#what life must be like to be young and in love..... (he is literally 28)

[moregraceful]

feeling uncooperative with the prompts in the meme. between cheech and old pat which one would survive a joint venture into a thrift store? and which of them would you convert into a minor league baseball player if you had a magic wand

God yeah I reblogged that list and then read the questions and was like...this list is wack lol. Anyway THANK YOU these questions are much more important and gets really into the Hearts and Minds of these men.

Who survives a joint venture to the thrift store: Old Pat. It's Old Pat. Man has looked 40 years old since he hit puberty and has just kept growing older. Old man is in his element with the real senior citizens. However it is very important to me to mention that they're going to a bespoke thrift store for like farm and cowboy shit. Cheech could handle normal thrifting. Cheech would be great at normal thrifting. But take him to a store where it's JUST vintage farming equipment and cowboy leather shit and that city boy is going to panic. Old Pat is having a blast looking at pieces of metal that clearly spark joy in his construction worker heart but make NO sense to Cheech, son of academics, WHL overager. Cheech agreed to come to the store to push the cart but now he is manfully deep breathing while Old Pat examines a metal thing with rings. Is it for horses? Is it for wearing? Is it a BDSM thing? Do you put it on a tractor? Cheech is scared. (It is literally just a beval bit.) These stores don't exist in the Bay Area but maybe they do in idk Manitoba or Michigan or whatever. Or Gilroy, where all our dreams come true.

Minor league baseball player: the thing is, we're on Sieloff Watch (KING. ANNOUNCE YOUR RETIREMENT OR SIGN SOMEWHERE BEFORE I THROW UP) and Cheech is having his hot girl summer. So I'm inclined to say Cheech, just bc I think he has a shot in hell of making it OUT of minor league baseball. Also he is handsome like a baseball player. He has the looks for it. Not that you have to be handsome to be a baseball player but it helps. Can you imagine that man in the humid outfield of some nameless town in the San Joaquin Valley, fighting for his life in the game, the top three buttons of his jersey are undone, his curls are wilting, the uhhhh idk Fresno Nightcrawlers, AA for some cursed af West Coast team, are down 9-7 in the 8th, when the skies open up and it starts pouring...the stands, already two-thirds empty on a Tuesday night clear, while the teams run for cover under the downpour. Nick stands in the outfield and tilts his head toward the sky, feeling, for a moment, relief and peace.

#this was soooo fun thank you #i unpacked 21 boxes of books. i need to organize since the categorization is loose but at least there are no longer 24 boxes in that room #there is a box of comics i don't want and two boxes of cookbooks for the kitchen #idk what to do with the comics. the part of my life where i was an issue by issue reader of comics is over #tempted to loosely inventory and sell on ebay like here for $50 all these doa indies can be YOUR problem #i'm also missing a whole chunk of my tkams but my mom says she saw a box of them in another room #which is good bc i would literally go insane if i were truly missing any of my intl copies of tkam some of that shit was SO hard to aquire #anyway i just remembered what i was going to say which is that in the cuda frontier town au in my shower thoughts #siels is the washer woman. he runs a laundry. employs robbie (too small to ride horses) and weather (doesn't want to be a cowboy) #cheech comes from way out of town bc he's on the run from the LAW (shot a man in manitoba but the other guy had it coming) #he lives in old pat's house above the laundry. shares a bedroom with robbie. siels teaches him how to get the blood off of leather #siels falls in love but the LAW catches up with cheech and he has to run further west and old washerwoman pat and his boys stonewall the LA #siels thinks of him still on cold nights. when he can hear his boarders laughing through the walls as they play cards #what life must be like to be young and in love..... (he is literally 28) #also henry is the one room school teacher #cage replies #anon #i love this ask lol thank you so much 🙏😌

[ialwaysknewyouwerepunk]

queer signalling: louis and harry living their beautiful queer lives, collected by me

since we must take note of our fellow queers when they signal that they are very much one of us, despite being closeted. since i've had a very very queer few years thanks to them, thanks to their signalling, thanks to them being brave.

(!! this list isn't exhaustive, and if i've forgotten your favorite, by all means let me know. there's always room for another edition. it's been a while since i made a compilation and felt there was a need of a new one on my blog. this one goes a few years back, since my last one dates from 2021 :'o. so yeah. here we go.)

harry in my policeman, playing a closeted queer man, based on the book that's long been one of his favorites. lauded by the director and co-stars for how well he portrayed this character, how well he understood.

harry wearing a green flower on his chest for the mp premiere, placing himself (once again) in the same line of history as oscar wilde.

louis's green flowers on his initial 28clothing jersey at the first afhf, which includes bonus roses and 28s all around

the entire late night talking mv bc!!!!!

louis's rainbow stage lights during sibwawc. he really did that. every single night.

the entire dazed magazine happening. “I’ve always tried to compartmentalise my personal life and my working life,” he explains. / “I have unlocked an ability to be myself completely, unapologetically,” he says with conviction." / “I think through my own sense of self and personal journey, I am realising that happiness isn’t this kind of end state.”

louis's gay exit songs: most notably 'ever fallen in love (with someone you shouldn't've)'

harry flirting with stanley tucci

louis and his gay ass tank tops !!! we must point it out !!!!!!

all along

harry kissing a pride flag during harry's house ono in nyc

rainbow flare during the btm mv

harry being gifted a mask of his own face at munich n2, which prompted him to say that he feels like he's wearing a mask sometimes

28 in a triangle for 28clothing!!!!!!!!

kit connor soft launching 28 clothing. a young actor starring in a queer coming-of-age series, who was forced to come out after being accused of queerbaiting. he was the first one, besides louis, to wear 28clothing

harry's grammy's speech "people like me" (which ppl sadly misunderstood), echoing what he's been saying on tour for years. this doesn't happen to people like him. if they only knew, right?

harry's freddie-inspired outfit for the grammy carpet (which also brought back his theme for clown/jester fits, like harryween 2021 n2. wonder why)

louis's merch graphic where a boy is trying to smash a glass ceiling

harry posing for david hockney, actual living legend, gay artist of the ages. "Styles seems to know how lucky he is, adding, with a tinge of disbelief: “I’m in awe of the man with enough one-liners for a lifetime.” As to what those one-liners might be? Styles and Hockney’s mutual silence on that question suggests that what happens in the studio, stays in the studio."

louis having suspicious visuals during back to you, the only visuals of that type on tour

harry's 2022 harryween outfit: dressed as danny (literally. he did that. he went grease on us.) but wearing sandy's jacket

louis at barricade aka held safely in the arms of strong security personnel

harry singing man, i feel like a woman and still the one with shania twain. while wearing a rainbow discoball jumpsuit (parallel with kacey musgraves wearing a rainbow dress to sing it with him years ago.)

louis's gay ass merch for the away from home festival

harry dressed in nina ricci by harris reed, an explicitly gender-fluid line. "At 18 I found myself living in london creating ruffle blouses, corsets, fabric flowers and flares from my kitchen floor (...). My creations at the time were met with nothing but criticism for being “too feminine” or “costume”, teachers said I should focus on “menswear” or “womenswear”. l remember it really wasn’t until I started dressing for myself and who I was that it all clicked. @harrystyles was my first ever client who embraced the fun, fluid and expressive clothing I was creating."

continuous bluegreening. to name a few: harry's werchter fit, all this time lights, satellite caps in two colors only, louis's smiley flickering bluegreen on tour in 2022, the james cordon shit, louis in uncasville. enjoy this post here

harry's snl shoot unseens: him as ariel

louis out in amsterdam at a gay bar

harry going to the women's only swimming pond (on a day it was open for men, but this is important to me okay)

harry's use of orchids in his visuals during 'she' during love on tour '23

the 'hairy mermaid' tour visuals

harry as a mermaid during the mfasr mv. as a supreme physical manifestation of harry as the mermaid he truly is inside. but in his true form he gets chopped up and consumed. literally

as it was mv and its parallels with the matrix, hints to harry as the woman with the red dress.

louis jumping up on barricade against the one spot where a pride flag was draped over it

oh yeah that exact same thing happened in 2022 too

harry forming a skirt with a pride flag in brasil after his pants ripped

that gay ass denim getup with the fur collar?? while wearing the fucking peace ring????

harry and phoebe breaking gender norms in the tpwk mv dance. no i'm not over it yet shut up

louis wearing a basquiat t-shirt, another famously queer artist joining the ranks

harry bought an actual genuine basquiat. flex

harry dressed in skirts for gucci

"happy pride! happy pride! 'tis the season! can you tell i'm relaxed?"

"isn't all of this sparkly bi music?"

satellite mv rainbow planet tshirt

louis's bigger than me promo where he's literally george michael like??? IM SORRY???????

harry kissing lewis capaldi at the brits

harry kissing nick kroll at the dwd premiere. lol

and... harry as friend of D O R O T H Y. sang over the rainbow. we all cried. especially me at this clip of harry glancing in relief at his band after over the rainbow.

#queer signalling #my posts #long post #anyways............. hmu if you have more bc i know there's more that i've forgotten but i didn't want to wait #but these were my personal highlights #this is for me more than anyone i know. i don't really know if anyone's really waiting on this #but i personally have been feeling like i gloss over a lot #and forget a lot #and minimise a lot for fear of making a big thing out of something small #but... then i make big things into something small. #which i hate #going through my archive just shows how fast an event passes by and i just stopped talking about it #ive complained about this many a time i know #anygays #for whoever wants to come scream with me <3 #also i have left out some events that were too easily deniable and i didn't want to clutter the post #since what's actual tangibly real and straight from them is so insane already #also that gif is how i feel rn. #how i often feel tbh #i want to be braver again

[atlafan]

Ill never forget the time at my previous job when we were all going around saying what our dream jobs are, and when it got to me, I said, “I don’t dream of work” and everyone was stunned. STUNNED. One person said, “nothing at all? If you could do anything you wanted.” I said, “if I had the money to do whatever I wanted, I wouldn’t be wasting my life working 8-5 in an office five days a week, wasting my YOUTH, when I could be traveling and writing and taking better care of my body. Are you telling me you dream of being CEO of a company at some point?” And she said, “I think I’d own a brewery.” And I said, “so you agree, you’re a slave to capitalism”. I know they all must have been thinking “she’s young she doesn’t want to work”. I’m 28. I’ve been working for a legitimate paycheck since I was 14. And before that, I babysat for cash, among other things. I’m tired. I got a job to feed myself because my father literally wouldn’t buy food because he didn’t want to buy food for his four kids anymore. And he would yell at my mother if she went grocery shopping. I have watched both of my parents work their entire lives. My father was able to retire and lives comfortably and takes himself on vacations. And because my mother wised up and left, she’s still working. They both worked in the trades. I see how tired they are, and I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be almost 65, still working, and still not being able to travel or keep my body going.

I love my job, but I don’t love working. If I didn’t have to work, I simply wouldn’t. Believe me, I’d find plenty of worth while things to do to fill my time. I work out of necessity, to keep a roof over my head and food in my fridge.

When I dream, I do not think of performing a service so someone higher up than myself can continue filling their pockets.

Don’t ask me what my dream job is or what I’d be doing if I could do anything in the world, because it sure as shit will have nothing to do with the place I’m currently working at.

I do not dream of work. I do not dream to work.

What would I be doing? Bitch I’m laying out in the sun at the amalfi coast, reading an outrageously smutty book, and sipping on cocktails!

#rant #idk why I just wrote all this #personal #capitalism #work

[cha0ticspacebi]

You're An Image Caught in Time: Chapter 12

You got your soulmark when you were very young. You knew who you hoped had left their mark but since they never said anything to you, you resigned yourself to a life of bitter unrequited love. As much as you wanted to meet your soulmate you knew after all these years they must not want to meet you. Though the mark never faded some days you wished it would. Especially after meeting Billy.

☆ You can find me over on A03 as Cha0ticBi ☆ Master list link!

Childhood Friends! Eddie Munson X Reader

Tags: 18+ NSFW MDNI, slowish burn soulmate AU, reader is in an abusive relationship with Billy Hargrove, Dark! Billy, Eddie is a sweetheart but bad at feelings, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, eventual happy ending

Warnings: rape/non con elements, emotional and physical abuse, graphic depictions of violence, suicidal thoughts

Chapter 12/28 Previous chapter → Next chapter

It’s true what they say, you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. You missed this. It’s been so long since you did anything like this. A pile of your friends, snacks, games, and laughter fill Steve’s giant living room. It was such a welcome distraction from thinking about Billy. 

Eddie had grabbed a backpack full of his dungeon master stuff out of the back of his van and began setting up at the large table. It was so surreal to see him in his element like this. He told you a bit about dungeons and dragons but you were sort of clueless to what it actually was. Eddie told you it was a game but everyone had papers and pencils in front of them. Honestly, it looked like a lot of math. You, Robin, and Steve all wore similar expressions.   

��Henderson what the hell are you dragging us into?” Steve looked over the paper he’d been handed.

Eddie cackled in a witchy voice, “Not him big boy! ME! The better question is what I will be dragging you into.” Steve’s face made you laugh, good to know I'm not the only confused one.

“Come on, this looks,” Robin tried to stay positive, “Interesting?”

Eddie handed you a paper like the one Steve and Robin had, “Don’t worry princess. I’ll go easy on you.”

“Hey no soulmate privileges! If the rest of us are in danger, so is she!” Gareth complained.

“I’ve waited 12 years for soulmate privileges! I want to win Dungeons and Dragons,” you pouted.

Everyone stared at you wide eyed, then they shifted to Eddie, who rubbed his temples, “Yeah I get it. I fucked up.”

“12 years?” Steve shouts, “You’re 18 right - that would make you 6? Did you guys meet as kids or something?”

Dustin grinned, “What was our big bad DM like as a kid? Has he always been such a jerk!”

The smile that graced your lips was unprecedented. Your face quite literally lit up as you realized none of them knew Eddie as a kid. Only you. That was a memory and a time only the two of you shared. Images caught in time, forever with you, something Billy couldn’t take from you. 

Eddie shot you a look of pleading, “Please spare me princess! I’m begging you! Don’t spill all my deep dark secrets, I’ve got an image to uphold here!”

You grinned and turned to the group, “Did you guys know as a kid Eddie liked to dress up as Batman? He wore that Halloween costume every day until Christmas one year. It was so filthy that by the time he finally took it off Uncle Wayne had to throw it away.” 

Everyone laughed at his expense but he still held your hand, “You wound me princess. Need I remind you it’s my bats on your back.” 

Oh. Shit. A feeling bubbled in your gut that felt new and enticing, Billy always loved to call you his but hearing it from Eddie was a whole different experience and lit a fire in you that you didn’t even know you had. When Billy would tell everyone the two of you were soulmates he’d get really possessive. Flaunting an almost sick, sadistic sense of ownership over you. But with Eddie? As his words traveled into your ears they felt more like he was trying to tell you it was his responsibility to protect and serve you. You shut your mouth. He cocked his head at you as if able to read your mind. Everyone was oblivious to this tension rising between the two of you. Steve was insisting that someone explain this damn game to him and Dustin took charge but you couldn’t hear anything beyond that because your eyes were locked with Eddie’s. He leaned in close to your ear and whispered so quietly you didn’t even know a voice could go that low.

“Did you like that sweetheart?” A small nod from you gives him permission to continue, “You like being mine? All mine to please and protect? I can’t wait to help you learn all these new things about yourself. Ready to play?”

He pulls away and slips back into Eddie the Dungeon Master, “Newbies, hear me now! You are about to embark on the most dangerous mission of your lives. You will have your chance to join in but I think it best if you watch first and get an idea of how this works. Then when I believe you to be ready, I’ll introduce you,” he addressed the rest of the group, “Minions! It’s time once again to face the dangers of the Tomb of Horrors!”

Eddie told a tale of a crypt that lies hidden somewhere in the far reaches of the world. Somewhere lost under a lonely hill lies the sinister tomb of horrors said to be the home to a deadly Demilich named Acererak. The party works their way to find the tomb and foolishly enters. You think you're starting to get the hang of how this works when Eddie sets the stage.

“You realize you’re not alone as your group traverses the grime covered dungeon. You see a light approaching and 3 weary adventurers who are looking very lost emerge from the darkness. A human warrior who wields a wooden club and has great hair. An elven sorceress whose hands are covered in ash and smells of fire. Finally a beautiful dwarven woman wearing her holy symbol tied around her neck and a golden circlet floating atop her gorgeous head.” Eddie laughs as he turns to you, Steve, and Robin, “That’s your cue!”  

Steve awkwardly laughs and shrugs his shoulders, “Um, I don’t know where I am.”

Dustin pinches the bridge of his nose, and speaks in character, “Yeah no shit. Have any of you seen signs of a lich around anywhere?”

Steve turns to you, “Is that the thing we are looking for?”

“Not yet,” Robin steps up, “We were looking but then dingus here triggered a trap.” She describes how her sorceress wipes the black soot from her hands. 

Eddie’s mouth curled into a pleasant smile, “Wow Buckley, color me impressed. Great improvising,” he looks at you, “Do you say anything to new faces?”

“Hi?”

Eddie was right that it got easier as you went along. It was impossible not to get invested in his words. Your mind wandered back to a time he must have been developing these storytelling skills.

He jumped up onto his bed and pulled an imaginary sword from his hip. He fought off the imaginary foes from the mattress and looked down several times to make sure you were still watching. He recited words from the book he had just been reading to you.

“I can’t wait until I’m older, I want to be just like the knights in that story so I can defend you from threats near and far!”

You smiled, “My hero!”

The adventure continued and eventually you came to a door. Your group spends nearly 20 minutes debating the pros and cons of opening the door. Eddie hides his smile behind his hand as you start to get invested.

“It’s just a door guys, I say we open it,” you insist.

“It’s obviously another trap!” Mike shouts, “We’ve already triggered 4 traps tonight. Stop just opening things that need to be investigated first!”

Steve announces, “I walk over and open it.”

“It opens,” Eddie tries to talk between laughs as he describes the contents of the room, “Beyond the door is a staircase leading downwards. Thick webs partially block your path.”

“I cast fireball,” Robin raises her hand, cutting him off.

“NO! Jesus Christ, we are never playing with the three of you again, you’re all so chaotic,” Dustin throws his hat into the air. 

“Oh oh!” You get excited! Flipping through all the pages Eddie had given you, “As Robin sets the webs on fire I cast create water and immediately put out the fire! Can I do that? Does that work?”

“If I get to see you get that excited again, I’d let you do whatever you want princess,” Eddie smiles, “Steam fills the small tunnel as the sorceress and the beautiful cleric work together to clear the path. At the bottom of the staircase, lying on the floor sits an iron mace inlaid with stunning silver.”

“Steve, do NOT touch that!” Everyone yells.

He holds his hands up offended, “Hey for all you guys know that’s this big bad guy's only weakness and we can’t defeat him without it!”

Turns out Steve wasn’t wrong. He eventually said fuck it and picked up the mace, using it to destroy the zombie guarding this room. Having fun with your friends, you allow yourself this victory of forgetting the events of the past few days for a moment and before you know it you’d made it to the end of the dungeon and defeated the big bad evil guy. Eddie packed up his stuff while you sat on the couch and Robin played with your hair. The hellfire kids had all left a while ago and it was just the 4 of you in Steve’s living room talking.

“Guys?” You spoke off topic as you got the courage to say something, “I just need to say thank you. Thank you for everything, I was- ” all of them stop you at the same time. 

Eddie’s the one who finished your sentence. “You were being controlled by a manipulative abuser. Listen to me, listen to all of us, we all care about you.” He grabs your hands and pulls you from Robin’s pouty grasp and up into his arms. You wrap your feet around him and hug his neck, “Are you ready to go home?” 

“Mmhmm,” you mumble into his hair.

Steve offers to grab your bags so Eddie doesn't have to put you down, all 4 of you walk out to Eddie’s van and he straps you into the passenger seat as you suddenly get really sleepy. Eddie carefully jostles your arm to get your attention when you arrive back at his trailer. 

“Hey sleeping beauty, we’re home.”

You rub your sleepy eyes as he carefully leads you into the house. He takes such good care of you, getting you some clothes to change into before he goes back out to the van to get his stuff. He shivers stepping out into the cold and opens the driver’s side door but then a fire lights under his skin as he sees a very unwelcome sight. Billy walks up to him.

“Hey Munson, nice shiner you got there.”

Eddie slams the van door shut and pulls his knife from his pocket. He grabs Billy’s collar with both hands and slams him against the side of the van, knife to his throat, “The only reason you are still breathing is because she said so, I suggest you get the fuck out of here. Now!” Eddie’s voice was dark. He pulls Billy back and shoves him as far away as possible. 

Billy brushed himself off and looked unfazed, as if Eddie weren’t even there, “Hey sugar. Are you ready to come home?” Eddie twisted around to see you standing on the front porch wearing the clothes he’d just given you. Your skin looked pale. You held your mouth fighting back nausea. 

“Go back inside. Now,” Eddie’s command sends chills down your spine. You couldn’t move though. You stood frozen.

Billy took a step in your direction but Eddie blocked his path to you, “I listened to her once but you take one more step and I won’t hold back.”

It was quiet and meek but you found your voice, “Billy. Please just leave.”

“Are you seriously choosing this freak over me?” anger came through his words as he stepped towards the two of you. Eddie grabbed him by the collar and kicked him backwards again. He stumbled and looked like he was about to retaliate when a voice cut through the air.

“I too think It’s best if you leave now,” Uncle Wayne had pulled up and was now standing by your side, “Before we need to get the authorities involved.” Eddie didn’t take his eyes off of him as he backed up to join you.

Billy scoffed, “You can hide all you want! I know sooner or later you’ll come crawling back to me begging for my forgiveness! You’d save both of us a lot of trouble by coming with me now but I guess you want to do this the hard way. Fine, enjoy it while it lasts.” Billy’s eyes told you as he turned heel and left that he’d make good on his threat but the pairs of arms holding you close told you everything would work out in the end. 

#eddie munson x reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things fic #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #soulmate au #soulmate identifying marks #childhood friend eddie munson #high school sweethearts #stranger things fanfic #stranger things smut #18+ content

[prpfs]

Hey everyone! 💫🫧

Currently on the market for some new rps :) I have a few fandoms that I enjoy playing but I also have an OC that I'd really like to try out some more!

A little about me and what I'm looking for. I just turned 24, so 18+ partners please! I really enjoy domestic, slice of life, (found) family, pregnancy, parenting type plots but also I'm a big fan of angst! I have less angsty plots in mind but if you have one you've been wanting to try, let's hear it!

As for my OC, he was a teen father who is currently raising his son on his own. He's a writer, and I generally play him from ages 24-28 but I'd love to try something a bit younger to really follow his struggle as a young single parent. If interested I'll send his full bio and faceclaim :) Mainly a fan of mxm so searching mostly for that!

Literate is a MUST. At least 3+ paragraphs, proper grammar, and discord is my preferred method of rp :)

Please reach out if interested, thank you so much!

leave a like if you're interested and anon will get back to you!

#oc rp #original rp #mxm rp #gay rp #ocxoc rp #hot

[lullabyes22-blog]

Forward, but Never Forget/XOXO - Ch: 17 - Grounded

Summary: Zaun is free—and must grow into its unfamiliar new dimensions. So must Silco and Jinx. A what-if that diverges midway through the events of episode 8. Found family and fluff, politics and power, smut and slice-of-life, villainy and vengeance.

AO3 - Forward, But Never Forget/XOXO

FFnet - Forward, But Never Forget (XOXO)

Playlist on Youtube

Fanart, Meta, Snippets

Chapters: 1| 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 |8 | 9 | 10 |11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54

CH 17: Silco and Jinx. A pitch-black comedy with a pinch of magic.

HEAVY TW: Suicidal ideation, discussions of suicide, attempted suicide.

Secondary tw: violence, disturbing adult behavior among adolescents, depictions of mental illness.

cw for drug use, jumpscares, and the aftermath of war.

If I've missed any tw's, please drop me a PM!

I love and I hate it at the same time you and I drank poison from the same vine ~ "Daylight" – David Kushner

The young bootblack trudges home.

His workbag is slung over his small shoulder. His bones ache in the mizzle hanging like translucent curtains over the cobblestones. It's been a long day. Hellishly long. The explosion in the lower-zones is over. But fear hangs in the air like a persistent chill.

Like after the war.

It wasn't so bad after the first few months. They started tearing down and rebuilding the broken bits in the city, like a stage set from one of those street plays. The web of merchant alleys in the Sumps were pitched with colorful tents, strands of lanterns and chaotic booths. Shops started opening in the Promenade, their doors releasing the aroma of fresh-baked scones and candied carvernfruit. Entresol ran thick with somber suited-up men and women filing in and out of skyscrapers—what his grandpa calls The infernal machines of bureaucracy.

The boy takes it to mean literal machines. All steam and gears and pulleys, powering the city. He doesn't mind it. There were people out on the streets again. Hundreds of shoes stomping through the sludge across the pavements. Dirty shoes mean coins.

By the month's end, he'll have less chances to make coins. There is talk of public schools, and compulsory education for urchins under fifteen. He dislikes the idea of school. Grandpa has promised him there'll be new games to play. But playing outside is better.

Not tonight.

All the streets are emptied. Folks are only allowed to get food from the grocer's, and return home. The street-corners are full of whispers. Firelights—Jinx—The Eye of Zaun. The boy isn't sure what any of it means, except that the city has fallen dark again. Blackguards patrol in chem-suits, carrying guns.

They aren't here to play. Their guns aren't toys.

Under the flickering halo of a street lantern, the boy stops to roll a cigarette. Grandpa warned him not to tarry. Trouble's a-brewing, he'd said. Finish yer work, then sling yer hook.

But it's good to be out, if only for a few minutes.

The boy licks the edge of the paper, and takes a slow breath of the sticky April night.

"Diesel strain, hm? You're having yourself a time."

The man looming from the fog is tall. Taller than Grandpa. His face is like Grandpa's too: all wrinkles and scars. But only on one side, hidden under unruly twists of dark hair. He wears a long coat, the hem clouded with dust, like the tips of his boots, which have metal winking on the toes.

His smile is a sharp thing. But his one blue eye lingers gently on the boy, as if he might be thinking of some other child from long ago.

The stare is unsettling. The boy thinks of a fly caught in a spider's web. He likes spiders. He keeps a big fat one—Billy-O—in a shoebox under his and Grandpa's bed, and feeds it dead bugs.

This is different. This isn't a spider—but something spookier—unfolding out of the dark and blocking his path.

Hastily, the boy tucks the unlit cigarette behind his ear. "I'll be off, sir."

"Do. It's dangerous at this hour."

There is no sinister game of hopscotch. The man sidesteps smoothly, letting the boy go. Close-up, the boy glimpses the man's other eye from behind the veil of hair. It shines with an otherworldly glow: ember and shadow. The boy's heart plummets. He takes off like a shot. Giddiness is a thin cover for undiluted terror.

Death darkening the door—as Grandpa says.

Daring a glance over his shoulder, the boy looks for the strange man.

The streets are empty.

The streets are empty, but Silco is at home.

He's always at home, no matter what part of Zaun he's in. The city's spirit throbs in his bloodstream. Outrunning it is like trying to outrun his own skin. Still—it's been a long time since he's gone from the zenith to ground-zero. He has a view of the cityscape's glittering tapestry through his office window. But it's different from being in the thick of it.

Right in Zaun's bazaar of the bizarre.

Slipping out of his headquarters was easy, even with the doubled guards, and tripled surveillance. When Silco first had the building renovated, he'd ordered it designed the way illusionists build the trappings of their stage. There was the façade: an Art Noveau showcase of steel-framed glass. Then there was the inner sanctum: a warren of trap-doors and tunnels.

His network was privy to the barest blueprint. Silco kept a skeleton crew on permanent shift, guarding each escape hatch. The rest of the labyrinth was his own to traverse: his memory the skeleton key. For a man whose trade is trickery, home was an architecture of vice. Sliding panels to practice eavesdropping. Escape-chutes to deploy ambushes. Every brick a conspiracy and every bolt a ruse.

Silco's fondest wish was that he'd one day give Jinx the tour. Show her that the artistry of the lie was just as essential as the mechanics of the crime. Power could be neither bought nor sold. It was the system of pulleys that gave the machinery the impetus to keep spinning.

Tonight the machinery has seized up. The gears have stalled. A suite full of dead bodies and deadheaded braids—and he was powerless.

He must make things right.

The hatch from the Chancellor's penthouse suite disgorged Silco to the subterranean endpoint at the bottom floor. From there, a twisting shaft that led out beneath the roadways. The stairwell echoed hollowly under his boots. Overhead steel rumbled and dust trickled. The darkness exhaled like a pair of lungs. The space Silco emerged into was an unfinished service passage at Entresol central district—grease-slicked cinderblocks and rough-hewn floors. He'd made a show of hiring the most talented stonemason in his network. But it was an entirely different breed of workmen who built this passageway.

He kept it as they'd left it. No torch or chem-light.

The path to freedom was as black as coal.

The passage terminated in a vault door. Silco worked the combination: 1-0-1-0.

Jinx's birthday.

The night air was hot and sludge-thick. Silco stepped into an ambit of light cast by a gooseneck streelamp. Mizzle fell, droplets alighting on his hair and shoulders. Old piss-stains rose wick-like up the walls like flames. The old alleyway reeked of rot. Silco knew the odor well—the same smell from when he was a boy, trailing after Vander to chase vermin for the ratcatchers.

He took it in stride. It was the reek of life.

A few louts anointed with booze were scattered on the cobblestones. At Silco's footfalls, they staggered to their feet. They didn't look like vagrants. More like scavengers—eyes sharp in skeletal faces—wearing vagrant's clothes.

"Arright, mate?"

Silco nodded.

"Had yer fill of the lights, eh?" One man clapped Silco's shoulder. "Lost yer way?"

"Close enough."

"Don't we know it!" A chorus of laughter. "Let's get you home, eh? We'll help you find the right track."

From inside his coat, the man withdrew a flask. There was an unmistakable whiff: tequila, sea-salt, slime. The sum total of every despair-inducing organism in this city.

That, and a shot of kerosene.

The man grinned—false bonhomie hiding bottomless malice.

"One sip," he said. "It'll make your night."

His companions circled closer. Their laughter ebbed. Their violence pooled in Silco's mouth. Heavy, salty, electric.

A taste he'd missed like his basest self.

Silco's eyes drifted up to the man. His lip curled, exposing serrated teeth.

"Don't I know it," he said.

In a blur, he smashed the flask into the man's jaw. The crack was as wet as the night.

His victim reeled, blood frothing from his mouth. He dropped in a heap. His companions froze in their tracks. The exchange had taken less than five seconds. Less time than it would've taken them to stick a pocketknife into Silco's gut.

It was a favorite tactic of water-rats—muggers. After dark, they preyed on suckers in the blind spots. Once upon a time, they'd been fine sport for Silco to practice his own knifework on.

Now it felt like picking bones off a plate.

In the aftermath, Silco stood, arms loose at his sides. His bad eye glowed red in the refracted lamplight.

"Off," he said. "Else I'll use you for kindling."

The remaining water-rats scattered.

Silco poured the swill from their flask into a dumpster. The fluid soaked the scraps of paper and discarded empties. He struck a matchstick, and let it drop. The stuff ignited with a whoosh.

Let the blackguards chase a pyromaniac tonight. It would keep them off his back—and out of the way.

Flames nibbled at the periphery of darkness. The silky laughter of fire gathered into a roar. Silco strode off without a backward glance.

The thoroughfare was a haze of motorcars and smoke. Oil-slicked puddles showed distorted reflections of pedestrians hurrying home after the curfew. Most wore hats, filtration masks or scarves in case of a Gnasher. Only a few stragglers went barefaced.

Bad weather was a sneak-thief's best friend.

Silco tugged the collar of his coat high, donned his own mask, and melted into the crowd. At Bridgewaltz, no one stopped him. At Emberflit Alley, blackguards crisscrossed the district, but gave him an indifferent berth. At Drop Street, he blurred into the scenery.

A scarred raw-boned man is no rarity in the Undercity. Even with his disguise, most don't recognize Silco by sight. His face isn't well known. Only his voice—and designation.

The Eye.

Chin low, shoulders high, Silco allows his features to slip now into a mask of flat-eyed vacancy. His body surrenders to the flow of the passing crowd. Small steps; slow movements.

Just a little fish in a big pool. Nothing to see.

Beyond the neon ripples of Entresol, the Sumps are chokingly quiet. Streets are scudded with low-lying smog. In the glow of a lantern, Silco takes his bearings. He is in the southern quadrant—a long way from the Oshra Va'Zaun tunnels. He has a half-night's worth of ground to cover before the network is alerted to his disappearance. There will be sentinels at every shortcut; guards in every bolthole.

Fortunately, Silco's sonar is guided by a different map.

Janna performs an act of gracious negligence by camouflaging his silhouette down the rooftops. He slithers without sound from parapet to plinth. Vaults the gaps between signposts like a phantom. The wind whips his hair in his eyes; cold, sharp, bracing. Silco welcomes the sting. He'd been naturally fluid once. But now he lacks the lightness of his younger days. Worse, his bad eye has skewed his depth perception. Momentum bleeds into vertigo. His arms and legs feel cooked. More than once, he has to recalibrate the distance between two points—lest he take a fatal tumble.

Age makes fools of everyone.

And yet the southbound journey holds a bittersweet catharsis. All the time overhead has dulled his sense of scale. His world has become a machine with a single gear: the endless grind. No rest, no respite. Just a mind fine-tuned to run and keep running.

Roof-runs are different. There is an art to keeping one's balance. It requires a sure step; a steady head.

An eye on the horizon.

Silco remembers the horizon of six years ago. Himself and Jinx, hand-in-hand—racing down this very stretch of rooftops. He remembers how they'd kept seamless pace with each other, her small hand folded through his. His shadow; his comet-tail. They'd race together across the crazy jumble of rooftops: teetering like tightrope walkers across the asymmetrical shingles, darting like moths around the gaseous radiance enrobing the gables, skittering like spiders down the storm pipes. He remembers squeezing Jinx's hand whenever she'd make a particularly spry move. Her giggles were like a blue ribbon, unfurling out and out into the night.

In those moments, dizzied with bittersweet kinship, Silco counted himself the luckiest bastard in the city.

(And I squandered it.)

Six years. A long time to keep an eye to the horizon. An eternity, even for the sharpest man. Silco was ready to give his own lifetime up for the return on investment. But he'd neglected the simplest fact of all: Jinx was never meant to be an investment. He'd done the damage, and reaped the rewards. Left her an orphan; made her a killer. And he'd known the cost, hadn't he? The rot creeping in the cracks. The reaper's silhouette darkening the door. He could outwit a dozen devils. But no conman can escape the consequences of his cut. No smooth-talker can talk his way out of the truth.

Nobody can ride the tide of denial forever.

(Forgive me, Jinx.)

Silco sinks deeper into Oshra Va' Zaun's bowels. Down the fire-escape of a shuttered station. Past the chrome glaze of a rusted turbine. His reflection travels the panes of cobwebbed metal like a shark under ripplets of water. His boots hit the dirt with no sound.

Leaning forward, palms on knees, Silco catches his breath. His brain pulses on adrenaline. The surge is familiar: a sparking song of nerves.

Call and response.

(Are you here, my lovely?)

The explosion site is cordoned off. Blackguards scuttle in the shadows like roaches. But Silco knows a dozen tortuous passages from his mining heyday. Jinx was fond of using them for games of hide-and-seek—with Firelights as her quarries. The tunnels were littered with their bones.

Now they are vaporized. Like everything else.

The perimeter of Jinx's hideout is a scorched crater. The catwalks are incinerated into charred rubble. The turbines are reduced to misshapen exoskeletons. The air reeks of a doused firepit. The leftover heat from the blast still radiates off the caverns. Now and then, pebbles skitter, presaging a more sinister collapse.

A similar sensation creeps through Silco.

Not dread.

Grief.

This hideout was his first gift to her. His acknowledgement of her specialness. Her acknowledgement of him as a father. By blowing it up, was she excising their bond? Or did it signify something deeper? Like Jinx spiriting off with Hex-gem. Like Silco setting foot in Zaun's depths. A return to the base elements—shadows and bilgewater for him, magic and gunpowder for her.

Mostly, he wonders if it's a trap. If Jinx is luring him out to deal the death-blow.

He's ready to chance it.

He creeps through the ruined hideout. Most exits are blocked off. Some lead to cul-de-sacs choked with debris. Others void into antechambers of noxious trapped gases. Only one tunnel remains intact. Silco peers through. It is barely large enough to squeeze through. The dimensions are pure darkness, thick and unending.

Silco steps back, taking a breath. A faint prickle of something ripples around the aperture, like the leftovers of a fireworks display. Blue motes glitter at the edges off his sightline.

The aftermath of a blast from the Hex-gem.

He doesn't hesitate. When it comes to Jinx, concern outweighs caution. Switching on his chem-light, Silco crawls into the tunnel. The inside is slimed with dampness and pitted with holes; some coin-sized, others the wide as hubcaps. Their interior yields a grainy dimness, giving no sense of depth.

Silco crawls on, alert for sounds. All he hears is a hollow whispering. Where it could be coming from—?

A spiky shimmer darts through the air. Silco squints. It is a dragonfly. At least it resembles one. But its carapace is glossier. It gives off a maddening whine, zipping by Silco's ear. He slaps it against the tunnel wall. The little bastard crumples like tinfoil.

A raspy croon floats in:

"Peek-a-boo."

A pair of hands flash out of the hole closest to him. They snatch his leg with astonishing strength. Silco makes a sharp involuntary sound. His chem-light skitters from his hands. The last thing he glimpses is a ghost-white face surfacing out of the darkness. A pair of eyes glow pink as cherry-bombs.

Jinx.

"Shoulda known it wouldn't be easy."

"What—?"

Then she yanks and Silco plunges into space.

He feels himself falling: a giddy weightlessness. It lasts no more than an eyeblink. He hits not ground but water, its icy shock sucking the breath from his lungs. He thrashes, disoriented. A little hand seizes his wrist. Then he is swept away—not by an undercurrent but Jinx's unyielding ferocity.

Out into an unknowable darkness.

Silco has grounded Jinx once—and only once.

It was also the only time he'd nearly struck her.

Jinx was thirteen. Her first teenage autumn; a milestone. Zaun had a rite of passage for each. Nothing like Piltover, where bored adolescents celebrated the trappings of maturity by sneaking off to indulge in vices like alcohol, sex or drugs.

Most sumpsnipes were already acclimated with such unsavoriness.

And worse.

In the Fissures, each coming-of-age was marked by something else. A test of courage. At seven, sumpsnipes came together in packs and leapt across the jagged firmament of rooftops, every iron spire and rusted stairwell beckoning with a broken neck. At ten, they swarmed any Topside automobile left carelessly parked in the alleyside, stripping it down to the bone with homemade chisels and gemmies. By sixteen, most had joined gangs, each with their own bloodthirsty initiations: maraudings, maimings, murders. By the Big Nineteenth, if they'd not already slugged a shot of gutrot hooch, cut a chem-baron's purse, ridden the Rising Howl, and cased a Topside joint for a smash-and-grab, they hadn't truly achieved their majority.

Thus, by the Big Nineteenth, the majority of sumpsnipes were dead.

The thirteenth-year marked the turning point. For those who survived it, childhood was done.

Jinx's childhood was already dead and buried.

At the edge of Zaun's outskirts, equidistant between Factorywood and the Sumps, sat a massive turbine, grimed with decades of filth. Large as a crater, with rotor blades the size of boats. It was part of a defunct structure known as the Treatment Stump, that once purified the foul-smelling run-off from Factorywood's smelteries. The whole complex was as primitively derelict as the rest of Zaun's infrastructure.

A monument to rust.

A tributary forking away from the Pilt sat under the treatment plant, corrosive with waste effluents. Upriver, at the Promenade, it was a smooth blue vein. As it snaked lower, past Entresol's Canal Zone, it narrowed, a lurking serpent of foulness, twisting ever downward along the Sumps until it finally reached Factorywood. There, it pooled and collected in a toxic bog at the Treatment Stump, before spiraling lower into the caverns of Oshra Va'Zaun, and merging with the underground river that spat out into the Deadlands.

On their thirteenth Name Day, sumpsnipes anxiously gathered at the edges of the Treatment Stump's turbine, watching the blades whip around, feeling the foul backdraft on their skins. The speed seemed sluggish at first glimpse; only up close did it betray its dangerous velocity.

The sumpsnipes would hold their breaths, gather their courage—then leap fluidly onto the blades.

Done right, a sumpsnipe landed feet-first, and became one with the rotors' rhythm. Jumping from one blade to the next, a spray-can in hand, they'd emblazon its surface with gang insignias, a multicolored impasto to mark the passage of generations. If miscalculated, the sumpsnipe fell through the gap between the rotors—and straight into the churning spume.

A handful of boys and girls did fall. Some drowned. Others were crippled for life.

When Vander was a boy, he'd made the leap successfully. So had Silco.

The trick was to center your focus not on the rotors but their rhythm. To learn it, without letting yourself become hypnotized by its inexorable whirr. You must not fall into the vortex; you must ride it. Once your feet hit the blades, you were safe, in the eye of ordered chaos. The rest was a joyride.

Nothing in Jinx's life was a joyride.

She'd leapt under Silco's watch. Not a milestone but an initiation. The first jump—and the first kill.

A chem-punk was fastened to the rotor. A snitch. He'd been caught slipping intel on Silco's Shimmer strongholds to the Slickjaws. During the last raid, Silco had lost twelve men. Six were taken captive and tortured to death. One was a girl, only fourteen. The Slickjaws had sown her mouth shut, taken her eyes, and left the rest of her splayed in a butchered wreckage outside the Drop.

Jinx had found her corpse.

Afterward, she'd made it her mission to smoke the snitch out. Her methodical approach was no different from Silco's. She'd used stealth instead of subterfuge, but otherwise she'd followed the same strategy. She'd infiltrated one of the Slickjaws' hideouts. She'd tracked their visitors. She'd watched for patterns. Then she'd followed them deep, and cornered the snitch—a Blind Man's bluff turned dead-man's-hand.

Silco had received him hogtied like a prize. TRAITOR was branded on his forehead with blood-red ink.

Jinx had tiptoed coyly up to Silco. "Do I get a reward?"

Silco had put a hand to her cheek. His touch wasn't tender so much as thoughtful. Eyes aglow, Jinx leaned into it. She was always like that: a black cat twining around him, mrrrowing for affection.

Silco had little patience for affection. Jinx was proving his sole exception.

"I'll do you one better, child."

"Huh?"

"You're a fast learner. But you're still not equal to the crew." He'd given her a solemn look. "You've been my little shadow. But shadows must shed their skin."

Jinx had giggled, but there was a brittle edge to it.

"What d'you mean?"

"You trapped the snitch. You captured him, alive and breathing. The Slickjaws will know you for an enemy. They will hunt you."

Jinx bit her lip. Old doubts clouded the clearness of her eyes.

"But...I-I'm not a fighter."

"You're not." He'd smoothed a hand through her hair. "You're better. You're a planner. There is no situation you cannot think your way out of. But sometimes, it takes more than guile to outmaneuver danger. Sometimes, it takes blood."

Jinx's breath wavered.

"It's time," Silco said. "You're ready for the first taste."

His eyes had passed from Jinx to the snitch. He lay on Silco's floor, bound hand and foot, mouth sealed with duct tape. At the intensifying burn of Silco's stare, he began to whimper.

"Let's make it a special one."

At his side, Jinx hadn't made a sound.

Now the snitch was spreadeagled to the turbine. A spit-soaked gag was wadded between his jaws. Bullseyes whorled across his scored skin. Silco's crew had taken their time on him, beating him and branding him. But they'd left him intact.

He was Jinx's quarry. Her treat.

Her kill.

"Two steps," Silco said. "Make the leap—and put a bullet in his brainpan."

The crew were present for the initiation: Sevika, Lock, Ran and Dustin. They'd joshed and jostled Jinx, but none dared push her toward the rotors. Not in Silco's presence. Sevika spoke matter-of-factly of how best to do it: time the rotor's sweeps and jump a split-second in advance. Don't look the target in the eye. Just take aim and squeeze the trigger. And if Jinx was too chickenshit, hey, she could put if off—put her acceptance into their world off—for another year.

A cruel goad. Jinx should've been too clever to fall for it.

Her defiant streak always outmatched her cleverness.

Glowering, she'd elbowed past the crew. Silco can still picture her. Perched like a cat at the edge of the railing, Puff-Puff in hand, the wan moonlight plating her pale skin. The backdraft from the turbine ruffled her bangs and stirred her braids. Goose pimples rose on her arms. The crew encircled her and began the traditional chant:

"Let 'er rip!"

"Let 'er rip!"

"Let 'er rip!"

The whole time they shouted, louder and louder, Jinx didn't take her eyes off the chem-punk. She took a breath, steadied her spine and bit her lower lip. Her body was static; her brain was the opposite, its fierce workings lighting sparks in her eyes.

At the last moment, she glanced up at Silco. The small nod he gave was rewarded with her smile at the highest wattage.

She leapt.

The crew fell silent. It was instinctual. Like watching a comet fall. One heartbeat Jinx was crouched on the railing. The next, she was perched crosslegged on the rotors.

One arm lifted, languorously. A pert middle finger aimed skyward.

The crew blinked. Then the cheers began. Sevika rolled her eyes, then grudgingly clapped along. Silco stayed just outside their half circle, his expression unreadable save for a small smile.

Inside his chest, pride stirred.

But this was half the test. The most critical was yet to come.

Jinx traipsed up to the chem-punk. He squirmed against his bindings, emitting high-pitched shrieks against the gag. Without any perceptible shift in expression, Jinx cocked Puff-Puff. Her eyes were blank as distant moons. They beheld her target the same way, as if he were a fragment of space-junk caught in her orbit.

Do it, Silco thought.

It was but one of the hundred steps to forging her into polished perfection. To peeling away the moony-eyed child to expose that tungsten chilliness that Silco knew was at her center. Power was a commodity in their world. By dint of its nature, supply was limited. All scarcity came with cost—be it a rival chem-boss putting a bullseye between your eyes, or a treacherous ally sticking a knife in your back, or greedy underlings seeking to steal your throne from under your feet.

They all wanted to own what you possessed.

They all took without paying the price.

Silco had taught Jinx the language of knives. He'd showed her the intimacy of violence, not just as a display of force but a measure of skill. Now she needed to master the final lesson. Anyone in the Undercity could wield a weapon. Anything in the Undercity could become a weapon. But at its core, a weapon was neither a toy for showy enjoyment nor a tool for sanctified self-defense. It was the purest and most absolute means of death.

He wasn't making Jinx a killer. He was teaching her the cost of survival.

About its winners—and losers.

Do it.

The chem-punk let off a choking sob and began to cry.

Jinx stared back. Her visage stayed empty. But Puff-Puff wavered in her grip.

The crew began muttering to themselves. Was this going to presage another meltdown? Ruthlessly competent as Jinx was with gadgetry, she had yet to learn that bloodwork was a different beast entirely. There was no room for error in the business of life and death.

Maybe, the crew whispered, she's not cut out for this business?

Maybe she was as they'd always suspected: a loose end.

Silco kept his peace. His focus was on Jinx. Every muscle in her body was tensed as if for rupture—or release. Her blue eyes, flat as mirrors, held a liquid sheen.

Tears were trickling down the chem-punk's cheeks.

Softly, Silco said, "Quick and clean."

Jinx's head jerked up.

"If you make a kill," Silco said, "do it right."

Jinx swallowed, once. Nodded.

"Finish it."

All hesitation fled Jinx's features.

In a practiced one-two, she took aim—and fired. The bullet slammed into the chem-punk's forehead. Blood splattered. His breath hitched in his lungs. His feet drummed the rotors.

He subsided into stillness.

Jinx released a shuddering sigh. With a well-aimed kick, she sent the corpse tumbling over the rotor's edge.

Down into sucking blackness.

Meanwhile, within the whirling blur of the rotors, Jinx's body flowed like graceful script. Armed with a spray-can, she decorated the surface around the blood-splatter with her monkey motif, trippy slashes of green overlaying deep-red. Then, like a little girl in a game of hopscotch, she danced from one rotor to the next, before somersaulting up and over the railing to land amid the crew.

They cheered louder than ever. Jinx grinned like a child with a Name Day cake. For the first time, she felt like she belonged in their circle.

Then Dustin made the error of errors: "Guess the cannery made good practice, huh?"

In hindsight, Silco should have slit his throat. It would've saved him a night of trouble.

Silence crept in. Sevika glared as if, by means of some anatomical freak-accident, Dustin's arsehole had pinwheeled where his mouth should be. Ran's jaw swerved to grinding teeth. Lock's features resolidified to stone.

Jinx stared, her face frozen around its previous gleeful expression. Her eyes seemed to turn inside out, like something old and rusted was unhinging. A cold electricity flowed in. Memory. Pain. Hatred.

Dustin shrugged. "Just saying. Li'l Miss already has a mighty fine body-count. I bet once she hits the Big Nineteenth—owfuck!"

In a flash, Jinx's boot hit his kneecap. His bad kneecap; the one she'd cracked two years ago with a mallet. In the same blink, she unscrewed her body from gravity, and backflipped onto the railing. Her stare held a fierce emptiness. She eyed the whipping rotors, but seemed not to see them.

Silco edged closer. "Jinx—"

To this day, he's not sure what happened. Maybe a pall of shadow fell over the scenery. A trick of light. A shift of wind.

Whatever the case—Jinx vanished.

Her shape spilled off the railing, and disappeared into a gap between the rotors. Swallowed by a dark so pure it was like staring into everlasting night.

Or death.

The crew stared, their heads cocked at quizzical angles. Like the first time Jinx had jumped, they seemed not to comprehend what they were seeing. Below, the turbines roared. Above, the space was paradoxically quiet. Then Sevika said, "Fuck," and it was like a ghostly susurrus from the depths.

A call to arms.

Adrenaline sliced through Silco. He whipped forward. He would've vaulted the railing and taken the same trajectory as Jinx at suicidal speed.

Sevika's arm caught him around the waist.

"Silso—don't!"

"Let go!"

"She's gone."

Gone.

Like a lost toy.

Gone and Jinx didn't belong in the same sentence.

Rage tore through Silco's ribcage. His elbow jerked, catching Sevika in the gut. She grunted; he broke free. For the first time since his boyhood, he was gripped by a mad tangle of impulses. The hot rush of horror like a buried river, the high-pitched buzz of fury like vultures circling a carcass, the cold slither of ruthlessness like a sea serpent riding a storm's waves.

His eyes cut mercilessly into the crew. "Find her."

Sevika argued, "Sir, there's no way she'd survive that fall—"

"Find. Her."

The crew had no choice but to obey.

The entire night, a search party combed the path running parallel to the tributary. Lackeys sprinted through the darkness. Torches shone. Every so often voices called a chorus of nicknames—Ghostberry? Bossgirl? Li'l Miss? The Pilt's soft lapping soaked up the cries.

Silco and Sevika covered the southern bend, where the spume churned through the turbine's filters and spat the waste into the soil itself. Nothing but sedge and sludge for miles. At the horizon, a streak of green smog bisected the moon. To the north, the Bridge arced against the surreal cupola of the sky. Squares of light from the warehouses at Factorywood glowed.

Silco's boots splashed through puddles shimmering with toxic hues. The runoff from the dump sites boiled off the vista. If Jinx had washed up on these shores, there's no way she'd survive. She'd have quaffed up the poisons and choked to death. A vision slotted through his mind: Jinx floating facedown, braids drifting like blue snakes, blood pooling from her open mouth.

Dead minutes after her first kill.

Lost our girl already? said a voice inside Silco's head—a gravely voice that he'd stopped hearing since he'd stabbed Vander.

Teeth gritted, Silco blocked it off.

Jinx wasn't dead. He knew it in his bones. Like him, the child was maddeningly unkillable. It would take more than a rusted turbine to cut her down to size. But her being lost was tenfold worse. She could be anywhere. Trapped in a factory cesspit. Despoiled by toxic spume. Strangling in stray wires.

He ordered Sevika to search the eastside. Silco took the west. His eyes kept a careful scan; his body moved in a deliberate rhythm, limbs loosening the way they always did when he was near water. Yet inside, something raked him like a broken spur.

It wasn't fear. He'd tasted that many times before. Mastered it and made it his own. This was different: edgeless and yet ordinary. Part of it was a generalized concern: Jinx was his brightest asset. He was responsible for her safety. The other part was irrationally specific.

Jinx was more than his asset. She was his.

His.

Silco's feet flashed through the bristling trash, navigating between coils of rusted metal and shards of bottles that scattered the river bed. He left the subdivisions and dumpsites behind. The darkened water of the streambeds gave way to something purer and yet dense with minerals. Instinctively, he was cutting a path parallel to the Oshra Va' Zaun caverns.

Down to the Deadlands.

They were a stretch of wasteland between the ore-mines and Zaun proper—a raw patch without a blade of grass or a speck of steel. The vista was hellish desolation: dead trees fossilized into gnarled silhouettes; sludgy pools choked with carcasses; a soil of chalky ash suited to funeral pyres. The name itself—Deadland—had its origin in the toxic gas pockets that leaked from the caverns.

The place was a death-trap, all the more lethal for its isolation.

Once, the Deadlands were home to the castaways of Oshra Va'Zaun. After the early settlers came, it became a squalid pit of cannibalism. Bones buried under blackened cairns; desiccated corpses nailed to posts like scarecrows. Here and there, rock formations loomed: less mountains than obelisks, thrusting up from the scorched earth as if some titanic spirit had roused itself from the mire.

The obelisks were carved with runes beneath layers of dust. Curses, lamentations, blessings—nobody could decide.

In Silco's boyhood, the Deadlands were forsaken except by wagons en route to the mines. On the outskirts, a string of bunkhouses were erected: less abodes than makeshift shacks. A network of tram lines crisscrossed the terrain. Others, collapsed beneath the weight of rock-falls, were ghost-tracks tracing live veins of riverwater—still pumping, and miraculously pure.

When Silco was younger, he and Vander would follow the route on hot summer days. They'd find the deepest, bluest pools to wash the grime off their skins. For Vander, it was an adventure. Silco simply wanted to be in the water. The streams soothed him like nothing else could.

By late noon, the skies would open into downpour. Silco and Vander would take refuge in the caves. They'd carve out shells of dried cavernfruit, and use them as bowls for rainwater. Other times they'd catch fish, and smoke them over a small fire. Afterwards, bellies full, they'd drowse side-by-side. The rainfall would blend with the rise-and-fall of Vander's breaths.

Back then, the Deadlands were Silco's favorite place. He loved how the wind whistled across the wastes. He loved its wildness and eeriness. He loved how, when the clouds broke and the sun shone, everything gleamed as if it coated in diamond dust.

At night, he and Vander counted the stars from the peaks of obelisks. Nestled together, they'd talk of tomorrow, until sleep came.

Now, the Deadlands were no better than burial grounds. A place where even the desperate gave up their last-ditch hopes. Bodies lay piled behind the rocks; bones rattled in the winds. The tram lines were skeletal husks, sunken deep in the soil. The bunkhouses were an expanse of collapsing sticks.

Only the obelisks stood whole—stretching up to break the sky's pall.

Unerringly, Silco's boots found the old path. If he kept going further downstream, he'd rediscover the old railway trestle where he and Vander used to jump off for a swim.

Silco's mind wasn't on swimming.

"Jinx? Jinx?"

A pressure gathered behind his ribcage. He was breathing raggedly, but it had nothing to do with exertion. How, he wondered, was he going to liberate the Undercity—birth Zaun into being—when he couldn't even safeguard a damn girl? Especially this girl, who'd proven such a godsend, a bona fide miracle. Who'd restored color to the edges of his world, while the rest of him dangled over the void, empty-hearted.

What would he do without her?

Dread congealed. Until that moment, he'd not understood how dangerously far he'd fallen under the child's spell.

(Is that fatherhood?)

That's when he heard it. A soft snuffling. At first Silco mistook it for the wind. Then it took a familiar shape. Crying. Scrambling to a halt, Silco cocked his ear. The sound was coming from somewhere behind an overhang of jutting obelisks. Water rippled; moonlight caught the zipping shapes of river-dwelling fish along the shores, their scales distorted by pustules.

Silco followed the sound, until it separated itself from the ambience of barren nature. His boots slipped on wet stones. Catching his balance, he rounded the bend.

There was Jinx.

She sat on a large boulder, cross-legged and toying with her braids. Sniffling, she skipped flat stones across the shoreline, each one bouncing eight or nine times before it sank. Silco crept toward her on silent feet. Like the folklore of hunters who chance upon Celestials, he was half-convinced the little imp would vanish if he startled her.

Two steps. Four steps. Ten.

At the crunch of boots on silt, Jinx spun. By then, Silco had hemmed her in: his body on one side, the water glittering behind her. His voice was a coiled garotte.

"Where have you been, Jinx?"

She flinched. Tears shone on her pink-mottled cheeks. The rest of her was bone-dry.

"I-I crawled out through the vent," she mumbled.

"What vent?"

"The one under the turbine." She sawed a hand under her nose. "It's part of a conduit. Most of 'em crisscross under the old Oshra Va'Zaun caverns. Some go to the Sumps. Some go here."

"Do you know where 'here' is?"

She tossed her head, defiant. "Sure I do!" Then, in a Powderish fit of doubt. "Mostly."

"You got lost, didn't you?"

Lip bit, Jinx fiddled with her braids.

Silco felt the skin tightening at his temples. His palms twitched. He stuffed them into his pockets.

"Did it occur to you," he said, deceptively composed, "that I might wonder what happened?"

She tipped a shoulder. "I figured you'd just leave. Not like it's the first time I've lit out."

It was true.

Restless pest syndrome—Sevika called it. Now and then Jinx would catch a twitchy case of wanderlust, and take off wherever little jumping beans did: the caverns, the turrets, the scrapyards. In boyhood, Silco used to be the same. Sometimes, he still went to ground, as it were. Took a day off to reconnoiter in blessed solitude. It proved harder the higher he rose in the Undercity. His absences would rouse Sevika's territorial instincts. Like a dragon she'd sink in her teeth and not loosen her grip unless he gave her a metaphorical kick in pursuit of privacy.

Jinx was harder to shake off. She followed him everywhere. To narrow her margin of persuasive tactics (including and not limited to tying him to chairs), Silco planned his absences at the last minute, when there would be no room for negotiation.

Jinx would sulk. But in her way, she understood.

They were loners at heart; misfits who'd learnt to befriend their own isolation. Even after years of communal living, neither of them had quite gotten the hang of belonging to a pack.

This was different.

Silco edged closer, his temper climbing to red. "Child, you'd drive a saint to murder."

"Huh?"

"Do you know what kind of filth wanders the Deadlands? You're lucky I found you before someone else did."

"I wanted to be alone, okay?! That stupid Dustin. He—hey. Why're you lookin' at me like that?"

"I thought—"

"What? I was dead?" She let off a burbling laugh. But her eyes flickered nervously. "I was just—"

She cried out when Silco snatched her up, so sharply she couldn't evade. His arm moved in an instinctive arc—the surge of momentum vicious in its familiarity. He'd have slapped her head clean off her shoulders. Same way he'd done numberless lackeys who'd crossed him.

But at the last second, he felt her flinch. The tautness of her body. The rabbiting of her pulse.

Rage gave way to a different reflex. He shut his good eye, shut it tight and dragged her against him. As soon as her small body was in his embrace, his breath seized. His arms became a stranglehold.

"Owwww!"

"You're grounded."

"What—?!"

"Don't ever do that again!"

Nearly breaking his own maxim—We don't hit each other—and he wonders what would've happened if he'd carelessly struck her. The same way Vi had. The same way Vander had.

The capacity was in him. The desire. The rage.

Yet it was eclipsed by a disorienting enormity of terror. How could one child leave him so out of his depth? What did it mean, that she held in her hands the power to undo him so utterly?

(Is that fatherhood?)

Jinx shivered against him. Fear gave way to confusion. A stillborn swat was still a swat. After Vi, she was terrified of screwing up and reliving the same violence at someone else's hands. Except the violence boiled not because of her presence—but her absence. Jinx's mind couldn't reconcile the contradiction. He saw in in the frantic tangle of her emotions: her liquid eyes, her pinched little chin, her trembling lip. He felt it in the crazy thubbing of her heart: a cadence that matched his own.

For a moment, Silco couldn't speak. He just gathered her in closer, his face in her hair.

"Don't, Jinx."

"D-Don't—?"

"Don't disappear like that again."

Jinx craned her neck. The brightness in her eyes spilled from the corners to streak her cheeks. "Wh-why should it matter to you?"

"I—"

"You're n-not my dad. I'm not your kid. So why—"

"Why?!"

With a snarl, Silco swept her in again. But it was all right. She wasn't shrinking away. Her strong skinny arms were wrapping around his neck, and she was burrowing closer, their foreheads together, cold on hot, an inarticulate melding of relief.

It was a relief. Just a misunderstanding. His murderous little sprite was safe. By his side.

Right where she belonged.

(Is that fatherhood?)

(Is it?)

Everything hurts.

A spectrum of hurts. Silco's eyes open, and show him a brighter spectrum of moons—where in hell am I?—cycling around in a pinwheel before they resolve into one. A susurrating echo laps at his ears. He twists his head, trying to see where it is coming from. Tries to leap to his feet, but his body is immobile.

He is chained, padlocked and bolted.

Fuck.

The air holds a chill of mineral wetness. Silco shivers in his drenched clothes. Shafts of moonlight slip through a dappled scudding of clouds. With effort, he cranes his neck. He is sprawled on the spine of a steep ravine. The surrounding landscape is all grayscale: powdery grit, monolithic stone, scoured underbrush.

Like the inside of a skeleton's mouth.

The whispery echo persists. Cocking his ear, Silco recognizes it. The river Pilt. He is somewhere north of Oshra Va'Zaun's mines. They peel away into a cratered expanse of flatland and oxbows that run parallel to the river's shores. The verge where civilization gives way to wilderness.

The Deadlands.

Threads of moonlight hang in the air. He hears the reverberation of the river. Beyond that bleeds a profound silence. The silence particular to desolation: the creatures barely alive, the earth barely alive too.

The not-sound is terrible. Silco has become accustomed to the vibrant soundtrack of Zaun. He is surrounded by clamor all day long now. The drone of construction, the screech of traffic, the skirls of music. And while it can be maddening, it is life.

This is the opposite. The forsaken silence he'd once loved, and now loathes. Not even Vander's ghost is here to console him.

From the gloom: footsteps.

"Wakey, wakey, bats and bake-y."

Jinx looms over him. Her moonlike faces recoalesce from five to three to one. Relief is overpowering. She is alive. Silco's heart pounds in his chest; so wildly he thinks it might break through his chains.

"Jinx—where have you been?"

"Needed a change of scene."

"A change of—?" His scowl bridles. "What are you playing at? Every blackguard in the city is looking for you!"

"Oh. Them." She snorts. "Chasin' their tails. Bunch of morons."

In the half-shadow, her eyes are strangely sparkless. The contours of her face seem off. Silco squints. But she has already moved out of his line of sight.

He strains against the chains. His ankles are manacled together, arms tied behind his back, wrists at an uncomfortable twist. After Stillwater, he'd grown adept at slithering out of whatever restraints he'd been manhandled into. It was a simple matter of disjointing a thumb or dislocating a shoulder.

Except Jinx knows his history. The bindings are doubled and tripled. She's taking no chances.

Chances on what? Why is she out here?

"Jinx." He's in such turmoil he can barely string three words together. "You need to come home."

"Home?"

"Back to headquarters."

"Fat chance."

"What?"

She hovers back into view. Silco stares closely at her. She is a disheveled mess. Dressed in her street clothes, much-frayed and dirt-smeared, jacket around her body, boots at her feet. Her skin under its milk-and-freckles is flushed in ugly pink chameleon patterns. The old childhood mottle of distress. Her hair bursts in blue shards around her skull as if zapped by electricity.

Silco squints as if blinded. Then he remembers.

Gods.

Her hair. She'd butchered it.

Butchered the guards. Blasted her hideout to kingdom come. Now she's lured him out, with a prankster's whimsy that is pure premeditation. That's how Jinx operates. A method to the madness. She can seem deceptively ebullient for long stretches of time. Lull everyone in her periphery with a sense that all is well. Meanwhile the disconnect between inward and outward cracks into a molten chasm, so all her ghosts spiral out.

Catching fire—then exploding into catastrophe.

This is a catastrophe. A failure on Silco's part to spot the signs. Any chance of a goodbye kiss? Sweet Kindred, he'd been so stupid last morning. Why didn't he just cancel his meetings and stay with Jinx? Just tell his love and pride without wielding it like a blade up the sleeve? He knows he'd done that. He'd done it for years, done it again despite vowing to change, so no wonder—no wonder his poor girl—

"Jinx." He speaks with a quiet forcefulness. "We need to talk."

"Reaaaaally not in the mood."

"I know you're upset with me—"

"Upset?" The sulky softness of her face sharpens—a maniacal mask. She stays crouched close, her body giving off a peculiar hum like a tuning fork between strikes. "Why would I be upset, Daddy?"

"You tell me."

"You haven't figured it out? You're smarter'n that."

"Not about this." Silco folds without resistance. "Please, child—talk to me."

"I am talking to you." She glowers. "What's today?"

"It's—"

Bloody Sunday.

The whole city knows that. He can't puzzle any significance beyond that. It's not the Day of Ash—that's in September. It's not Jinx's Name Day—that passed in tandem with Progress Day. It's not the day they met—a date that also holds the dark privilege of being Vander's death anniversary

"I confess," he says. "I can think of nothing."

"Exactly!" Jinx snaps her fingers so rapidly sparks leap off them. "That's the first word that pops into my head when I wake up lately. Nothing. Well. Second word. The first is Fuckin.' Another day of doing fuckin' nothing!"

"I asked you to come along with me—"

"And do more fuckin' nothing? Pffff. I'd rather be a ghost. Ghosts can do whatever they want, right?"

"Is that why you blew your hide-out up?"

"No." A reflex of guilt twists her face. "I mistimed the explosives."

"What?"

"The explosion was gonna go off later. You'd be at HQ. You weren't supposed to be down here."

"You had this all planned?"

A nod.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Your hideout. Your braids. Your drawings." Silco drags a jittery breath. "Jinx, what are you doing?"

Jinx dips a finger into the hollow of his throat, where water collects. She dabs her wet fingertip down his scarred cheek like a tear. Her eyes glow dully; two doused embers.

She whispers, "Thought that was obvious."

"Far from."

"I'm saying goodbye."

Silco's mouth opens. No words come. A mineshaft collapses inside him, a thunder of dust and a blackness that tastes of fear, a cold edgeless fear like nothing he's ever known before. Not on the day Jinx vanished between the turbine rotors. Not on the night he'd found her at the Bridge, death a gasp away.

No.

No.

Silco's whole body is one throbbing heart. His struggles redouble against the chains

Jinx watches him with a strange subspecies of pity. Her hand cups his jaw. Their eyes meet. Silco's own are wild and blasted; hers are eerily calm. Leaning in, she touches their foreheads together. Old intimacy reduced to a sad mockery of leavetaking.

"Poor Silly," Jinx says. "I wasn't gonna do it this way."

"Jinx—please—"

"I was gonna break it to ya gently. After our twelve o' clock talk. I even wrote a script. See?"

From her pocket she digs out a scrap of paper flecked with paint, and unfolds it. Clearing her throat, she recites with mock-solemnity:

JINX: Dear Silco! Thanks for all the laughs and lessons and lunacy. I had fun being your Jinx. You showed her how to come into her own. And together, you showed Topside. You showed 'em all! But now it's time to skip the light-fantastic. There's no place for Jinx in Zaun. But there's a place for me in the After. Don't be sad. We'll see each other someday—when Ol' Hungry stops striking twelve!

SILCO: I understand, child. Good luck and fare thee well.

JINX: You were an okay Dad.

SILCO: And you were an A-Okay daughter.

JINX: I wish we'd met sooner. We had a lot in common—besides murdering our brothers and all. Our time together was too short. Ex-oh-ex-oh…

She falters, and bites her lip. Despite the cruel lampoon, her grief is palpable. "There's more. Mostly you lecturing me to dress warmly for the After. Then we hug and bid each other adieu." She smiles, but it has too many cracks. "You want that hug now?"

"Jinx." It's an effort to move his lips. "Untie me."

She shakes her head, a scolding side-to-side. "You can't have it back yet."

"Have what back?"

She reaches into her pocket and comes out with a glowing blue sphere. The Hex-gem. A single ray of moonlight pierces its interior to scatter in glittering fractals through the air. Jinx holds it overhead, turning it over between nimble fingers.

"On principle," she says, "I oughtta take it with me. Finders, keepers."

"Jinx—"

"It was my gift to you. But it talks to me."

"Jinx—I don't care about the gemstone. Just untie me. Please."

Her smile deepens. But there are layers of darkness in her eyes. "You're such a good liar."

"I'm not lying!"

"Pffft." Jinx mimes a hoop shot with the gem, then attempts to twirl it on one finger like a baseball. "The only reason you're even here is 'cause you thought I'd use Gemmy to blow up your precious Zaun."

"I'm here to take you home."

She makes a derisive sucking sound between her teeth. "Home? What's home where I'm not wanted?"

"I want you home!"

"Sure—but you don't need me! If you just want me around as salad dressing while you're playing First Chancellor—if you just want me in the background, then you don't really want me. You never did!"

It hits like a blow to the chest. "How can you say that?"

For the first time, emotion crackles in her eyes. She begins pacing, flinging the gemstone rapidly from hand to hand. "Because it's true! Every day since the war ended, you've told me over and over and over again that you don't need me—all without saying a word. Take it easy, Jinx. Don't rush, Jinx. No pressure, Jinx. The same thing you say to a sick doggy before you take it out back and shoot it!"

"Jinx, I never meant to—"

"The only thing I was trained for. The only dream I had. The only way to prove myself. That was all tied up with Zaun." There are tears now, bright and gelid, glossing the rims of her eyelids. "Now Zaun's real, and everybody's just, Thanks for your service, now fuck off. And do what? Retire? Go on hiatus? Take a vacation? What's left for Jinx?!"

Silco stares at her. His damp clothes are heavy as the chains folded around his body.

Not as heavy as the grief.

He knows the parameters of Jinx's insecurities as intimately as his own. His are enough to fill a room; hers are enough to crowd a castle. But that's different from seeing them up-close—a raw reality of carnage.

The suite splattered in blood. Her braids amputated. Her hideout jellied.

All things he could've prevented. He'd seen the patterns in their private life and yet refused to connect them. He'd isolated her for the sake of letting her rest (kept her on a short leash). He'd shaped a stable daily routine of cooking, conversation, cuddles (stabilized the surface while her inner-wounds festered). He'd given her a room with a locked door (when Jinx's ghosts are most attracted to things with locks.)

Worst of all, he'd waited for her to come to him. As a father, he should've sought her out first. It is his duty to check in with his child as often as with his crew. More—because Jinx is fragile. Jinx needs him. The onus of Jinx's welfare—tonight's utter shitshow—is all squarely on him.

Shame congeals. His words come choked.

"Jinx—forgive me. I never meant for things to go this far—"

"Yeah, sure. So sorry you're barely ever around. It's all just Zaun, Zaun, Zaun. You're behind the scenes. You're in the spotlight. Got a real sweet life going for yourself, don'tcha?"

He swallows hard. "Jinx, listen to me. This is important."

"Oh, piffle." She peers through the Hex-gem as if through a crystal ball. "Don't bother making excuses, Mr. I'm-too-busy-for-you. They won't work. So you might as well spare yourself the drama and let it happen. It shoulda happened a looooong time ago."

"Don't say that." He tries to meet her eyes, to force a connection. If not for the chains, he'd claw at her, sink his teeth into her. Anything to keep her. "The city needs you. Our people need you. Not just because you're the brightest mind we have—"

"—and look where that's got me, huh?"

Silco's fists tighten against the manacles. "But because you're our future. Without you, Topside has won. They've destroyed us before we've even rebuilt. Like they've destroyed everything before. But not you, Jinx. You're stronger than they are. Stronger than this. You still have your entire life waiting for you."

A sudden rage lights Jinx up from toes to the tips of her bristling hair. "A life—to do what? Join the blackguards? Attend soirees as First Daughter? Do scutwork as your private secretary? You say my whole life is waiting for me—but that's not my life. Nothing since Vi walked away from me has been my life!" Her mouth quivers; she crams her thumb into it. "She knows it too. That's why she didn't say goodbye. She left. Again."

It takes Silco so long to connect the words that Jinx could slap him twice before he finishes.

Again.

Fuck.

She knows Vi was here.

Their stares meet. Silco's calm fractures.

"How—" he rasps, "How did you—?"

"How'd I figure it out?" Jinx's smile is glitteringly sharp. "Oh, y'know. Bugs on the sill. Bats in the attic. Her name got whispered down plenty of secret corridors. Rumors passed from ear to ear until they reached mine. And mine are pretty sharp now, if I do say so myself." A shrug. "Also, the blackguard blabbed."

"The blackguard..."

"Yeah. One of 'em was really into my swimmy time." She twirls her mangled hair and pastes on a little girl smile. "Chatty fella. Especially after I promised not to shoot him... anyplace fatal."

Silco utters a frustrated sound. "That fool."

"Hey! No harshin' on the dead! At least—I'm guessing he's dead. I let him live. No way you'd do the same." Her smile fades. "He told me... Vi was at Entresol a few weeks ago. She'd brought a drone. She was spyin' for Topside—and that stupid Enforcer girl was working with her." She blinks blindishly. "She came. She saw. She left-right-left. And you knew." She jabs a finger at him. "Liar."

Silco tries a dozen glib excuses that run empty.

"Jinx," he says. "I kept it secret for a reason."

"Let me guess. To protect me?"

"Yes."

"From what? My feelings? How crazy I am?"

Rooted to the spot, he explodes, "From ending up dead on the Bridge! Or have you forgotten how she left you bleeding—or who found you and took you back?"

"Back to Singed's table?"

"Back with family." His shout escalates to match hers. "Real family. Not ones who get you killed and never look back. Yes—your sister was here. Yes—she was working with Topside. Yes—I didn't tell you. Because I could only deal with the biggest crisis—not the fallout!"

"Who—Vi?"

"You." His breaths come ragged. "One glimpse of her undoes all the progress you've made! Just a rumor and you're right back where you started. Worse—because now you're undoing even that." He jerks at his chains. "I won't allow it, Jinx. You've had your tantrum. You've swung the city upside-down and put me through my paces. Now it's time to come back where you belong."

Jinx's face smooths so suddenly into an impenetrable mask that she resembles a mannequin.

"I know where I belong," she says. "It's not with Vi. Or with you."

"Jinx—"

She darts beyond his sightlines. Silco struggles and rolls onto his side. A band of moonlight falls through the clouds. He is greeted by an unsettling sight. He is facing a sheer cliff; its blackness so total it swallows the night. Pebbles skitter down the incline. They drop into the pit, engulfed by silence.

A hand seizes the back of his collar. With dizzying strength, Jinx hauls him up. "Tsk, Silco. This ain't your goodbye."

"Jinx—listen—"

"Shh-shh." She hums, identical in cadence to how Silco would soothe her in childhood, whenever she'd whip herself up into a panicky froth. "It'll be over in a minute. Here's the gem, 'kay?" She slips it in his jacket pocket, as if restoring a toy to a squalling toddler. "I'll put the keys in your hand too. But you won't be able to get loose until after."

"After—?"

After she's offed herself.

Silco thrashes madly. But Jinx's strength overmasters his. Once upon a time, he'd hefted her into his arms as easily as a ragdoll. Now it's the opposite. He's helpless against a girl so tiny she belongs in a music-box. It would be funny—except the Shimer zinging in her veins is no joke.

One false move, and she'll carelessly crack him in two.

She drags him up the cliffside. Gently sets him down against a blunted edge of rock. Silco folds to his knees, rough gravel jabbing against his aching joints. Jinx slips a cold key into his cuffed hands, which flex clumsily around it. With a dozen padlocks around his body, she's reasoned that he won't be able to break loose fast enough.

Kingpins do not possess the talents of Houdini.

Jinx skips light-toed down the cliffside. Shadows pool around a collection of shapes huddled at the edge. Silco squints. For a few pulseless seconds, he can't comprehend what he's seeing. Either it is a negative space that the protective part of his brain has erased from his sight. Or he sees it, and is too paralyzed with cowardice to recognize it.

Jinx hadn't blown up everything in her hideout.

A handful of mementos remain.

All of them are from her drawings. The two grotesque mannequins she'd repurposed into replicas of her dead 'brothers.' Between them are Vander's gauntlets, mottled with rust. The squalid lump of a stuffed bunny is perched between them. The rest is a bric-a-brac of grisly nostalgia. Old toys splattered in blood. Finger-paintings of dead Firelights. Doodled-on bombshells—Whisker, Buttons, Punch.

Everything is piled into an old red wheelbarrow. It is retrofitted with a small motor and heavy-duty tires. The tray is splattered with acid-green graffiti—XOXO.

All of Jinx's history—all of her heartbreaks—ready to tip over the edge.

Like her.

"Jinx, don't do this!"

Shaking her head, looking everywhere but at him, Jinx climbs into the wheelbarrow. Six-dozen sticks of TNT are corded together in a tight bundle. A cheap plastic egg timer—from Silco's own goddamned kitchen—is wired to the fuses and strapped to the dynamite with swathes of duct tape.

Jinx twists the knob with precise turns of her wrist.

"Five minutes," she says.

"What—?"

"You get five minutes to skeddadle."

Five minutes until the wheelbarrow rockets off the cliffside.

Five minutes until Jinx is blown to smithereens.

Five minutes until Silco's universe folds into flames.

No.

Terror seizes him, a bone-deep electricity that sets every nerve center on fire. Earlier, he'd not allowed himself to panic. But it was instinctual self-preservation. The same backlash as against prodding a seeping wound. Now he can feel it engulfing him, a full-bodied convulsion. The surface of his face refuses to harden; his emotions are a wretched nakedness.

It is like the night Vander attacked him at the Pilt. The night the Temple of Janna was bombarded by shelling. The night he'd found Jinx blood-smeared at the Bridge.

He screams: "Stop!"

The unhinged sound rips through the night. Jinx's head swivels. Her eyes are no longer glowing pink. The pupils are dilated, a blackness so absolute it encompasses each iris. It turns her stare into a horrid pit, a hungering for someone to swallow.

Or save her.

That's why she'd orchestrated tonight's nightmarish tableau. Her drawings to presage her plans. Her braids to exorcise the past. Her gun to bid farewell. That's why she'd made him run this macabre gauntlet: two truths and a lie, their old game taken to grotesque extremes. The key is in his hands; her life hangs in the balance.

Tonight is his last chance. The narrowest rescue. A toss of the coin.

And she has put the onus on him.

Him—not Vi, or everyone else who'd ever failed her.

She wants him to prove he is different. She wants to punish him for falling short in every possible way. She wants to show him how much pain he's caused her. How horrendously he's used her for his own end, while failing to see the same end reflected back at him tenfold. The same end that shaped her out of a child and into his shadow, his anima, his apotheosis, so now she can't find a way to unmake herself, except by this.

This.

"Stop! Just—stop!" Silco jerks against the chains. "This isn't the way out!"

Jinx hums in lusterless singsong. "Got a few explode-y buddies that say otherwise."

"Your friends are wrong! So are you! After doesn't square debts or rewrite regrets. After is just that. After."

Jinx stares at him.

"How dare you do this, Jinx? How dare you buy a fool's lie?" A sudden rage boils like acid. "Ending your life won't undo anything! Broken things can't be unbroken. What you left behind will remain—only it will be unfinished because you didn't see it through!"

He watches her face change, the fluid trick of moonlight that makes her eyes spark from despairing holes to fire opals. Her jaw hardens and her mouth folds down. With jerky movements, she climbs out of the wheelbarrow and stalks toward him. "Easy for you to say! You've got something to stay behind for. Zaun's your big dream. Your unfinished story. Now you can write any way you choose!"

"Zaun's nothing without you!"

"Me—who?" She stamps her foot. The soil ripples, a tiny seismic tremor. "Why don't you get it? Jinx is dead! She died at the Bridge. You're chasing her ghost!"

"That's not true!"

"Don't tell me what's true and what's not!" Her breaths come ragged, like she's about to heave up her guts. "Jinx is dead. I am. I never woke up after the night on Singed's table. I never got better. I'm dead, like Vander, and Mylo, and Claggor, and I get deader every day. I lost me after I lost Vi, it's all run out. Sand in the hourglass, and every day I lose more—"

"Child—no—"

"I'm dead, and what's left is a disappointment to you. I always was. Take Jinx away, and it's just stupid Powder and her screw-ups and everyone she couldn't save. Everyone who left her behind." A sob wallops her. "I see their faces. I hear their voices. I can't shut 'em out. Quick and clean, you taught me. Make a kill. Do it right. Except there's no right. There's only wrong. All my life, I've only ever been wrong. And now I've done the worst of it." She holds up a fist, opens and closes it. "I can't get the blood out, Silco. I can't see past it. There's only more and more and more and if I don't stop now—"

"You're afraid you'll never stop." Silco's heart is a wringing rag. Oh Gods, she is sick, sick with wounds. And it's all his fault. "Oh my love. I know. I know it hurts. If I had any idea of how much you were suffering—"

"Don't pretend to understand!"

"I do understand. I—I remember the night I killed Vander. I thought I'd never be able to see my way clear of the blackness again. But you showed me I could. It took time, but we did it together. We'll do it again." He tugs at his chains. If he speaks fast enough, if he pleads hard enough, he might outrun the last few minutes. Might salvage the ruins of his life. "Jinx, listen to me. We're all different now. Zaun is different. Don't take away your future because of your past. You're hurting, you've held it together admirably, but, sweetness, just hold on a little longer. I promise—"

"You're not listening!" Her chest heaves, breaths thick with stymied tears. "I'm tired of holding on! I'm tired of bein' left behind. I'm tired of feeling this way, so trapped and angry and broken all the time. I'm so tired—" She stops, the words dying in her throat. "I'm tired of turning my back on everything you start and I finish."

"Jinx—"

"That's our waltz, Silco. Round and round. You spark the tinder. I burn the house down. You dragged Vander to the cannery. I sent him to his grave. You wanted to tear his family apart. I blew them up." A sick laugh judders through her. "Me and my big booms. You and your big plans. Only, I don't get the happy ending." Her eyes take on a flat sheen. "There's only one end to Jinx's story."

"It doesn't have to be that way!"

"It does." She swallows. "Look, I know what you're trying to say. All the good things I could do, if I stay. You want to tell me that I can find something worth living for. Well. I tried that. And I failed. I tried and tried. Every day, I woke up, and I tried to find a way back to who I was. And the harder I tried, the worse it got." Her sobs come muffled, as if against a pillow. "It's no good. I've lost me. The me you wanted. I wasn't the girl you thought, Silco. I'm sorry."

Silco's muscles strain against the chains. His fingers work clumsily with the key behind his back. "You are what I thought, Jinx. I knew it the moment we met."

"You saw what you wanted to see."

He shakes her head. "I saw you. I saw the bomb, and I saw your potential. But I saw you before everything else, Jinx. You were a skinny little twig. You had patchwork clothes and dozens of clips in your hair and scrapes on your elbows and knees. I remember because it reminded me of when I'd climb the rooftops with Vander and lose my balance as a boy. I was a hopeless clod. You were too. But—" He's been speaking more and more softly; now his pitch is barely above a whisper. "You were also just you. Brave enough to climb up and rescue your sister. Smart enough to build a bomb that took my fledgling empire down in a single night."

Jinx's face is pale where it isn't streaked with Shimmer tears. "That's why you stole me, isn't it? You didn't see a smart, brave girl. You saw a blank sheet. Vi left me, and she left a big-ass label stamped on my forehead. JINX JINX JINX. You wrote in the rest. Just the kind of girl you wanted, all bullets and booms. A monster for Zaun. Now Zaun's real, but I don't think that girl is."

"She's right here."

"Half-right." Her mouth is a dark misshapen heart. "You can keep her bones."

"Jinx—"

"As a souvenir. For Zaun."

"Fuck Zaun."

Shock drains Jinx of animation. Maybe she is incredulous at the profanity passing his lips. He's doesn't curse in her presence. Or maybe her incredulity stems from the statement itself.

Fuck Zaun.

A sentence so improbable it verges on treasonous.

It isn't treason. It is truth.

He'd chased Zaun as his lifelong dream. His be-all and end-all; the Undercity's last shot at survival. It was why he'd fought so fiercely for his people. To make sure they weren't destroyed by Piltover's hubris. He'd given himself to the dream, in ways he'd given himself to nothing else. He'd powered himself on blind ambition. Blind faith. Blind rage.

Yet here is the flipside of fathering a dream.

Fatherhood.

He'd never wanted to be a father. Fatherhood was a wasting disease. Fatherhood sucked the marrow from the bones. Fatherhood replaced courage with—

What?

Not cowardice, as Silco had one believed. Not the distilled piss and vinegar of disillusionment.

In his bones, he feels it like a steadying gravity. It doesn't weigh him down. It keeps him going. It powers him like fuel and yet enrobes him like lightning. A shock-pink risk. A flowering blue reward. Silco thrives in risk, but it isn't the reward that's worth having.

It is Jinx.

I am a father. The phrase wheels through his mind, shorting it out of reality and into truth. I am a father and there has never remotely been a miracle like her in my life. Someone I love over my own ambition. Someone who turns my thoughts inside-out. Someone who changes my nature in ways even Nature could not change before. I cherish her over anything else. To lose her is to lose—

Everything.

Jinx stands paralyzed. Her silhouette seems to meld with the moonrays, then separate, then meld again. Silco blinks against the disorienting vision. The hours he's crossed crunch up, and threaten to crunch the last pieces of his sanity. He refuses to succumb.

Refuses to let his dream slip from his fingers.

Jinx.

With love like a knife in his chest, he meets her eyes. "I came down here for you, Jinx. I wake each morning and make Zaun strong for you. I come home each night and make plans for you. But if you leave me—it's all for nothing. Your life and mine. I was wrong to expect so much of you. I was wrong to push you so hard. You were only a child. Your whole life I took and bent in my hands." His good eye narrows. The bad one burns without mercy. "But I never bent you, Jinx. You were always you—at your center. You earned your first lessons with Vi, and practiced to perfection with me. But your spirit? Your fury? That was all you. It's why we're such a pair, remember? We were both left behind. So we vowed to show them all. Now we've done what we vowed, and must live with it. We can choose the same as before. Or we can choose different. But if you end it, there's no choice at all."

Jinx's cheeks are blotched. Tears fill her bright round eyes. "I'm t-t-trying to unjinx it. For Vi. For Vander and Mylo and Claggor. All the things I did. The things I couldn't do."

"You're trying to evade it. Evade me. Evade everything they are to you. Everything we are to each other." Silco's tone sharpens in urgency. He can't stand the thought of her lifelong efforts, the blood spilled and the torments endured, ending on the stale note of his daughter's suicide. "You've forgotten what you are. Not just a jinx—bad or good. You're a survivor. A fighter. You've forgotten how courageous you are, or else you'd never come here. Forgotten how special you are, else you'd never bribe me with a Hex-gem in trade for your life. There's no specialness in leaping into hell. Champions have no place in hell, remember? That's my dominion in the After. Yours is Zaun."

Jinx shies away as if burnt. "I don't belong in Zaun, either. I'd never rest there. They—" A sweep of her arm encompasses the mementos in the wheelbarrow, "—won't let me!"

"It won't be that way forever. I promise."

"You make plenty of promises, Silco." Her bleary eyes slit. "They're like bombs. You drop 'em to get what you want."

Silco's throat works; his voicebox is a noose. Duplicity is never far from his surface. But he can't summon it now. In its place is an agony he can no longer conceal. He looks at her, sees his own reflection. She is a fragment, a mirror, an echo of a thousand old wrongs.

A reminder to do better.

"No bombs, Jinx," he says hoarsely. "Just the truth. I owe you that."

"The truth?"

"I promised, didn't I? We'd talk when I got home?"

Jinx breathes in edgy gasps. But she makes no move to stop him.

"The night Vi left you on the Bridge," Silco says. "I made the choice to take you to Singed. Not because I couldn't afford to lose my finest fighter. I couldn't bear to lose you. Afterward, Piltover demanded a parley. Once, I'd never have entertained it. I would have sent back their missive drenched in blood. But after the state you'd been reduced to… I was ready to negotiate peace."

"So why didn't you?" Jinx cries. "Why choose war? We won by the skin of our teeth! If I hadn't fought for you—"

"I'd have lost anyway."

"What?"

He stares at her, the girl whose torment mocks his own. "Don't you see, Jinx? You are my jugular vein in plain sight. All of Zaun knows it. Topside knew too. After leaving you on the Bridge, your sister was taken before the Council. She revealed your name. She understood the damage your loss would do to our operation. To me. The evening of our parley, Talis offered me Zaun. A place at the table. A nation of our own. All on a silver platter—with you as the caveat." He spends his breath in a harsh laugh that feels like his last. "The worst deal in the world? Hardly. I've negotiated worse. But not if you were the cost, Jinx. At the time, I'd rationalized your survival as Zaun's survival. One could not exist without the other. But my motives were more selfish. You weren't theirs to take. Not for anything. You are my daughter."

The words are is undisguised rage, and Jinx can't look away. Her mouth spasms; her eyelashes glisten like wet spiders.

"My daughter," Silco repeats. "All my sacrifices, all my triumphs, all my sins. None of them compare. History is full of fathers who martyr their children for the greater good. Not me, Jinx. I rejected their treaty the same night. No—not rejected. I threw it in their faces and declared war. I'd rather have you than all their laurels of peace. I'd rather keep you at my side in blood and flame, burning thousands for the cost of one, because what's dead is dead, and what's mine is mine. I know that makes me a failure as a leader. But I'll not pretend not to need what I do." His voice drops, quietly ragged. "And I need you, Jinx. Vi may forsake you. The rest may condemn you. But I will always choose you first. Whatever happens... for as long as I live."

The cliffside is all lunar silence. The wind has died to nothing. The air is an oven; it heats the airless pit of Silco's chest.

Jinx does not move.

"You—" She swallows. "You chose me?"

Silco's lips fold tightly; he can't trust his voice. His life is a dirge of lost loves. He's learned to reveal nothing, to trust no one, to take the blows like a man and riposte tenfold like a monster. Jinx is the sole exception. The only one to turn his weakness into strength. He'd fought to keep her from Piltover. Now, he'll fight to keep her.

Fight to the last drop of Shimmer in his veins.

"I am choosing you now," he breathes. "You, Jinx. Nobody else."

Jinx's knuckles wedge against her temples. Tears streak her cheeks in pink contrails. Her lips stir; her whisper is syllabic and strange. Not for him, but the furor inside her skull. The awful specters that she's had to chase out with gunfire and grenades. As strident as Silco's own specters are silent. As restless as Silco's own refuse to let him rest.

Now they are here. They have faces. They have form.

Jinx whispers: "The two of you. The three of you."

Silco watches in silence.

Her voice grows stronger, more urgent. She says a name, then another, then another, her pitch dropping to a lisp Silco hasn't heard since her girlhood. He doesn't need to know who she's talking to. He doesn't need to know what she's asking. He knows her better than himself. He knows her better than Zaun.

Fuck Zaun.

He doesn't need a dream. He has a miracle. He has a daughter.

"Vander—"

"Claggor—"

"Mylo—"

The wind picks up. It rustles the cracked soil and tosses Silco's hair into his eyes. It is electric and tastes like rain.

"I can't go with you," Jinx says. "Please. I need—I need more time."

She isn't speaking to Silco. She is beyond his world. Her grief is the conduit. Through it, she's speaking to her family—to the future they left behind. To the past they still haven't forgiven.

Because Jinx has never forgiven herself.

Silco's heart throbs like an open wound. He breathes, once, twice. His face is streaked with wetness.

It isn't rain.

"I'm sorry," Jinx whispers. "I'm so sorry, Claggor. For all the things I couldn't do for you. I'm sorry, Mylo. For all the times I lied to you. I'm sorry, Vander. For all the times I didn't tell you I needed you. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please." She sags, shoulders bowed beneath her mangled hair. "Please forgive me."

Silco's fists tighten. His right hand is cramped around a key that he no longer needs. The metal is hot and slick as blood.

The wind picks up.

Jinx breathes, "Vi."

The final syllable. The trigger. The explosive release of every wound she's ever sustained. Every gunblast. Every grenade. Every death.

Jinx's shoulders tremble; her voice rises to a fever pitch.

"Vi—I'm sorry—Vi, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

The sobs bubble out, first softly, then in a broken hitching flood.

Collapsing to her knees, Jinx weeps.

The sight tears at Silco. Every fiber of his body is frantic to hold her. The key clicks into the padlock; he gives one good jerk against the cuffs. They drop. A heartbeat later, the chains give way, their weight collapsing off his body with a jangling chime.

Three minutes in total.

Kingpins do not possess the talents of Houdini. But any miner worth his salt can parse a hairline break in the heaviest chain. And for a man whose trade is trickery, a weak link is the only key he needs.

Silco stumbles to his feet. His stiff muscles enrage him. But the pain is welcome. It jars his body loose; it sharpens him up.

Jinx is still crying, shivery and loose-limbed as a kitten. But the jostling wrenches her attention. In an eyeblink, she springs up. Puff-Puff materializes in her hands.

She takes aim. His center of mass is right in her sightline.

"Stay back!"

Silco smiles—less at this turn of events, than at the gun-toting bane of his existence. "Or what? You'll shoot?"

Jinx fires.

The bullet whisks a centimeter past Silco's scalp. It strikes a boulder near his head, spraying splinters.

Silco throttles back a wince. He walked right into that one.

"Jinx," he says quietly. "Your aim is better than that."

"That was a warning shot!"

"It was an empty threat. I've taught you better."

She lets off a sound between a snarl and a sob. "Next time, I won't miss!"

Silco's smile, edged and bitter, softens. "I know."

"I mean it!"

"I know."

He draws nearer. Jinx whips around. The gun is still in her hands. It feels trivial. Just a toy. The real danger is Jinx. Her lovely face is trapped in a hideous transformation. It can either warp into the marionette mask of the Shimmer-demon. Or it can liquify into the beleaguered visage of Powder, a girl who oozed wretchedness like a cut vein.

Two creatures opposite and yet overlapping; born from having no control over their life.

"Don't," she says. A warning, a plea. "Don't."

"I'm not leaving without you, Jinx."

"I can't—"

"You can. It's your choice. You've always been free to make it. Stop acting like you don't deserve it."

"No! No no no no..." She is still sobbing; tears sluicing down her cheeks. But he is no longer the enemy she is struggling against. "It's not done yet! The goodbyes aren't finished. They have more to say. They need me to stay until—"

Until she's ready to say goodbye for real.

"You don't need them," Silco says gently. "They are only shadows, my lovely."

"They're everything! They're all I have left! If I can't fix them—I can't fix anything!"

"There is no fixed. We have to do it ourselves."

"Please. Please."

"Unless you'd like me to join you?" he says. "So we're all together. All of us in the After."

Jinx rears back as if he's slapped her. Their eyes meet. No bluffs; no bullshit. Either she comes home, or they exit hand-in-hand. Anything else is negotiable.

Including Zaun.

Jinx's gun clatters to the ground. A minute ago, she'd been a force of destruction. Now, sobbing and shuddering, she most resembles the little girl he'd first met in the rain.

Gods, she is still there.

Not Powder. Not the Shimmer-demon.

The spirit he'd fallen so purely in love with. The wildfire shining off her. All that strength and fragility and wonder. His little blue comet. His child. Yet it makes Silco sorry, to see her so beaten-down, beset by so much misery. Everything in him yearns to console her. Help her heal, or, failing that, absorb her grief.

Jinx sways, and Silco snatches her up. She doesn't resist. Her sobs are so fierce her whole body quakes. They hurt Silco in a way even war never could. He cradles her skull into the crook of his neck. Her heart is racing at double-time. So is his. When the emotional reaction finally hits him, it is violent as a gutting. Even though there's a torn space in his chest where there should rationally be relief, what he feels is a raw terror that makes him retch.

She nearly left.

She'd be gone and I'd be alone.

Silco's embrace tightens. She's dangling on tiptoe, the way he's holding onto her. Her eyes are squeezed shut. Her hands clutch fistfuls of his coat. It is a posture of turmoil so childlike that Silco nearly sobs in turn. Poor precious girl. How difficult it must be for her. How difficult it has always been. How little worth she's set in herself, not just her achievements and brilliance, but the astonishing, adorable incongruity that is Jinx.

He wants to speak. But the emotion is a crippling physical ache. And at the same time it is so perfect to have her back in his arms. She smells of her nightmarish ordeal—grit and gunpowder. But also so bittersweetly of home that he can't bear to let her go.

Except—

Against his chest, Jinx breathes, "Thirty seconds."

"What?"

"The timer."

"Gods—"

Reflexively, Silco snatches Jinx closer. But she's already broken loose. Not to abandon him. She pivots and swings a powerful kick at the wheelbarrow.

Jerking, it careens down the cliffside. Hits the edge, and tips straight over.

Plunging into darkness.

Thirty seconds.

Not enough time. The blast-zone is too close.

When the explosion comes, it rumbles like thunder and plumes like lava. It tears through the night, fire and ash billowing up and out of the chasm to blot out the moonlight. A shower of gritty black dust whizzes through the air. Flames balloon in a widening radius. The whole ravine jolts.

Jinx has already snatched Silco's wrist. Her fingers, fiendishly strong, clamp into his bones. Silco is swung into motion.

Then they are racing together, their boots pounding the rocks before everything whites out. Crash and thunder at their heels. Blistering heat giving chase. There is never anything stealthy in fire's pursuit. It charges madly, devouring everything in its path. The earth quakes beneath them. Jinx leaps clear of a crack widening under her boots. Silco stumbles and steadies and keeps motoring. His muscles boil; his nerves buzz. Adrenaline with a leftover froth of Shimmer.

Enough to last the distance?

It fucking better.

He and Jinx scramble up the incline. Embers billow in their wake. Thirty yards, twenty, ten. The obelisks, with their runic inscriptions, are a hazed silhouette against a burning heaven. A doorway glowing with promise. Jinx's palm finds Silco's. Their fingers lace together. She's leading the charge, but her eyes are locked on the horizon of his own.

His little comet, a blazing blue glory.

"I love you," she gasps.

They race hand-in-hand.

A gust of blistering wind buffets them. The flames rush closer, a maw that swallows everything it touches. Silco's lungs are acrid with smoke. Jinx is coughing raggedly. A cough like a miner's wheeze.

They keep running.

Five yards.

Four.

Three.

The obelisks beckon.

Two.

The runes are in reach.

One—

They leap, but it's too late. The flames have caught up to them. The cliff's edge is crumbling away in a slurry of soot. Jinx falls, and takes Silco with her. Her shriek is lost in the firestorm.

They fall together.

Through redness.

Through blackness.

Through nothing.

Then the world reorients itself.

Without warning the thunder ebbs and everything else sucked into silence before the silence turns itself inside-out in a shimmering blue-pink ether.

An eye of madness.

A burning pool.

A fusion of magic.

Before Silco's eyes, multicolored lights pop, and then he is falling not backwards but forwards into a portal, except it isn't a portal but a luminous web in the center of his mind, at the crux of his choices, and he sees—

Flash: A burning alley, Vander's corpse, a girl in the rain, and he kneels but doesn't take her in his arms, doesn't promise her the world on a pike, only encircles her to seize a fistful of blue hair and twist her neck bare, her face locked in horror as his blade slices across the pulse of her pale throat, blood sheeting her skin as her eyes go blank, Silco's own future blanking out with them, a barren vista with no freedom in sight, Zaun a stillborn death, his own life forfeit in a devil's bargain with no hope of redemption, and then—

Flash: the alley again, the girl in his arms, his voice crooning in her ear, and he takes her and keeps her, but their love is different, a bitter aftertaste at once rotten and unnatural, a perversion of family where she is nothing more than meat to devour, a means to an end, until sanity breaks and they glut themselves on each other's bones, two monsters cannibalizing their own, and in the echoing wrongness of the aftermath, he feels himself cracking in half, nothing but raw appetite left behind, a creature of feral impulse that will destroy anything it touches, and then—

Flash: the alley licked with flames, the girl sobbing in the rain, only she isn't a stranger, she is his own child, a legacy of his and Nandi's union, and now Silco cradles her close, and keeps her, and loves her purely, in blood and in truth, except she isn't Jinx, because Jinx wasn't born in this scenario, the exact genetic prerequisites failed to coalesce, but Silco doesn't know this as he nurtures her, and he doesn't know that when the sun rises on her sixteenth year, she will die screaming in agony, a corpse riven by Enforcer's bullets, because her cleverness isn't enough to spark Zaun's birth, because lightning only strikes once, and it's Jinx who is his lightning in a bottle, his child born without a drop of his blood but with the same shard of his soul, his comet, his treasure, and then—

Flash: Jinx as she is, except her body is a prism, fractured shards of light refracting off her skin, her eyes aglow, her beauty a rainbow in a rainstorm, except he isn't sheltering her, she is shielding him, a luminous talisman caught in her hands, a lance made of fire, and she is burning alive, but she unafraid, her laughter ringing true and sweet with the taste of victory.

And then—

He stumbles out of the web, the unlived lives brushing ghostlike at his skin before he falls free. The knowledge fades with him, nothing but an echo in his mind, a shadow at the corner of his eye. The explosion in the ravine is the same, relentless spume putting distance between its quarries.

He and Jinx are no longer in the same spot. They are at a craggy stretch of a plateau. The moon shines against the disturbed clouds in a welter of light. In the distance, the obelisk looms over a burnt landscape. The skyline around it shimmers with the wink of hundred glass windows. Or are they portals?

Between one breath and the next, they fade, until all that remains is the night sky.

Jinx skids to a stop, chest heaving. Silco trips and falls to his hands and knees. His lungs work like bellows. He coughs, throat burning. In that moment, he regrets every belt of whiskey and every lungful of cigarette he'd imbibed in the interceding years since meeting Jinx.

"By Kindred," he gasps. "Never again."

Blue particles fall like dust-motes—a glittering haze. The Hex-gem nearly burns a hole in his coat pocket.

What was that?

A lapse of sanity? Or the crux of miracles?

Something cannonballs into him.

Jinx.

She is on him, a keening flurry of blue and white and pink. The force knocks Silco backwards. Nearly a replica of their first meeting, her arms locked around his neck, sharp knees digging into his ribs. His body answers instinctually. Folding her close, he squeezes her small shape closer, his face in her hair, his reassurances drowned in the flood of her crying.

No—not crying.

Laughing.

Jinx's teary face is pressed against his neck. He feels the imprint of her lips. Her whole body ripples in broken burbles.

"Jinx—what—?"

Silco sits up. Jinx's laughter swells and bursts—giddy peals of gratitude.

The sound sends a dozen conflicting shocks through Silco. Simultaneously he wants to crush her in an embrace—and take her over his knee and belt her until she hollers. He can scarcely breathe; the rage building up in his bones is a whiplash so enormous it makes the near-swat on her thirteenth Name Day seem tame in comparison.

How could she be so reckless? How could she dare leave him?

Yet his instinct, deeper and more merciless than even his rage, sings with a heartsick delirium at having her back. His entire psyche is blasted open by her, this little blue meteor with not an ounce of his lifeblood, yet whose gravitational pull commands every iota of his being.

He holds Jinx for a long time, until her laughter ebbs. Dragging in a breath, Silco holds it for a moment, then loosens his embrace.

Jinx raises her head. Her face is a blotched mess of tears. Yet her expression holds a short-circuited sweetness that is entirely at odds with her doomed designs for tonight. This girl is new to him—a stranger. Someone mysterious. Someone enchanting. Someone he loves, despite all the danger she has brought upon them both.

His daughter, no matter what.

Their eyes meet. Jinx quirks a grin. "Silly."

"Child."

"That was fun, huh?"

"Speak for yourself."

He smooths the tangled hair from her forehead. It needs combing. Her luminous little face is smudged in dirt, the cheeks sticky. She needs a face-washing. Not to mention a bath, and a change of clothes. They both do. Except it is the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.

Miles to go before they reach Zaun. Miles before they are anywhere close to home.

Silco doesn't care.

Home isn't far off. Home is right here.

Slowly, Silco shakes his head.

(Vander.)

(You bastard.)

(You could've warned me.)

Against his will, Silco slides out a smile. A tiny, crooked smile that barely lasts, and yet is designed to get under even the thickest skin of a runaway teenage girl, crawling around with its crazy-making warning. Jinx pretends not to see it. But her body betrays an antsy jitter. Her features reflect a shift from mischief to squinting suspicion. "What?"

"Nothing."

"What?"

"It's a night for firsts, hm?"

"I—I guess?"

"Here's a second."

To encompass your child in your arms after narrowly losing them. To know the prospect exists always. Today, tomorrow, any day in the future. Is there a more simultaneously blissful and heartbroken feeling in the world? Or a state more ordinary? Shared by thousands across Runeterra.

(That's fatherhood.)

Silco drops a kiss to Jinx's forehead. "My lovely…"

"Yeah?"

"You're grounded."

"Oh fu—"

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane jinx #jinx #arcane zaun #zaun #arcane piltover #piltover #arcane vi #vi #arcane vander #vander #silco and jinx

[albertfinch]

ADOPTING THE CHRIST THOUGHT LIFE

James 1:16-18 reminds us that the Father of heavenly lights gives only good and perfect gifts and that He is the God of truth:

"Don't be deceived, my dear brothers and sisters. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of first fruits of all He created"

The enemy wants to steal our dreams, our faith and our lives! But, do not give place to His evil words. Determine now to repent for believing His lies. Repentance does not mean that it is needed because God is upset, mad or angry because of our doubt and unbelief -- to repent means to simply change the way we think (about God and even ourselves). 

Therefore, we repent into God’s purpose for our life.  We ask, seek, and knock (Matthew 7:7) until we come to understand and actually carry-out our Christ calling. Nothing moves in God;s Kingdom without action.  if you have believed opposite of what God says about you, CHANGE the way you think about yourself. Also, if you have believed opposite of all God declares concerning His love, provision, protection, etc., simply CHANGE the way you think about Him. This will empower you with great faith and hope for your future.

GUARDING OUR HEARTS

Satan will always bring darkness into our situation. However, godly revelation reveals what is hidden – or what attempts to remain in darkness. As we more fully understand God's goodness and His light of truth, we begin to function and operate in His power to overcome the wicked works and words of the accuser.

We must guard our hearts so that we do not faint. The enemy is working overtime to cause us to grow weary and have faint hearts. 

He gives power to the faint and weary, and to him who has no might He increases strength [causing it to multiply and making it to abound]. [2 Corinthians 12:9.]

"Even youths shall faint and be weary, and [selected] young men shall feebly stumble and fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord [who expect, look for, and hope in Him] shall change and renew their strength and power; they shall lift their wings and mount up [close to God] as eagles [mount up to the sun]; they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint or become tired."  - Isaiah 40:28-31 AMP

Stand in faith on God's promise that He is renewing your strength right now and that also He is giving you power to overcome all adversity. He is also revealing to us, at this time, how to live in joy and peace even in the midst of a storm! In fact, go back and re-read the previous passage and literally see yourself strong and full of faith. You are God's light on the earth, a city on a hill. Let your light shine!

"Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of Jehovah is risen upon thee. For, behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the peoples; but Jehovah will arise upon thee, and His glory shall be seen upon thee. And nations shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising" - (Isaiah 60:1-3 ASV).

PRESSING IN

James 1:12 encourages each of us to persevere in pressing into God's revealed PURPOSE for our life so we may influence lives and bear fruit that remains for His Kingdom.

Our worthiness comes that Jesus and His righteousness has already made us worthy of all good things given to us from the Father. We are not to condemn ourselves for our weakness and feeling faint-hearted but rather renew our minds to our new Christ identity – old opinions of ourselves have passed away and we are now effective firebrands for changing the way people perceive their role in advancing His Kingdom.  

We persevere due to the finished work on the Cross! We will reap because in our salvation (sozo) we have healing, deliverance, prosperity and all that is needed to demonstrate the power of God in our lives and the lives of others.

We must develop the mind-set that -- we are not defined by our past, what people think of us, or our circumstances - but only by who we are in Christ.

"To whom God would make known what is the riches of glory of this mystery among the Gentiles; which is Christ in you, the hope of glory." - Colossians 1:27

We step into our future (God's CALLING on our lives) with great boldness and confidence knowing certain that Christ has paid the price for complete freedom.

PRAYER:

Father, You are the God of Light and I thank You that You have a pathway of light planned for me.  I will not grow faint or weary in flight but continue to rise up in greater faith. I place my faith in the finished work of Christ that completely transforms. Thank You for the grace You are giving me to advance in my Christ calling and potential. I pray this in the mighty name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer. Amen.

ALBERT FINCH MINISTRY

#jesus #calling #destiny #purpose #bible #devotional #daily word #revelation #inspiration #holy spirit

[what-if-nct]

nah my friend is ridiculous 😭

so he just got his jonghyun she is album and he has been looking through the picture book when he got excited over one page in which he took a picture of it and written something like “free foot pic! thanks jonghyun!”

what is his obsession with his feet he wouldn’t even stop talking about the picture of him wearing socks and kicking the air- 😭😭😭😭

jeez and he be talking about how it made him nut and shit like omg i don’t care about his feet what’s so sexy about something you walk on the floor with? is that the sexy part? him stepping on your head with socks on? what’s so hot about that?

but yeah- i don’t have a feet fetish but i do like his hands 🥺

omg the fact that he could use them to- 🫳🏻🍑

*starts screaming* nahhhh all the things i would do to meet him i would kill or give a lap dance just to carry him like he’s princess peach

nvm i don’t think i could carry him, but he can jejeekwkwkwj

he could probably carry me like a baby since i’m not too heavy… but i’d want him to grind on me-

oops sorry pg-13- uh- rainbows and flowers 🌈🌸🌺💐🌷🌹🌼🌻☀️✨

anywho, supreme is too expensive lol and my tatas are big ;(

i’m like idk what size i am i haven’t worn a bra in 6 years- maybe like 28 c of d cup ig it looks big so maybe even dd? (i don’t know my size so-) also, they’re perky too like them pr0nstars which makes it even worse-

i hate my tatas i wish i could donate them to amber or anyone i hate them i would even give them to my little sister like a hand me down so she can have boobs and i can be flat or at least small enough that i don’t have to literally kill myself to make sure i look flat enough when i bind. puberty sucks i wish i never had to go through mean changes and i could look like jonghyun ;(

i’m scared that it may go to my hips and people will see me as a woman i hate it so much i don’t know if the best thing to do is to go to a gender clinic to prevent it from happening but i would try but the uk is shit and is transphobic 😭😭

i literally look like every female character a man written with big boobs tiny waist and big butt (but i barely have hips so… yay…?) istg if i look like miss bellum from the ppg when i turn 25 then imma ☠️

nah my sis doesn’t know what she’s gonna miss like yooo- she could technically go shirtless and get away with it like omg that must feel amazing to be that flat and NO HIPS OR ASS you can live your life not worrying about getting catcalled whilst i get catcalled sometimes or creppy guys touch me like omg i never knew this was a thing in the uk 😭

also thank youuuuuuu i’m gonna shut up now but i love speaking in case you didn’t know hahahahah

mwah byeeeeeeee 😭😭😭

No, no it's fine. I like to talk too. I swear I send my friends like 25 voice memos cause I go on tangents. Then like 5 paragraphs right after the voice messages. Talk as much as you want. Yeahhhh feet fetishes do not make any real sense to me either. Also the fact it's so so so common. Like is this a dormant Victorian era sensibility that gets triggered in some people who see feet and ankles as scandalous and arousing. Also maybe you can find a Calvin Klein sports bra, it's what the supreme one is copying anyway. I got a Calvin Klein sports bra from TJ Maxx\TK Maxx a while ago for like 12 dollars. But new it's like 29 dollars. Aww, I understand, puberty can really suck and being in a body you feel disconnected from while being harassed by creepy guys just makes it harder. I really hope that you'd be able to get where you want to be in your body and you feel like you're suppose to. I'm sure you're still really young and there's so many options. And ugh those creepy guys are literally the worst. Honestly should be locked away. They have no right to touch you. Even though I like my body having a hyper feminine body does make you want to just hideaway. Plus I dress hyper feminine cause it makes me happy, Also I only care about the random women who call me cute. But I once wore like this bodycon mini dress to Home Depot. I know I know but that's like my grocery store dress it's comfy even thought it's short and tight. And I was going to the grocery store after. And like there was an employee who was following me around. Kinda looked like the lead sing of A day to remember. He even followed me into the parking lot where he tried to ask me if I saw some lady in a hat or something like that. I said no and he stayed like right by me while I waited for my aunt to pick me up. Men are creeps. Like if you want to say something say it the first time you see me don't follow me around like weirdo.

[j4gm]

TOGETHER AGAIN SPOILERS

A thread of lore, Easter eggs, episode connections, and background details from Adventure Time: Distant Lands: Together Again! Let me know if I missed anything! This is adapted from my original Twitter thread.

Keep reading ⬇️⬇️⬇️

1. I was expecting them to perhaps do a classic style title sequence for this episode, but I wasn't expecting them to straight up use the original title sequence. The only difference is this final screen saying "Distant Lands".

2. The background of the title cards is also the hill from the title sequence.

3. The ice cream having "50 flavours" and having an image of an enlightened soul is an obvious reference to the 50th Dead World as we see it later in the episode.

4. Continuing with the metaphor, the dirt in the ice cream could be a parallel to the fact that Jake's Nirvana actually wasn't perfect, because his inaction was allowing for injustice to perpetuate.

5. This whole scene feels immediately slightly off. Finn has his Scarlet sword and is out on a classic Ice King adventure, but he speaks in his grown voice and all the slang feels much more forced than it did in the real season one. Turns out this was deliberate.

6. The snow golem speaks with a baby voice like it did in the pilot episode, even though in canon it has a deeper voice. This further hints that something is not quite right.

7. The first major break in continuity is these snow golems resembling Uncle Gumbald and Peace Master, who Finn didn't meet until later in his life.

8. LSP sitting on Finn's head like this is reminiscent of Pen Ward's piece for the 2018 Ble crew zine.

9. Finn being given the choice of helping somebody but ending up helping everybody reminds me of "Memories of Boom Boom Mountain". It's the kind of resolution that wouldn't happen so much in the late seasons of the show, which helps make this scene feel even further out of place.

10. Jake is half frozen by Ice King in pretty much the exact same way as he was in "Prisoners of Love", and even has a very similar line.

11. The Snail is seen here. The crew have said that the Snail has been deliberately left out of previous Distant Lands specials, so its placement here is another very deliberate hint that this whole sequence is "trying too hard" to be like the early seasons.

12. The book "Mind Games" appears a couple of times, as seen in several previous episodes of Adventure Time. The first is as Finn is approaching the library in his dream. It also appears as one of the items in Finn's backpack later.

13. Jake is hurt when Finn fist bumps him with his metal arm, revealing that this scene is not real. This is also a callback to the title sequences of "Islands" and "Elements".

14. A whole bunch of familiar skeletons are seen in the bird's nest: Dirt Beer Guy, Abracadaniel, Me-Mow, Lemongrab, Mr. Pig, and the Snail again. This doesn't necessarily mean that all these characters are dead, since this scene is just a hallucination.

15. Old Man Finn! He's still got the chest tattoo of Jake, and this time we know that Jake is dead, so the theory that Jake died before "Obsidian" seems pretty likely. He looks similar to his old man design from "Puhoy", with the same facial hair.

16. There are several cameos of familiar characters who apparently died at the same time as Finn. The first is this duck, who previously appeared in "Ocarina".

17. The second is Donny, from the episode... uh, "Donny".

18. This goblin guy is an unnamed background character from “The Silent King”.

19. This old lady first appeared in "The Enchiridion", way back in season one. Old ladies are a species in the Land of Ooo, so I guess she wasn't actually very old back then, given she just about outlived Finn.

20. This is the cobbler who first appears in "His Hero". Amazing that he lived so long given all the trouble he got into in that episode.

21. Land of the Dead! This place was first seen in season two's "Death in Bloom", and now we are finally learning its actual purpose. It's a sort of gateway and hub to all of the other dead worlds.

22. There are some more minor cameos at the gates: a house person from "Donny", a soft person from "Gut Grinder", and a wood person from "When Wedding Bells Thaw". And, of course, the gate guardian himself from “Death in Bloom”.

23. Finn completely ignores the gate guardian in the same way he did in Death in Bloom. This also has the convenient effect of not having to reveal how Finn died, leaving it up to the audience's imagination.

24. Mr. Fox! We already knew he would die at some point because BMO had his skull in the finale.

25. Finn has his design from the first Distant Lands poster in this scene. Turns out it's young Finn in old Finn's clothes. But they gave him a shirt in the poster so you wouldn't be able to see the tattoo.

26. The clapping that Finn does while he's looking for Jake is a callback to "James Baxter the Horse", when Jake tells Finn to listen for that same rhythm if they are killed and need to find each other in the afterlife.

27. Mr. Fox talks about a "past life quotient", suggesting that there might be some kind of limit to how many times somebody can reincarnate. Finn's reincarnations are also seen in this scene; a callback to "The Vault", and confirmation that reincarnations share the same soul.

28. Boobafina, the goose who Mr. Fox was in love with in his debut episode “Storytelling”, apparently reincarnated into a tugboat. We've already seen that objects can have souls in the episode "Ghost Fly".

29. Finn is initially assigned to the 37th Dead World, which is the same one that Jake went to when he died in "Sons of Mars". We can only guess at what the other numbers on the ticket mean ;)

30. Tiffany! Despite several lucky escapes throughout his life, Tiffany has finally died. I like the use of this imagery to express Finn's conflicted feelings about him.

31. The 50th Dead World has long been established as the "highest" dead world, and the one synonymous with Heaven within Adventure Time's universe. It was first mentioned in "Ghost Princess" back in season three.

32. It's unclear what happens to souls which are destroyed within the dead worlds. It is a similar question to asking what happened to the ghosts that were killed in "Ghost Fly".

33. Death doesn't speak at all in Together Again because his voice actor, Miguel Ferrer, passed away in 2017 long before production began.

34. Finn phases through New Death when he tries to attack him, just like what happened way back in "Death in Bloom".

35. The 30th Dead World contains Tree Trunks as well as many of her love interests; Mr. Pig, her alien husband from "High Strangeness", Danny and Randy who first appeared in "Apple Wedding", and several more who we don't recognise, including at least one who presents as a woman.

36. Literally yelled when these two showed up. Joshua calls Finn a crybaby, which is a callback to "Dad's Dungeon".

37. The wall of weapons in Joshua and Margaret's house includes the iconic Demon Blood Sword, which was broken in "Play Date", as well as Margaret's auto-loading crossbow from "Joshua & Margaret Investigations".

38. Jermaine is sidelined a few times through the episode, in reference to his attitude in "Jermaine" where he feels that Finn and Jake were always their parents' favourites. I would have hoped things would be a bit better by now.

39. Fern gets name dropped while Finn and Jake are reuniting. A shame he doesn't actually show up in the episode.

40. In this scene, Finn says "What time is it?" This is a very subtle reference to the 2010 cartoon "Adventure Time".

41. In a couple of shots during this fight scene it looks like Jake might have a tattoo. It seems like it only becomes visible when he stretches out his arm.

42. New Death's amulet in this scene resembles parts of the Lich's cape, foreshadowing his influence on New Death.

43. There are several more cameos in the 50th Dead World: Booshy from "High Strangeness", one of the Marshmallow Kids from "Scamps", and Ghost Princess and Clarence, who were seen ascending to the 50th Dead World in "Ghost Princess".

44. Finn didn't interact with Booshy in "High Strangeness", but it seems they must have met at some point before they both died because Finn knows his name.

45. It seems like people in the 1st Dead World are slowly melted away until they become part of the landscape. Nasty.

46. Lots more cameos in this scene: a gnome from "Power Animal", a gnome from "The Enchiridion", a Bath Boy from "The Vault", Blagertha from "Love Games", Maja the Sky Witch, a troll from "Dungeon", Chocoberry, Choose Goose, Wyatt, a spiky person from "Gut Grinder", and possibly more.

47. Tiffany's insults are consistently nonsensical and amazing, as they were in the original series.

48. The Candy Kingdom looks extremely different. Peppermint Butler is wearing the crown so he might be in charge now, which is supported by the kingdom's very magical-looking augmentations. It’s not clear whether Finn and Jake were expecting to find Princess Bubblegum or Peppermint Butler, since both have the initials “PB” and both could be going by the title of “Princess”. Perhaps Peps and Bubblegum share the princess duties now that PB is living with Marceline more of the time.

49. Peppermint Butler has a "Boss" mug, although it's not the same colour as the one from "Obsidian".

50. Jake's ghost has the same design as he did when BMO killed him in "Ghost Fly". I also absolutely love Finn's ghost. This scene establishes that ghosts are just visitors to the mortal plane from the dead worlds.

51. Life has only appeared in animated shorts before now. Namely, "The Gift That Reaps Giving" which establishes her relationship with Death, and "Frog Seasons: Winter". This episode gives her a concrete place within Adventure Time's pantheon: she is in charge of reincarnation.

52. A translation of Life’s angry French dialogue by Shado: “After all I did for that boy. After all I did for him. No, it's not possible. It's not possible no, that... that makes me so mad but it's not possible.”

53. We finally have in-universe confirmation that Shoko's tiger is a previous life of Jake. This was previously confirmed by one of the writers, but wasn't canon until now.

54. I feel like Finn pulled off Shoko's look even better than Shoko did. I wonder whether Finn has gained the memories of his past lives now that he’s dead.

55. No Easter egg here, just want to appreciate this image.

56. There is an elemental symbol on the wall here, as seen in "Jelly Beans Have Power".

57. Tiffany's dramatic internal monologue is a recurring gag, as is his habit of nearly dying from falling into holes.

58. The Jake suit makes a cameo in the fight against New Death. It was last seen in the episode "Reboot”.

59. Finn's backpack contains a few familiar items: the t-shirt with the pocket from "It Came from the Nightosphere", Finn's underwear from "Little Dude" and other episodes, and a copy of Mind Games as I've already mentioned.

60. The Lich's Hand is present in the background of Death's... death scene. This is probably the unseen "friend" who New Death keeps talking about.

61. The Lich's menacing monologues often begin with a single command. Previously they have included "Fall" and "Stop". This time, the command is "Burn".

62. Jake uses the word "boingloings", which is a callback all the way to "Hitman" in the third season.

63. Jake's blue shape-shifter form from "Abstract" appears very briefly during his fight with Finn.

64. Finn's lumpy space person form also makes an appearance. This design was last seen all the way back in the second episode of the entire show, "Trouble in Lumpy Space".

65. Jake steps on the Lich's hand in a very similar way to how he stepped on Ash in "Memory of a Memory", which is itself a Monty Python reference.

66. The credits include a dedication to a few AT cast and crew who have passed away. Polly Lou Livingston was the voice of Tree Trunks. Miguel Ferrer was the voice of Death. Michel Lyman and Maureen Mlynarczyk were both sheet timers on the original series. Rest in peace.

67. The message that Finn and Jake write out on the ouija board is "BUTT", which Peppermint Butler takes as a distress signal. This message is also used as a distress signal by the Hot Dog Knights in "The Limit".

68. Peppermint Butler's reversed dialogue from the scene where he makes contact with Finn and Jake is "Kee-Oth Rama Pancake", the spell from “Dad's Dungeon” for banishing demons.

69. That appears to be President Porpoise with all of Tree Trunks’ other lovers.

70. In this scene, Life is humming part of "Lonely Bones", the song which Death tried to record for her in her debut short "The Gift That Reaps Giving". It's hard to notice because it's so brief.

71. Finn and Jake's cover is blown while in the Land of the Dead because Jake loudly farts, which also happened in "Death in Bloom".

72. The place where Mr. Fox explains the perception mechanics of the afterlife is the exact same location as the River of Forgetfulness from "Death in Bloom", which, as it turns out, was imaginary.

These are sort of out of order at the end because I was adding stuff to the Twitter thread as it got discovered. That’s all for now!

#adventure time #together again #finn the human #jake the dog #lorepost

[theroomofreq]

can you give me muggle jily recs pleaaseeee <3 :D

HOW MANY HIGH-QUALITY MUGGLE JILY FICS ARE THERE?? TOO MANY TO COUNT. *cracks knuckles* BUT I am here for the challenge. Jily AUs are my JAM.

Again, shoutout to our amazing @jilyarchive friends who tag every wonderful muggle jily au they come across. here is the link that will take you to their tags page. You'll find links to specific tropes and AUs :')

I've searched through my own AO3 bookmarks and history tabs, and I present to you 28 jily muggle fics that I LOVE. I am THRILLED thinking about all the good things in store for those that read these wonderful stories. This list took me ages to make because I went through and reread most of these brilliant fics. Happy reading !! xx

properly improper by @lizardcookie

“Marry me,” Mr. Potter repeats, closing the distance between them by striding back up towards the sofa, only to stop and crouch to one knee right there at her feet, looking up at her. Burning. “Pick me,” he elaborates. “Pick me, choose me, love me instead.”

- this fic is the reason why I comment the way that I do (spoiler it's because it's amazing)

The Wedding Ring by @mppmaraudergirl

What is undeniably worse than attending your sister's wedding looking as desolate and forgotten as a wilted houseplant? Drunkenly ringing your ex-boyfriend and asking him to be your date.

- SOBS UNCONTROLLABLY AT THE PERFECTION

Oh my god, they were ROOMMATES by @magic-girl-in-a-muggle-world

Silly one-shot, Muggle AU with Fem!Jily as pining roommates and Marlene as their matchmaker.

- the fic that brought me back to jily and inspired my deep obsession of fem!jily

Swipe Right, Swing Left by @downn-in-flames

The unspoken rule of using dating apps in D.C. is that you always start with where you work.

James Potter, it seems, never picked up on that one.

- giddy just thinking about this gem

'Tis the Damn Season by @petalstofish

It doesn't feel like Christmas for Lily Evans, not after losing her parents to COVID before the Holiday season. She anticipates spending Christmas all alone until a boy from her past shows up and offers her a mutually benefiting deal that has her calling him 'babe' just for the weekend. 'Tis the damn season, after all.

- cries in respect for lyrical writing

Watch Me Unwind by @maraudersftw

Lily Evans hates her job, hates the bigoted customers she has to serve as a bartender at the richest club in the city. But the one person who makes bearing all of it worth it has someone else in his arms tonight. (Rated: M)

- obsessed with the way the plot jumps around the time line in this

oil be there for you by @abby10fanfic

Texting/Social Media AU: Lily and James haven't spoken for 2 years. But that's all about to change thanks to Peter and his involvement in an essential oil pyramid scheme. Featuring boss babes, toxin-free lifestyles, binding contracts, and a very oily journey.

- YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE HOW FAB THIS IS

a matchmaking mission by @downn-in-flames

James Potter has a mission: get Sirius Black and Remus Lupin to finally admit that they both fancy the pants off each other by Valentine's Day.

His partner in crime? Lily Evans, Remus' flatmate, who he also happens to be slightly in love with

- DOUBLE the amount of pining idiots in love :")

about time by @jilyss

'sure, yeah, I can accompany you to that black tie event for your work tonight. wait. why are we on a red carpet?'

- this is my emotional comfort fic, your honor

whiskey business by @elanev91

Sirius Black has a (bad?) habit of picking up hobbies that take over his and James' flat -- this most recent one? Homemade vodka that James now has to try and peddle to everyone in the building.

- hysterical! must read!

Fashion Disaster by @maraudersftw

James Potter is roped into an awful dare by his best-mate, which involves him wearing atrocious pieces of clothing for all days until Christmas as dictated by Sirius. If this wasn't terrible enough, he now has to contend with his maddening crush on the beautiful saleswoman at the clothing store.

- classic hijinks that I live for

it wasn't a pity invite by @elanev91

Part of the December "Winter Tropes" Jily challenge. Prompt: my family invites you to join our holiday meal as an obvious setup and omG i’m so sorry

- awkward Christmas date that owns my heart

spice and honey by @clare-with-no-i

tagging along with her food reporter sister to profile James Potter, London's hottest young chef, is not how Lily Evans pictured her Monday going - especially if he's anything like Petunia’s described.

needless to say, she's in for a whirlwind at Chez Maraudeur.

- I'm one re-read away from printing this out and putting it on my bookshelf.

Waffle Wars by @elanev91

There's only one waffle maker in the dining hall and it literally always breaks. So, naturally, the only reasonable course of action is to meticulously map out when it's working and, ultimately, do a heist.

- the witty narration in this fic can not be matched

You Can Hear It In The Silence by @alrightginger

Lily is non-verbal and deaf in a world where the things your soulmate says about you end up written on your skin. She has known about her soulmate since she was seven, but knows they don't have a clue she exists and possibly never will.

- exquisite, cue me sobbing forever

out the window by @displayheartcode

A new family moves to Ottery St Catchpole.

- everything I could ever want in a fic, forever in my mind rent free

The Christmas Guest by @thegodmachine

An Evans Family Christmas: Petunia is bringing her fiancé and Lily is bringing her…Friend…

- petunia pov that gives me WINGS

Football, Calculus, and Cappuccinos by @moonawrites

At eighteen years old, James Potter has a lot going on. He's a rising star navigating the politics of professional football, the pitfalls of sudden fame, the fallout from choosing his dream over his father's company... and a serious crush on the red headed new barista at his favourite coffee shop.

- I'm still working my way through this fic, but trust me when I say its a GEM

if u like pina coladas by @zephyrcove

Lily is desperate for a date to Petunia's wedding, James has been pining, and their friends meddle ;)

- explain to me how characters can be so perfect via texting fics?

Shelf Awareness by @ghostofbambifanfiction

It's too far out of her way and she's wasting so much money, but Lily can't help but return to the bookstore every weekend, where her passion for good literature has, perhaps, been unexpectedly reignited by the messy-haired, pun-making, rather handsome bloke who works there.

- you absolutely must know that I binge read this and then immediately REREAD it

How to win a witch in 10 days by @adenei

“She’s going to find some unsuspecting wizard, get him to fall for her, and then do all the things that turn men away to get him to break things off! Won’t it be the best way to see what witches do that drives men crazy?” But what happens when the man in question is a blast from Lily Evans's past? A Jily Magical AU based on the romantic comedy "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days."

- fic based off of a rom com? YES PLZ :’)

The Fight Before Christmas by @ghostofbambifanfiction

The heartwarming Christmas tale of Lily Evans and James Potter - two plucky kids who hated one other, until the day they really, really didn't.

- complete sucker for this one

All This Time by @thejilyship

James and Lily grew up next door to one another. Their bedroom windows giving them glimpses into the others life, and also offering prime opportunities to argue with each other over every little thing. They never figured out how to be friends when they were kids, but now that they've graduated from college and are home for the summer, they have a second chance to get things right.

- one of my favvvv tropes

Let Me Love You by @thejilyship

With only a month until she's set to take the throne of Gryffindor, Lily is informed that she'll have to get married or choose to give up her throne. She never thought she'd have to even entertain the idea of an arranged marriage. Enter, James Potter.

- cries in princess diares AU

The Fabulous Baker Brothers by @frustratedpoetwrites

Lily walks a different route home from work and stumbles upon a cute little Bakery with an even cuter baker in the window.

- yes yes yes to embarrassed pining.

Marigold Mornings by @mppmaraudergirl

This is a fun game she thinks, as she removes her hand from his side and reaches up to run it down his chest.  He catches her hand in his own, takes a step forward so that her nose nearly brushes against his shirt. She can feel the heat radiating off of him—or maybe it’s from her. He licks his lips and her eyes are drawn to the motion.  She knows it is a bad idea, absolutely knows it.

- incredible storytelling featuring dynamic characters :') a favvv

Welcome to Pettyville by@women-inthe-sequel @alrightginger

When Lily Evans accidentally sends a text to the wrong number, she isn’t expecting to find the right person behind it. She can’t stop talking to Prongs. The only thing is, Prongs can’t stop talking about the girl in his class. What could go wrong, other than the number?

- LOVE SQUARE ANYONE

The Kiss a Stranger Project by @alrightginger

“What’s your name, then?” she asks, realizing they haven’t even properly introduced themselves yet. She nervously crosses her arms.

You shouldn’t kiss a guy without knowing his name first.

Right?

- THIS ONE WILL LIVE IN MY MIND FOREVER

#ror reqs #jily fic #mugge fic recs #jily fic rec list

[shreddedparchment]

A Wife for Thor Pt.05

10/28/2020

Preparations

Pairing: King!Thor x Reader          Word Count: 6,652

Warnings: angst, slight smut?, language, fluff

A/N: Thank you everyone, for putting up with my emotional ass. After some thought, and when I was feeling better and not so sad (?), I really didn’t wanna make those of you keeping up with the story wait for the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy this one and if you happen to reblog, thank you so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Please DO NOT repost my stories on any other blogs or sites.

REBLOGS are always welcome!

The city is lively with beautiful Asgardians rushing about their daily lives. In the time since it’s completion, New Asgard and its inhabitants have settled into a routine. New lives on a planet now once again full of growth, community interaction, and celebration when the time is right.

“We’ll give you a proper tour tomorrow.” Brunnhilde says, reaching forward to tap the shoulder of the man driving you both. “Stop here.”

“Wait, aren’t you coming with me?” You ask, startled as she throws open the back door of the sleek black sedan.

“No. I have other things to prepare for the wedding and then I have to check in on my Valkyrie. Your escorts will meet you at the shop.” Brunnhilde assures you.

“But-”

“Bye!” She smiles at you and slams the door in your face.

You sit there, confused and at a loss. Your anxiety begins to mount when the driver, a handsome young Asgardian man with long braided black hair, clears his throat and draws your attention to the front.

“Shall I drive on Your Highness?” He asks, glancing in his rearview mirror at you.

“Um…” You’ll never get used to that stupid your highness stuff. “Yes.”

“Very good, Your Highness.”

“Can’t you just call me, Y/N?” You ask, feeling awkward.

“No.” He says, a smile on his face. “I cannot. I can see why his Majesty has chosen you.”

You’re surprised by this statement, and you’re pretty sure it’s insolent maybe? You don’t know because this is all new to you, but you don’t really care either way.

“Why?”

“You don’t remember me?” He asks, as he drives down the street.

As they pass, the Asgardians stop in their walking or talking or errand running to watch you drive by. Some of them smile with excitement, even moving with the car a few steps before stopping.

They’re all dressed normal. Asgardian garb abandoned to fit in on Earth. Not all of them. Some still wear their own clothes. Some of them wear a mixture of both. It’s a mish-mash of two cultures and you understand the need for a human Queen a little more.

“No.” You shake your head, giving the driver your full attention.

“I didn’t think you would.” He admits, smiling still. “You were very nervous when I first drove you up to the palace. Quite literally shaking in your pretty shoes.”

Was he your driver then too?!

“Alas, I understand his Majesty’s choice because you were the only woman that sat in my car and spoke to me. You may not have been aware enough to remember me, but you were very kind. Very concerned about me despite the stress you were in.” He looks in his rearview mirror again, meeting your eyes. “My wife gave birth, by the way.”

“Oh!” Your mind is struck with an unfocused conversation, hazy but you remember the pregnant wife. “I remember!”

You’re way too excited about remembering and the driver chuckles.

“Was it a boy or a girl?” You ask eagerly.

“A girl.” He smiles. “We’ve named her Luta.”

“Congratulations!” You exclaim gently, so happy for him.

“Thank you, Your Highness. I’ll tell my wife you said so.” He promises.

“I’d love to meet her.” You hope, leaning forward to get a better look at the side of his face.

“I’m not sure that will be possible. You’ll be terribly busy, and my wife is also with our little girl.”

“What if I came to pay her a special visit?” You really want to meet her.

“If you could find the time, Your Highness, my wife and I would be happy to receive you.” He smiles.

“I’m sorry if you told me last time we met, but what is your name?”

“Armod, Your Highness.” He tells you, turning down a second and smaller street.

The people are still dense, gathered around stalls and smaller shops as Armod drives a little slower to keep a careful eye on the families attending what must be an early morning market.

You take it in as quickly as you can, devouring the sight of these beautiful people and in return they turn to watch you go by.

They turn to each other, have quick and silent—to you—exchanges before a few of them begin to turn and wave.

Nervous, you wave timidly, smiling because you can’t help it. It isn’t a conscious decision.

The side street is so packed with stalls that it makes it impossible for people to follow the car at the speed it’s going, even reduced.

You’re a little grateful. You don’t want to get mobbed without someone else here to dilute the excitement.

“The people are very excited to see their future Queen.” Armod explains, “Forgive them their exuberance.”

“I hope I don’t disappoint them.”

As the crowd thins out, and Armod pulls the car into a gentle stop, he shakes his head, “Trust me, Your Highness, you won’t.”

Your car door opens. Into your view slides a pale white hand, luxurious suit jacket sleeve barely hiding the equally expensive white button-up underneath.

“Your Highness,” greets a familiar voice.

Taking his hand, Loki pulls you from the car, helping you stand and even reaching down to adjust the long train of your right sleeve.

The dress is sparkling blue, a body-hugging gold silk dress underneath the top sheer voile blue layer on top. The right sleeve is long, ends at your wrist, with a train that flows down at an equal length to that of your skirt. The left side is sleeveless.

You’re nervous about the deep V of your bodice, the scrunched-up shoulders of your dress carefully balanced there but too precarious for your liking.

With he sun out, the chill in the air isn’t so bad, but here in the shade of what must be the bridal shop, you shiver.

“You look lovely.” Loki smiles.

“I look stupid.” You counter, feeling very exposed and not at all pretty with how tight the dress feels.

“Allow me to politely disagree.” Loki takes your hand and leads it around his elbow as become aware of the people gathering around to catch a look at you. “I think the crowd would agree with me.”

“Can we go inside, please?” You beg, waving at the small group as other begin to flock from their spots at distant stalls to join the crowd.

“Of course.” Loki taps your hand then escorts you into the shop.

You relax a little once you’re inside and warm.

A middle-aged looking woman moves towards the two of you, her hand subtly stroking a large fold of crimson fabric on the low center shelf before she reaches you and then dips into a low curtsy before rising and grabbing her hands to hold at chest level.

“Good morning, your Highnesses!” She exclaims, gushing to an embarrassing degree.

“Good morning, Gorm. How are you?” Loki asks politely.

He doesn’t seem truly interested in her answer, but he waits kindly while she flusters with the honor of his polite concern.

“I am much better now that you and our King Thor’s lovely intended have arrived. Such an honor to meet you, Your Highness.” She says, addressing you directly.

“Thank you.” You reply, startled by her a bit. “It’s so great to meet you.”

“Tell me, Gorm, have you received His Majesty’s instructions on the dress we’d like?” Loki checks.

“Oh, yes, Your Highness! I’ve been working non-stop on several options since I received them.” She assures him, gesturing back towards a doorway past a long wooden counter with a modern cash register and signature pad for credit cards.

“Excellent.” Loki smiles. “Now, while I hate to do this to you, love—do you think you can handle a few hours alone with Gorm to do your fitting?”

“You’re leaving?” You ask, once again shocked, just like with Brunnhilde.

“I’m afraid I have several other things to do for the wedding and with the Earth and Asgardian ambassadors eager to have the wedding as soon as possible, I have to take every chance I can get to run these errands. Not like I have anything better to do…” Loki’s voice is slightly bitter, but only for a moment before he taps your hand again. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back long before you’re finished. Gorm doesn’t leave anything to chance with her gowns and this one is the most important one you will wear in your life. We have to get it right, don’t we Gorm?”

Gorm is already nodding, her blonde graying hair flowing like waves across her shoulders as she does. “Oh, yes, Your Highness. I will make sure that not only will the dress fit His Majesty’s expectations, but you too shall feel beautiful and like the dress was made just for you, Your Highness.”

“There you are.” Loki smiles. “I’ll be back.”

He pulls your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles before letting it go and moving towards the door, leaving you and Gorm to stand awkwardly for a few moments after the door shuts behind him.

“Shall we?” She gestures back towards the doorway and since there’s no way to get out of this, you fix her with a nervous smile and nod.

“Yes.” You sigh, and follow her, making sure to hold onto the counter as your round it so that you don’t trip on your train.

~~~~~~~~~~

Stomach absolutely growling, you slip your arms through the sleeves of the dress you’ve pretty much settled on.

The past five hours have had you step in and out of two other dresses three times, and this one a total of eight times. Each time so that Gorm can make alterations to length and cut and detail.

It’s surprising to you that this particular dress should need so much maintenance when it’s the simplest of the bunch.

You’d fallen for it almost at first sight but had tried the other two more frilly dresses to appease Gorm since Thor had requested something feminine to counteract the armor you’d be wearing on the day.

Armor you had no idea would be required in your wedding until Gorm explained the necessity for bodices without much flair.

“Alright, Your Highness,” Gorm smiles at you, holding the dress low and open for you to step through. “Once more, and then I think we are done.”

You let her slip the dress over you, layer after layer of smooth satin with one final crepe layer on top. The dress is eggshell white, soft, and easy on the eye.

Some white fabrics nearly burn your retinas, but this one is pleasant to look at.

It stops just around your shoulders, leaving them exposed. The neckline curves down with your bust just a little making the top look like a heart, the point of which is followed all the way down with a line of stitched white buttons.

They’re purely decorative because behind you is where Gorm stands to zip the dress closed.

She closes a small clasp and then folds out the layers of skirt around you.

It’s not as long as the blue dress you wore here today. Simpler and easier to walk in. The sleeves themselves are long, which you appreciate very much in this weather. Every bit of the dress now settles along your curves just right.

“Oh, this was the right choice, I think.” Gorm smiles wide. “You look beautiful, Your Highness. His Majesty is a very lucky man.”

You smile in return, flattered by her words for a moment because you forget that Thor has been with Jane all morning. As you remember, your smile falters then fades as the worries you had this morning come rushing back.

“You don’t like it?” Gorm asks, reaching down to stroke the long and beautiful skirt.

“Oh, no. I love the dress, Gorm. I’m just…worried about His Majesty liking it.” You smile at her, to reassure her. She’s done such amazing work. You might have her make all of your gowns from now on. Unless…?

“Gorm? Were you the one that made the dress I came in wearing today?” You wonder.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I’m afraid I did not have that pleasure.”

“How much of an imposition would it be if I made you my sole dressmaker? His Majesty has bought me some gowns to wear when appropriate, but I don’t feel like they’re my style.”

“Oh, Your Highness! It would be an honor to be your personal dressmaker!” She’s so flustered that she excuses herself and vanishes into the front of the shop to get her water.

You turn your gaze onto yourself in the mirror, all three angles looking back at you.

The dress really is unbelievably beautiful. You would never have thought that this dress and its style would have looked good on you, but it fits around your curves so seamlessly. This dress was literally made for you and it’s very noticeable.

As you turn around one final time, a small chuckle from the doorway pulls your eyes away from your reflection.

“I’m glad to see you haven’t put up such a fight over this.” Loki moves towards you, stopping a few feet away with his arms crossed over his chest.

“You should have seen me wrestle with the other two.” You sigh. “Can we go? I’m so hungry.”

Almost as if on cue, your stomach growls.

“Yes.” Loki nods. “We can go. I’ve got lunch waiting for you back in the palace.”

“Is Thor back?” You hop off the box you’d been standing on, grabbing your skirts and then dropping them to cascade around your legs like a milky waterfall.

Loki’s smile falter. “I’m afraid not. But don’t worry, he’ll be back soon, I’m sure.”

You’re so disappointed you wander away from him into the dressing room to change back into your blue dress without giving him any sort of answer.

He’s got you in the car, your forehead resting against the glass of the window, lost in thoughts of Thor and Jane when he speaks to you again.

“Might I ask you a favor, sister?” He probes gently.

Him calling you his sister makes your stomach tumble.

You have a brother! How can you ever explain this happiness?

“Sure.”

“I hope you don’t find me insolent, but-” He hesitates, thinking about the words he’s about to say hard before he meets your eyes and that seems to strengthen his resolve. “Don’t fall in love with Thor. Not yet. Don’t let him pull you in right away.”

“You think he’ll leave me for Jane?” You wait, watching as Loki thinks through your accusation.

“Not exactly, but yes. I suppose that’s a possibility I hope you can avoid.”

For a few minutes while Armod drives you back to the palace, you say nothing. You consider his request and the honest concern that he seems to have for you.

As Armod pulls into the large multi-car garage at the back of the palace, you turn to Loki and stare sadly.

“I can’t make that promise, Loki.” You shrug. “It’s already too late for that.”

“You love him?” Loki realizes.

“No!” You deny, “Not exactly. I don’t love him yet, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t very fond of him already. He-he kissed me last night.”

Loki’s brow furrows.

“A lot actually. He begged me to try and love him just as he would try to love me. I promised him I would try.” As if you’ll need to try.

You’re already hopelessly possessive over him. Maybe not him as a person, but rather those kisses he gave you. Those are your kisses now. Those thick arms he held you in, those are your arms—your hugs!

And now he might be in the United States giving those very things that are now yours alone to Jane who wouldn’t even marry him?

“It’s too late.” You reiterate, feeling absolutely lost.

“Come on, Your Highness. Let’s get you a late lunch.”

~~~~~~~~~~

If there isn’t a trail across your floor after all of the pacing you’ve done today, you’d be surprised.

“This won’t make him come back any faster.” Brunnhilde points out.

“Do I really have to model the wedding dress for him?” You ask, twisting your fingers nervously as you move up and down your room.

“I think it would be good for him.” Brunnhilde explains. “And yes. He won’t see your armor until the day of the wedding, but the dress will help make it more real for him. He needs that. So do you.”

“It’s already real for me Brunnhilde.” You lift your thumb nail to your teeth and nip, like a nervous pup, stopping at the heavy doors of the balcony.

They’ve been thrown open and the chilly air filtering in makes you shiver.

“Hilde.” Brunnhilde corrects, then moves to take a long wine-colored woolen shawl and drapes it over your shoulders as you stare out at the bustling city.

You can hear laughter, lots of merrymaking. The Asgardian people know how to enjoy their free time, but you’ve seen how hard they work too. As a whole. Loki assured you on the way home that there are just as many lazy time wasters among them as there are humans.

“Why are you fretting?” She sits at the desk, staring up at you with curious dark eyes.

“Because he’s been with Jane all day.” You lash out.

It’s not a scream, just pure exasperation. And immediately, you feel sorry.

“I’m sorry.” You sigh, dropping your hand but pulling the shawl around you tighter.

You notice it finally.

“Oh, thank you.” You really feel bad now.

“You’re acting like you’re already in love with him.” She teases, not caring one bit about your little tantrum.

Through the corners of your eyes you look at her, avoiding her piercing look.

“Y/N…?” She wonders, leaning forward to get a better look at you.

“I don’t love him, alright? I just…” You sigh. “No one’s ever kissed me before.”

Your feel your neck and ears burn, scorching with embarrassment as you admit just how much of a maiden she’d found for him.

“So, you really are a virgin?” She gasps, leaning almost her entire body along the desk to look at your face.

You frown at her. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No.” She hakes her head. “No, not at all. You’re just so…well, you’re beautiful.”

The laugh that slips through your lips is sudden and honest.

You stare at her, shaking your head because you don’t believe her one bit.

“I’m serious!” Hilde assures you, smiling and amused by your reaction. “It’s a little bit of a shame that you haven’t been fawned on before.”

The sprinkle of sadness in her voice exposes her real meaning and it wipes away all traces of flattery.

“You mean, it’s a shame that I haven’t been with someone who will really love me because they choose to? And not like Thor because he has to?” With a bit more desperation, you look for Armod’s car, needing to see Thor.

Everything that happened last night feels like a dream. Made up in your mind to make it easier to marry Thor. Was it a dream?

You don’t remember him telling you goodnight. You have the vague memory of falling asleep with your head on his shoulder but you’re not sure how real that is with how hazy it feels.

What if his kisses had been a hopeful wish?

You bite your bottom lip, the heat and weight of his lips still fresh in your memory.

It can’t have been a dream. It felt so amazing. You could never have imagined the way it felt for him to invade you the way he did, pulling your body against his.

“He doesn’t come by car, y’know?” Hilde says, sitting back in her seat.

“What?” You turn to her, eager for explanation.

“Thor?” She gestures at the sky outside, drawing your eyes away from the city in the distance and up to the stars. “He flies here on Earth. It’s faster than flying by plane, but not by much. He’ll be going straight to his room as soon as he gets back.”

“Oh.” Your disappointment is suffocating and because you have no reason to keep freezing to death, you close the balcony doors.

With the cold shut out the heat from the hidden vents in your room saturates your shawl and envelopes you in a cocoon of heat.

“He might not want to see me tonight.” You accept, knowing that even if things went as best as they could have, Thor will still be heartbroken.

Having to give up on a relationship he had been so invested in? Even if he’s been unhappy with it lately, it must be difficult.

“No. He might not. But he has no choice. The wedding is in three days, so we have no time to wait for him to be ready to see you. We need approval on the dress.” She explains, leaving no room for argument.

Which is a shame because you would rather not see him all torn up about Jane. Not that you wouldn’t like to give him comfort. But you doubt that seeing you is something Thor would want. Not when it’s your fault that he has to break up with Jane to begin with.

“You know what? I’ll go check to see if he’s back. Gorm already sent us the dress. I’ll have Estrid help you put it on.” Hilde rises, moving out of the room without waiting for you to agree.

Five minutes later, Estrid moves into the room, her arms cradling your beautifully crafted wedding dress.

“Shall I do your hair too, Your Highness?” She asks, and lays the dress on your bed, the color such a beautiful contrast to the deep plum colored sheets.

“My hair?” You look in the mirror and the fancy thing they’d done with it this morning is falling apart. “No. I’m okay, Estrid. Thank you.”

“Very well, Your Highness.” She smiles kindly then moves towards you and takes your shawl.

You turn for her and she begins to unzip your blue dress, your mind on Thor and the mood he might be in when you see him again.

~~~~~~~~~~

The hesitation is in more than just your fist, hovering over the dark wooden of Thor’s bedroom door. It’s tall. Taller than it probably needs, sitting within a stone arch decorated with stunning golden engravings.

You’re not sure why Brunnhilde left you to do this alone. Loki is busy with something secret that he doesn’t want to share with you yet.

Not wedding related. He says it’s important and it involves you to some degree, but it’s not necessary for you to know until it’s necessary for you to know. Which is a circle-jerk kind of logic that you’re kind of annoyed by.

He’s nicer than previous opinions of him have made him seem. You suppose that has to do with the growth he’s made since he was last on Earth.

New York hadn’t been a great time for Loki, and he could only go up from there.

Brunnhilde had also neglected to tell you how Thor was feeling. Or looking? Either would have been great before you committed to coming up here on your own.

Thor’s bedroom is at the highest point of the palace. That is, highest save for the last floor which is mostly a defense tower full of weapons and a constant guard to keep Thor and his future wife safe. Which is now gonna be you.

Unless you go into his room and he tells you that he can’t stand being without Jane and rejects you and this pretty dress and you have to go back home to live just as you had before you met him. Only now with his kisses in your mind, his massive body pressed to yours, you won’t be able to get over the future you’d been promised.

How had you gone from refusing to marry him to wanting nothing more than to be his wife and even if all he was able to give you was one of those stupid kisses from last night, you’d be satisfied?

You drop your hand, almost with your mind made up to give up and just go back to your room because you don’t think you have the nerve to go through with seeing him today.

The part of you that disagrees, that remembers last night and wants more lifts your hand and knocks on his door.

In shock, you wait until his voice comes through and finally take a breath.

“Estrid? Is that you?” Thor’s voice sounds tired, not broken, but you can hear the weight in his heart by the sound of him.

You open the door and peek in, just one eye and the room is astoundingly beautiful.

If you weren’t so scared of what you’ll find in Thor, your jaw would drop ant the stunning image. To the left are two doorways, one is open, and you can see a large bathroom within. At the center of the room is what looks like a small kiddie pool, recessed into the floor, but probably deep enough for Thor to stand in?

There’s a part on this floor that’s shaped strangely from the outside and wonder if that’s what it is. The floor is dark stone tile, smooth and probably treated for waterproofing. Along the far wall of the bathroom, you can see a long wooden bench, dark oak like all of the other woods in the room from what you can see.

The toilet must be somewhere to the left where you can’t see from where you stand.

The other door is shut but since there is only an ornate set of drawers to the right of it, you assume that inside must be a large closet.

To the right of the room is a large bed. Large bed. You’ve never seen one so big.

It must be a California King? Which you’d stumbled upon in your search for mattresses when you’d first moved into your home. An accidental find and completely unnecessary.

That is, until now, when the thought of Thor laying in your very normal sized bed flits across your mind and suddenly the large King makes much more sense.

The bed is covered in soft looking gray flannel sheets. The comforter is gorgeous too, luxurious in its cotton ball soft appearance. Black with golden swirls and lines stitched across the top and bottom. The number of pillows is silly. All sizes too. Large ones at the very back and then several smaller ones until the ones at the very front are for mere decoration only.

Despite the more rustic look of the walls in the dark oak and stone base, the bed and furniture is slightly more modern in design. The headrest is cream white, ridged, and padded, as is the foot of the bed, but flatter than the headrest.

Two bedside tables hold various books on one and a lamp on the other. Behind the bed is a wall with a great big tree carved, flowing the length from top to bottom.

You swear you’ve seen that somewhere before.

The entirety of the wall opposite the doors to the room is made up of windows. Each window has been thrown open and the floor to ceiling curtains flow in the cool breeze.

They avoid the small breakfast table, laden with an untouched plate of the chicken you’d had for supper. On the other side is a large heavy looking desk. It’s sturdy. Big like Thor with papers and scrolls and folders. A laptop sits shut at the center and in the chair turned to face the left side of the room sits Thor with his shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees, hands supporting his face as he keeps it covered.

His body tells you everything you need to know about how he’s feeling and though you hate it, after so much worrying about what you’d find in here, you’re grateful to finally set eyes on him.

“It’s not Estrid.” You say gently, afraid to speak any louder and disturb him more than he already is.

His head whips towards you, faster than you expected.

Your hands go numb with nervous energy as he stares at you, his electric blue eyes scanning you very slowly from head to toe, then back up again. He takes his hand as he does so, covering his mouth with it, stroking his beard slowly as if fixing it.

Taking the opportunity, you note the plain jeans he’s wearing, the white t-shirt that stretches across his wide chest and strains to keep him covered. The hem of his sleeves struggle to keep his biceps contained. His golden hair is windswept, short as it is, it sticks in all directions.

He looks so good, so perfect, except for that sadness on his face.

You can’t bear to ask him anything about her.

“Gorm is lovely.” You tell him, forcing a smile and a quick nod.

He meets your eyes with his own, dropping the hand he’d used to shield his mouth and allows both his hands to dangle between his knees.

“She’s the best in the city.” Thor nods, devouring your dress again.

He suddenly rises and you teeter backwards with the sudden rise.

He steps towards you, his feet falling heavy on the floor.

You really like the way he struts towards you. There’s a slight sway to his hips.

Lips feeling dry and cracked, you freeze as he moves past you at the last moment.

The sound of him sitting on his bed pulls you around to look at him and he sighs, reaching his right arm up towards you.

With a swallow, you move towards him. The luscious short train of your skirt follows in your wake, flowing like water.

When you’re within reach, his places his hand on your waist, pulling you closer until you’re standing before him. He takes his other hand and places that on your waist too, making your breath shallow.

He looks up to meet your gaze.

Hands balled into fists; you wait. You’re not sure what he needs. What you need from this moment. You’re only sure that you’re glad you don’t seem to have dreamed up last night.

“You look beautiful.” He says, voice penetrating into your chest to restart your heart at double the speed.

“It’s a little simple.” You observe, remembering the other much frillier options.

“It suits you.” He lets his hand trace down along the side of your hip, stealing your breath before sliding his hand back up to your waist.

He gives you a little shake and you reach out to place your hands on his shoulders to keep from losing your already fragile balance.

“Brunnhilde told me that you were very anxious today.” He sounds worried, his brow puckered, eyes crinkled at the corners from concern.

You shrug for him, intending to play off the exact amount of worrying you’d done today because you don’t want him to know how invested you already are.

“I ended it with Jane.”

“You don’t have to-” You begin, but Thor makes a dismissive noise in his throat and cuts you off.

“I owe you an explanation.” He nods. “When I gave you that ring on your finger, I became your intended. Officially ending things with Jane was only out of respect for who we were when we were together.”

“Thor you really don’t have to tell me about your breakup with Jane. It’s private. It’s before me. Whatever happened between the two of you today is now in the past.” You sigh, trying not to think about what kisses might have been shared.

Maybe more?

You make a mental note to never hold it against him if he ever tells you that he slept with her today.

He was hers long before you agreed to marry him.

“I want to be honest with you.” He sighs. “I want us to be open with each other. I want us to talk about anything that may be troubling us.”

“We will.” You nod, giving his shoulders a small squeeze. “I promise.”

“Then tell me what you were worried about today.”

You already regret your promise.

“I thought about what you must be feeling. Wondered if you might change your mind.” Answering honestly is actually cathartic. Though you usually do it on reflex, choosing to do it feels nice.

Thor only watches you, waiting for you to get it all out, his large hands caressing the sides of your waist and making you tingle.

“Keep going.” He urges you gently.

“I’m embarrassed.” You admit, and Thor’s face relaxes a moment, the beginnings of a smile curling his lips.

He doesn’t prompt you again, just waits.

There’s a peace in this silence of his. An acceptance. A sense of time to just be.

“I was afraid that I’d imagined last night. I don’t remember falling asleep. I just woke up and it was this morning. And last night was so…” You stop, realizing that as much as you’ve thought about last night today, for Thor if there are any kisses that he wants to hold onto today, they’re probably from Jane.

This fact suddenly hardens your heart and resolve. You reach to grab his wrists to pull his hands off of you, but he doesn’t budge. You couldn’t move him if you pushed as hard as you can.

“It doesn’t matter.” You brush it off. “You probably want to just be alone and I was told that you need to approve the dress? So, tell me what you think, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Have I upset you?” He asks, face shifted back into that slight pout he’d been wearing before.

“N-No.” You shake your head.

“Then why do you want to leave so quickly?” He demands, voice rising in pitch at the end.

“I just…after today, I just thought that maybe you’d want some space?”

“Then you aren’t angry with me?” He checks.

“No.”

He leans forward and presses his head against your stomach, eyes shutting as his arms wrap themselves around you and pull you closer.

You don’t quite know what to do with your hands, so you stand there, holding them over his shoulders, fighting the desire to hold him back.

“I’m so tired.” He admits to you, and it settles in your heart.

You drop your arms, resting them against him before you embrace him, hands splayed along his wide back.

He exhales, relaxing against you. “Thank you.”

“For what, Thor?” You whisper, too overcome with all this hugging to speak any louder.

“For hugging me.”

Your heart breaks for him, and you hold him tighter.

“May I be honest with you about something?”

“Yes.” Here it is, the truth about Jane and him today.

“These moments with you have been the most enjoyable and special moments I’ve spent with anyone in a long time.”

Does it really matter if he slept with Jane today? Kissed her? Hugged her?

Was he this sweet with her too?

“I love you in this dress.”

You sigh, the first three words of that declaration sending your heart into a frenzy.

“You do?”

“I do.”

You smile, liking that very much.

Thor’s blue eye shifts with electricity, literally, and he pulls you down onto his lap with a demanding grip on your waist.

Your arm is still around his shoulder, the other moving down to rest over his hand which he brings around to rest on your lower belly.

“Are you happy?” He wonders, catching your fingers within his.

“Relatively.” You nod. “I’m still worried.”

Honestly, right?

“Why?” He laments, caressing your waist.

“I’m liking you more and more too quickly.” You sigh. “I don’t want to disappoint you or the people. I want to do well. Both in our marriage and with the kingdom.”

Thor caresses your side, then slides his hand down further, large hand sliding along the fabric of your dress down over your thigh.

There’s a subtle tickle between your legs. It startles you and you have to physically force yourself to relax.

“You’re already better than anyone else I might have chosen.” Thor whispers, leaning in closer until his lips are pressed to your ear.

You remind yourself that you made him promise not to do anything he doesn’t want to do. No forcing himself to be affectionate if he doesn’t feel it.

“Thor…” You gasp, just a flurry of the air left in your lungs.

“I’ve been thinking…” He admits. “Since I left you last night, about how we might be able to prepare for our wedding night.”

How do you breathe again? Where does the air go?

“Do you trust me, cherub?”

That pet name hits you just as fiercely as it did the first time and all you can do is nod.

Thor suddenly throws you back over his arm onto the bed. Landing with your head on the pillow, you gasp, chest rising and falling dramatically as you struggle to catch your breath again.

He leans down and hovers over you, waiting as you do, staring into your eyes.

“I’ll make certain you know this is not a dream.” He promises, then leans down to press his lips against yours.

You sigh, grateful for his taste as if it were a drug, removing an ache you’ve been feeling all day. Your arms come up on their own, trapping his torso down on yours as his hands trace your sides slowly.

This time you’re the one seeking more, pressing the tip of your tongue against his lips until he opens them and kisses you back.

He inhales your kiss, breathing in until you hear the vibration of a moan rip through him into you and you have never felt your body burn this way before.

You want him to make more sounds like that. Over and over if possible.

He pulls away too quickly, making you lift your head to follow him, but you fall back onto the bed, gasping for breath.

“Do you really trust me?” Thor checks again, his hands moving down along your sides until they stop at your hips, hands flexing and squeezing.

You’re shifting on his sheets, body squirming from energy you don’t recognize.

You know that he probably needs to be close to someone like this after today. After whatever he lost with Jane, even if he won’t let you see just how much it really hurt him, he probably needs this closeness.

“Yes.” You breathe.

With one hand he reaches down, staring into your eyes as he does. He finds the bottom hem of your dress and flips his hand underneath, then takes hold of your ankle.

He turns to face your feet, sliding down to the end of the bed then removes the flats you’d switched into, along with the thick socks you’d found to fight the cold.

It’s so chilly in here you shiver.

“You won’t be cold for long, cherub.” He promises.

After dropping your shoes on the floor, he rises then crawls onto the bed to where your feet are, grabbing hold of your ankles to pull your legs open a little.

“Easy.” He tells you gently. “You’ll still be a maid on our wedding night. This will be just a taste.”

He flips your skirt over his head, disappearing from view.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, curious and just as nervous until you feel the pressure of something wet slide up along your slit and you throw your head back, an uncontrollable moan ripping through your lips.

You hadn’t realized the taste would be for him.

#king!thor x reader #thor x reader #arranged marriage au #royal au #marvel fanfiction #king!thor x reader fic #king!thor x reader fanfic #king!thor x reader fanfiction #thor x reader fic #thor x reader fanfic #thor x reader fanfiction #thor x you #king!thor x you #a wife for thor #a wife for thor pt05

[theofficialstereklibrary]

i feel you. 100k + tag

it came from the trees by whatshouldntbe (28/28 | 577,212 | PG13)

“Don’t worry, Scott caught me up on everything,” Kira assures with a bubbly smile via video-chat. “You and Derek, huh? I probably should have seen that coming. I always thought it might be Cora, but Derek was the one that looked at you how I used to look at you.”

Stiles goes a little pink. “It’s still kinda new but, yeah. I really like him. He’s...” Beautiful. Patient. Smart. Painfully honest. Sweet. “...a total dork.”

Kira laughs and laughs. When she gets herself together, she replies, “Yeah, those little hearts and stars in your eyes definitely say different."

or

Stiles moves from the shiny, fast-paced lifestyle of Los Angeles to the foggy, sleepy town of Beacon Hills so his dad can become the new sheriff. Newly fifteen, he does his best to finish out his freshman year of high school (by staying under the radar) when he suddenly becomes the Beyoncé of the Supernatural community. And, without much prompting on his part, he ends up catching the eye of one of the most prominent Werewolf families in all of North America. It literally all starts with a stuffed animal(s).

Running Up That Hill by maypoison (32/32 | 139,488 | NC17)

“Even before the pack joined together, Scott was trying to protect you. And he still is trying to protect you, even if it means leaving you out of all this.”

Stiles does roll his eyes at that. “Yeah, but it didn’t work did it. I was still involved, and so was my Dad. We were nearly killed by Matt, and then Gerard.”

“My point is, people change. Relationships aren’t always perfect. Scott's tried to kill me before."

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "So, you’re saying that someone trying to kill you is just a small flaw in a relationship?"

“We’re werewolves.” Derek answers with a shrug, as if that was a perfectly good explanation.

What Fresh Twilight Bullshit Is This? by isthatbloodonhisshirt (wasterella) (7/7 | 196,127 | NC17)

“I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!”

Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her.

“What?! What was that sound?!”

“You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder.

“Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!”

“Mike,” she argued.

“Who’s Mike?” Scott asked.

“Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

Do Not Go Gentle by MojoFlower (51/51 | 195,878 | NC17)

Derek Hale, Beacon Hills Alpha and Dom, wakes up in a dark cell already housing another captive – a mute, traumatized sub with a cruel collar around his neck. His only goal is to get them both free of their brutal circumstances; but even as he tries to get his young companion home, a bond between them grows. Nothing comes easily: danger and harrowing echoes of their ordeal shadow every step they take.

Of Course It's Fairies by HelloWhyTheFuckAmIHere (54/54 | 100,264 | NR)

While still suffering from the after effects of the Nogitsune, Stiles and the pack stumble upon and save a trapped fairy. The boy's parents, not wanting to be in the pack’s debt, offer each member of the pack who assisted in the rescue, the opportunity to bring a loved one back from the dead.

Having been blissfully reunited with several of their once-lost friends and family members, everyone must work together to figure out how to function as a new pack, and how to defeat a new incoming threat.

#ask #recs #count:-above-100k #these are super long #i also tried to get 2018 & older fics #that almost 600k fic must be the longest fic in this fandom jfc

[roleplay-today]

Hey everyone! Currently on the market for some new rps :) I have a few fandoms that I enjoy playing but I also have an OC that I'd really like to try out some more!

A little about me and what I'm looking for. I just turned 23, so 18+ partners please! I really enjoy domestic, slice of life, (found) family, pregnancy, parenting type plots but also I'm a big fan of angst! I have less angsty plots in mind but if you have one you've been wanting to try, let's hear it!

As for my OC, he was a teen father who is currently raising his son on his own. He's a writer, and I generally play him from ages 24-28 but I'd love to try something a bit younger to really follow his struggle as a young single parent. If interested I'll send his full bio and faceclaim :) Mainly a fan of mxm so searching mostly for that, but down for any pairing!

Literate is a MUST. At least 2+ paragraphs, proper grammar, and discord is my preferred method of rp :)

Please reach out if interested, thank you so much! 💐🍒

[albertfinch]

ADOPTING THE CHRIST THOUGHT LIFE

James 1:16-18 reminds us that the Father of heavenly lights gives only good and perfect gifts and that He is the God of truth:

"Don't be deceived, my dear brothers and sisters. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. He chose to give us birth through the word of truth, that we might be a kind of first fruits of all He created"

The enemy wants to steal our dreams, our faith and our lives! But, do not give place to His evil words. Determine now to repent for believing His lies. Repentance does not mean that it is needed because God is upset, mad or angry because of our doubt and unbelief -- to repent means to simply change the way we think (about God and even ourselves). 

Therefore, we repent into God’s purpose for our life.  We ask, seek, and knock (Matthew 7:7) until we come to understand and actually carry-out our Christ calling. Nothing moves in God;s Kingdom without action.  if you have believed opposite of what God says about you, CHANGE the way you think about yourself. Also, if you have believed opposite of all God declares concerning His love, provision, protection, etc., simply CHANGE the way you think about Him. This will empower you with great faith and hope for your future.

GUARDING OUR HEARTS

Satan will always bring darkness into our situation. However, godly revelation reveals what is hidden – or what attempts to remain in darkness. As we more fully understand God's goodness and His light of truth, we begin to function and operate in His power to overcome the wicked works and words of the accuser.

We must guard our hearts so that we do not faint. The enemy is working overtime to cause us to grow weary and have faint hearts. He gives power to the faint and weary, and to him who has no might He increases strength [causing it to multiply and making it to abound]. (2 Corinthians 12:9.)

"Even youths shall faint and be weary, and [selected] young men shall feebly stumble and fall exhausted; but those who wait for the Lord [who expect, look for, and hope in Him] shall change and renew their strength and power; they shall lift their wings and mount up [close to God] as eagles [mount up to the sun]; they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint or become tired."  - Isaiah 40:28-31 AMP

Stand in faith on God's promise that He is renewing your strength right now and that also He is giving you power to overcome all adversity. He is also revealing to us, at this time, how to live in joy and peace even in the midst of a storm! In fact, go back and re-read the previous passage and literally see yourself strong and full of faith. You are God's light on the earth, a city on a hill. Let your light shine!

"Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of Jehovah is risen upon thee. For, behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and gross darkness the peoples; but Jehovah will arise upon thee, and His glory shall be seen upon thee. And nations shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising" - (Isaiah 60:1-3 ASV).

PRESSING IN

James 1:12 encourages each of us to persevere in pressing into God's revealed PURPOSE for our life so we may influence lives and bear fruit that remains for His Kingdom.

Our worthiness comes that Jesus and His righteousness has already made us worthy of all good things given to us from the Father. We are not to condemn ourselves for our weakness and feeling faint-hearted but rather renew our minds to our new Christ identity – old opinions of ourselves have passed away and we are now effective firebrands for changing the way people perceive their role in advancing His Kingdom.  

We persevere due to the finished work on the Cross! We will reap because in our salvation (sozo) we have healing, deliverance, prosperity and all that is needed to demonstrate the power of God in our lives and the lives of others.

We must develop the mind-set that -- we are not defined by our past, what people think of us, or our circumstances - but only by who we are in Christ.

"To whom God would make known what is the riches of glory of this mystery among the Gentiles; which is Christ in you, the hope of glory." - Colossians 1:27

We step into our future (God's CALLING on our lives) with great boldness and confidence knowing certain that Christ has paid the price for complete freedom.

PRAYER:

Father, You are the God of Light and I thank You that You have a pathway of light planned for me.  I will not grow faint or weary in flight but continue to rise up in greater faith. I place my faith in the finished work of Christ that completely transforms. Thank You for the grace You are giving me to advance in my Christ calling and potential. I pray this in the mighty name of Jesus Christ, our Savior and Redeemer. Amen.

ALBERT FINCH MINISTRY

[thetomorrowshow]

Slower Than Words Ch. 28

First  -  Previous  -  Next

:)

cw: light physical violence, spiraling thoughts

~

They always say that time stops. The world freezes. Nothing so much as breathes when you meet their eyes. The world is dreamlike, and the two of you are the only things in it. The only life, pulled together by instantaneous love.

That wasn't what happened when Patton saw Virgil.

Instead, time seemed to skip a beat, then move even faster than before.

Several seconds were lost, and Patton stared around as the room changed. Remus’s parents were hugging the other person who entered with Virgil, who he guessed was Remus’s brother Roman. Remus was standing now, closer to the mantel on the other side of the room, and suddenly Remus’s dad wasn’t even in the room, he was outside with Roman, and Virgil was leaving too. Patton exchanged a look with Remus—he clearly recognized Virgil. He looked scared, and kept biting his lips. Patton felt fear rise, and almost stood up himself—it felt strange, to be the only thing that hadn’t moved. Like he was in the eye of a storm. It was times like these that Patton wished he could hear.

Roman was back and Remus seemed to cower away, turning his face. That didn’t hide him. Roman’s eyes landed on Patton for a moment, who waved awkwardly. A crease of confusion appeared between his eyes, barely affecting his cheery smile, then he saw Remus and his face lost all color and the smile slid from his lips.

Roman stepped forward slowly, as if time had stopped for him—and maybe it had. Patton felt afraid to breathe, afraid to disturb the almost shimmering quality of this meeting. Roman approached his brother, and Patton could certainly see the resemblance. Sure, Roman’s hair was shorter and styled, and he was clean-shaven, but the two were almost exactly the same height. Their hair color was within a shade of difference, and Roman had that same dimple that Remus did. Even their body types appeared to be modeled off each other. If Patton hadn’t known better, he would have guessed they were twins.

Roman was turned away from him, so if he said anything, Patton didn’t know. What Patton did know was that Remus said something, accompanied with a slight quirk of his mouth, then crumpled against the wall as Roman’s fist hit his face.

Patton did jump up now, and Remus’s dad ran to check on Remus while his mom held Roman back. Then Patton turned to the door and saw Virgil again, clearly saying something, eyes scrunched up as he ran his fingers along his forearm.

Virgil. He looked just like himself, but different. His hair was shorter—normal length for him, probably, just dipping into his eyes. His eyes were far more clear than Patton had ever seen them, and he was surprised to see just how sparkly they really were—almost as if rays of sun were peeking through the cloudy grey. His jeans were torn and splattered with paint, but it was probably on purpose. He was wearing a hoodie, plain black, not near as nice as the purple-patched one Patton was wearing. His cheeks were full, there was a ring on his hand, his shoes were nice.

For everything that made Virgil unrecognizable, there was something that was unmistakably him. The shadows under his eyes matched the black of his jacket. His fingers tapped lithely on his forearm, as if spelling. His stance was slouched, and the curve of his lip caught between his teeth spoke volumes about how anxious he was. He ran one hand through his hair, causing it to stick straight up and causing Patton to experience a wave of intense homesickness. This was his Virgil.

Patton was across the room in three strides that felt like only half of one, time skipping again until he found himself in front of Virgil, tripping over a bump in the carpet, quite literally falling into his arms. Virgil tensed. Patton waited.

And waited.

Wasn’t this when everything was supposed to become perfect? The moment where it all washed away, and nothing mattered except him? A shield against the outer world, safe forever in his arms.

But Patton still felt hurt. He still felt angry at his father. He still felt lost. He still felt like something inside was broken, or missing, or taken. Being with Virgil was supposed to fix everything, but nothing felt like it had changed.

Tears built up in Patton’s eyes as he let Virgil push him away. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. Why wasn’t it okay yet? Why did he still feel wrong?

He loved Virgil so much. Maybe he could be not-okay. Maybe he could be not-better, with Virgil.

That sounded . . . all right. That sounded lovely, even.

Softly, Patton took Virgil’s arm, not letting him jerk away when he tried. Virgil, he traced, trying not to let the tears spill onto his cheeks. Virgil, Virgil, Virgil. It’s me. It’s me. It’s Patton.

-

“Roman Hyrum Allred! Do not punch your brother—do not punch anyone!”

“Nah, it’s . . . it’s, uh, okay. Dad.” Remus prodded his nose gingerly. It stung, but didn’t seem to be broken. “I told him he could.”

Roman shook his hand out, pulling away from their mom. “Hey,” he said casually. “Where’ve you been?”

Remus let his dad help him up. “Around,” he answered, just as casually. He didn’t really feel like baring his soul at the moment.

“Remus, are you all right?” his dad asked quietly, checking out his face with concern. It must’ve looked pretty bad. Still, Remus waved him off.

“Yeah. Just glad he remembered the three R’s.”

Across from him, Roman smiled sheepishly. “I kept my promise.” He laughed slightly, then let the smile fade. “Why are you here?” This was sort of what Remus had been afraid of. He didn’t exactly feel welcome, but to have it spelled out like that sucked. His family had grown up without him. Roman looked so old, No longer the little middle-school kid in the front row of the choir concert. He just couldn’t wrap his head around it—he’d accepted long ago that he’d lost them, probably forever. Now, though, it really hit home. Remus hadn’t just lost them. He’d lost an entire life, one that he wasn’t sure he could ever get back.

Even now, surrounded by his family, he felt like a stranger. The house was the same house, these were the same people, but he no longer belonged to them. It felt fake. Nothing like how he’d imagined a reunion to be.

Remus wondered if he could pass off the tears as a result of the burning in his nose.

“I, uh,” Remus cleared his throat. “I got lost. And trapped.” He held Roman’s gaze. There was nothing familiar in those eyes. “I tell ya, all I’ve wanted for years was to come back.”

“So why didn’t you?” Roman asked. He didn’t waver, didn’t even blink, his expression more solemn than Remus had ever seen on a thirteen year old--because he wasn’t thirteen. He was a whole adult.

“It’s not that simple—” Remus started, but Roman cut him off.

“Yes it is.” His tone brokered no argument, and Remus watched the openness in his eyes shutter closed. “It is that simple. All you have to do is tell me where you were and why you couldn’t come back. That’s all I need. Then I’ll forgive you.”

Remus balked. He wasn’t here for forgiveness—except he was, sort of. He wanted to make up for leaving them, he wanted to tell them everything that had kept him from returning home, but the words stuck in his throat. How could he sit them down and calmly explain that he got caught up in a cult that brainwashed him to the point of rewriting and erasing old memories? How could he tell them that he only barely escaped with his life, then struggled to even remember their names?

“I can’t,” he muttered. Roman turned away. “Of course,” Roman said tiredly. “Like always. Virgil, would you—?” he fell silent. Roman’s arms fell to his sides as he stared at something. Remus leaned to the side, trying to see what it was.

Remus had seen Virgil when he’d walked in, but had completely ignored him. It was absurd for him to be here—what were the odds that Virgil would be kidnapped by a cult Remus was in, and also know Roman, halfway across the country? Remus would have written it off as a hallucination if Patton hadn’t also seen him. So instead, he decided to focus on more tangible things, like his college-age brother and his unfamiliar eyes.

Now Virgil had fallen to his knees, his mouth an ‘o’, choking on tears. In his arms was Patton, also bawling his eyes out. They were holding onto each other so tightly Remus could see Virgil’s knuckles turning white, bunched up in Pat’s hoodie. Honestly? Remus wasn’t surprised. Other than, of course, the ongoing shock that Virgil was even here.

This was the weirdest day ever, and coming from a man who had lived in a cult for about a decade? That was saying something.

Roman crouched beside the two, laying his hand on Patton’s back. “You must be Patton,” he said kindly. “It’s so good to meet you.”

Okay, now Remus was crying. When had his brother graduated from the shrimpy little eighth grader who was constantly picking fights to a smiling young man who would comfort people he hardly knew? Not for the first time (and certainly not for the last), Remus wished he’d never left.

Virgil laughed wetly, briefly letting go of Patton to lightly smack Roman’s arm. “He can’t hear, moron,” he croaked.

Remus left before he could see any more, stumbling a bit in the doorway of the kitchen. This wasn’t really his moment. This wasn’t his moment, or home, or life. This all felt so . . . weird. So . . . out of place.

Roman seemed happy, at least. Better than he’d been before he left. Remus couldn’t believe he’d remembered, and kept that promise all those years.

-

“You gotta stop fighting everyone.”

“You’re not my dad!”

The kid turned away, tension in every line of his body. Remus rolled his eyes. “So?” he said, shutting his bedroom door. “Stop acting out. It’s embarrassing.”

Roman laughed bitterly. “For who? You?”

“Yeah, maybe!”

Roman turned back. Tears were dripping from the corners of his eyes. “Well, maybe I don’t want to be good at school! That’s all you all want from me, isn’t it? You don’t actually care about me!”

If Remus knew anything, that was teenage angst. Roman was barely thirteen, why did he have so much already?

“I never said you had to be good at school,” Remus replied, gesturing to the bed. Roman didn’t sit down. “I just said you need to stop fighting. School blows. I don’t care if you get good grades or whatever. But it’s even worse without friends, and y’aren’t gonna have any of those if you don’t stop throwing hands and start shaking hands.”

“But I want to hit things!” To prove his point, the kid stomped hard enough that the bed shook.

“Okay, how about this?” Remus took a step closer, spreading his arms wide. “You’re mad? Hit me. You can take it out on me because I’m your brother. You can lose friends. You can’t lose me. We’re stuck together.”

Roman bit his lip and looked away. Remus waited patiently. After clearly thinking it over for a few moments, Roman turned back. His eyes were squinted, but trusting.

“Promise?”

“‘Course I do.”

“But what if there’s someone else who really needs to be punched?”

Remus burst out laughing. “Like who?”

Roman shrugged, his foot tracing a circle on the floor. “I dunno. Some people just need it, y’know?”

Remus considered it, still chuckling. Some people did need it. “All right, people who deserve it. Maybe. . . .” he paused, then it came to him. “Three groups of people, okay?”

Roman nodded, grinning.

“The three R’s,” Remus said, counting them off on his fingers. “Racists, rapists, and Remus. That’s who you can punch, and that's it. Promise?”

“Promise.”

Then Roman’s fist collided with his stomach and Remus ducked away, laughing.

-

Well, Roman had kept his promise. Remus hadn’t kept his own.

“Son? Do you need anything?”

Remus stared out the kitchen window, trying to avoid looking at the all-new tiling, or his mother, or back at the living room. “N-no,” he said, voice cracking. “I’m good. Thanks, Mom.”

-

Virgil’s brain wouldn’t shut up. It kept accusing Patton of being a hallucination, or telling him he was back in the room, or insisting that this was just a dream.

Virgil ignored it. Even if this wasn’t real, it was everything he wanted.

It was night now, but his mind hadn’t stopped racing. Just this morning he’d been running to English to turn in a paper before the professor’s office closed, and now he was in bed with the love of—with Patton wrapped around him. Virgil had no clue what time it was. He didn’t want to move to tap his phone and jostle Patton. Still, it was probably late enough that everyone else was asleep.

Patton wasn’t. He was laying very still, his head pressed against Virgil’s chest, but he was definitely not asleep. His breathing was too loud, and his body too stiff.

The first thing Roman had done was call Virgil’s therapist to gloat or something. Virgil had begged him not too, but a Roman with a purpose was unstoppable. So now Virgil had no therapist because Roman got caught up in the moment and fired her.

Throughout all that, Virgil never let go of Patton. He knew his way around the Allred household better than Patton did, but let him guide anyway. They even held hands during dinner, making it awkward to use silverware, but Virgil wouldn’t have it any other way.

It hit him again just how impossible this was. That Patton was here.

Remus had told a very long story about it, but one that was definitely censored. He hadn’t talked much at all about his own time in the cult, which Virgil was very curious about. He hadn’t recognized him until he mentioned rescuing Virgil.

Remus had put all the pieces together, in a way. He was the connection, the one who knew everybody in the story. It felt crazy—the same man who dragged him from the cult was the same man who was friends with Patton’s dad and was the same man who was his roommate’s long lost brother. No, it didn’t just feel crazy. It was absolutely insane.

Patton shifted, drawing his leg down from where it was draped over Virgil’s. Then he snuffled, reached out, and clicked on a light. He lay half on top of Virgil, so that they were chest to chest, his legs on the other side of the bed, his hands resting on Virgil’s head and face.

Virgil lay still as Patton traced a hand over his face. The room was silent and Virgil didn’t dare break it. His eyelashes fluttered as Patton smoothed down his brows with both thumbs in gentle, rubbing motions. He’d already done this to Patton several times today, so he figured it was only fair that he let Patton do what he needed to.

Virgil’s heart seemed to shake in his chest. He still felt not-quite-right. Maybe he didn’t believe this was real, or the despair of losing Patton was still too fresh to have him back already. Somehow, though, he knew that Patton would be able to fill the cracks. The parts of him that felt not-Virgil could be Patton. Without even conscious thought, Virgil’s hands moved in the signs he’d practiced over and over and over.

“I love you.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath. Patton’s hands left from where they were combing his hair out of his eyes. Virgil didn’t feel worried. Well, for a second he did. For a brief second, his stomach dropped and the world ended. Then Patton spoke.

“I love you.”

Virgil froze. That—that was—Patton—?

It sounded just like him. It sounded like his quiet, wheezing laugh, that got higher in pitch instead of louder. It sounded exactly the way his hands felt, rubbing up and down his back during a night-long hug. It sounded like how his smile felt under Virgil’s fingers, the way one side was higher than the other and his lips were slightly cracked in the middle. It sounded like Patton.

Slowly, almost as if scared, Patton’s hands returned to his face, cupping his cheeks tenderly.

Virgil did the same, one hand buried in his hair, the thumb of his other hand pressed into Patton’s cheek while his fingers curled near his ear.

As if unsure, Patton came carefully closer, Virgil’s hand putting light pressure on his head to tilt it down.

The room was quiet, nothing but their steady breathing breaking the silence. The darkness that was all that Virgil could see somehow no longer felt oppressive, more . . . unexplored. Full of everything, all the disappointments and happiness and anxiety and hurt and new and love.

Cracked in the middle, Patton’s lips pressed gently against his, barely moving at all. His hands tensed, but remained gentle on Virgil’s cheeks. Virgil reciprocated softly, letting Patton lead. The tip of Patton's nose brushed against his, feather light. Slowly, and with a very soft kissing noise, Patton pulled away, drawing Virgil's chin up with him.

Virgil’s hand on Patton's cheek traveled down to his mouth, tracing that smile that was higher on one side.

Then he pulled him back down.

~ Taglist: @enragedbees @gotta-love-alejandra @bunny222 @basiic-emo @patt0n-sanders @rosiepupper @fangirlgeekandfreak @dn-fan21 @that2000skid @remy-the-lemon-berry @itsadastraperaspera @xionbean @sanderssides-angst @hell-yea-we-gay-tonight @maybedefinitely404 @broken-pencils @thewhimsicallibrarytech @doomllily @hereissananxiousmess @judyismydog  @arodynamic-enby @at-that-one-nerd @therapysides @awkwardandanxiousfander @thekitchenpan @im-an-anxious-wreck @larkiaquail @anteonnix @fantasticfander21

#slower than words #thomas sanders #sanders sides #sanders sides fic #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #moxiety #sanders sides au #patton sanders #ts patton #remus sanders #ts remus #roman sanders #ts roman #virgil sanders #ts virgil #angst #sanders sides angst #the slow burn has burst into flame #:'') #i loved writing this chapter #after this is probably just the epilogue #i'm sad to leave this fic #it's been wonderful to write #i don't think logan even got a name drop in this chapter #just like the early ones :) #love you guys

[idratherdreamofjune]

@sunheart wrote in her tags on another post:

Genuinely hate being alive ... I completely understand on so many levels why you would hate being a woman. Its horrible. And then as a Christian there's this whole really ugly dynamic- that i know is probably a lie i just haven't worked out how yet- that we're the 2nd best. The afterthought. The mediocre option. Almost everything in life men are better at and it's hard to believe it's just cultural-  math logic leadership writing cooking writing physical activities on and on, and women are good at being Nice :)   Which ok i like being nice   but it's like that's my only option   I feel like any other impact i might wish to have upon the world   will be paltry in comparison to what i could do   if only i was a man.   I feel incompetent. Irrational. Emotional. Obnoxious.   I feel like I'm supposed to be a plaything for the beings that were *actually* created to be in harmony with God   like I'm not supposed to have a connection with God-  only through my husband   which what does that make me as a single childless bitch?   I can't even fulfill the main point of my existence. Jesus interacted with women but did he care about them like he did the men? David and John were named his favorites not Deborah or Hannah. And like i said i'm sure none of that's true but i don't know how and it feels awful. hate it.

   Hopefully others have shared encouragement on this already, but just in case I wanted to give some thoughts. Please know that if I sound riled at all (and I’m going to try to avoid that) I’m not upset at anyone who feels this way but am deeply upset by the enemy’s lies that so many are hurt by. As a younger believer I did struggle with some of these questions myself, and for a long time it was difficult to reconcile these concerns with the promises that God loves me.

   Your instincts are right - it is a lie that women are second best. And before I go any further let me also agree that yes, we are physically weaker than men and have other weaknesses too. But since when has weakness meant that someone is any way “less than” others? Men have weaknesses too, just different ones. That’s the nature of humanity: every person is a mixed bag of strengths and weaknesses. I’ve never heard before that men are better at cooking?? My dad literally struggles to cook a hotdog in the microwave and has never touched a grill in his life. And okay men may (possibly, not sure on this one either) be inherently better at math, but which gender is drastically underrepresented in the nursing field? I suspect there are fewer male teachers, too, though not as huge a disparity. Men are more prone to recklessness and violence - part of the reason married men live longer (gotta get that stable influence). Again yes men are physically stronger but have you watched ballet dancers (oooh i mean ballerinas, sorry there’re so few ballerinos that I forgot to differentiate) or female gymnasts? Nothing “less than” there! The famous Proverbs 31 woman is a good insight into Biblical support of female abilities and value: “strength and dignity are her clothing”, “she opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.” “Let her works praise her in the gates.” (The gates were essentially the city hall or forum of ancient Israel.)

   Going back to the beginning - women were created second, true. But did God not know His own plan? He was always going to create women. And the really amazing thing that I learned in the last couple of years is that, when God says He’s going to make Adam “a helper” (Hebrew ”ezer”), that’s the same word that is used to describe God’s actions for His people throughout the Old Testament: - Exodus 18:4 “The God of my father was my help.” - 1 Samuel 7:12 “Ebenezer” means “rock of help” and is a memorial of Yaweh’s help. - Psalm 30:10 “Hear, O Lord, and be merciful to me! O Lord, be my helper!” - Psalm 115:11 “You who fear the Lord, trust in the Lord, He is their help and their shield” - Psalm 121:2 “My help comes from the Lord” - Hosea 13:9 “‘You are against Me, against your helper.’“

It is a common word for “help” used in other settings, yes, but the fact that it’s used of God illustrates that this is no poor or second-rate role. Helping - aiding - supporting - incredibly important! In fact this article I just found puts it this way:

In two cases it refers to the first woman, Eve, in Genesis 2. Three times it refers to powerful nations Israel called on for help when besieged. In the sixteen remaining cases the word refers to God as our help. He is the one who comes alongside us in our helplessness. That's the meaning of ezer. Because God is not subordinate to his creatures, any idea that an ezer-helper is inferior is untenable. In his book Man and Woman: One in Christ, Philip Payne puts it this way: "The noun used here [ezer] throughout the Old Testament does not suggest 'helper' as in 'servant,' but help, savior, rescuer, protector.'

   Moving on to the New Testament, and the topic of John, who is known as “the disciple whom Jesus loved”. John is the one who wrote the book which tells us that (under the direction of the Holy Spirit, yes) and he only uses that wording as a title, in place of his name. Nowhere does it say he was the favorite disciple, or even most loved, just that he was loved. To me it seems more as if John is saying “Jesus loved me! Can you believe it?!” It has a feeling of awe and thankfulness as opposed to superiority.

  Getting into marriage specifically, I do believe that a wife should be under the headship of her husband ...mainly in the sense of letting him have the last word on decisions and plans. This is in part due to differing areas of strength, and in part because in some situations it’s better to have a family leader - most groups of humans need a leader, and following an assigned (or picked) leader does not make one inferior. All that being said, a wife should be able to provide input, advice, and feedback to her husband, who should take into strong consideration his wife’s needs, insights, and concerns (Ephesians 5:25-29).

   The lie that women cannot be connected to God outside of their husband is refuted not only by all the vibrantly faithful single or windowed Christian ladies of history (Amy Carmichael, Gladys Aylward, Mary Slessor, and Elisabeth Elliot are some of my favorites) but also Scripture itself. When Christ spoke with the divorced Samaritan woman the disciples were shocked not because she was a Samaritan but because she was a woman (John 4:27; she was shocked on both counts - John 4:9) - I hope they got used to it because Jesus spoke with women a lot. Despite the culture of the time, Jesus clearly had very warm and caring direct relationships with Martha and Mary, Mary Magdalene, and other women. Anna the Prophetess in the temple had been widowed for decades and was serving God alone “night and day” (Luke 2:37). Incredibly, in a culture where women were looked down upon, the Lord chose women to be the first to discover the empty tomb, and Mary Magdalene to be the first to see the risen Christ! I love that passage so much (John 20:11-18).

   Another example is when Jesus stopped on His way to heal Jairus’ daughter (i.e. He put aside a powerful man’s urgent request) to lovingly interact with the woman who’d suffered bleeding for years - a terribly personal and female problem (Mark 5:21-35).

   To try to wrap up, I’ll return to David in the OT, who was a “man after God’s own heart”. But again, it doesn’t say that he was actually a favorite - it does say David was chosen by God though, to lead Israel and establish the family from which Jesus would ultimately come. You know who else was chosen? Esther - “for such a time as this”. Once she realizes the task she must complete, she tells Mordecai how it’s going to go, and “Mordecai then went away and did everything Esther had ordered him.” Esther gets a book named after her and is remembered in the holiday of Purim to this day. Also note that Esther was married to an unbeliever. Likewise Ruth was chosen, as a young foreign widow, to be part of the Messiah’s kingly line. As an aside, my favorite thing about Ruth’s story (besides all the faith and beauty of it) is the simultaneous deep respect and protectiveness Boaz shows towards her (okay enough mush). Anyhow what it comes down to is that God chooses and loves both men and women, and both have a place (singly and married) in His plans and kingdom. See also Galatians 3:28 “ There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

   This post has all over the place, and I probably forgot a bunch of things I wanted to add (if anything else comes to mind I’ll add it later), but I hope it’s been encouraging. Yes I’ve struggled with some aspects of how women are portrayed in the Bible, but what I shared above, plus the love and blessings I’ve known as a single woman are more than enough evidence that we are known and loved. If anything is unclear or anyone has any questions please speak out/send an ask! Anon asks are on too. Also if anyone wants to add or amend anything do so without hesitation!!

#marriage #women in the Bible #Book of Ruth #Book of Esther #singleness #Scripture #lies