touched him— hated the way you touched charles.

your arms wrapped around charles' neck, holding him close as the two of you were captured kissing as charles took his win, he came second. always second best. never good enough. never good enough to win you over. never fast enough to see the signs.

he wanted you to come over to him, run up and kiss him the exact way you kissed charles, why did it have to be his teammate out of all people? why the one person that he constantly had to spend time with, whether willingly or unwillingly?

the love he had for his teammate was slowly becoming resent, becoming something he would never feel for his teammate naturally.

it sucked.

"carlos—"

"not now cha," carlos had brushed him off as he packed up his belongings from the garage, all he wanted to do was get home and sit with himself and his feelings.

"but it's important—"

"i said not now," carlos' tone was delivered with finality, which made charles stop in his tracks, not speaking another word. he was scared to, scared that he would piss off carlos more than he was right now.

what hurt the most for carlos was that he had talked about you to him multiple times, his eyes always animated when he talked about you and charles knew, he knew how much you meant to carlos but charles didn't catch on or maybe he didn't care.

"did i do something wrong?" charles asked, he was behind carlos and his shoulder tensed up when charles asked him the stupid question, carlos felt like he wanted to punch something at the moment and right now, preferably the handsome leclerc that stood behind him.

of course he did something wrong, he stole the love of carlos' life and carlos hated him for it. why did he have to do it? why did he have to take away something that made him happy? wasn't him getting kicked out of ferrari enough for charles?

why did everything have to go his way?

"it's nothing, i'm just upset about my performance today, that's all," carlos turned around to look at charles, he was starting to realize that it wasn't charles' fault. charles did nothing wrong.

the universe just hated him.

carlos had to sit in those painful dinners with ferrari, if it wasn't mandatory for him to come, he would've never showed up in the first place. he hated having to sit there and play nice, to sit there and watch you whisper into charles' ear and when he would whisper something back in your ear and then you would giggle, to sit there and to watch the love of his life slip away from his fingers.

he knew that you never held the same type of feelings that he harbored towards you, you would always be nice and polite but that was it, and maybe he took it the wrong way. it didn't matter to him now, all that mattered was you stole his heart and there was no way you were going to give it back.

with the months watching painfully from the sidelines, watching you fall in love with his teammate, you had an announcement to make tonight.

"hello everyone! thank you for coming to tonight's dinner," you had started, you looked beautiful tonight. afterall, you would always be his hermosa in his heart, "i just wanted to announce me and charles' engagement!"

charles stood up alongside with you and smiled, wrapping an arm that carlos wished were his, holding you close with a kiss on your temple.

claps erupted around the table and carlos was the only one not clapping along with the crowd.

if it wasn't possible before, carlos' heart broke for the second time tonight.

if it wasn't bad enough that charles picked carlos to be his bestman, it was the worst when he had to stand there and watch you be led along the aisle, arm hooked with jos verstappen and walking towards charles.

and yet again, he was watching from the sidelines. never the main character in your story, but always a secondary or maybe a step-in.

your smile was so bright, you looked so happy.

he wished you looked at him the same way you looked at charles.

as you finished your vows, tears escaped from carlos' eyes, not because he was happy for his teammate, not because he was happy for you but because he was upset that it wasn't him that you were marrying today. he couldn't bare to stay and watch any further after the vows, choosing to step out of the cathedral that you were getting married to charles at.

carlos was not the same man that he was before he stepped into that cathedral that day, and maybe it was for the worst.

[chronicsyd]

ykw? now that I've mentioned this hypothetical I'm gonna make the Wildest hot take that I'm sure No One will agree with but I'm gonna make it anyways:

Caitlyn is a victim of Ambessa's meddling

And before you all start typing away cuz I can already feel your comments coming, No this Isn't me justifying what Caitlyn does. This is me explaining that What she does is reactionary to all of the shit that Ambessa has set up, Ambessa is the bigger problem here and No One is willing to discuss it. They slap Everything onto Caitlyn and call it a day.

Because like I mentioned in my hypothetical, we do originally see Caitlyn still vouching for those in Zaun, saying innocents will die if they bring Hextech weaponry into Zaun solely to make Jinx pay for her actions. Which in turn causes Mel to agree with her, not just because she's against what her Mother's demanding (because she Knows that Ambessa's just puppeteering Salo), but because she also feels that Hextech should be a Last resort in any given situation, Mel still has compassion. Unfortunately, Mel still has to compromise with her fellow councilors, so they settle on sending the Enforcer's after Jinx, just without Hextech. This in turn is what causes Ambessa to set up the attack on the memorial. Because what the councilors have decided isn't going to start a war with Zaun, which is what she's looking for. She needs a catalyst to have people calling for so much blood that not starting a war is no longer an option.

Now I will admit, her bringing up becoming an Enforcer is one of her mistakes. She says to Vi "you can show not all of Zaun supports Jinx" because she believes this. Not just from Vi, but because Jinx's attack was her own, other Zaunites didn't attack the Council, she did. She says "I thought you were on our side" because she thought that Vi would understand because like her, she's lost a parent to an oppressor (and Before you start, I'm talking about Jinx oppressing Caitlyn specifically here. When Jinx threatens her, kidnaps her, and takes away her mom; she's specifically targeting Caitlyn, and for the most part, Caitlyn has been pretty helpless against her. therefore, that makes Jinx an oppressor of Caitlyn). But this causes her to think deeper about it and realize that asking Vi to put on the badge was the wrong thing to ask of her, she says so later in the episode. (btw, it's clear that Caitlyn secured Vi's enlistment Before offering the badge, not after being rejected, y'all are just reaching with this take because you're so blinded by your anger at Caitlyn (ironic isn't it?). Because 1) why would she even have the badge to begin with? But 2) it's pretty clear with with Maddie coming up and talking to her, that Enforcer's have been talking about Vi and Jayce going rouge after Silco's simmer facility for a bit now. And that they're all seemingly impressed with her and how Caitlyn stood up for her, they think that Vi's already agreed because Caitlyn hadn't asked yet)

When she's talking to Jayce, she says that "she understands how easy it is to hate them". because while yes, it is arguable that she was ignorant to people in Zaun back in S1, she didn't see how easy it was for her fellow people to just hate them. Especially after Vi showing her what life was like for people in Zaun. But that was before Jinx went and killed her mom (and gave her her whole baggage of other traumas). But it's still being shown to us that she doesn't lump all Zaunites together just because of Jinx's actions because she still remembers seeing everything down there, she doesn't hate them like other people do.

So, why does the attack at the memorial change things?

Because the attack wasn't made by Jinx, it was made by other Zaunites. Zaunites that she just spent a lot of her time vouching for, being in their defense, giving them benefit. because that's what's happening in Caitlyn's point of view, she doesn't Know (yet, most likely) that Ambessa was the reason that it even happened. She's angry at them and herself because like not shooting Jinx, she's been giving them the benefit when it seems that they don't deserve it. To Her, a peaceful memorial for her Mom that was destroyed by Zaunites that had no reason for attacking them. She Wasn't going to attack them until this happens, because now to her, they're all guilty (keep this in mind, because it actually has to do with her outburst at Vi later).

When she see's that her mom made the vents so that the people of Zaun could breath and not be harmed by the gray, she's so overcome by anger that she uses the gray as a weapon. she plows through the people of Zaun in order to get to Jinx, this is also what she does with Isha later. She isn't thinking rationally at this point anymore, she's simply being controlled by her emotions and thinking that if she kills Jinx it will fix all her problems. And because she now sees other Zaunites as guilty, she doesn't care what her actions are doing to the people of Zaun. they're simply just in her way.

And while Caitlyn says she wouldn't have missed the shot, I'm having doubts about that. Because at that point she's just firing wildly, she misses and takes off Jinx's finger, she misses and hits Vi instead. When Vi grabs the gun and aims it at the ground, look at the face Caitlyn makes here. it goes from shock at what just happened, to looking at Vi in anger. her face Screams "how could you?!" and while Vi's saying she's protecting a child, Not Jinx, that's Not what Caitlyn's hearing. by Vi getting in the way at all, she believes that Vi is still protecting Jinx, that despite Vi telling her to take the shot, that her sister is gone, she believes that Vi was lying to her. That's why she says "I keep telling myself that you're different, but you're not." she now believes that Vi was Never going to kill Jinx, that simply being her sister that was going to be a problem for Vi (because that's what happens in Ep 9. Vi's the one pleading with Caitlyn that "she's my sister" "don't hurt her" etc.). The straw that broke the camels back, however, is when Vi compares Caitlyn to Jinx. Now, Vi's absolutely right in what she's saying here, because Caitlyn has been acting like Jinx (because that's like the whole Point with these two, they're Supposed to be foils of each other). But to Caitlyn, Vi might as well have just slapped her across the face because she just compared her to the person that killed her mom and has been causing all her suffering. In response, she lashes out by hitting Vi with the back of her gun (AGAIN, I'm not saying what Caitlyn did is right, I'm just explaining what's going on and how CAITLYN is currently seeing things).

For a split second, you see regret on Caitlyn's face. She feels bad because she hit Vi, but that isn't quite enough to get her to stay, because the other demons in her head are still convincing her of what she think's Vi's done, so, she turns and leaves.

SO now that we got all THAT outta the way, let's talk about Ambessa appointing Caitlyn as a general shall we?

like I've mentioned in another post, she switches from Salo to Caitlyn because the fool mentioned how much power the Kiramman name wields. Because she simply can't put Herself as leader, oh no no no That would be too obvious. She needs a face for this war to hide behind, someone from Piltover itself, and who Better to Be that face than the new head of the most Powerful house in all of Piltover? Especially now that that new head has been dealing with quite a lot of anger and grief (something that Ambessa is Exceptionally skilled at weaponizing).

She starts with this whole speech of how Zaun has just been attacking Piltover nonstop (despite 2 out of the 3 instances she lists, she Herself is the one that's Responsible), and how "wrath must be met with wrath". Earlier she tells Salo to bring the "Who's who" of Piltover so that Caitlyn CAN'T say no to this because with everyone calling for war, it would look bad for Caitlyn to be like "nah I'll pass thanks". Because you can see everyone's faces, they're Approving of this decision that Ambessa makes, they're Willing to stand behind Caitlyn and the Kiramman name. And so are the Enforcers who Admire Caitlyn, they all begin to pound their chest in solidarity with the Noxian soldiers, they're Also willing to stand behind Caitlyn. and watch the look on her face as Caitlyn walks towards Ambessa, when Ambessa places the cloak on her and swears "her mother will have justice". she's merely starring off, almost in a daze, her rational isn't kicking in, she's merely being lead on a string. here she's being given what she Thinks will solve her problems, and is taking it.

I'm sure that once Caitlyn starts to figure out what Ambessa's doing, not only is her anger going to be directed at Ambessa; but the guilt from the blood that's now on her hands is probably going to eat her alive. She's going to need to make things right with both Vi and Zaun if this has any chance of becoming better but it's rather unclear if that's even going to be a viable option for her. Is there enough time left for Caitlyn to be able to right her wrongs? who knows, it just depends on what they show us.

So all in all, while Caitlyn's actions Are wrong, she isn't this evil, unlovable bitch that just proved that she's been a bitch all along that isn't worth redeeming. thank you for your time.

(before I go, one thing I AM going to say people invalidating Caitlyn's trauma and grief because she comes from a privileged background and therefore "her trauma isn't as bad" is one of the most DISGUSTING things I think I've ever seen. Trauma Absolutely Does NOT work like that. Caitlyn's been through a Fuckton of trauma in merely a matter of Days and is being expected to hold herself together. Yes the actions that she's taking are wrong, I've said this like 5 times during this post, but that doesn't mean her pain and trauma has less value and isn't real. This isn't the trauma olympics, there isn't an invisible line that someone has to cross before you deem "they're allowed to react now")

[kudossi]

like water through weeping rock

Hollyleaf looks exactly the age at which she died. Looking at her, Jayfeather feels his age in every creaking bone, every painful joint. He wonders what image he’ll take, when he ascends to the stars: will he be young, unburdened by knowledge or secrets or death? Will he assume the shape closest to his sister, when she’d been back and they’d fallen into their old habits, their old piles of pelts and purrs? Would he be older than her in death, an age she’d never reach — the shape he had been when he had forgiven his mothers? When he had trained Alderheart fully? Or would it be a form he hadn’t yet discovered, one far away and shrouded by time?

Hollyleaf hadn’t lived to be anything other than a young cat. Jayfeather has the opportunity to grow old, to die peacefully in the elders’ den, to walk the forest paths for season upon season. But his sister looks happy here, content in a way she had never been in life. The weight of the forest has been shrugged from her shoulders, and as she approaches, he sees echoes of her spin around him, muddying the skies with turmoil and fear and anger. Each defining moment sinks into his soul as easily as one sinks into their nest, eased by the peace she’d found with herself before she had died. He edges away from the ideas of the futures she could have had that pelt him like sleet — stinging pains against his face like staring into rain-drenched winds.

“Holly,” he says instead, a relieved sigh that rips almost violently through his chest.

“Jay,” she returns warmly, pressing her starlight-cold cheek into his own. A purr rattles in her throat, warming him from nose to tail-tip.

It’s been years since she died, but it feels like moments as her loss carves through his chest once more. “It’s good to see you,” he whispers.

“You see me every moon, you goof,” she returns. He can feel her whiskers twitch against his spine in amusement.

Jayfeather closes his eyes, shutting away his star-given sight, and focuses on the scent of his sister underneath the tang of night sky. “It’s not enough,” he murmurs.

“No,” Hollyleaf agrees. “It never is. But it’s more than most cats get.”

“Most cats don’t spend their lives in service to the stars,” Jayfeather replies. It’s an old argument, the familiarity making the words easy.

“It would have been nice,” Hollyleaf says, “to live a life with you and Lion, no matter the form it took.”

Jayfeather is struck—again, again, again—by how young the ghost she inhabits is. “It would have been wonderful,” he says softly. He’s not here for this — for a too-brief conversation with his dead sister — but he thinks the stars can afford him this, a few stolen moments with the sibling they stripped away.

Cruel, unnecessary; callous and cold as starlight. There’s grief blanketed over his shoulders, bitterness spreading on his tongue. None of these are unfamiliar to him. He knows what Hollyleaf chose. He knows he’s lucky that the stars took her at all.

He knows that Cinderpelt was given a second chance, even though the life she’d lived was one that she’d loved.

Hollyleaf looks at him steadily. There’s no sympathy or pity in her gaze, and he’s thankful for this cat who knows him so well.

She seems dimmer than she was last moon, and the moon before. He wonders if he’s imagining that she’s fading, but knows he isn’t. He knows that she’ll be gone before him, taken again from those who loved her best. The living world forgets — there’s no such thing as permanency for the cats who swear their lives to the stars. And forever…? What is forever?

[keferon]

Well I just finished improvising chapter one of Mecha AU :D

I recommend you read it on BlueSky because the formatting and redacting there is better but you also can read it all here under the cut

Summary:

Jazz huddles in the cockpit, turns on the comm channel, and habitually ignores the static

“This is 1061. I don't know if you guys can hear me, but I have news. I've found other mechs in space! But..”

He taps nervously on the console panel

“I am not sure they're piloted by humans.”

---------

Jazz isn't sure at what exact moment his life turned into anime completely. It was probably when a huge monster appeared in the sky above his home? Yeah...it must have been then.

The big green thing blew up almost half the city before it was destroyed with so much explosives that the government probably had to empty their pockets to scrape together that much.

In the future, of course, they had to repeat the feat.

And then again.

And again.

Either the government of these monsters had a lot of extra money, or the monsters were free volunteers.

Jazz tried to watch from a distance. Ideally from a place where it would be hard to yank him out. Even with a stick. Even for a massive space monster.

%%%%

If you think about it. This wasn't anime yet. It was more in apocalypse film territory.

The anime started when a smiling man in a surprisingly expensive suit came to Jazz and offered to take a few tests to see if Jazz was suitable for some sort of special earth protection program of his. The pay was suspiciously good, and the list of medical forms was suspiciously long. But last week, a huge shark-like thing had trampled Jazz's last workplace and well...there wasn't much else for him to go to.

The man smiled and looked like a toothpaste advertisement as he shook his hand.

Yeah, the anime definitely started with that.

-----

It's actually amazing how a shitty thing like alien monsters and giant robots can become habitual. Maybe even beloved. Not monsters, of course. No.

But robots? Definitely.

Jazz is one hell of a pilot. One of the best, as his superiors like to say. They don't really have a way to test who's the greatest pilot in the world because the life span of the average pilot isn't usually very long. Jazz doesn't mind. He knows he's good, but he doesn't want to think about how good. Other pilots like to compete for the top of the charts. Numbers, kills, promotions and everything else that goes with it.

Jazz is mostly just vibing.

His early tests don't show very high or impressive potential for compatibility with combat mech technology, but once he's out of the simulator and into the real thing....

Jazz can't explain it. He just feels it. He just stops seeing the dashboard in front of him, stops thinking about how comfortable the pilot's seat is or how to hold the controls.

Jazz gets in the cockpit and stops being human.

Jazz gets in the cockpit and turns into metal and machinery. Rockets and joints. Hydraulics and thousands of sensors.

His hands become huge, able to crush a car. His legs gain new articulations. His body moves in ways completely impossible for a human and it feels so familiar, as if he's always been like this.

It feels like him. Like home.

Jazz isn't interested in promotions because important people aren't allowed to operate mechs. Not allowed to be mechs.

Jazz wants to be a mech.

He's just not ready to trade that feeling for anything else.

————

War gets crazier as time goes on.

Every time Jazz thinks it's going to end now, someone steps on Chekhov's gun in the ceiling.

The aliens aren't going to die out or leave.

Humans refuse to go extinct.

It's a tug-of-war that inevitably leads both sides to think that if they can't win with the ‘pull harder’ method, they should try something new. Something creative.

That’s how Jazz finds himself in the middle of developing a mech capable of travelling through space.

Because whoever is making the decisions up there has decided it's time to get more aggressive and start fighting on more than just their own territory.

The aliens have so far been too comfortable taking advantage of the fact that space is inaccessible to humans. They've always had places to retreat to. Places to hide to lick their wounds. Jazz thinks it makes sense. Sort of. If there's anything left in this world that respects logic.

The development department takes some time and an absolutely obscene amount of money to figure out how to launch a giant robot into space without the human inside it turning to paste.

They show an incredible ability to organize space and play a game of tetris where instead of blocks there are vital systems like air storage and provisions falling from the ceiling.

Jazz, as someone who has been forced to participate in hundreds of their tests and observe their tenacity, is genuinely proud of them.

His pride even overcomes the fact that they have been close to turning him into a paste more times than he is comfortable counting.

They stick him in hundreds of variations of different armor and plating and make him perform the same boring motions a million times to “make sure there's no risk of depressurization”.

Sometimes he's shoved to the bottom of a swimming pool and asked to perform mission simulations without coming out of the water. This is the only part of development that Jazz actually genuinely loves. Swimming is fun when you're metal and don't have to breathe.

%%%%%%%

At the end of the tests, Jazz is left with a hundred or so system upgrades, increased weight by almost half, nice new armor, and added height. His legs now have another joint in them. Some of the pilots complain that it hurts them to even look at Jazz's freakishly bendy legs, but their opinion fades under the weight of delight.

Jazz loves the new joints. New joints mean he can navigate even wackier surfaces now.

For the first official space mission, the superiors choose him without much hesitation.

Space is unfamiliar territory. And no matter how hard you try, you can't fully recreate its conditions without being there. This means that no amount of training and simulations can fully prepare pilots for what will be waiting for them there. They're going to have to adjust. Improvise. Find ways and solutions on the spot.

Jazz is good at that. Exceptionally and impressively good. He also has enough thirst for adventures in him to go along with the idea.

But most importantly, he's undeniably the best when it comes to controlling a battle mech. His ability to “ I don’t know I’m just vibing you know” is envy-inducing and wary at the same time. Mechs are huge and heavy, and in the hands of someone who doesn't fully know what to do, they're pretty damn clumsy.

Jazz is one of the few who can control a battle mech as naturally as his own human body.

In theory that means if he's thrown into a zero-gravity environment, he can handle it just fine. No worse than if he could do it without the mech. Or at least not fail dramatically enough to embarrass the entire engineering department.

Jazz promises to do his best, shakes all the hands necessary for pretty pictures, and uploads a file with simple instructions.

This mission shouldn't be anything too bizarre except for its location. He is warned that a lot can go wrong, but then immediately assured that a whole crowd of experts will be waiting and watching and will respond at his first call.

Jazz politely thanks them and does a few simple movements to make sure all the joints in his legs are working properly.

His boss smiles like he's advertizing toothpaste and promises him a nice big raise if he'll continue to work on space missions.

Jazz somehow manages to forget that this is where anime usually begins.

________________

Things are going very wrong very fast. Most unfairly, for a completely unexplainable reason.

Jazz is quite successful at getting around in space. The lack of gravity is incredibly uncomfortable at first, but he adapts. It takes time to understand the movement, but nothing beyond the plan.

At one point he even has fun. He spots a satellite orbiting the Earth and waves cheerfully at it, hoping it is recording.

He confidently completes the exploration and is about to turn back when something huge and possessing an uncomfortable number of limbs materializes in front of him literally out of nowhere.

He is surprised and a little disgusted, but the monster's appearance wasn't entirely unforeseen. His instructions are simple. Anything larger than an elephant and not a human being must become dead.

A fight with a strange space thing is no problem. The problem is that the thing is losing very quickly and is clearly panicking about it. Jazz is just about to rip another leg off of it when an unidentifiable bright green light flashes around them and suddenly the whole world starts to feel bloody wrong. Space feels like it's stretching and shrinking at the same time. Jazz can't tell if he's feeling the pressure or if he's being torn apart.

He's screaming. Not from pain, but from surprise.

And finds himself standing in the middle of a crowd of similar monsters.

The one he was just about to kill makes some gurgling, panicked noises. The other monsters freeze, either surprised or frightened, it's impossible to tell.

Jazz manages to notice that he's inside some kind of room. His brain finds no suitable alternative for a quick description. He has never been in such strange places before

He doesn't even have time to take a step when there's a muffled click from behind and he's blinded by the green light again.

He doesn't know what to expect when he opens his eyes.

The first time, the strange green light dragged him through every possible sensation in just a couple of seconds, and that was enough to scare the hell out of him.

The second time, it feels like it lasts forever. He tries to look at his watch, but his eyes refuse to work properly. Which ones of his eyes? He doesn't know. One overlaps with the other. He feels terribly tiny but at the same time it's like his body is everywhere at once. Somewhere in the far corner of his brain, flickers the thought that mixing experimental technology with obscure alien magic is a spectacularly bad idea. The amount of things that could go wrong wouldn't fit in any insurance policy, even if they were writing small text under a microscope. Who ‘they’ are, he's not imagining. His boss and his advertising teeth probably.

Jazz clenches his fists, closes his eyes, and tries his hardest to at least just not pass out. The Engineering Department will owe him so much pool time for all of this.

That's assuming he survives long enough to see the engineering department again.

He tries to focus on the simple things.

Everything around him feels like ‘WRONG’.

He can't breathe.

Maybe the urge to stay awake has been overrated.

He's falling.

*********

When he wakes up, the first thing he notices is cold hands on his head.

Someone is gently turning it, probably to examine him.

There are voices above him. He doesn't recognize them and can't distinguish what they're saying.

The palms of the hands are hard. They feel like they're made of metal.

He hears more voices.

For a scary second he worries his brain is broken, but the more he listens the more he realizes it's just another language.

A completely...unfamiliar language. Unlike anything he's ever heard before.

Hands move away and he chooses that moment to open his eyes.

Long time ago, he used to go to all sorts of movie and art fan festivals. There were always a lot of cosplayers trying to outdo each other in the art of character creation.

The picture that meets him is actually a surprisingly strong reminder of those times.

The people crowded around him are extremely colorful. Also quite small compared to his metallic body.

The strange thin lilac creature is saying something. It sounds questioning.

The other lilac creature shakes its head negatively and judging by its intonation redirects the question to someone else.

Jazz tries to figure out if the green light could have made him see things. Because it's unlikely the afterlife looks like this.

Someone very furry peeks out from behind the backs of the lilac creatures and authoritatively pulls out a thing that looks like a regular tablet. They poke at it for a couple seconds and then show everyone in the crowd a picture of some kind of robot simultaneously pointing at Jazz.

The crowd disagrees.

One of them says something poking Jazz with his hand. He wonders idly if it's the same hand. No, it's the wrong size.

The picture changes to a different one.

The effect is the same.

Another round of poking and prodding later, Jazz's fried brain gets it.

They're trying to figure out what he is.

Little colorful things. Probably never seen a robot like this before?

He doesn't have time to process the thought properly when the floor he's lying on starts to shake violently.

The creatures shriek in frustration and Jazz, who until then had been sure he was in some kind of building, suddenly realizes that. Oh, shit. No. The surface is moving.

Is he being taken somewhere???

Jazz looks around in confusion, trying to figure out who it belongs to.

He makes an attempt to jump to his feet and all the creatures crowding around him all start screaming at the same time. He doesn't understand it, but it sounds hysterical, angry and so damn unpleasant to his poor head. Someone shrieks and from somewhere to his left there are sharp clicks and the floor shakes and Jazz wants to go back to the bottom of the pool where it's dark and quiet and

Someone picks him up under his elbows from behind. Not exerting much pressure or holding him down. Just offering support.

A new voice comes from the back of the room. Louder and much lower than all the previous ones and, notably...not from the floor.

And meets the gaze of another giant robot.

__________________________

Side note: to those of you who went to hang out with me while I was writing. Thank you hejdhfngn I appreciate the company❤️

Oh by the way I’m in the process of writing the Mecha pilot au right now you can read if you want :D

[vanilla-lip-stick]

Silco's Last Words

In light if the second season, especially what we see of Jinx, I have thought again about Silco’s “You’re perfect.” I haven’t stumbled upon someone talking about it, though most reactors I’ve seen took Silco’s last words as a clear statement of his love for Jinx. That may be true but is not what I want to focus on.

The thing is: the writers of Arcane did a fantastic job of making each line of dialogue count. So what else could “You’re perfect” mean? Well, words were always Silco’s sharpest sword. And that’s exactly what I think they are here as well: a weapon. He uses words to forcefully embed his will onto the world, and in this case, he directs them at Jinx and no one else. To me, his sentence is not tender but cruel.

Let me explain. Look at the word “perfect.” If you take it seriously and attach it to something, it means you can’t imagine any way this something could be better. This, I assume, usually goes hand in hand with you wanting this something to stay the same. So his message to Jinx is: you are the way I want you to be. Don’t change. Don’t apologise. Go on like this.

But Jinx doesn’t think of herself as perfect. She’s torn. I’ve read somewhere: “Powder killed Silco, so Jinx killed Powder,” and in season two’s third episode, Vi explicitly blames Jinx for killing Powder. I think, however, that Powder is still in there. The ghosts of her family are still in there. To overcome her failures and the guilt of her repeatedly killing her family, Jinx leans into the chaos, into doing “evil” things. It is what Silco would have wanted were he still alive.

That’s the power of “perfect.” Jinx can’t heal, can’t repent, can’t regret. She can’t change. The only path is forward. That much, I believe, was already visible in the first season, and the second season’s first act reinforces me in this regard. In episode two, she says:

“Yep, that’s me. You ever need to curse a sibling or a family or a society: my card.”

She says that as an introduction, but also, in my opinion, as a self-affirmation. She is this “monster” that, in her eyes, Vi created (which I think is wrong, but that’s not the point here), the monster Silco came to love, the monster she chooses to keep alive because it’s the only thing left that ties her to the only person who embraced this side of her.

I believe she hates this side of her because it took Vander and the others from her. It is also the most influential side of her, offers her the most potent tools to make the world bend to her will instead of the other way round. This powerlessness was the overarching experience of her childhood until everything fell apart, and why would she want to repeat that? Before Silco, she received love despite what she was. With and from Silco, she received love because of what she was. After Silco, she receives maybe not love but affection from Sevika and Isha.

Sevika is a little lost, like Jinx, after Silco’s death, and Jinx means familiarity (maybe even family). Jinx is also a tool for her, though, useful because of her havoc-wreaking traits and abilities. Isha is grateful to Jinx for rescuing her by virtue of, again, her havoc-wreaking traits and abilities. Of course Jinx leans further into the monster side.

But Jinx wants to die. She could hardly be any clearer when she tells Vi, “Then stop me. ‘Cause no matter what I do, I just can’t seem to die.” She wants Vi to kill her, to end her suffering, to – that’s how I read it – restore some balance, some justice, wants Vi to finally punish her for killing her family which she knew was wrong since the very moment it dawned on her what she did in first season’s third episode. She can’t do it herself because Silco told her she was perfect.

When Jinx taunts Vi with the barely veiled innuendo about Vi wanting to have sex with Caitlyn, it shows, in my opinion, that Jinx is jealous and that she approves. She wants Vi to go on. Because she still loves Vi. That shows when she aims a pistol at an unsuspecting Vi in episode two and cries. But Jinx also cries because she can’t give Silco what he wants, because neither Silco nor Vi will love her back ever again. She cries because she knows the monster is just a patch to her broken self.

This single tear made me think about why she cried when she fired at the council at the very end of season one. I have no definite answer to that question, but perhaps she already knew back then that she could never fully become Jinx. After all, nothing but herself prevented her from killing Vi and Caitlyn right then, right there.

Perhaps she cried for Silco, too, out of grief, out of wrath. Perhaps she knew this action would put her on a path where, eventually, someone would end her suffering and let her rest, and she cried for herself, for the unfortunate girl that couldn’t safe herself, for the girl she could have been.

In the state Jinx is now – at the time of writing after season two’s second act – she reminds me of a golem: a lifeless tool, animated by magic. If we opened her head, we’d find a slip of paper inside that bears the magical words:

“You’re perfect.”

How cruel.