#maybe even some painting to firelight

[blorbosexterminator]

Noo I was so looking forward seeing the twins again for the Berlermo Blockbuster I thought they would win 😭 😭 😭 But they will return another time, right? No pressure, I just miss them and happy for every opportunity to read about them even if just as cameos like the toy aliens in Roccinan's fic 😆

The twins sadly couldn't hold up against the allure of period drama gay quiet tragedies with three lines of dialogue total.

But yes! They absolutely will. I was working on the sequel and the Swan's Symphony just came up and pushed it aside to no fault of my own haha but the sequel, whenever it'll appear, is certainly one of my main WIPs and will see the light one day. The Swan's Symphony just greedily stole all my attention, and because both of them happen to occur through the framework of heists, it's difficult for me to write two heists without wanting to die LMFAO.

But I miss the twins just the same (and so, so happy to know that you still like and want more of them! Truly!) and since the Swan's Symphony will probably not be over soon, I might collect the small scenes and write more of them that I have in mind, that occur between the twins being 10-11 in the original and 17 in the sequel. The 7 years in between leave me some good space to write little fun stories of their everyday lives, holidays, small heists, and general shenanigans haha.

The Toy Story cameos were incredible. It killed me the moment they appeared and imprinted on Martín. That's exactly what he deserved!

[the-darklings]

Oh god please write the timebomb fic!!! (or several lol)

ೀ pairing: ekko/jinx

ೀ wc: 5k

ೀ summary: "Always a dance with you, huh?" Or: two years after the battle versus Noxus, Ekko receives an unexpected visitor.

ೀ author notes: ask and you shall receive!!! I wrote this in one sitting in some weird ass haze and barely edited it, but this is the most fun I had in a long while so I hope you enjoy!!!

ೀ read it on ao3 | listen to the playlist

The first few days after the battle, Ekko doesn’t rest. He barely sleeps or eats, or allows himself time to think. 

He can’t. 

There’s too much to do. The dead are in their dozens. His Firelights took a major hit, and he knows that for the next few months his fingers will be numb from painting their pictures on the mural day in and out. So many who could have lived but didn’t. So many could have had better futures. But if he just runs, if he keeps pushing on, he can outrun these regrets and his grief, too. This way, he doesn’t remember Vi’s heartbroken expression when she pulled him into a bone-crushing hug after the fight, blood and sweat still clinging to her, her words choked when she told him—

Four seconds. 

He could have saved her. He would have hauled her snarky ass out of that tunnel, ripped that bomb from her hands. He would have—

He runs from those thoughts, too. They suffocate him, and Ekko has too much to fix to be suffocated by his grief right now. 

He sure as hell didn’t fight for Piltover. He fought for Zaun, for Firelights. Because he knew Ambessa Medarda would never settle for anything other than complete subjugation. She would have destroyed Ekko’s home. She was already busy murdering and imprisoning their people, and nothing but complete eradication would have followed in her wake. 

Ekko did it for… her. The blue-haired symbol of defiance, of uprising. A loud declaration that they won’t live under Piltover’s oppression forever, that they’ll reach greater things one day and won’t be silenced. They won’t wait for permission to breathe again. It’s what she would have wanted, he convinces himself, even though part of him knows Jinx would have enjoyed the chaos of the fight more. Or maybe not. Not since that little girl. Not since he had to save her from herself over and over again, only to lose her anyway. 

Undercity mourns her. Her visage is everywhere. Jinx the Saviour. She would have hated it, he thinks wryly. She never got to see just how loved she was. 

Maybe he should have grabbed her and ran away. Maybe he should have let the world go to hell and saved her instead. The thought, born of fatigue, lingers only for a few fleeting seconds, a rare moment of selfishness amidst a day spent fixing the world around him. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. If only he had tried harder when they were kids and saved her from Silco. If only he didn’t give up on her. 

She’s always been his biggest maybe. And now they’ll never be more. Not this version of them. Never him and her as they were. 

Aw, are you gonna mope now, boy saviour?

“You’re not here.”

It punches clean through his chest. The realisation of it. The sheer, horrible weight. He’ll never see her again. 

Constants and variables, Benzo told him once. Constants and variables, young Ekko.

A week after the battle versus Noxus, Ekko sinks to his knees inside his room, exhausted and heartbroken, and sobs. 

.

Things begin to settle. Slowly, at first, the city might have been gutted after the battle but not destroyed, the morale low but hopeful. Hexgates are gone, and Ekko is glad when he finds out. He doesn’t want to see or hear anything about the arcane for a while. No magic in the world could fix the pain festering in his chest. 

Sevika, Silco’s old second-in-command and once his sworn enemy, comes to him two weeks after the attack. 

“They’re making me a council member,” she says, grunting when she falls into the tiny wooden chair inside his room. 

She’s always been a threatening figure, power rippling from every shift of her body, but Ekko isn’t sure he wants to fight anyone right now. Nor does she seem interested in strangling him. She lights a cigarette, her scarred features set in a fearsome scowl. 

“And?” he asks for anything better to say. “How is that any of my business?”

Sevika exhales through her nose, reminding him of an angry bull, all smoke and steely resolve. “I’m the only one presenting Zaun or her interests.” 

Ekko almost rolls his eyes. Of course she is. The Council is simply falling over themselves to fix the situation. After months of harassment and oppression, false arrestments and beatings, they asked them to bleed for Piltover and its interests with nothing but the bare minimum courtesy extended towards them afterwards.

“I could use you, kid,” Sevika continues, and Ekko forces his anger away, loosening his fists. “Exactly for that reaction. You’re smart as hell, and been a pain in my ass for years. Pilties will try to walk all over us again in a few months’ time. You and I both know it. We gotta beat them in their own game. Not let them silence us again. I could use someone like you. Be my adviser. You’ll have a direct line to the Council. We’ll make an actual change. It’s better than whatever this is.”

Ekko’s expression sours at her words while Sevika’s gaze flicks around his room in contemplation. He works all day to a point of exhaustion, then passes out. It’s the only way he’s been able to continue, day in and day out. Being in a leadership position means you can’t take time off to grieve. Too many people are relying on him. It’s bad enough that he accidentally abandoned his people for months without meaning to. The guilt he still feels over everything has been nearly suffocating. 

It’s a good gig, hero! You should do it and be a thorn in her side.

Ekko blinks the flash of blue from his vision, rubbing his brow just as Sevika adds: “It’s what she would have wanted, you know.”

A jolt of electricity runs through him. Everyone, even Vi, has been avoiding mentioning Jinx in front of him.  

His jaw clenches. “You don’t know that.”

“Kid, I know what not letting go looks like,” she says, and it almost sounds compassionate, or as close to it as someone like her can get. “We had our differences in the past, I know as much—”

“You killed my people,” Ekko snaps. “Do you know how many lives you destroyed with Shimmer?”

“Sure do,” she replies listlessly, smoke billowing past her lips. “I won’t try to justify my actions to you. But y’know, when you were gone, Jinx united Zaun in a way I haven’t seen since Vander. Beats me how she did it, but people believed in her. Even your Firelights.”

It mirrors everything he’s seen and heard for weeks. Jinx freeing their people, Jinx the Saviour, the beacon for their new future. The one who set and lived by extreme examples, who made Piltover back off and take the Undercity seriously. Because they all finally realised that there can never be peace without a fight. She should be here to fight this battle with him. Ekko should be busy arguing with her that blowing up another building will not make things right. He shouldn’t be walking around with her ghost a step behind him, tormenting him with ideas of what could and should have been. 

“And now she’s dead!”

His ears ring, his chest heaves, and he clutches his thudding heart, willing it back in its cage. He didn’t mean to come undone so easily. 

“Yeah. Yeah, she is,” Sevika says, and there’s a grimness to her when she says it, an unexpected pain buried somewhere deep in her gruff voice that makes Ekko see her differently. “I get it.”

“No,” he whispers, pained. “You don’t.”

.

Seven months pass before Ekko finally picks up a brush for her. 

He sleeps better at night but not without nightmares. Not without remembering Powder from the alternative universe and how they danced. How sweet her kiss felt. Not without that memory smearing to finding Jinx with a grenade in her hand, again, ready to disappear, go somewhere he could never reach her. 

Ekko still hears the detonation in his ears, over and over, on a sickening loop. His mind likes to torture him with ideas he failed to save her. That no matter what he does, or how he mends time, she’s forever out of reach. His blue beacon, his lighthouse he can never find in the depthless ocean of reality. 

Many have drawn her, but he still thinks that no one knows the exact hue of her hair or the wicked shine in her eyes better than him. He’s spent an entire lifetime examining them, looking for them in a sea of thousands. 

Their city is rebuilding. He agreed to Sevika’s request after a few days of contemplation. Caitlyn Kiramman’s expression when he ambled into the Council room was worth the additional burden now on his shoulder. But she’s changed too, matured, and now fills her position as the Council’s leader well. 

Ekko won’t forget how she allowed his friends to be imprisoned, tortured, and, in some cases, killed, but her regret made her side with him and Sevika more often than not during voting, and maybe he could at least one day forgive her. Another maybe. For Vi, if nothing else, who clearly loves the blue-haired woman fiercely. 

The barren wall stares at him. He’s painted Powder before, but this is different. One day, his friend, his dearest friend, was simply gone. Without a goodbye, in a wake of tragedy. The life Ekko once had disintegrated beneath his feet overnight. Benzo killed. Vander dead. Mylo and Claggor too. Vi died as well. Or so he believed for years. Powder was missing until a different knife was delivered to him weeks later, when the word on the street spread about Silco being seen with a little girl with blue hair. 

Ekko sighs, hanging his head. The city is healing, but he isn’t, or at least not as quickly. 

He runs his hand over the white wall, picturing Jinx as he saw her last, those precious hours between talking her down from the abyss and their joint attack on Noxian forces. It felt so good to rely on her again, to stand with her, side by side. As natural as breathing. 

You’re the order to my chaos, hero. 

“Leave me alone,” he says quietly, head hung low. “It’s been months.”

A figment of Jinx chortles, arms crossed over her chest as she leans back against the wall. You would get bored to death without me. Ha! Get it? 

Shooting a glare at her, Ekko picks up a brush, his fingers quivering. Tears burn in his eyes when he dips the brush into the paints he painstakingly mixed. He works, and works, until his eyes are dry and his wrist hurts. Ekko doesn’t stop until he loses light and when he steps back, he is looking at Jinx. Equal parts chaos and something ethereal. 

He wipes angrily across his mouth when he tastes saltiness pooling there and goes home. 

There’s no sleep that night. 

.

Time is a strange thing. It weaves and flows. Without his Z-Drive, he has no control over it. Time simply goes on, and he’s the passenger in a vehicle he doesn’t want to move. 

He’s important these days. He’s one of the few bright minds still left, and he’s endlessly busy with something. City of Progress needs every mind that can be spared. Wounds heal, and time dulls the memory, but not everything is so easily forgotten. Piltover moves quicker, but the Undercity erects a statue for Jinx beside Vander’s. He sees Vi at the ceremony, and they exchange strained smiles. They speak sometimes, but it’s not as often as it used to be. They’re both dealing with their grief the best they can.

At least Vi has Cait. Ekko has nothing but a cold bed and purpose. 

He and Sevika make a good team. It almost makes him wonder what could have been in a universe where they were on the same side from the start. His Zaun, cracked but not broken, is resembling the bright version of the Zaun and Piltover he saw in the alternative verse. There're years of work still left, but there’s something like hope in him, fragile and misplaced as it might be. 

A year passes. Then two. He visits the graves; he lights candles for those lost. Some days Ekko sees her, other days he doesn’t. He hopes for a glimpse, even when he knows he shouldn’t. It should be easier to let go of what you never had, right? 

His mural for Jinx grows. Other faces join her, people who died believing in her, surrounding the one they placed their trust in. And, at the centre of it all, her, her, her. 

Still her. 

Always her. 

. 

He’s not sure what arouses him. He hasn’t slept well in years, perpetual exhaustion clinging to him like a shawl. Some would call it the weight of living, no doubt. 

There’s a shift in the air, a disturbance that’s not enough to make Ekko jolt awake and reach for a weapon, but enough to make his eyes flutter open. He breathes the cool air, pushing his grogginess away. 

There’s a shape at the foot of his bed. Small and round. It takes several seconds for his vision to adjust, for him to realise that a hooded figure sits perched on his bed, knees pulled to their chest.

Ekko hasn’t had to rely on his battle instincts in two years, but there’s enough left in him to attack without hesitation. His fingers tangle in the cloak, shoving the figure down, his knee pressing harshly into their abdominal, hands seeking the intruder’s throat—

“Wow, little man, you sure know how to roll out the welcoming mat,” the all too familiar voice drawls before his fingers tighten instinctively around the slender, warm throat. 

A haggard breath forces from Ekko’s parted mouth. In the wild struggle, the stranger’s hood has slipped down, revealing a familiar face with a startling crop of blue hair. His heart squeezes painfully, forcing him away from Jinx’s apparition. 

“Leave me alone,” he croaks, rubbing his eyes till his vision swims. “Just leave me alone! I don’t want to see you anymore!”

“Huh, fine. I thought after two years, the welcome would be a tad warmer. Brrr.”

Ekko pushes himself to his feet, stumbling away, watching warily as the young woman sits back up, picking at her messy hair. She looks different. A little older than Jinx from his visions or memories. Her hair is longer, though nowhere near the same length she once had braided into two twin braids. She swings her leg back and forth, another pulled up to her chest while she watches him. And… her eyes. Ekko was the last person to see her with blue eyes before their battle on the bridge. The last time he saw Jinx alive, they were a dangerous, burning violet. 

Now, even with the shade of the night, they’re a muddy mix between the blue he once knew, and the piercing violet that made her so deadly. As if that restless edge in her has calmed down and settled. 

Ekko’s chest heaves as he stumbles back a step. 

“Soooo—” she begins.

“You’re alive.”

Jinx shrugs her shoulders. “Yup. Clearly. In the flesh even,” she crows, but it’s more muted when compared to the wildness he once faced off against. 

His hand flies to his stomach, and Ekko distantly wonders if he’s about to throw up in front of a girl he’s spent his entire life loving. 

Mercifully, his stomach settles, but his heart beats so loudly he can hear the blood rushing in his skull. 

“You’re alive,” he repeats, harder this time. “It’s been two years.”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t offer more than that, but there’s a shadow over her narrow face. She’s healthier. There’s more weight on her bones, her skin has lost some of the pallidness. As if someone took Powder and Jinx, split them clean down the middle, and fused them into one body. Stronger, more self-reassured, less teetering on the brink. 

“Would have written but mail is crappy where I was,” she jokes, her voice a familiar, drawling litany. “Besides, this is so much more mysterious—”

He closes the distance between them in two steps. His room isn’t big but he would have walked, ran, sprinted if needed to close the distance between them. His arms wrap around her and Ekko squeezes her so tightly he hears a small breath escape Jinx. She’s solid and warm. Smells faintly of sea and something metallic. Ekko buries his face in the soft crook of Jinx’s neck, gasping for breath. 

“Woah, hero, you’re gonna break my ribs,” she whispers, but her arms wind around him, more careful, unsure. “I thought you hated me?”

Even when he releases her, Ekko’s hands linger on her, go to her face, examining her through the crack of light illuminating his room. 

“I saw you,” he breathes, devastated. “I saw you everywhere. I hoped to see you everywhere.”

Something flickers over her face, an unknown thing, secretive and distant as she’s always felt to him. 

“Geez, seeing things? And they call me crazy.”

“You’re not crazy.”

There’s such vehemence in his voice it startles them both. Jinx nibbles on her inner cheek, searching his face cautiously. “I thought you’d be mad.”

Ekko laughs, a low huff of amusement. “Do you think I care for you so little, huh?”

Too late he realises he’s without a shirt, and is, in fact, mostly bare before the girl he’s harboured a crush on for years. Near boyish shyness forces Ekko back, making him clear his throat. His hands tremble when he reaches for a discarded t-shirt, hoping it doesn’t smell bad when he pulls it over his head. When he glances at her over his shoulder, Jinx is still there, still watching him, though there’s a thoughtful air around her. 

When she notices him looking, she offers him a sarcastic grin.

“No need to get shy, stud.”

“Shut up,” he grumbles.

He plops down on his unmade bed, watching her watch him. Her face is half hidden by her arms propped on her bent knee, but the silence between them isn’t awkward. They’re taking each other in, taking in the changes that have touched them both in the last two years.

“Why come back now?” he asks, eventually. 

Jinx blinks, near feline-like, dropping her head back to stare at his ceiling as if it may offer an answer. “I’m a crappy friend, but not that crappy. Happy birthday, wonder boy.”

There’s a creak in his heart, a lightness in his ribcage, a balloon of affection despite their troubled history that inflates just for her. “You remember my birthday?”

She makes a sound at the back of her throat. Glances at him from the corner of her eye. “Well, we picked it together, silly, so sure I do.” Shadows fall over her features when she angles her head away. “I… I never thought I would come back—that it was better this way.”

“I’m glad you did.”

Something close to a smile ghosts over her face at his response. Ekko can’t rip his gaze away from her. He fears that if he does, he’ll wake up and she’ll be gone again, and he’ll have to relive the agony of losing her again. 

“Does Vi—”

“No. No. And it’s better this way.”

“But—”

“Drop it, Ekko. Please.”

He does. Because this is too good to be true, and he doesn’t want this to end. Emotions mix inside him, battling for dominance, so he sits there, letting them all wash over him. 

“You’ve been busy,” she says abruptly, nodding her head in the general direction of the outside world. “Their new wonder boy. I’m not surprised. You’ve always been good at creating things. Good things.”

“And you’ve always been good at fixing them,” he says. 

Ekko thinks back on the countless times she helped him to fix up old rubbish others have discarded and sell them in Benzo’s shop as small treasures. It feels, now, like a lifetime ago. In a sense, it has been. 

She snorts; it’s an ugly, hateful sound. “Not always.”

There’s weight to how she says it. Pain lingers in each syllable, more so a whispered confession. She’s thinking of others, those lost through accidents or her own direct involvement. 

“I’m sorry about Isha,” Ekko says carefully, thumb pressing into the hollow of his bare knee. He itches to take her hand, to smooth his thumb over her knuckles instead, but he doesn’t. She’s never been his to touch. “Vi told me about her.”

Jinx shrinks, turning away and he mentally curses. A sore spot even years later. Understandably so. 

“I… shit. Sorry.”

“What’s with the long face?” she exclaims suddenly, jumping to her feet and twirling. Her hands drop to her hips and she grins at him, all mischief. “C’mon, we gotta get out of here.”

Ekko squints. “Uh, what?”

“It’s your birthday, silly,” she says, like it should be obvious. “We’re going to spend the day together.”

.

Jinx keeps her hood up, her gait steady. Any sign of blue tucked away. She’s changed her attire to draw less attention, and as they walk in the hazy dawn light towards the bridge separating the sister cities, it feels almost normal. Casual. Not at all like the last time they spoke, they were about to fight side by side in a battle for their lives. Not at all like he spent two years thinking she’s dead. That still stings, but knowing how she felt back then, the state she was in before he talked her down from the edge, the pain she’s been through, Ekko can’t bring himself to feel resentful. He only wants to hold her and tell her it’ll be okay because she’s not alone. 

“You’re not saying, are you?” he asks, hands in his pockets. 

“Nope,” she replies, popping the p. “Can’t.”

Words rush to his tongue. Insistence that she can and should stay—that there’s space here for her, not just in his life, but in the new Zaun he’s helping to shape. He almost admits it to her then. That he’s built this for her and the ones they lost along the way. 

Ekko continues walking, staring at the ground, noticing too late she’s fallen behind. He peers over his shoulder and freezes when he notices what’s caught her attention. The mural. Welcoming anyone coming into Zaun. Her face, slightly younger but now immortalised, peers back at them. 

“You drew this.”

He loosens a breath. “Yeah, I did. I, uh, just…”

Jinx reaches for her own face, fingertips ghosting over the painted wall. There’s tension on her face when she turns to look at him, something piercing and hard and thoughtful. Same pinch to her eyebrows he saw earlier in his bedroom. 

“I won’t let them take you,” he says softly. “If they came for you. I would fight for you.”

She doesn’t break their eye contact. “I know. You shouldn’t, but I know you would.”

“Then stay.”

She saunters forward, stopping only when they’re almost chest to chest. “I’m not her, y’know? The other me. The one you love.”

He smiles, huffing a small breath, refocusing on her and her small pout. Ekko reaches forward, tucking a few stray strands back under Jinx’s hood, lingering for a beat. “I wasn’t her Ekko, either. That’s why I came back. I like this version of you just fine. But just so we’re clear, every version of you is a pain in my ass.” He tugs on a small braid, grinning when she shoots him an annoyed glare and slaps his hand away. “But I won’t have it any other way. Wait, no. It sure as hell would be simpler if you didn’t try to kill me anymore, but I guess I’ll deal with that, too.”

Jinx snorts, absently reaching for the spot he touched, her gaze softer than before. “Ha! You hit like a girl, by the way. I never got to tell you.”

“You tried to blow us up.”

“Eh,” she whines. “That was one time. You gotta let that go.”

Ekko exhales a small laugh and realises he hasn’t smiled or laughed this much in years. Joy was leeched from him with her absence, and while he did his duties, there was no security of Jinx’s usual push and pull to keep him balanced and focused. Even when they were enemies, hunted each other down and attacked each other, they existed on opposite sides of a perfectly balanced sphere. 

Her nearness, the relief of having her there, overshadows the darker recollection of that afternoon when she tried to blow them up more than once. Memories so painful Ekko wishes to scrub them from his mind forever, yet they remain seared into his psyche. 

She grabs his elbow, dragging him forward, breaking the surrounding gloom. “Come on then,. Things to do, things to see.”

And Ekko does what he’s done since they were young. He follows her. Because they might not have tomorrow.

.

The day goes by too fast. Almost a blur. A series of snapshots Ekko will lock away in his mind forever. He never expected he’d get to do this again. This is something his younger self could have only dreamt about once. When they dreamt of simpler things; flashy toys and delicious sweets, things only a young boy could fantasise about, aside from a loving home, because at least that much he had. 

They walked and talked and joked around, eating street vendor food all day. Ekko knows they’re pushing their luck, but he can’t help himself. Jinx grew up here. This is her home too, and he wants to show her the progress they’ve made. There’s something comfortable about her snarky commentary and ill-timed jibes at the Council members. She asks about Vi only once, in relation to Cait, and Ekko tells her the truth. 

They’re happy. They’re together. She nods, satisfied, and moves on.

“We should go see Jericho next.” It’s an offhand suggestion while they walk the newly paved river path. Now people from the Undercity can enjoy the same luxury of having a peaceful sidewalk to take their kids down. It’s amazing how it’s the small things that bring people happiness. 

“Can’t,” Jinx replies, glancing towards the setting sun. Her smile twists; it’s still a smile, but it’s sad, in a way. “Sorry, hero.”

He takes several seconds to speak. “So, you’re leaving anyway.”

“Yes. I told you I can’t stay.”

“It’s a pity, then.”

She tilts her head. “Why?”

Damn her for even asking. Damn her and all the shitty circumstances for keeping them apart. Damn her for picking him during that game of hide and seek years ago. Damn her for being there for him and not being there at the same time. Damn her for being his entire world for years. Even when Ekko thought he hated her, he wasn’t free of her. He never could be. His girl with blue hair. 

He’s in love with her, in every possible way, but they both know they can’t work like this. There’s too many ghosts for Jinx here, and despite the changes, Ekko can’t promise her she won’t get dragged off to Stillwater the moment authorities find out she’s alive after all. 

Ekko frowns, clenches his fists, and walks away. 

But she’s like an anchor to him. He stops several paces away, tied to her. “You’re gonna break my heart.”

They’ve been everything from friends to enemies and strangers to reluctant allies again. So much of his life has revolved around her. Continues to revolve around her. Past and present. But if Jinx sends him away now, if she walks away, Ekko will let her go. Because he can finally rest easy, knowing she is alive and well, even if they’re apart.

“In any other universe, I might have loved you,” she breathes. 

He pivots towards her, his nostrils flaring. “Love me in this one,” he insists, reaching for her. Ekko cups her cheeks, tilting her head until her hood slips back down, exposing her blue hair to the setting sun. He’s glad there’s no one in sight because he can’t think straight right now. “Choose me now. Ask me to go away with you. Ask me.”

He presses his forehead to hers. Jinx’s empty gaze appears glazed over, her thoughts far away no matter how hard he tries to grip her and hold her close. 

“I don’t deserve you, boy saviour,” she whispers emptily. “You’re good.”

“No one decides for me, Jinx. Not even you.”

She blinks owlishly, searching his wild stare, a pained expression on her face, her fingers knotting against her chest. “What if you don’t want me after a while? I’m… different and if I get bad again... What if—”

“Ask me, damnit.”

Jinx loosens a shaky breath, jumping through a hundred micro-expressions in a few seconds. A painful mix between hope and dread. 

“C…” Her eyes squeeze shut. “Come with me.”

Ekko sags in relief. “Yes.” He holds her, wraps his arms around her despite the unsure way she folds against him. As if she’s unsure where to put her hands. If she should. “Yes, I’ll come with you. I don’t care if you’re different. I want you as you are, okay? No matter where we are.”

A tremulous breath wheezes past Jinx’s lips. But with that, she melts into him, burying her face against him. Her embrace grows desperate and tight, a tremble shuddering through her body. 

“Always a dance with you, huh?” he says after a moment.

She chuckles, the sound warming his collarbone. “And you still got two left feet, boy wonder.”

Constants and variables, young Ekko, Benzo told him once. Everything bad that can happen in this universe might come to pass, but so might everything good.

----

an: ahh I know this isn't really my usual offering but I really hope you guys enjoyed, it's been a while since i've cared enough about canon/canon ship to do this.

[mollysunder]

Is Ekko Trying to Reaffirm His Identity as a Firelight?

I find it very interesting that Jinx's monkey tag was engraved into Ekko's loc. Obviously, it's a sign that the Ekko-Jinx team up is real! But the placement of Jinx's tag may hint at something else more concerning for next season.

The monkey tag is where Ekko's Firelight symbol should be. And when we zoom out we see Ekko reapplying his face paint of the Firelight hourglass onto his face while holding back angry tears in his eyes.

Bare with me! Where there should be a symbol of his community, instead is Jinx. The fact that Ekko has to angrily reapply his face paint likely means his face was recently bare or the hourglass wasn't well distinguished the most identifying marker on him would be something related to Jinx.

I think this could mean for a portion of the season (not sure how long) Ekko's alliance with Jinx might take precedence over his affiliation with the Firelights.

Bare with me! Next season will most certainly be chaotic as the hunt for Jinx starts and her notoriety rises in Zaun. In the confusion and tension we know Caitlyn could have her eyes on the Firelights as a resource that they she could utilize to find Jinx. What opinions can we expect from the Firelights?

Despite everything that's happened between Jinx and the Firelights (and yes, that includes the killings), would they actually cooperate with Piltover to have her captured? Would it end the occupation? Would it mean that Caitlyn and Ambessa would continuously use them as a resource to rat on other Zaunites? Do some of the Firelights even hate Jinx enough to betray their principles? Do some of them respect Jinx for firing on the council?

These are all questions that can easily devolve into a schism for the Firelights. Or maybe we skip all of that and Ambessa's forces raid the tree hideout and the Firelights are scattered across Zaun. Either way Ekko ends up separated and he and Jinx may be in need of allies just as much as she is. It was even hinted at in the art book cover.

At the bottom Jinx of the green art book meant to represent Jinx drawing from Ekko's perspective she wrote, "Lost the Firelights". That's not a phrase that should be significant to Jinx. Silco's dead. Shimmer production is being cracked down on. There's no reason for her to attack them anymore, and she never chased them in the first place, they came to Jinx and her traps. It's about Ekko!

Could the poster represent a moment where after teaming up with Jinx, Ekko must return to build his community that fractured under Piltover's occupation?

[rippersz]

𝙎𝙞𝙭 𝙄𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

(Alcina Dimitrescu and Larissa Weems Have A Conversation) (Flirty; Gay Panic; Potential Romance?) (L.W.’s POV) (Lady D is slightly OOC)

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

“Thank you again, Principal Weems, for accepting my daughters. I understand you had to pull a few strings, and for that I am eternally grateful. Let’s just hope they don’t give you any issues, hm?” And a glass of red wine is then brought up to burgundy lips; prompting a hum, a sip, and finally a slow lick along white teeth.

Larissa allows herself to watch, entranced for but a moment, before she’s clearing her throat and giving the woman a polite smile.

“It was no trouble at all, Ms. Dimitrescu. And I’m sure the girls will have plenty of opportunities to flourish. I’m only glad you came before the semester started- otherwise it would have been cutting it finely,” she mused, maintaining a professional tone as best she could while her clasped hands trembled within her lap.

Something about the woman on the other side of her desk, sitting in a chair much too small, was setting Larissa on edge. Aside from the obvious prestige of her name and status, the very displacement- the shift of air- that happened when she walked into a room was astounding. The Principal felt it earlier, only in passing and for a moment, before the three rascals that accompanied her stole most of the attention away.

But here, in the flickering light of the fire and the darkness of the evening, it’s just her and Alcina Dimitrescu. Mother of three, esteemed vintner and business owner, royalty to some extent, and ex jazz musician. Larissa has some of her records in her quarters, but she won’t tell her that. Maybe one day, if they grow closer, but such thoughts are merely the wishes of a lonely woman. Desires with no basis and dreams with no end. Alcina Dimitrescu is exactly her type, yes, and she enjoys her wine, yes, and she finds her marvelously beautiful, yes, but that doesn’t matter. She has to maintain professionalism. She cannot allow the woman to see the effect she has (even though the constant smirk she wears tells Larissa that she most definitely already knows).

“Oh you have no idea how lucky I feel,” comes the deep purr of her tone. “The girls had been bugging me about Nevermore for ages. Only about a month ago did I actually start my research. And I’m glad I did.” Larissa certainly isn’t hallucinating then as sharp grey eyes slowly travel over her upper body. Roaming from her broad shoulders to her bust.

The room suddenly feels very warm. And her dress feels very restricting. But she ignores it.

Professional, professional, professional.

Even though there is nothing professional about Alcina Dimitrescu’s disposition. Oh no. The only thing that exists there is pure desire. Like the deep passionate idea of sex everyone has in their minds - except in the form of a human being. Or a… well she isn’t actually sure what she is. To the average person, at first glance, they may just assume she’s a well put-together tall woman - but Larissa is not a naive, simple woman. She has grown up around outcasts. Give her a test about outcast history, behavior, types, culture, origins, and she will pass with flying colors. Keen eyes notice the signs, the appearance, the behavior, and the things they do to cover it all up.

Like the skin.

It’s beautiful skin. Flawless skin. But painted white, when it’s actually grey. She can see it slightly- so slightly- beneath the makeup near her temple. Where beautiful bouncy black curls meet a pale forehead. She can see the smallest patch of grey. Gargoyle, is her first thought. But when she sees the teeth- stark white and normal, aside from the knife-sharp cuspids that shine in the firelight- she thinks Vampire. But then the hands… She was wearing gloves, but at some point had discarded them into her purse and is now lounging in the chair, holding her wine glass in such a delicate way that Larissa begins to envy the fucking thing. Light skin fades from the huge space of a feminine palm into the dark as midnight color of long slim fingers. They cradle the belly of the glass with a gentle touch - and Larissa catches sight of the nails. Painted black. Sharper than the average ‘accessory’. Like they’re… meant to be dangerous.

She doesn’t say anything about it though. Gargoyle, Vampire, whatever other creature, she would never ask them what their ‘type’ is. For adults with such peculiarities, it’s just not common to do so. Not to mention she’s the Principal of Nevermore Academy - and must set a good example.

…Even though there are no children present… and she is morbidly curious.

Doesn’t matter!

Nope. Not at all.

The beauty, the aura, the mystique of the woman before her will just have to remain a mystery. Even if Larissa has never seen a creature so sublime. With that silky dark hair… and those finely arched brows… and those red lips… and that soft jaw that can become oh so sharp with just a small tense of the muscles… and that nose… and those lashes… and those eyes. They swallow her whole. If she thinks she herself is intimidating, she’s wrong. Because Alcina Dimitrescu is waist-deep in the very meaning. With her sharp, easy languid smile. And her matured laugh lines. And her deep chuckles. And her stature. Broad-shouldered, muscular, with a very curvaceous and blessed figure, soft belly, and long legs. Long legs. Long fucking legs.

When she opened the door, Larissa nearly fainted.

Students and adults alike have a difficult enough job meeting her eyes. A woman standing at 6’3”, about 6’4” in kitten heels, is a thing to marvel at in the outcast and normie worlds. But the implications and awe of it all just astounds her. There are plenty of tall women in existence! Alcina Dimitrescu being one of them. Standing at 6’9”. Probably taller in the stilettos she’s wearing. 6 entire inches between them. She’s never met someone so… big. She had to control her reaction immediately, lest she be forever viewed as one of those people that can’t help but ogle. And how embarrassing that would be.

Even though there’s. Six. Inches. In. Difference.

It’s like they’re on opposite sides of the spectrum. Larissa is tall, but modest about it. She wears a low heel, she gives herself an everyday any-event style of makeup, she wears a light floral perfume, she keeps her hair short and pinned up, she stays neat and she wears work-appropriate dresses and she is still perfectly fashion forward. But ‘Ms. Dimitrescu’ is a different story. Is a bold story. Is an intoxicating story. She wears a high heel, and gives herself dark eyes, accentuates the god-given lashes, paints her lips blood red; and she wears a smoky roll-on scent that smells like spice and jasmine and white musk, and she keeps her short dark hair pulled into a tight 1950’s messy pin-curl kind of look, and she stays perfect while wearing tight grey button downs tucked into high waisted slacks. A feminine type of power suit that isn’t a power suit at all but still commands a room simply because she was just born that way.

It’s infuriatingly distracting.

Larissa has to look down at her lap so she can conjure up a proper response for the woman in front of her - who is still staring.

I think she has a habit, the Principal thinks to herself.

“As am I,” she coughs out, despising the telling husk to her words. “We are always looking for new outcasts at Nevermore. It helps us grow as a school, as a population, as a place of freedom and excitement. Do you know the estimated time of your daughters’ stay?” It wasn’t settled upon before - and Larissa needs something to distract her from the small appreciative sips Ms. Dimitrescu takes from her wine.

“That’s a very good question, Principal,” and a playful tinge slips into that naturally gorgeous expression, “Can they stay with you forever? Lord knows Mother needs a break.” And then she winks, and her red lips part into a smile, and then she takes her eyes elsewhere while Larissa quickly shifts her skin from a burning pink back into the natural peachy pale.

All she can think to do is let out a forced laugh paired with (what she hopes is) a smooth smile.

“As much as I wish they could,” Larissa breathes and puts her hands from her lap back onto the surface of the desk, “that is unfortunately unrealistic. Certain students do have that opportunity, yes, but we always encourage the young ones to get out a bit and see the world. It’s scary at first, but we also tell them that Nevermore will always be here. Should they want to come back, of course.” Is she rambling? Maybe. But her company doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seems quite interested. Very interested.

Staring into her bloody soul like she’s been doing since day one. Larissa’s half tempted to ask her if there’s something wrong, but she figures it’s just the way the woman is. Intense.

“I see. Well. I suppose for now, the girls will stay for the standard four years - and if there’s more to discuss down the line, we will simply cross that bridge when we come to it. Does that sound amenable to you, Principal?” Ms. Dimitrescu tilts her head, still carrying an air of arrogant amusement as she strings Larissa along.

“It sounds perfect, yes,” and if her voice dips a little in the middle of her sentence then so what?

Ms. Dimitrescu seems to enjoy it as a slow grin spreads across her cheeks. Deepening her beautiful laugh lines while she smiles with all teeth. It’s nearly embarrassing how quickly Larissa’s eyes snap to the large canines. She’s explored vampiric anatomy before - in her Nevermore days - but this is something different. This woman doesn’t seem like anything she’s seen before, and only a person with an inquisitive mind can’t help but desire more. More like a feel, maybe. Like a touch. The brush of one finger pad along the very sharp tip of one tooth. Or the flick of a sensitive tongue. Or the feeling of them skating along her neck. Or-

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

Larissa blinks.

What?

Before she can say anything, and disagree, and tell her she most certainly does mind, the woman somehow already has a quellazaire tucked between her fingers. The wine glass now sits on the desk, on a coaster, and the lit end of a cigarette is already sparkling with the glow of burning embers. It’s brought up to red lips. Pressed and held. Then taken away while the taller woman slowly tips her head back and releases a deep chest-shaking groan. The smoke curls into the air like fingers around a woman’s waist, and Larissa is utterly speechless.

“I- uh-”

That beautiful head lifts itself, and she quickly notices the challenge weaseling around through the other woman’s gaze. A veil of smoke now separates them. But that doesn’t stop her from sniffing and licking her lips and adjusting herself in her seat - right before she sets down the law.

“I’d prefer if you didn’t do that Ms. Dimitrescu. This is still a public building, a school no less, and we want to set a good example for the students.” She silently congratulates herself on her courage. Right before it’s tugged away.

“Oh?” The other woman straightens up, her back arching in a way that makes Larissa wish she could skate her fingers along the beautiful curve it makes. “I wasn’t aware there were students present. Are you somehow able to see things I’m not, Principal Weems?”

It’s a small shot of playful mockery that makes her heart rate speed up- and for a second there she thinks she sees grey eyes shooting down to her chest, like she can hear the change in rhythm, before quickly meeting her gaze again.

Larissa plasters on her most obviously placating smile while she tilts her head. If there’s one thing that pisses her off, it’s a blatant disregard for respect. Alcina Dimitrescu may be older, and more prestigious, but this is Larissa Weems’s turf. One must bow to the king they visit.

“No, Ms. Dimitrescu, unfortunately I haven’t been gifted with that particular ability,” she speaks as clearly as she can, letting the passive aggression in her words flow out from behind smiling white teeth. “But I do know that I’m not fond of inhaling second-hand smoke. And should a student walk in at this hour, I can’t imagine they’d appreciate the assault on the senses either.” Her eyebrows quirk up, silently daring the woman to fight back. Just see what happens.

But her show of authority doesn’t anger Ms. Dimitrescu in the way she thought it would. It, instead, just makes her red lips twitch while she takes her second and last inhale - before taking the cigarette out of its long holder and… burning it. Twisting it to ash. On the sensitive skin of her hand. Between the knuckles of her index and middle fingers. Creating a slow circle. Smushing it to a weird tobacco-y pulp.

Larissa’s lips part in shock.

When the ruined cigarette is pulled away, not even a mark is left. Just a small smudge of ash that Ms. Dimitrescu wipes off with her thumb.

So certainly not human. And not a Gargoyle. And not a Vampire.

She swallows, unable to speak a single word while the woman puts her quellazaire away and stands up to her full height - towering over the desk for a moment - before she’s turning around and strutting over to the fireplace. Her hips sway as she goes, and her hair bounces lightly against the base of her neck, and the mixed smell of her spiced perfume and cigarette smoke floats into Larissa’s eager lungs and honestly, she wants nothing more than to trail after her and put her hands on those strong shoulders and push her onto the sofa and demand that this woman tell her who she thinks she is. Walking around her office as if she owns the place. Pouring hubris and carrying the kind of confidence only a rich woman can have… Like Larissa isn’t doing her a favor. Like Larissa didn’t have to bargain with the board to allow the Dimitrescu children into Nevermore. Homeschooled girls with the kind of peculiarities that can only stem from faraway villages; rough in their play and sharp in their minds. Just like their mother. Whose wine every single board member drinks.

Whose wine Larissa drinks.

But that’s also something she won’t tell her.

The wine in Ms. Dimitrescu’s glass, anyway, is one Larissa had to pull out from her own liquor cabinet; after she offered a drink to the other woman, thinking she knew she meant water or sparkling cider. But she didn’t. Or she didn’t care. And once she put the bottle and the crystal glass on the desk, she instantly took the initiative and poured herself a wonderfully hefty helping of a young Zinfandel. To a regular person, that amount of wine had in such a short period of time (their session is supposed to be 45 minutes but Larissa knows it’s run over) would definitely leave them drunk without any preamble. Of course, Ms. Dimitrescu is something distinctly inhuman, and her figure is probably quite heavy with all of that muscle… and curves… and the way her belly pushes against the waistband of her slacks ever ever so slightly… and she may have eaten earlier in the day and-

Why on Earth am I thinking about this?

Larissa has to keep herself from rolling her eyes.

A confident, slightly egotistical, insanely intelligent pretty woman steps into her office and drinks some of her wine and stares into her very being and suddenly she’s unable to control herself? She lived with Morticia Addams for nearly four years! Whatever training and self-discipline she gained from that experience has just flown out the window in the face of- of- of whatever the fuck Alcina Dimitrescu is?! No. Nonsense. Unacceptable. Her professionalism still remains. The woman can push the boundaries, but she cannot take Larissa’s dignity and jurisdiction. Even if she looks unnaturally attractive standing by the fire and lazily throwing her cigarette away into the flames.

Even if her eyes, for just a moment, flash a violent gold.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

When worlds collide !! I may do other parts of this; or little one-shots with this pairing. So let me know what you think? Thank you, darlings. - Rip x

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈•ﾟ｡

Tags (Keep in mind Tumblr doesn't let me tag certain accounts): @oddball21 @kaymariesworld @bloommushroom @readingtheentrails @thegoddamnfeels @theonefairygodmother @theflashesoflove @sweetderacine @opalthefrog @gwensfreak @shyladyfan @erablaise-blog @bellatrixsbrat @sunnyanon @emilynissangtr @lex13cm @sugipla @hasthebaconinhispants @deongocrazy @nocteangelus15 @eveymay @one-pining-queer @azu-zu @niceminipotato @hopelessly-sapphic @barbarasstar @enchantressb @syrenacrainn @im-a-carnivorous-plant @willowshadenox @aemilia19 @ladylarissaweems @scarlettssub @ladysdraga @willisnotmental @gela123 @h-doodles @zillahofviolets-bayolet @weemssapphic @the-bearr @amateurwritescm

[luxheroica]

under your tree (2/3)

Part 2/3 - our Ekko, Jinx, and the tree.

Part one

Also on AO3

---

He drags her off that ledge by stealing seconds and finding the right words, and once he’s pretty sure she won't blow the both of them to smithereens he holds out his hand to her. 

Ekko doesn't think it's possible but Jinx takes it. Holds onto it. Her grip is so slight he thinks she might slip away, but as long as he's holding her hand it means she's still here. 

“Come with me?” he asks. 

She doesn't protest. He isn't sure if it's assent or empty resignation. He's not sure if she knows which one either. 

He doesn't know what's happened to her while he was gone. He hasn't seen her since the fight on the bridge, and the only reason he knew she was still alive was the Enforcers were still looking for her. If she were dead it would have been sung from the rooftops. 

Jinx is… broken. Not in the way she usually is, mad and manic and dangerous and wild and the creature who replaced the girl he once knew. She is silent, and her cheeks are streaked with black tear tracks. 

Ekko takes her to the only place that makes sense. The place that has always represented healing and light for the undercity for him. 

He takes her to the tree. 

Nobody stops him–he’s Ekko, and he’s returned from the dead, and nobody wants to question him– but the other Firelights scatter when he walks in with Jinx. 

This raises the first reaction he's had out of her in their long walk. She snorts. “So, this is your little hideout,” she says, looking around. “Aren't you worried I'll come and blow it up?” 

Ekko looks at her sidelong. Maybe before he left and came back. Maybe before he found her like this, with her eyes bruised and her voice faint. “Nah. That's not gonna happen.” 

That earns the ghost of a smile from her. “Just wait– the day’s still young.” 

He leads her further into the Firelights camp, and she takes it all in with a wide and hungry expression. Her gaze roams over the tree, green and live giving and towering over everything. Her fingers intertwine stronger with his as she takes in the camps all around. 

She stops dead when she sees the memorial wall. 

Ekko can see her tracing each of them with her eyes and her lips. Claggor. Milo. Vander. Benzo. Vi. 

Powder. 

He doesn't say a word, and for a long time she stands there in silence. Just staring and taking it all in. For a moment he wonders if he's sent her on another spiral, if he's going to have to play another game of chicken with a bomb meant to end the both of them. 

“You really think I'm dead, huh?” 

Her voice is light and contemplative and whatever reaction he was expecting it wasn't this. He’s wondering if it would be better to apologize or try to explain, when Jinx blows out a breath. 

Her hair runs away from her exhalation. “Not that I would disagree.” 

“Powder’s gone,” he says. “But you're still here, Jinx. And I'd like you to stay.” 

She hasn't taken her hand from his. Jinx’s fingers curl. “Huh.” 

He’s willing to stay there as long as she needs, hand-in-hand and staring at the memorial wall. He meant it when he said that he gave up on her once, and he isn't going to do it anymore. 

“Would you mind?” she asks at last, looking up at the painted faces. “If I added to it?” 

Ekko is surprised, and reluctant to leave her alone just now– but he nods. “Sure,” he says. His fingers slip from hers and she doesn't move. “Let me go get some paints. Be right back.” 

She doesn't even nod. He's not even sure she's listening. But he goes as fast as he can to gather up his paints and brushes and run back. He's not entirely sure she'll be there when he gets back or whether he’ll find a black scar on the ground. 

Jinx is still standing there transfixed by the wall when he dumps the painting supplies at her feet. 

“Thanks,” she says, and she spends some time picking out the paints she wants and then hoisting herself up and picking an empty spot on the wall and starting to sketch. 

Ekko watches until she turns back to him with a roll of her eyes that's the most normal thing he's seen from her all day. “You can stop hovering like a weirdo, you know. I promise not to blow anything up.” 

Thus (mostly) reassured, Ekko leaves her to her painting. A couple of the other Firelights express concern at her presence, but he talks them down. She's not a threat to them, not like this. 

And it's time he started trusting her. 

Jinx is still painting when exhaustion overtakes him and Ekko at last can't keep his eyes open and longer and he falls into a much needed sleep. 

Hours later he starts awake. He's sure that Jinx is going to be gone when he rushes to the memorial wall, but she's there and sleeping under a thin blanket she scavenged from somewhere. Ekko lets out the breath he's been holding. 

There are two new figures on the tree. Both are drawn in bright colors– clashing and complimenting his realistic style with neons that nearly hurt the eye. Both figures are nonetheless unmistakable. 

One is Silco, and for a moment it feels wrong to see his face on a memorial alongside so many of his victims. But, he thinks, Silco was no less a victim of the undercity. He had hope for a bright future once. Who is this paint depiction hurting? 

The other one is a young girl Ekko doesn't recognize. At first he thinks that it is Powder, that Jinx put herself on the tree– but no, it’s someone else entirely. There's brown mixed in with her violently blue hair, and he never saw Powder wear that helmet. 

He traces her lines, wondering who she was. Why Jinx felt compelled to draw her on the wall. 

“Her name was Isha.” 

Ekko turns around to see Jinx waking up and watching him with wide eyes. He steps away from the wall and towards her. 

“Who was she?” he asks gently. 

At first he thinks she won't answer. That she can't. He won't press her if she doesn't want to. 

“A friend,” she says at last. “Just this kid I knew. She followed me around like… some lost puppy. I ran with her for awhile. Begged me for the blue hair like she wanted to be me, like being me was so great. And then she…” 

Jinx clutches at her wrist, her fingernails digging deep into skin. 

“I'm sorry,” Ekko says, approaching gently. 

“Yeah, well, I shoulda known it was coming. Everyone around me dies, remember?” 

He thinks that she will stop him when he takes her hand and gently prises her fingers from where they are digging deep furrows in her wrist. Instead she just stares, eyes wide. 

“I'm not going anywhere.” 

Jinx looks askance at the time travel device resting on his hip. “Yeah, well it helps when you can cheat.” Then her eyes fix on it like she's really seeing it for the first time, and her gaze narrows. “Who was it, this person who taught you there was something worth building?” 

Ekko chuckles. “You wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.” She folds her arms over her chest in open challenge. 

“Sit down,” Ekko says, and to his amazement Jinx obeys by flopping down next to him. He joins her in a cross-legged position as he thinks about what how to begin this story. He hadn’t planned on telling her– there's parts of his journey to that other world that are too personal. “She was you– or, well, another you. From an alternate universe.” 

Jinx snorts. “Yeah right.” 

“I told you you wouldn't believe me.” 

“Oh, I believe you about the alternate universe part. That's just the kind of wild shit that happens in this city. But me, helping you? That's rich.” 

Ekko wonders how to explain that other Jinx who never became Jinx, who still went by Powder, who still had most of her family. “Vi was dead, in that other universe. She died young, before everything that happened. And it changed a lot of stuff– Zaun was finally independent and standing on its own, Vander and Silco made up– they were married and running the bar together.” 

Jinx makes a face. “Eugh.” 

Ekko laughs. “Believe me, it was weird.” 

A ghost of a smile flits across Jinx’s lips. “It makes sense though. Vi created the Jinx, so if she died before she could do that…” 

Ekko doesn't bother untangling whatever's going on in her head. “And you were– happy. Two dads who loved you, and you had friends, and we were all gunning for this science contest. And you were helping me– or well, she was helping the other Ekko, actually– to build an energy device.” 

Jinx tilts her head at him, disbelieving but still listening. “Science contest? And I was in it?” 

“Yeah.” Ekko strokes the edge of his time travel device. “Trying to invent something that would help the world. Milo and Claggor had this plant thing that was cleaning up the air, and the other me wanted to build an energy device, but he couldn't do it without your help. She– you– ended up doing like half of the work.” 

He sees the way her eyes trace him hungrily, like she doesn't quite believe him but desperately wants to. 

“Why'd you leave?” 

Ekko turns to her, surprised. 

“I mean it sounds perfect– other than Vi, I guess. I wouldn’t have wanted to come back to this shitty universe, except I guess I would have probably fucked that one up too.” 

“Because you needed me,” Ekko says. When she raises a skeptical eyebrow he realizes what he said, what it implies. He flushes. “I mean, you all– this universe. And that place, it wasn't mine. I was just borrowing it for a while.” 

“Smooth, brain-boy.” Jinx snorts. Then she rocks back so she's staring up at the murals. “What was she like, the other me?” 

“Like you,” Ekko says, and she blows out a breath in disbelief. “I'm serious. Maybe she was more stable– she had people around, people who loved her– but she liked to mess with people, and she liked bright colors and tinkering with things.” 

“Lucky her.” 

“There was a dance, and she wore all this bright makeup, it was neon blue but then there was like this gradient of colors, and… I couldn't help but think, Jinx would totally wear this, if she ever had an occasion she wanted to dress up for.” 

Jinx levers herself up on her arms. Scornfully asks, “Ok, was I like your date to the dance?”

“Uhh…” 

“Seriously Ekko, what the hell? Did you ask me out in another universe, who does that?” 

“You were my girlfriend so it's not like I had much choice!” Ekko defends himself without thinking. Then he cringes. “I mean she was his– the other Ekko’s– girlfriend.” 

Jinx taps her fingers on the metal of the platform, thinking. She looks at him askance and he can’t tell what’s going on in that head of hers, but he feels like she’s sizing him up. “You don’t say.” 

“I didn’t mean to bring it up,” Ekko says. “I didn’t want you to think I came looking for you only because, well– of her. I came looking for you because it’s you. I gave up on you once, Jinx– I’m not going to do it again.” 

She tilts her head at him. Considers him for a long time. “Would you kiss me like her, Ekko?” she asks, almost too quiet to hear, but the words reverberate in his chest. “Like I’m someone who deserves–”

He cuts her off, surging forward to smash his lips to hers. Jinx is surprised, her eyes wide and her whole body tense. Ekko presses, cradling her face like she’s something precious and hard to hold, and she is– his explosive girl, always slipping through his fingers. 

Jinx responds at last, surging forward and nipping his upper lip with her teeth. He responds by opening his mouth so she can tease him with her tongue. 

At last they break apart, although Ekko doesn’t let go of her face. He only stares at her, amazed that out of every possible universe they’re here. 

“You know, I always kind of liked you,” he admits. 

Jinx smirks. “Did you now?” And she pulls him in for another kiss.

[auxmodi]

hired killer pt2

pt1 pt2

A/n: i've got so many ideas for this series im fucking excited

summary: After a failed attempt to kill Sandor Clegane, the assassin faces his harsh mockery, leaving her humiliated but burning with determination to prove him wrong.

humiliation, slowburn, enemies, violence, power dynamic, mocking, degradation a little, mad ass reader lol, angst, hate, cursing.

word count: 1.8k

The forest was dead quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves in the cold night air. You crouched low behind a tree, your eyes never leaving the hulking figure near the dying campfire. Sandor Clegane sat on a fallen log, sharpening his sword, the firelight flickering over his scarred face. His hands moved methodically, the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone the only sound in the stillness.

You’d been tracking him for weeks, and this wasn’t the first time you’d gotten close. The last encounter had been in a crowded alley in some backwater village, and you’d had the perfect chance to strike. He hadn’t seen you coming, not at first. But you’d hesitated, an instant too long, and he had turned on you, his piercing gaze locking onto yours. He hadn’t attacked, no. He just laughed, that low, guttural chuckle that made your blood run cold. That humiliation still burned.

You adjusted your grip on the dagger at your side, the cool metal grounding you. You’d waited for this moment, planned for it, but as you watched him sit there in the firelight, an odd flicker of hesitation made your breath hitch. He looked… human. Tired, maybe even worn down. The stories painted him as a monster, a dog bred only for blood, but what sat before you was a man. A dangerous one, but a man nonetheless.

His voice broke the silence like a stone crashing into water. "Thought I told you to stay the fuck away."

Your heart leapt into your throat. He didn’t look up, his attention still on the blade in his hands, but there was no mistaking who he was talking to. You rose slowly from your hiding place, your fingers brushing the hilt of your blade.

"You really think I’d listen?" you shot back, trying to keep your voice steady.

His lip curled in a smirk, his scarred face catching the light. "Didn’t think you had the brains to, no." Rising to his full height, he towered over you, sword still in hand. "What’s it now, then? You here to try your luck again?"

“I’m not trying,” you shot back, raising your dagger.

He moved before you could blink, faster than you expected for someone his size. One moment he was by the fire, the next, he had your wrist in a crushing grip. The dagger slipped from your fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud. You struggled, but his strength was overwhelming. With one brutal yank, he pulled you forward.

“Still too slow.” he growled.

You struggled, twisting in his hold, but it was like trying to fight a steel trap. His other hand grabbed your shoulder, spinning you around and shoving you against the nearest tree. The rough bark bit into your back as his massive frame pinned you there, his hand pressing against your neck to hold you in place.

“Let go!” you snarled, kicking out at him, but it was useless. He blocked every move with ease.

“Shut up,” he snarled, his face inches from yours now. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be rotting in the dirt already. So stop being a fuckin' fool before I decide to stop being nice.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, though you couldn’t tell if it was fear or something else entirely. His grip was firm, his body radiating heat as he leaned in, his dark eyes boring into yours.

"I’m not afraid of you," you hissed, even though your pulse pounded in your ears.

He laughed. A low, rough sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "No? Then why’s your heart poundin’ like a damn rabbit caught in a trap?"

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the weight of his hand and the way his gaze seemed to pierce straight through you. "Because I’m pissed off," you spat, trying to push against him. "Let me go, or—"

"Or what?" he mocked, tightening his grip just enough to make you gasp. "You gonna beg now? Cry like a little bitch? That how this ends for you?"

You glared at him, the defiance in your eyes sparking something dangerous in his expression. His lips curled in a sneer as he leaned in even closer, his breath warm against your face.

"Here's the truth," he growled, his voice low and rough. "You ain't ready for this. You think you can take me down, but you'd be dead before you even got close enough to land a blow. I’d put you in the dirt like the rest."

The words hit harder than you wanted to admit, but you refused to look away. “You don’t know what I’m capable of,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

He studied you for a moment, eyes cold and assessing, before grunting in disdain. Without a word, he shoved you back, releasing you with a suddenness that left you stumbling. He picked up your dagger, holding it by the blade as if it were nothing more than a toy.

“Go on, then, prove it,” he said, gesturing lazily. “Show me what you’ve got, killer.”

The dagger in your hand felt absurdly heavy, though you tried not to let it show. The insult gnawed at you, as much as his calm, almost mocking stare. You’d been hired to kill him, paid to kill him, and instead of dispatching him quickly, here you were, facing him head-on and already looking like a fool.

Your grip tightened. Without a word, you lunged, the blade flashing in the firelight as you drove it toward his throat.

But Sandor moved like he had all the time in the world.

His arm shot up, catching your wrist with a grip that felt like iron. Pain jolted through your arm as he twisted it with just enough force to make your fingers go slack. The dagger hit the ground with a muffled thud.

You barely had time to gasp before he stepped in, his momentum carrying you backward. You braced for impact, but he didn’t slam you into the tree. No, it was almost clinical how he maneuvered you, pinning you there with his sheer presence. His hand gripped your shoulder, his weight pressed against you just enough to stop any thought of escape.

“Stop,” he growled, his voice low and full of quiet menace. “You’re done.”

Your teeth clenched as you struggled against him, but he didn’t budge. His scarred face hovered inches from yours, his breath warm and rough.

“Let me go,” you hissed.

“Let you go?” he sneered. “Aye, so you can grab that butter knife and have another go at me? Not bloody likely, girl..”

The word hit harder than it should have, girl. Like you were some foolish child who didn’t belong here. Fury rose in your chest, but you couldn’t dislodge him. His grip was unyielding, his strength a wall you couldn’t hope to break.

“Some killer,” he muttered, his lips curling into a cruel smirk. “Tell me, how much are they paying you to bungle this so badly?”

The heat rose in your face, your anger flaring hotter than the fire behind him. “Enough to see you dead,” you spat.

His smirk deepened, and he let out a short laugh. “That right? Well, they’re wasting their coin. You couldn’t kill a rabbit with the way you’re swinging.”

Your glare could’ve melted steel, but he didn’t care. He glanced down at the dagger lying useless on the ground, then back up at you.

With that, he stepped back, releasing you so suddenly you nearly stumbled. He reached down, picking up your dagger and holding it by the blade.

“This?” he said, his tone laced with disdain. “This little thing’s supposed to do me in? I’ve seen sharper kitchen knives.” He tossed it to you with a casual flick of his wrist.

You caught it awkwardly, fury bubbling in your chest. "Keep laughing," you shot back, "You’re not as untouchable as you think."

“Untouchable?” he repeated, his voice dark with amusement. “Girl, I’ve had men twice your size and ten times your skill try to put steel through my heart. You think you’ve got a chance with that?” his eyes pointing at the dagger.

The dagger in your hand felt foolish now, but the anger still burned. You stood your ground, glaring at him. "Maybe I don’t," you snapped, "But I’ll die trying."

He barked out a laugh, harsh and sharp as breaking glass. “Die trying? Gods, you’re a damn fool.”

His eyes flicked over you, assessing, and then, much to your surprise, he shook his head, a strange, humorless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Maybe what you need’s a bit of training,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Can’t have you embarrassing the rest of your kind, stumbling around like a half-blind goat.”

You stared at him, stunned. “You? Train me?”

“Aye,” he said, his grin cruel and sharp. “The Hound, teacher of some half-wit assassin who couldn’t gut a fish, let alone a man. That’d be a laugh. Maybe I’ll train you, girl. You might stand a chance next time, if the poor sod’s asleep and tied hand and foot.”

Your cheeks burned hot, and anger flared in your chest. “I don’t need your help,” you snapped, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

You clenched your jaw, the taste of failure bitter on your tongue. His words stung, and you hated that they were true. He turned away, dismissing you as easily as he’d taken your dagger from your hand. “You’ll learn,” he muttered, voice low. “Or you’ll die. Either way, you won’t last long.”

With that, he turned picked up his sword and walked toward the fire, his heavy boots thudding against the ground.

You stood there, fists clenched, burning with rage. Every word he said hit its mark, sharper than any blade. You hated him for it. Hated how easy he made you look weak. But even more, you hated the truth behind his words. He was right. You were a mess, and you’d made a fool of yourself tonight. But you wouldn’t stay that way. You’d prove him wrong.

As Sandor’s heavy footsteps faded into the distance, an icy emptiness settled in your chest, colder than the night air could explain. You should’ve been dead. He had you in his grasp, at the mercy of his strength, and yet, he’d let you walk away.

Why?

The question gnawed at you, simple and brutal. He’d seen your failure, mocked you, and still, he hadn’t killed you. Was it pity? Amusement? Or something else entirely?

You stood in the quiet of the woods, feeling the sting of your own humiliation. He’d probably killed a hundred girls like you, all full of anger and pride, too sure of themselves to know when they were outmatched. And yet, here you were, breathing, still alive.

Why had he spared you?

[jandthecrow]

How TF-141 saved Christmas

Short story for Christmas Eve using Dr. Suess’s layout from ‘How the Grinch Stole Christmas’

SUMMARY: Ghost hates Christmas

CW: SFW, wholesome, non-gendered reader, Christmas Eve

Every person in the Task Force liked Christmas a lot,

But Ghost, who wore masks, most certainly did not.

It wasn’t the cold, or the loud, cheery chatter-

No, Ghost simply thought it was all silly clatter.

“Lights and carols? Useless noise,” he would say.

“But a mission on Christmas? That’s more my way.”

Yet this year, the others had planned quite a feast,

With laughter, and gifts, and a turkey, at least.

On Christmas Eve, as the firelight danced,

Soap shouted, “Let’s sing!” (though none took the chance).

“Come on, lads, it’s festive! A carol or two!”

But Ghost only muttered, “You’ll be singing alone, too.”

“Suit yourself!” said Soap, with a cheeky wide grin,

As he tugged on his sweater - one ugly, loud thing.

Its colors were blinding, its patterns obscene,

And it flashed every second with red, gold, and green.

Gaz chuckled and handed out steaming hot mugs,

While you passed around both some blankets and hugs.

Even Price, with his cap, looked a bit jolly now,

Though he sat with his cigar and his brow still somehow.

But Ghost stayed apart, in his usual way,

Until Soap declared, “Oi, Ghost, don’t be gray!

Come here to the table and join in the cheer,

Else we’ll pin you down under some mistletoe here!”

The others all laughed, but Ghost shook his head.

“Christmas is nonsense,” was all that he said.

“Songs and bright lights won’t keep us alive.

Focus on training - that’s how we’ll survive.”

But then you spoke up, in a voice soft and true,

“Ghost, I’ve a small gift. It’s not much, but… it’s for you.”

The room went quiet, save for the crackle of fire,

As you pulled out a box that would soon inspire.

Inside was a mask, like the one Ghost had worn,

But painted with snowflakes and silver well-scorned.

“I made it,” you said, “to remind you of this:

You’re part of a family - that’s what Christmas is.”

Ghost took the mask, and though no one could see,

They swore that his frown softened slightly, maybe.

And as you handed more gifts around the warm room,

Even Ghost gave a nod, breaking out of his gloom.

“Alright,” he said low, “but don’t make me sing.

This sweater, though, is an awful-looking thing.”

Soap burst out laughing, his grin wide as can be,

“Did Ghost just make a joke? It’s a Christmas miracle, see?”

And so, the Task Force enjoyed their sweet night,

With food, gifts, and laughter - and no need to fight.

Ghost stayed by the fire, his new mask in hand,

Perhaps finding warmth he could now understand.

And they all agreed, in the soft firelight’s glow,

That the best gift of all was the bond they now know.

[greenlightbulbonawire]

Misfits (yeah like the Arcane song) LIII.

______________________________________________________________

Summary: From the dark musty cell of Stillwater all the way to the very base of Firelights, but where to from there? Guess you'll just have to let fate lead you.

Author's note: Soooooo, breaks over! And I've decided how I wanna put s2 into this and finally have a proper story line too, took me only what, 5 months to figure that out? ToT Anyway I'm gonna get an English certificate C1 level soon so I wont have any excuse for my bad spelling and typos no more (english isn't my first language but honestly I speak it better than my mother language so...) Well I hope the wait wasn't so bad and that all of you enjoyed s2 as much as I did (even if I'm traumatized for life now) and that you'll enjoy this chapter. Also I wanna thank you for all the incredible support I've recieved because honestly, when I started this fic, I never though it would gain this much traction and I'm really grateful!! (also what the hell was the spotify wrapped bs this year)

next chapter: Fifty fourth chapter

previous chapter: Fifty second chapter

Masterlist (doesn't work properly)

______________________________________________________________

He walked up to you and the makeshift gramophone and put the disc into the circular platform. This use of the machine definitely made more sense than what you previously thought it was. Ekko took the spiky spoon thing and placed it onto the black disk and spun it and after a moment of some weird noise, a song started to play from it. You did hear some music in your lifetime, but right now you felt like it had been ages since you last listened to something. For a moment you just stared at the device and let your brain process it all. The thing that finally brought you back to reality was the leader’s hand placed on your shoulder as he looked down on you with a smile on his face. “So, I was thinking, and since you spend a lot of your life in prison, you probably never got to experience a lot of stuff, buuut I was wondering if maybe, you wanted to learn how to dance?”

He took a few steps away from you and offered you a hand, his other one hidden behind his back and he bowed down a little. You stared at him in awe for a good few minutes and he just let you process it all, patiently waiting for your answer. Finally, you shook your head and took his hand with a grin painted onto your lips. “Don’t expect me to be good at it.” You warned him as he pulled you closer to him and put his free hand on your waist. Obviously, you didn’t expect this and your eyes widened as he did so, your mouth left slightly agape. “I taught you how to fight, I think I got this.” Ekko rolled his eyes and raised his eyebrows at you, even if you hadn't meant it that way, this was now a challenge in his eyes, and he wasn’t going to fail.

“You know, you have to put your hand on my shoulder right?” “How could I? I never danced with anyone.” The boy let go of your waist and grabbed your arm, helping you put it into the right position and when your hand rested on his shoulder, he returned his arm back to where it previously was placed. “Excuses is all I hear.” He poked at you back and shrugged, then he looked down at both of your feet, thinking about how to best explain to you how to dance. “So there’s like a lot of traditional dances, but I think you’ll be fine if we start with Waltz, not even you can mess that up.” You nodded in agreement and followed his gaze, looking down too as he lifted one of his feet up and tapped it against the front of yours. “Keep your expectations realistic Ekko, please.” Ekko chuckled a little at your comment and tapped your foot again, now realising it might indicate that you have to do something, you picked up your foot too.

“Look at that, you can read my mind too. Okay, okay, so, at first you’ll have to watch your feet, like a lot, but once you get the grip, you can look up. But for now, just follow what I’m doing okay?” “I can definitely try to do that, yeah.” He nodded and slowly started to drag the foot he had previously tapped yours with against the floor in your direction, and so you did the same, but instead of going in his direction, you went backwards. Ekko made sure to tell you when you did something right and when you did something wrong, and also to have a firm grip on you, since he knew that balance wasn’t your strongest forté and the possibility of you losing it was almost as high as when you were learning to hoverboard. Of course you stepped on his foot more times than you could count, but Ekko didn’t seem like he minded at all, in fact, it almost looked like he was enjoying himself.

When Ekko felt like you had gotten a pretty good grip on how to do the basic steps, he decided to mess with you a little and incorporate a simple spin into it. Which definitely threw you off your balance, just like he suspected it would, and if he wasn’t holding you, you would’ve fallen onto your ass. Not that you’d mind since you were pretty much used to it by this point. But Instead of falling back, you were pulled closer to him, your chest pressed against his. “Careful.” He warned you in a low tone, almost whispering it into your ear and in that moment, you didn’t even register what his words were, your mind busy with concentrating on something completely different at the moment. Ekko seemed to know that, it was like this was his full intention. Or maybe he was just saving you from your clumsiness.

The boy patiently waited for you to snap out of it yourself for a few moments longer, but when he felt like he gave you quite enough time to think, he stepped away and gave you a look that you could only describe as a winning smile. “Right, okay. Again?” You stared at the ground for a little longer and then you finally looked at his face, creating eye contact with him. “You haven’t had enough yet?” Ekko chuckled a little at your words and raised an eyebrow at you. Part of him was surprised that you wanted to continue as he had never painted you as someone who likes things like this, but the other part of him knew you were stubborn, determined and persistent, well in some cases at least. “You know me, I don’t give up easily.”

[soupandsorcery]

"Astarion and I had a conversation about you once," Ciro says, seemingly apropos of nothing. They're stoking the fire higher in the hearth to ward away the chill in the air. Astarion is in the bath, which he'd promptly claimed for the next 'hour--no, two. Actually, just come check that I haven't drowned if you don't see me before bed'. Gale is sitting on the bed, making a face at the way it squeaks, even though the three of them have stayed in much worse places than this.

"Do I want to know?" Gale asks, and Ciro can feel him watching them. They've grown to learn the differences between the way Gale and Astarion look at them, though they both manage to convey their own hungry sort of awe with just their eyes.

Ciro smiles and feeds another small, neatly split log into the fireplace. "It wasn't bad. It was complimentary even. For Astarion."

"Oh, I'm sure that was interesting. Tell me."

The bed squeaks, and Ciro turns to see Gale lounging. He's shucked off his outer robe, and is just in a tunic and pants. For a man who looks so good in finery, Ciro thinks they might like him best when he's dressed down and comfortable. He looks more approachable then. More touchable.

"It was a little while after he bit me for the first time," Ciro explains. "And he was saying that after tasting me, he was wondering what the rest of our group might taste like. I think he compared you to a fine, well aged brandy."

Gale's eyebrows lift and something sparks in his eyes. It's curiosity, the same light he gets when he's about to spend the next few hours buried in books, chasing down some obscure spell or reference.

"Really?" he asks. "That is high praise from Astarion."

"I told you." Ciro smiles and comes to join him on the bed. It's going to be a tight fit for the three of them, but when the inn keeper offered them two rooms to divide up, they'd quickly declined. "I agreed that you'd probably taste very good."

Gale's cheeks go pink, and Ciro laughs softly. For a man who can weave erotic magic like no one they've ever met before, sometimes the simplest things make him blush. And maybe that makes sense. Maybe Gale has spent so much time with the grand and the ethereal that the small and mundane still manage to catch him off guard.

It bodes well for Ciro then, small and mundane as they are.

"What is it like?" Gale asks, sitting up on his elbows. "When he bites you?"

"It hurts," Ciro answers truthfully. "But that part is over quick. Then it just feels sort of...warm. Woozy. But Astarion always makes it a seduction. You know how he is." Gale nods. "He's good at distracting me from the pain of it and making it into something more tender."

Gale's eyes are very warm now, lit by the firelight and the heat of his curiosity and desire. "What does he do?" he murmurs. "Paint me a picture."

"That's not my thing." Of the three of them, Ciro is the worst with words, but they try anyway. "He kisses the spot where he bites me, and his hands wander. I don't really think about the pain when he's stroking me...you know."

Now their cheeks are on fire, a splash of red across their pink skin. Gale is still gazing at them intently, like he's expecting more, and Ciro feels the heat from the fire and the thump thump thump of their heart.

"Words are all well and good, Gale darling," a drawling voice interrupts them. "But they're no comparison to the richness of experience. Wouldn't you agree?"

Astarion emerges from the separate bathing area, draped in nothing but low slung pants. His pale skin glistens in the firelight, and his hair is damp and even curlier from the steam. He looks like a treat, but then, he always does.

He catches Ciro looking and smiles, small and tender, before winking at them.

"You ah-- You might have a point," Gale says, clearing his throat. "And I have been thinking about it."

"Really?" Astarion's eyebrows climb up his forehead. "I...didn't think you were interested."

"I wasn't. At first. Not that I'm opposed to you feeding yourself, of course, but Ciro had it well covered, and. Well, I'll admit I was being a bit of a baby about the pain aspect of it. But Ciro makes it sound very intriguing. And I've seen the way they look when you're finished with them."

"How I look? How do I look?" Ciro asks, glancing between the two of them.

"Soft, sleepy," Gale says at the same time Astarion purrs, "Ruined."

It's enough to make them blush darker, and then groan, falling face first into one of the pillows on the bed. "You're the worst," they mumble.

"Which of us are you talking to?" Astarion wants to know.

"Take your pick."

He chuckles, a low, rolling sound that does things to Ciro's body and their heart. It's not fair that he's so casually attractive. Or that Ciro is so easily flustered.

"Leave them alone," Gale says fondly.

"Alright, I'll turn my attention back to you then," Astarion replies. "Are you actually interested in seeing what it's like? I won't be offended if it's more of an...idle curiosity."

Gale is quiet for a moment, and Ciro can practically hear him thinking. "I suppose I should try it, shouldn't I? I can hardly be involved with a vampire without letting a little blood every now and then, right?"

"Well, you could. It's hardly a requirement. But I won't deny that I am still ravenously curious to find out what you taste like."

Ciro snorts into the pillow at the word choice and gets poked in the side for their trouble. Their men and their drama.

"We'll call it an experiment, shall we?" Gale declares. "I'll try it, and if I don't like it, no harm, no foul."

"No harm, no foul," Astarion agrees. "I should have done this better when it was my first time with Ciro. You won't be offended if I make this a little more romantic for our dear Gale, will you, pet?"

Ciro sits up and finds Astarion looking at them intently. It's an honest question, they realize, from the way Astarion looks at them and the little furrow of anxiety between his brows.

"I won't be offended," they promise him. "You've more than made up for it."

Astarion smiles, reaching for Ciro's hand to kiss the back of it before sweeping around the room. He grabs one of the chairs from the little side table and puts it near the fire, then stands in the center of their rented room with his hands on his hips. His eyes flick back to Ciro, and a smile plays around his lips.

"Could I trouble you to help me?" he asks. "Gale isn't as...familiar with pain as you are. It might help if he had a distraction." There's a mischievous glint to his eyes, and he picks up one of the pillows from the bed and lays it in front of the chair.

Ciro catches on to Astarion's meaning before Gale does, and they smile, sliding off the bed. They kiss Astarion's cheek, leaning into him for a moment. "I can be distracting," they murmur.

"You certainly can."

"I--oh," Gale says, finally catching on.

"Indeed. Come sit," Astarion drawls, gesturing to the chair.

Gale practically scrambles to obey, sitting down in the chair, legs spread. Ciro slides in gracefully, sinking down to their knees on the pillow. It's clear that Gale is nervous, from the way he's shifting and his eyes darting back and forth. Ciro can't pretend they didn't feel the same when they did this for the first time, but they've all come a long way since then.

"Breathe," they murmur to Gale. They slide their hands up his thighs, fingers massaging the muscles there. "We'll take care of you."

"Yes," Astarion agrees, moving in behind the chair. His long, elegant fingers slide over Gale's shoulders and down to his chest. "You are ours to look after."

"Alright." Gale takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, and his posture relaxes. He sits back in the chair and tips his head back to regard Astarion. "I'm ready."

"Hm, not yet, I think," Astarion murmurs. "Ciro?"

That's their cue. With an ease borne of practice, Ciro walks their fingers up Gale's thighs even more and starts unlacing his pants. Gale lifts his hips enough that Ciro can drag the garment down, freeing Gale's cock. He's already on his way to being hard, but it never does take much to get Gale going when the two of them are involved.

Ciro glances to Astarion, to make sure he's comfortable with this amount of sexual contact happening right in front of him. It comes and goes these days, and sometimes he wants to be involved, while sometimes he'd rather not be in the room at all. But now there's a honeyed warmth to his eyes, and a slow, pleased smile tucked into the corners of his mouth.

He catches Ciro looking and inclines his head a little, in answer to the silent question.

"Focus on me," Ciro murmurs to Gale, one hand wrapping around his cock to stroke it slowly.

Gale's eyes are riveted on Ciro as he sucks in a deep breath, hips already bucking minutely up into Ciro's touch. Ciro grazes his thumb over the head of Gale's cock, gathering the growing wetness from the tip to spread down as he keeps working him up.

Astarion keeps his hands on Gale too, fingers dipping under the open collar of his shirt, dancing over his collarbones.

"Ciro's beautiful on their knees, don't you think?" Astarion purrs into Gale's ear. It must have an effect because Gale's dick twitches in Ciro's hand. "So very eager and obedient. So ready to please you. To please us both."

There's so much promise in that tone of voice, and it catches Ciro up in it too, making them swallow hard.

"Perhaps we'll both indulge in how good you must taste tonight," Astarion says, and Ciro dips their head to lick a hot stripe up Gale's cock.

"Ah," Gale moans. His hands are wrapped around the arms of the chair, a white knuckled grip as Ciro and Astarion work him up between them.

"Yes, very good," Astarion continues, and Ciro doesn't know which one of them he's praising. They suppose it doesn't really matter.

They ease their mouth over the head of Gale's cock and then take him all the way down to the root. Not having a gag reflex has come in handy many a time with their lovers, especially Gale, who is surprisingly well endowed.

They hold it there for a moment, taking in the feeling of Gale in their mouth, the way the head of him hits the back of their throat, the way they can feel the tension climbing in his body.

Then they pull off, sucking in a gasp of air before going back to it.

Astarion just waits. Watches. Occasionally offers praise in his low, seduction edged voice. When Ciro glances up, they can tell that Astarion is thumbing Gale's nipple under his shirt, and that Gale is sprawled in the chair, almost boneless with pleasure.

"If you keep this up--" Gale chokes out. "I am not likely to--ah! I'm not likely to last."

"That is the goal," Astarion says. He sounds a bit breathless now, but is otherwise composed. Ciro knows that if they looked into his eyes there would be a million different emotions in them, but they focus on their task, sucking Gale down and swirling their tongue around the head of his cock.

He leaks a salty drip, which Ciro laps up eagerly, letting themself get lost in it. Gale's little moans of pleasure are almost musical, and Ciro knows from experience that he's beautiful when he falls apart.

He's close now, Ciro can taste it, and apparently Astarion can too because he chooses that moment to bite him. Ciro hears his voice, a low, "Breathe, love," and then Gale's gasping sharply.

Ciro looks up, but it's not pain on Gale's face. At least not entirely. He looks like he's in a harsh sort of ecstasy, sharp and brutal, but like he's enjoying every second of it. His body arches a bit, and Astarion keeps a hold of him, not letting him buck too hard.

He's learned, from his time feeding on Ciro, how to really refine this art. How to walk the line between pain and pleasure, and wait for the moment when the two can blend together beautifully.

Gale's there now, wrapped up in it, and Ciro has just enough time to pull back a bit before Gale comes undone, coming hard in their mouth.

Ciro works him through it, licking him clean before they pull off. Astarion pulls away a moment later, dragging his tongue over the small drips of blood that have spilled down Gale's neck. He presses a kiss, tender and soft, to Gale's neck, and then lets out a pleased sigh.

"Well?" Ciro asks, sitting back on their heels. "Was it everything you expected?"

Astarion smiles, and he almost looks drunk with it. "And more, darling. We were right, all that time ago. He's positively exquisite."

"I'm flattered," Gale says. "And spent."

"It's a very good look for you," Astarion tells him.

Between the three of them, they manage to bank the fire and move their way to bed in various states of undress. By an unspoken agreement, Gale gets the middle, and Astarion and Ciro curl up on either side of him. It is a tight fit, but Ciro has never complained about having to huddle close with these two.

It's several minutes later when Astarion speaks again. "Was that...was it alright?"

Gale chuckles and turns his head to kiss the tip of Astarion's nose. "'Alright' doesn't do it justice in the least. That was an experience. One I would be happy to repeat, if you're all willing."

"Count me in," Ciro murmurs sleepily.

"I suppose I could be convinced," Astarion replies, and he sounds very pleased behind the flippant words.

"Then it's settled."

Like so many things between the three of them, it comes down to a conversation and mutual agreement, and Ciro smiles, happy and eager to see where life leads them next.

[bichletmepickaname]

I was re watching the arcane teaser trailer to do a personal breakdown about it when I came to this part and it made me wonder. Whose hand is that?

I doubt there following after jinx doing it as that is associated with vi, and I don’t believe she is in the best regards with her.

It can’t be jinxed because it looks way different and it doesn’t have the painted nails or gloves. Or even the finger like in that one poster. It does come up while Sevika is talking about jinx being a “symbol”. But my question is, who would know about that other then Ekko, some of the firelights that jinx didn’t kill, vi or Caitlyn. That moment wasn’t very public I don’t think. Maybe it could’ve been some of the firelights but why would they see jinx as a positive symbol of she’s killed so many of there people.

And I doubt there following after jinx doing it as that is associated with vi, and I don’t believe she is in the best place with her.

There’s also this quick moment where this is shown off. But my question still stands how is this a known thing. I don’t think vi would’ve painted it as she probably doesn’t see jinx as that great symbol. But who else could have. there is a SLIM chance it’s ekko because of his hair thingy having jinx’s writing on it. But other than that I fall blank, who else knows about this?

I was thinking sevika possibly could’ve painted it because she’s the one taking about how kind is a symbol. But that falls flat because Sevika doesn’t know about that moment either. And there is no evidence anywhere that she is particularly good at art.

I dunno I might be looking too deep into this 🧍

[hannahssimblr]

In the evening we bike to the shop to buy firelighters. Jen says she likes the idea of a bonfire while we eat our barbeque food, even though the only time one has even been lit at the beach house is when my dad did it, all the while ranting on about how he learned everything he knew about fire in the boy scouts, and how if I had an iota of discipline or self control I might have benefitted from them before the local pack expelled me for being a shithead.

He was right. I reluctantly accept it as Jen and I approach the materials for making fire. Nobody has ever told me about the difference between briquettes and coal, what firelighters actually look like and exactly where peat plays into all of this. I know nothing about how to do manly things, and only ever figured out how to pitch a tent after subtly watching Shane do it the first time he and I went camping in the woods. 

In contrast, my father has shot an actual gun. He and his brothers hunted deer, game and wild pigs in the hills around their family farmhouse in Redding California. As they loaded up their rifles and zipped up their jackets they would say things to me about how I’d be coming with them someday, as though was some sort of honour, something to strive for, but by the time I was big enough to kill pheasants I was already five thousand miles away drawing comics on printer paper. My soft hands were meant for art.

“You grab the firelighters,” I tell Jen, and take a swerve towards the magazine stand so that I can peruse something in my comfort zone. There’s a small selection of artsy magazines, and I flip one open. 

“Um, do you think we should buy gasoline or something?” She stands chewing on her lip. 

“Probably not, right? That seems dangerous.”

“Should we ask someone?” 

“What? No.” Embarrassing.

I pretend to be engrossed in an article so that I don’t have to help, but while I'm there, an ad catches my eye, “Hey,” I call out to Jen, “would you want to go to an exhibition this weekend?”

“What kind?”

“Art.”

“Yeah, what kind?”

I turn the page to her so that she can see it, “contemporary,” and her eyes narrow at the images of weird sculptures made of bits of scrap metal, canvases with random splatters of paint dripping off the bottom, colour bleeding onto the floor.

“Hm. See, that’s the kind of weird art I don’t get.”

“It’s not about the art specifically, it’s about us doing something fun together.”

“And that’s in Dublin?”

“Yes.”

She smirks in a self satisfied way, “You’re bored,” she stops a passing customer to ask him if he knows what firelighters are, and if so, what does the box look like.

He shows her, and while she’s picking up the last two packets I come to stand with her, not helping, because now I'm more interested in selling this new idea to her. “It’ll be fun! How nice would it be to have a change of scenery? Get back to the city where stuff is actually happening, maybe go to that ice cream place you like.”

I’m certain this will sway her, but she pulls a face, “There’s loads of ice cream here, and the only reason you think nothing is happening on the beach is because you’re deliberately not doing anything.”

“Is it so bad that I want to have a day out with you?”

“No, I suppose not, but...” She wrinkles her nose “Fine. I don't want to be cynical. Do you think I’m cynical?”

“Yeah a bit.” I pay for the firelighters. As we exit the shop into the lingering light of the evening I admit to her, “I’m trying to cheer myself up, I just think I should make the most of the time I have left.”

She laughs, “It sounds like you’re terminally ill. You’re moving. So what? I’ll still talk to you all the time.”

“Yeah but I really want to savour these last few weeks. Will you come to the gallery?” I grip her arm and pretend to die, letting my knees buckle under me to really sell it, “...before it’s too late?”

“God, yes, fucking hell,” she groans, “I’ll come. I’ll do whatever you want for the rest of the summer, right?”

I throw an arm around her, “Thanks Jen.”

“Yeah, manipulator.”

“Takes one to know one,” I say cheerily, and we unlock our bikes and head towards home.

Beginning // Prev // Next

[f1shbonez]

💧 Water Under The Bridge 💧

So far the hero shtick was busier and less glamorous than Jinx had imagined. 

Save half of Zaun, nearly die (again), fight off the Big Bad hurting captives and enforcers… One good thing just snowballed to another, then another, until people were looking at you funny for taking a second to catch your breath. To think, under twenty-four measly hours ago she’d almost been dog-chow. It wasn’t like she’d planned to die, clawed to pieces in the deepest depths of Stillwater Hold…but walking free coming home to Isha felt surreal in its aftermath. Like she’d died without knowing and gone someplace else, just for a moment. 

…Maybe it was a good thing she hadn’t died, Jinx found herself thinking in the aftermath of their reunion. Something about the force the kid had collided into her, the gross snivelling- hell, even the way Sevika was keeping her stony gaze averted…would her sacrifice have even been worth it, to them? To anyone? 

Jinx wasn’t supposed to die in the belly of Stillwater. 

Not while The Lanes needed their symbol. 

Not while Vander needed her.

Not while Isha needed her. 

Some issues were bigger than yesterday’s ghosts. Helping people…it hadn’t been so bad, even when she hadn’t cared- or meant to. Gentle fingers teased through Isha’s freshly coloured hair, weaving strands into a neat braid- bringing order to chaos. It felt strange, almost undeserved, seeing how upset the kid had been at the prospect of losing her. 

It was nothing that a morning of nail polish and paint couldn’t stir a little life back into. Was this how Vander had felt, muddling through with a bite-sized Powder all those years ago? A fond smile settled across Jinx’s lips as she worked, seeing every hint of life and security flood back into the child with every hair tie and brush of colour. 

“There,” Jinx murmured, propping a hand on her hip as she stood back to admire the transformation. She’d humoured the requests for blue hair, a little face paint…the basics. But the full Jinxer look? Well, truthfully, before today it had felt a little over the top. 

But it made the kid happy. 

Adorned with her own body paint (tattoos and all), mini blue braids, Jinx-inspired clothes cobbled together from scraps and a couple of smoke bombs, Isha was grinning again. 

It was like looking at Powder. But happier. 

A Powder that believed in herself. 

A Powder that everyone else could believe in, too. 

Sevika’s plan to palm her off to the Firelights had done a number on the kid’s spirits. But the New Plan- the killing two bugs with one boot plan- was one that Isha was quick to jump onboard with. She was keen to be busy again. Keen to be helpful. Jinx could understand that.

The drop point was simple, two blocks west of the lower markets- not far from the very street Isha had plummeted into her life for the very first time. This was where Sevika had planned to hand her over? Hmph. Jinx tasted the irony for a moment as she settled into place, removed from sight in a large shattered ventilation pipe above. This wasn’t the way their jobs usually went. Usually, Isha was the one who played stealth. Not today. Fondly, Jinx watched as the kid came face to face with the familiar shape trudging to the drop point. Mask off. No buddies. Wow, Ekko really was whipped when it came to kids, huh? With a soundless huff, Jinx shook her head, picking at some of the blue paint from around her fingers, blind to the irony. 

“And here I was thinking you weren’t gonna show up.” Jinx’s tell-tale voice drawled lazily from the pipe above, just at the point where Isha had started to look uncomfortable at the prospect of going anywhere with their visitor. Sure, they’d gotten here early to allow time to get into position, but Ekko had been late. Heh. Some things never changed.

Wow. The acoustics in here were great. Very dramatic.

As though the echo of her voice above would be difficult to triangulate, Jinx popped her head out from the mouth of the pipe- a carefree signal to mark her cross-legged vantage point. 

Look- it’s me- hi! Here I am!

“Long time no see, Ekko.”

[rita-repulsa-ke]

Death in Second

But she leans her weight into yours, her head briefly on your shoulder and you don't actually need her to say it, it's in everything she does, the way she grabs your hand or tells you about her latest spell or asks what's for dinner. You do know that Agatha loves you as much as you love her. She just can't make it easy.

POV: You are Death and your girlfriend is really annoying (but sometimes, so are you).

You put up with a lot. The impatience, always being dragged from place to place in pursuit of some piece of magical knowledge or esoteric technique, never allowed to sit still. The way she complains about everything, the way she demands things always go her way, takes without ever thinking of anyone but herself.

Honestly, though? You don't really mind. It's cute. It's charming. It's Agatha and your favorite thing in the world is Agatha. You could listen to her complain about your habit of oversleeping forever. Maybe sometimes you even do it for the pleasure of listening to her rant. It isn't like you actually need to sleep, though you do like to.

She has other habits, though, that are far less charming. The way she gets cruel about your relationship, needles you with her inability to admit how much she loves you. You do try to be patient with it, because you understand. You stood, unseen, at the edge of a circle of witches as they slung spells at her and she drained their life force to save herself, as well to feed her insatiable hunger for power. She didn't know it then, but she left you a lovely gift of the confused dead.

Watching her on that stake, you felt a kinship you'd never felt with a mortal before. You, too, are insatiably hungry.

So you found her, met her, kissed her, and revealed your true form and she didn't flinch away. Instead, she leaned closer.

"You're beautiful," she whispered.

So is she, arrogant, prickly, manipulative and perfect. You learned a new hunger from her, a hunger for sweet, romantic things, her fingers in your hair, her hand twined through yours, her voice telling you how much she loves you, and sometimes you worry it's a hunger made worse by deprivation, because Agatha Harkness and romance do not go hand-in-hand.

It takes you some time to understand that she's afraid. Every person you've ever really known trying to kill you leaves a scar, even if you're as heartless as Agatha. She throws up walls, lashes out at anything or anyone who might make her feel something she can't control, grasps at power because it makes her feel safe, scintillating purple magic but also her power over you. She pushes you away, seduces you into forgiveness and then does it all over again, all to try and convince herself that she's in control, because Agatha's biggest fear is anything that might make her feel vulnerable.

So you try to be patient. You have practice, despite the hunger. Even when you'd like things to go faster, when you'd prefer more bodies hitting the floor, you know everything will come to you eventually.

Sometimes, though, Agatha can try the patience of even an endless, immortal piece of nature.

"Tell me you love me," you prompt, knowing she does, knowing she loves you so much it terrifies her, but you really like to hear it. It makes you feel good, sated like a pile of bodies, and it isn't too much to ask, you do what she wants most of the time, it shouldn't be this hard to get the woman you love to tell you she loves you back.

"Ugh," she says, looking up from reading some tome in your shared bed, and you're caught by her as always, the firelight painting patterns in her hair, the intensity in her gaze, the way her lips curve up in an almost apologetic smile, even she knows she's about to be annoying, she just can't help herself. Agatha has to make everything a struggle. "I don't want to."

"Ags," you complain, a nickname that sprung to your lips one day, and she made such a face at it that now it's stuck forever.

"Whyyyy," she groans, but she's still smiling, flopping onto her side with her head pillowed on her arm and your concept of beauty is probably not equivalent to whatever mortals see, you're too aware of people as a collection of hearts and lungs, blood and brains, all the meat-parts whose failure will eventually lead to you. Even so, Agatha takes your breath away every time.

Which is fine, you don't actually need it for anything.

"Because you love me and you would like to do something that would make me happy?" you suggest, sprawled near the fire, letting the heat suffuse your skin against the cold outside with genuine pleasure. Hedonist, Agatha calls you, and she's not wrong. One of the joys of having a body is using it to feel good things.

"I'd love to do several things you would like. Can I make suggestions?" Agatha, wielding sex as a weapon like she always does. It's an effective one because unfortunately, she is extraordinary at it.

You're not letting her get out of it this time, though. She loves you, she should say it. "Agaaaatha," you let her name drawl out of your mouth and you will threaten her if you have to, with knives or vines or magic. You shouldn't have to, but Agatha has a chronic resistance to taking anything seriously. She likes to tease and really, you like it too, but sometimes you want something else.

"Demanding," she complains and now you have to decide between finding that funny and finding it annoying, because in this relationship, you have never been the demanding one.

"Beloved, you do try my patience," you point out, hoping she gets the hint soon, because you're comfortable next to the fire and you'll probably be forced to move to settle this.

"You know I," she starts, catches your expression or maybe the way you're starting to slowly pull your magic to you, black and green tendrils winding around your fingers. "Okay, okay, I love you, all right? Very much." She's watching the magic. "Absolutely adore you." Figuring out where the line is to sate you so you'll stop asking, and that does sting.

"Why do I have to threaten you into saying it?" you protest and yes, you're genuinely frustrated and hurt, because even though you do know Agatha better than you've ever known anyone, it would still be nice if sometimes she made this easier.

Her eyes flick to your face, puzzling over it like she might study an interesting tome and then she groans, slips off the bed and wraps her body haphazardly around yours, her nose against your cheek. "Rio, come on," she murmurs against your ear. "You know I adore you, you know I like you more than anyone else I have ever met, you know you're the person I love and want and think about constantly, right?"

There it is. Agatha always finds the right words eventually, around when you're starting to really get tired of this game, and now you are trying to pretend you haven't already forgiven her, but her lips are brushing over your skin and bodies are good for this, too, all the pleasant sensations of pressure and warmth and the fluttery thing in the pit of your stomach that is Agatha pouring sweet nothings in your ear. "Stop making this so hard," you protest, but it's petulant, plaintive, and you know she hears it too and knows she's won this round.

She wins most of them.

You expect her to be smug with victory now, to tease or simply shrug it off with a 'you know what I'm like', but she's still examining you, brushing her lips against your forehead, fussing with your hair. "…Ugh, now I've hurt your feelings," she murmurs, mostly to herself. "Do you want me to say I'm sorry?"

"…Sure," you decide, mostly because it's a rare offer.

"I'm sorry."

"More specific," you decide and she scrunches her nose, so you're well on your way past annoyed and into deciding that sex against a wall next to a fireplace is the order of the day. But you want to see if she can do it first.

"I'm sorry I never tell you I love you, I know it hurts your feelings and makes you think I don't care what you want."

Pretty good! You're proud of her. "That's because you don't care what I want, Ags. You only ever care what you want," you point out.

You catch the little flash of hurt in her eyes, the way she lowers her head to nuzzle at your jaw so she doesn't have to look at you and you're honestly surprised by it. You weren't trying to be mean on purpose this time. Simple truth. Agatha only ever cares about herself. You barely mind, most of the time. No one has ever accused you of caring about other people either.

"True," she agrees, abrasive and arrogant and adorable as always, but you're sure of what you saw.

"…Agatha. Did I hurt your feelings?"

She snorts. "No."

"I did!" You probably should be less delighted, but this is rare, Agatha works so hard not to have feelings that it's easier to hurt her flesh to get what you want (though never badly, just enough blood to have a little taste).

She pulls back and gives you an unimpressed look. "Did not," she mutters, but she's sullen about it, Agatha isn't actually that good at hiding what she's really feeling, especially when annoyed and she's easily annoyed.

"Should I say I'm sorry?" you say and maybe that was too far, maybe that came out more mocking than you intended, because her eyes flash with a surprising amount of fury, Agatha's substitution for pain, and now she's stalking out of the cottage altogether, barefoot in a house dress, and you're pleased that you won a round but also, you don't really like to see Agatha that upset. Also, it makes sex against the wall much less likely and in fact, sex at all is going to take some work.

So up, away from the warm fire and out into the cold, and it is cold, winter setting in, to find Agatha Harkness crouched on the ground outside, drawing runes with a sharpened stick.

"What's it for?" you ask, ritual magic never your strong point. Agatha calls what you do intuitive magic, which means you think of what you want and it happens. You can do it her way, of course, but yours is so much easier. Plus it makes her mad, which is funny.

"Fiddling," she answers, voice tight, not looking and she is going to drag this out, Agatha hurt is mean and sharp and cold as the biting wind, which is very biting. You redirect it without much thought, turn it aside so it flows around you. If your beloved notices, she fails to comment.

"Ags, don't be upset," you coax.

"No, you're right. I'm selfish and unkind and utterly terrible at all the ridiculous gooey romance you love so much." She shrugs. "But you already know that, so maybe complain about it less." That's Agatha, too, trying to pick a fight when her feelings are hurt.

"…You were trying to be nice for once, and I ruined it," you admit, crouching next to her. You do know that, too, that it is never a good idea to poke Agatha when she's vulnerable. Unfortunately, you get excited when you see a moment of softness beneath that hard outer shell and that leads to a tendency to overreact.

Also, maybe it's possible that you, the incarnation of Death, aren't always the nicest person?

"For once, huh," Agatha says.

"Even you know you aren't nice very often."

She jabs the ground too hard, breaks the point off her stick and hands it to you without a glance. "I'm nice to you," she protests.

You convince the stick that it wants to come to a point, shed bark like dead cells until it's sharp enough to draw with and hand it back to her. "You are not. You hurt my feelings on purpose, because it makes you feel powerful."

"…not all the time," she mutters, then snickers. "Sometimes I do it because I'm bored."

Look, she's like this. She never gives in, not really. The best you'll ever get is concessions, small admissions of how much she cares. But she's crouched here with frozen feet, cheeks red from the cold, half her attention on whatever she's doing with the runes and you wouldn't trade this moment for any other.

"I love you, Agatha Harkness," you sigh and she glances over, her attention pulled away from the magic for a brief moment and you can see the uncertainty in her eyes, the briefest hint of what's behind all of that very real arrogance.

She's never sure why you love her. And you could try to explain, but you don't have words for it and anyway, she would only laugh at you, uncomfortable with honest feeling as always.

But she leans her weight into yours, her head briefly on your shoulder and you don't actually need her to say it, it's in everything she does, the way she grabs your hand or tells you about her latest spell or asks what's for dinner. You do know that Agatha loves you as much as you love her. She just can't make it easy.

"Love you," she murmurs, for once without a fight, then flashes you a knowing smile you would slaughter a continent for.

Of course, if you could do that, you would be doing it regardless. But that's beside the point.

"Can we go inside? It's freezing out here," you say and she pulls away with a shake of her head.

"Let me finish this, I think I understand what the tome was trying to describe…"

"Should you be doing magic you only think you understand?"

Now there's a real Agatha smile, curled at the edges, slightly mad, ready to conquer or destroy the world. "Of course not. Do something if this goes wrong."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, something helpful?"

"No. I'm going to let whatever demon or fireball or deadly hailstorm you're about to summon take you. It hardly makes a difference to me."

She looks over her shoulder, and the affection in her gaze, alongside the absolutely certainty that you won't actually do that, is as good as any fire for warming you all the way through. "But, Rio, my heart," she says, deploying the pet name as a calculated attack. "I care. I'm not done yet."

You're a sucker and you know it. But you can be patient, you can watch and wait as long as it takes for her to come to you willingly, and in the meantime, of course you'll protect Agatha from whatever horror she accidentally calls up today. You do love her very much.

"All right, Agatha," you say. "Whatever you want."

Her eyes narrow as she tries to decide if you're making fun of her (a little) and then she smiles even wider, a wild, manic look, overflowing with hubris, the expression of a woman who could fall in love with Death. "That's right," she agrees, and now her gaze is fixed on you, only you, her hand is cupping your cheek and her mouth is suddenly very close to yours. "Don't forget. I get everything I want," she says, right before she kisses you.

Ugh. When she actually tries, Agatha can be so romantic.

Want to read more fic? To see the first time Agatha learns who Rio is, try The Reveal or for something short and sad about Tommy Maximoff, try tommy. Or check out the Ritual of the Rose on AO3.

[soopersara]

Solstice

Zutara Week 2023: Day 2

Read it on AO3 | @zutaraweek

After her mother dies, the Southern Tribe's celebrations lose some of their appeal for Katara. But the spirits still have something to show her.

On the longest night of the year, it’s said, the spirits paint messages in the sky.

Katara can’t believe that. In all her years watching ribbons of color dancing through the air, she’s seen nothing of the kind. The aurora casts rainbows over the snow, and the lights, the music, the dancing that carry through the interminable night seem magic enough for her.

Katara, after all, is nearly ten years old. Surely now she is too old to believe a story just because Gran-Gran tells it well.

Surely in a world where mothers can die, there can be no magic.

⁂

She isn’t supposed to take the canoe out tonight. The solstice festival begins early tomorrow, and if she ventures too far now, Gran-Gran says, the spirits might take her away.

Katara knows that isn’t true. Even if the stories were real, the spirits would have no quarrel with her.  No, at midwinter, it’s the winds and the ice that Gran-Gran fears.

But Katara is a waterbender, and with Dad at war and Sokka not yet returned from hunting, someone needs to collect the lobster-clams from their traps.

Under the light of a growing aurora, Katara pushes the canoe from shore.

⁂

The village is behind her. Katara knows the ice fields well enough that she can’t be lost so close to home.

Still, faint firelight flickers ahead, and she steers the canoe into the bank.

“Hello? Is somebody lost?”

No answer comes at first, but when she climbs from her canoe and rounds an icy spire, she finds a boy huddled close by a small, sputtering flame. His clothes are thin and dark, not remotely suited to the cold, and yet he seems okay.

His eyes meet hers, and her feet refuse to move.

“Oh. I guess I did hear someone.”

⁂

“My name is Katara.”

“I’m Zuko.”

Wrapped in the spare furs from the bottom of her canoe, he looks smaller than he did at first. Or maybe she just thinks that because now, the red of his clothes is hidden.

“How did you get here without freezing?”

Zuko shrugs. “I don’t think I did. I went to bed, and when I opened my eyes again—there was snow everywhere.”

The spirits, she thinks, but still, she can’t believe it. They’re supposed to write messages in the sky, not kidnap firebending boys.

“Well, then—maybe you should come home with me.”

⁂

“Why are you out here alone?”

It’s hard not to stare at him as they sit face to face. And under the intensity of his eyes, it’s even harder to lie.

“Someone had to empty the lobster-clam traps.”

“Liar.”

She scowls at him, but this time, her tongue betrays her. “I don’t want to go to the solstice festival.”

“How come?”

“Because it’s no fun without my mom.”

By the way that Zuko looks at her, she thinks he understands. His hands are cold when they find hers, but he doesn’t seem to care. “Maybe you don’t have to go.”

⁂

Side by side, they lie at the bottom of the canoe, drifting as ribbons of pink and green skate across the sky.

“Do you have any idea how I got here?” Zuko asks her.

She finds that she can’t lie to him. “Probably the spirits. They’re supposed to send us messages on the solstice. Just—usually not people.”

“Oh. So—do you think I’ll go back home when the sun rises?”

Katara looks his way. “The sun won’t rise for a few more weeks.”

To her surprise, Zuko smiles. “Good. I don’t think I’m ready to go back home yet.”

[fableandfandoms]

🍁 A Cozy Fall Day - Cedian🍁

In the heart of Enchancia, autumn had painted the land with hues of gold, amber, and rich crimson. The trees stood tall and proud, their leaves rustling in the crisp breeze, while a scattering of pumpkins adorned the paths, celebrating the harvest season. Cedric, usually more focused on perfecting his spells than on seasonal festivities, found himself wandering the palace grounds with Princess Vivian. She had invited him to join her for a quiet day outside, sensing that he could use a break from his usual routine.

As they walked, the vibrant foliage crunched underfoot, the delightful sound mingling with the distant laughter of children enjoying the crisp autumn air. Vivian, her cheeks rosy from the chill, paused by a patch of wildflowers that somehow thrived in the fall weather. She bent down, plucking a few delicate blooms and holding them up to Cedric with a twinkle in her eye.

“Look at these! They’re so beautiful,” she exclaimed, her voice bright with joy. Cedric admired the small bouquet in her hands, noting how her spirit seemed to light up the entire day.

“They are indeed lovely, Princess,” he replied, his usual stoic demeanor softening. “Though I must admit, I’m not sure how they manage to bloom in this weather.”

Vivian giggled, her laughter ringing like music through the air. “Maybe they’re enchanted! Just like you!” She teased, nudging him playfully. Cedric chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m more known for my mishaps than my enchantments, I assure you.” They continued their stroll, and as they approached a cozy gazebo adorned with garlands of colorful leaves, Cedric spotted a small table set for two, complete with steaming mugs and a woven basket. Vivian had clearly planned this moment with care.

“Would you like to sit by the fire and try some cider?” she asked, motioning to the setup she’d prepared earlier. The fireplace crackled softly, flames dancing invitingly. Cedric raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “I suppose a brief pause wouldn’t hurt.” As they settled into the gazebo, Cedric couldn’t help but appreciate the warm glow of the fire that lit up Vivian’s face. She handed him a mug of warm cider, the sweet scent of apples and spices wafting into the air. “Cheers!” Vivian said, raising her mug, her eyes sparkling with excitement. Cedric clinked his mug against hers, the simple gesture feeling profound in the tranquil atmosphere. They sipped their cider, enjoying the comforting warmth it brought. The moment wrapped around them like a soft blanket, the outside world fading away. Vivian, her curls catching the firelight, leaned back against the gazebo’s wooden frame, looking content and at ease.

“Do you remember the last time we had cider together?” she asked, her gaze distant as she recalled their previous adventures. Cedric chuckled softly, a fond smile spreading across his face. “Yes, it involved a spell gone awry and an overabundance of whipped cream.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You still owe me for that!”

Vivian laughed, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Only because you made me try to create an apple pie with magic! How was I supposed to know it would explode?”

Their laughter mingled with the gentle crackling of the fire, a perfect harmony that brought Cedric a rare sense of peace. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow around them, Cedric turned slightly serious.

“Thank you, Vivian,” he murmured, his voice softer. “For this. For reminding me that there’s more to life than magic and mischief.”

Vivian’s smile deepened, and she reached for his hand, her fingers gentle but steady. “Anytime, Cedric. It’s nice to just enjoy a moment together without any grand adventures or chaos.”

As they held hands, the warmth of her touch sent a comforting rush through Cedric. They sat in silence for a moment, the world around them a beautiful blur. He glanced at her, really looked at her—the way the light danced in her eyes and how her smile could chase away even the darkest of thoughts. Suddenly, a gust of wind blew through the gazebo, sending a flurry of leaves swirling around them. Cedric instinctively stood, his eyes widening in surprise as he raised his arms to shield Vivian from the sudden gust.

“Watch out!” he called, laughter bubbling up despite himself. Vivian squealed in delight, spinning in circles as the leaves swirled around her, her laughter infectious. “Cedric! Look at this!” She twirled, the leaves catching in her hair, turning her into a whimsical autumn fairy. Cedric couldn’t help but laugh, his heart swelling at the sight of her unrestrained joy. “You look like a walking fall festival!” he teased.

“Maybe I should enter a leaf dance competition!” she replied, still giggling as she collapsed onto the soft grass, her laughter echoing in the crisp air. Cedric knelt beside her, their laughter settling into a comfortable rhythm. “I think you’d win first prize,” he said, his tone light. Vivian looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Only if you promise to be my partner! We can do a duet!”

“Now that would be a spectacle,” Cedric replied, raising an eyebrow. “But I’m not sure the kingdom is ready for that level of chaos.”

As the sun began to set, casting a warm orange glow across the horizon, Cedric and Vivian continued to talk and laugh, sharing stories of their adventures and dreams for the future. The air was filled with the sweet scent of apples and spices, and for the first time in a long time, Cedric felt truly at peace. As the last rays of sunlight disappeared behind the trees, Vivian leaned her head against Cedric’s shoulder, sighing contentedly. “Thank you for spending this day with me. It’s been perfect.”

Cedric smiled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “The pleasure is all mine, Princess. It’s moments like these that make me realize how lucky I am.”

The fire crackled softly as they sat together, the warmth of the flames and each other’s presence creating a magical cocoon against the chill of the evening. Cedric knew that no spell or magic could compare to the warmth he felt beside Vivian, a bond that went beyond the ordinary—a friendship, a partnership, and perhaps something even deeper. As the stars began to twinkle overhead, Cedric felt a sense of hope for the future, knowing that whatever adventures awaited them, they would face them together.

[e-wills-afterhours]

Vetrnaetr, Chapter 7

A/N: Another new chapter of Vetrnaetr! Sure, it's been like...a year. That's fine. It's fine. Everything is fine. I feel like I've lost my touch a little--but it is fine.

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6

Rating: 18+

Pairing: Hiccstrid, Affairs AU

Start from the very beginning here.

-----

Of all the wild animals one could domesticate, dragons had to rank among the best in terms of versatility, companionship, and absolute undeniable badassery. The near-exclusiveness Berk enjoyed with the beasts was a thing of envy--and a secret closely guarded lest they welcomed war upon their island. A small, rather reclusive tribe of Norsemen with an army of obedient dragons at their disposal would raise a few eyebrows and undermine regional stability. They would be a threat to squash. Berk's greatest asset could easily be its undoing, should it inspire a covetousness in their enemies and fair-weather allies--and Chief Stoick considered all their alliances to be tenuous and conditional at best.

Astrid was glad that the threads of fate sought fit to place her on Berk. Her life, a mess though it was at the moment, was made rich by Hooligan culture now steeped in a fierce love of dragons. Once, the flapping of great, leathery wings and overhead shadows brought fear and death. Now, she hardly noticed a low-flying Gronckle, and dodged the Terrible Terrors that scurried underfoot with practiced ease. Berk used to be a place painted with ash and flames--but as the sun rose high over the island, her village seemed vibrant with colorful dragons at every turn.

Stormfly's unwavering loyalty was a great comfort amid the chaos of holiday busyness and faltering relationships. Astrid could not imagine life without her dragon, though such a life was all she had known a few short years ago.

But that was a whole different world that was slipping from memory, like the last vestiges of a nightmare broken up by the bright, new day.

Morning flights, evening flights. They still cleansed the soul, a respite for the mentally and emotionally laden.

The chill in the air, high among the clouds, was nearly intolerable. Astrid's teeth chattered and she shivered beneath her thick layers of wool and furs. Her fingers were numb in seconds, but her dragon's cries of delight were worth it as they took to the sky. Stormfly was nearly sing-song as she rolled over the waves and glided on the air currents, spotted wings outstretched like a great, scaly gull. In a couple of months, the dragons would leave Berk during their annual migration to warmer climates to breed. Astrid could not blame them. When winter was in full swing, she wished to join them. Instead, she counted down the days until they returned.

Astrid closed her eyes, breathing deeply, lungs filling up with icy salt air. It stung a little, but it was more freeing than the smoke from the hearth and sewing by firelight under her mother's critical eye. Indeed, flying in the bitter cold and biting wind was preferable to cooking under scrutiny, hoping to earn passable marks and an afternoon's reprieve from mandatory lessons in domesticity. For some reason, her mother seemed to suffer the delusion that she could fix her relationship woes with a hearty stew and needlepoint. Maybe perfecting her homemaking to the same degree as her combat skills would make her irresistible--a wife to be desired.

How laughable, when she did not want to be solely valued for such things.

"Go, Stormfly! Go!" she shouted, nudging her dragon into a sharp dive., the rush of frigid wind drowning out her thoughts.

Thunderdrums could be seen just below the surface, their spots peeking in and out of the tide, drawing ever closer. Such reckless flight and freedom sustained the troubled heart--Hiccup has shown her that. Astrid whooped, tears streaming from wind-battered eyes as they rushed toward the waves below.

Sometimes, she wondered what might happen if her dragon did not pull up at the last moment, skimming the white caps with her claws. If they kept diving, plunging into the depths, might they puncture the veil and end up somewhere else; a place where she could chart her own future without everyone else's input? She supposed such a place was for dreams: the impractical desires of youth that eventually crossed over into fond memories of a still wild and untamed imagination, before things like responsibility and duty beat it into submission.

She closed her eyes, sitting up in the saddle. With outstretched arms, it felt like she was flying, fast and low, and far away.

Peace. Finally, she was at some small semblance of peace...

"HELP!" came a scream over the roar of the ocean, piercing her reverie.

Astrid pulled back on her dragon's reins, and Stormfly came to an abrupt stop, hovering in midair as she glanced around wildly.

"HELLO?" she called back, reaching for her axe. Maybe, just maybe, she could put it to use for the first time in ages.

But she saw no one else among the stacks, other than the plump grey seals sunning themselves on the rocks scattered at the bases. The only answer she received was the squawk of the coastal birds going about their business, riding the air currents.

To her right was an inlet, cliffs sharply rising on either side of the mouth Agmundr's Sound. She and her father would take many camping trips there in her childhood, where she first learned to fish and to sail. Now it was a popular location for Berk's youth to spend an afternoon on the beach, away from their parents and responsibilities. It was also a fine place to strip down to one's undergarments and ride the Scauldrons that nested there in the summer, when the water was warmer, and the days were long.

The desperate scream echoed through the air once more, and this time, Astrid was certain the source was somewhere inside Agmundr's Sound.

She steered her dragon into the deep, broad divide that Odin cleaved out of Ymir when he fashioned Berk and all the world to his liking. Stormfly flew low as they searched the length of the sound, her reflection keeping pace on the gentler waters below. Fir trees lined the cliffside, but nothing stood out. All she could hear in the distance was the call of Berk's resident Timberjacks.

Maybe she had imagined someone calling for help? Perhaps stress was getting to her? She was about to call off her search, resigned to the notion she had misheard--when there, on the shore where the two cliffs diminished into rolling hills and met, she saw a great scar in the earth. At its end, was a familiar black dragon--and Astrid's heart skipped a beat. Toothless stirred up all kind of feelings by association, and she could not leave him in distress.

Stormfly landed gracefully on the beach, taking care to avoid the deep trench that had been gouged there from a rough landing. The black dragon's rider--the mystery screamer--also became apparent. Fishlegs sputtered, brushing the cold, damp sand from his cloak while Toothless growled at him--one did not need to speak dragon to understand the gist of the Night Fury's frustrations, and what he wished to communicate.

"I'm sorry!" Fishlegs pleaded with the dragon. Toothless was not the least bit sympathetic, turning his back to him in an indignant huff.

"Are you alright?" Astrid asked, dismounting.

Fishlegs gave a start. He had been too busy arguing with the disgruntled Night Fury to notice her arrival.

"Astrid!" he exclaimed, face brightening at once.

He trudged over to her, trying to shake the remaining sand from his clothes.

"Maybe you can talk some sense into him," Fishlegs whispered, jerking his thumb in Toothless's direction.

Astrid surveyed the scene: filthy clothes, a great plowing of the earth, and one bent tailfin.

"Did you crash?" she asked, though it was plain.

"It's not my fault!" Fishlegs cried. He hurried over to the Night Fury and pointed emphatically at the complex flying apparatus. "I mean, what?"

Astrid folded her arms beneath her cloak. "Didn't Hiccup leave you instructions on how to work it?"

"He did," Fishlegs replied, pouting. "They made a lot more sense on paper."

Astrid frowned and walked around Toothless, examining the intricate feat of seemingly impossible engineering that Hiccup made appear effortless. Toothless flashed her a gummy smile, tongue lolling out the side of his wide mouth. He began to wiggle with anticipation as she circled him.

"I don't think you've busted it beyond repair," she said, and Fishlegs breathed an audible sigh of relief. "But I'm not the expert in these things," she added.

His face faltered. "You're not going to tell Hiccup, are you? He'll be so mad!"

Astrid crouched down to hold up the tail fin, the most medial piece of ribbing bent at an odd angle. "Somehow, I think he'll notice," she replied flatly.

Fishlegs groaned, gripping his short, choppy hair. "He's never going to trust me with Toothless again!"

Astrid stood up, hands on her hips. "Don't take it personally. He doesn't trust anybody with Toothless. Not really."

"He trusts you."

Astrid remembered the days when Hiccup was still healing from his duel with Stefnir, arm in a sling. He offered her his good hand and brought her over to an impatient Night Fury in his complete rig. She had been confused; Hiccup had agreed not to fly until he was sufficiently mended--but he stepped aside so she could climb into the saddle instead. With patience and calm, he taught her each position of the tailfin until she could shift gears fluidly.

Then, he took large steps back as Toothless unfurled his wings, and said, "I trust you."

It must have been killing him inside to let go and grant her access to the final, most personal part of himself--but he exuded nothing but warmth, looking at her astride his dragon like she held his world together.

"He did trust me," she muttered to Fishlegs.

"He does," he corrected with an encouraging smile.

Outside of Toothless and Astrid, Fishlegs was Hiccup's closest friend. Perhaps he had found time to confide in the other boy between talk of dragons.

Astrid shook her head, heavy with self-pity. "Well, I've gone a made a mess of things, haven't I?"

Fishlegs was nodding along until pinned in her gaze. His eyes widened, and shifting awkwardly he said, "Oh! That wasn't rhetorical?"

She sighed. "Never mind. It's not anything I don't already know."

They stood in a heavy silence with the dragons considering them. puzzled. Fishlegs looked pained, like he had something to say, burning his throat, but something held it in. Or he wanted to vomit. Honestly, the expression was about the same.

Astrid waved her hand, dismissing the thought on the tip of his tongue. If some secret lingered there, entrusted to him by Hiccup, then she did not want him to be tempted into betraying that trust. Fishlegs was a good friend, but it did not take much to pry confessions from him--and Hiccup was already frustrated with her, plenty enough.

"Tell you what: I think Toothless can still manage to get home, though it won't be fast or with flourish. I will fly him for you, if you agree to fly Stormfly back to Berk for me," she said, patting the Night Fury.

"Thank you!" he practically cried with relief.

Even Toothless perked up at the prospect of flying with someone competent.

Stormfly crouched down and Fishlegs clambered up into the saddle. He struggled for only a moment, used to a dragon much closer to the ground. Astrid mounted Toothless and hooked her foot beneath the connecting peg for Hiccup's prosthesis. While it was built for him alone to operate smoothly, she could manage by flexing her foot to pull the peg up into position or rest her foot atop it to press it down. By no means was it a fluid process. She could not shift gears in that seamless way only Hiccup could--but she managed. At any rate, she was adept enough to fly Toothless safely home from Agmundr's Sound.

Stromfly stretched out her wings, ready to push off from the beach, but Fishlegs hesitated.

"For what it's worth," he began, "I've never known Hiccup to be happier than when you two are together. And--"

"Thank you, Fishlegs," Astrid interjected, "But you don't have to--"

"It will work out for you. It has to." He paused for a beat, then added, "I think he loves you too much. He doesn't talk about anyone else the same way."

Astrid did not say anything. Her eyes stung, and she told herself it was simply the cold wind channeled through the sound that also tossed her loose hair about. Fishlegs smiled, looking pleased with himself, as if his words alone would set things right.

"Just put Stormfly back in her stall, please."

"You got it!" Fishlegs replied, and Astrid watched him take off above the frosted trees.

She did not think it possible, but her heart ached all the more.

------

Hiccup was overjoyed to be leaving Helgafell at last. He had grown weary of snow, rock, and bare trees. As miserable as the journey home would be, captive on a boat with nothing to look at but his burly tribesmen and a vast expanse of rolling gray sea, each hour would bring him closer to home, to his own bed, belongings, to Toothless--and to Astrid.

The words of her letter, and that implicit ultimatum of hers, were branded on the forefront of his mind. He was a flurry of emotion to match the winter storm that blew in that morning as they packed up. No one asked, but he had to seem more distracted than usual. As he helped load their ship, he was equal part angry, anxious, and lovesick. He wanted to see Astrid, but dreaded the confrontation it would bring. He wanted to resolve their issues, but feared the implosion of their relationship if he said the wrong thing--and lately, it seemed every word he uttered was the wrong thing. He wanted to make her happy, get back what they had worked so hard for, but he did not know how to be anything other than himself; it was quite the conundrum.

"That's the last of it," Stoick declared, as the small crate of their rations was carried onboard. "Are you ready?"

Hiccup nodded, stepping onto the gently rocking ship.

As the rest of the crew followed behind him, he took one last glance out at Helgafell. The frosted temple towered above the dwindling tents. With camps being dismantled left and right, the island looked even smaller than it had before. The mysterious volva wandered among the stragglers, offering them any herbs and psychedelic fungi that might make the journey home more bearable.

Hiccup would've purchased the bunch if it could erase his memory the trip and the things he had learned. He could still smell the blood of the sacrificial animals and hear the resigned groan of dragon before it died. The distant stare of the volva haunted him when he closed his eyes.

They shoved off, and he felt a weight lifted. From the moment he had set foot on Helgafell, there had been an oppressive and ominous energy, as if he was one faux pas, one misstep from bringing hostilities on Berk. He played his part, the dutiful heir. While the island began to fade in the distance, shrouded again in fog and snow, Hiccup's heart was burdened by the realization that he would continue to play the part until it became the reality of him.

He sighed, leaning on his elbows set upon the starboard gunwale. Their ship ploughed through the waves, and he watched the sea ebb and flow, beating against the hull before exploding into briny mist. The deck creaked beneath familiar footfalls approaching him from behind, trying to be softer than their capacity.

Stoick cleared his throat, but it was unnecessary.

"With the wind on our side, we might see Berk half-a-day earlier than planned," he said, large hands coming to rest on the same faded red gunwale supporting his son in his best attempt to appear casual.

"That would be nice. Lots to do before Vetrnaetr kicks off, I guess?" Hiccup replied.

He pretended it was not so amusing to see his father's impressive red beard dancing about in the wind, catching snowflakes.

"There is, but I suppose Spitelout has seen to most of the preparations."

Hiccup nodded and the two of them gazed out at the ocean, churning and reflecting the dreary sky as if one might bleed into the other. His father was watching him out of the corner of his eye as he so often did.

"I know you did not enjoy the trip," Stoick spoke up after a very pregnant pause.

"Maybe it was all the talk of funding wars through trade or watching that dragon die such a pointless death for the sake of a man's ego that did it."

"I hope you realize how important it was all the same."

Hiccup straightened up, wrapping his cloak more tightly around his body.

He merely answered, "Yeah."

'"The world is a lot bigger and more complicated than you realize," Stoick said, patting him. on the shoulder.

Hiccup scoffed. "Bigger, I knew. Complicated? I think I already knew that too. But I didn't know how ugly 'complicated' could be. I am naiver than I thought. Or maybe I just convinced myself it would always be someone else's problem."

Stoick considered him, brow heavy with pity. "There is more to being the chief and keeping your people safe and provided for than what can be taught on Berk alone."

Hiccup sighed, and gave another, "Yeah."

Stoick gripped his shoulder turning him until they made eye contact. "You are the future, Hiccup. All of Berk's hopes rest on you. I know that you are up for the task."

Hiccup only ever shrank under his father's lofty expectations. That unearned, unrelenting pride shone down upon him was uncomfortable, and he was meant to carry it without complaint, without faltering. He could not meet his father's glowing stare.

Glancing down at the deck, he muttered. "I wish I was as sure as you."

Stoick did not waver. "There will come a day when you will be."

Hiccup had to turn away, and gaze back out at the ocean. he assumed his previous position, leaning thoughtfully against the gunwale.

He responded with a noncommittal, "Mm."

As Stoick walked away, satisfied with his final word on the matter, Hiccup reached into his cloak and took out the pendant he bought on Helgafell. He turned the cold metal over in his hands, studying the dragon there. The more he looked it over, the more he was certain the extra set of wings was not just the error of an unskilled craftsman.

"What kind of dragon are you?" he murmured, tracing over the image with his thumb.

-----

Sneaky returned home in the middle of the night. He was unscathed, as Astrid knew he would be. Hiccup would never have let any harm befall the little blue dragon, no matter how hostile toward dragons Helagfell might be. Perhaps it was a good thing she was only half awake to greet Sneaky, or the full weight of the notion that her lover had read her letter would have crushed her. She fell back asleep, Terrible Terror curled against her side, while vaguely aware of the uncomfortable squirm in her gut.

The next morning brought with it the full realization that an argument was heading her way, sailing home in two days' time. She tried to stay busy to stifle the dread. Maybe there would come the favorable resolution Fishlegs promised--but she did not want to suffer the heartache and pain to earn it. Hiccup was not often angry. Even rarer still was his fleeting foul moods directed at her. She's rather take a dozen blows to the gut than see those green eyes of his glare back at her with bitterness.

The prospect was enough to drive her mad, and she needed a steady stream of distraction.

She spent the next couple of days alternating between flying Stormfly in the mornings and flying Toothless in the evenings; Gobber straightened out the bent metal rod of Toothless's fin in no time at all. She did not mind caring for the two dragons, because it was a valid excuse to keep her out of the house, her mind of more pleasant things. Nobody questioned her with the Night Fury. In fact, the whispers and sidelong glances decreased when she was with her boyfriend's dragon. Astrid caring for Toothless seemed to be more right with the world than leaving him in the care of Fishlegs. To be close to the Night Fury was to be as close to Hiccup as she could get in his absence. Toothless also seemed fond of the arrangement, nothing but smiles and boundless energy for her. She wondered if he would put in a good word for her with Hiccup.

But alas, when she was not with a dragon, her mother kept her occupied with chores. That afternoon, she was hanging the laundry in near the hearth to dry as her mother boiled carrots, potatoes, and onions for the lamb her father was roasting over the fire behind the house. Meat could not be left unattended for long, lest Terrible Terrors make off with it. Sneaky was particularly skilled in this brand of thievery. Her father always had some choice words.

She had just poked her head outside to check on the lamb roast at her mother's behest, when a long, low, horn bellowed over the village.

"Chief Stoick is back!" she heard people call out. "They've all come back from Helgafell!"

Astrid froze. She met her father's eye. He stared back at her, knowingly.

With a small nod of his head, he told her, "Go on."

She spun on her heel and took off toward the docks, heart racing. Her cloak was left hanging on its peg by the door, but she did not notice the cold. People stood, waving at the ship as it pulled in, and Astrid weaved around them. She stopped short of running out ahead, slowing down to remain among the first row of onlookers.

Spitelout was there to catch the thick ropes thrown over the side. He and Silent Sven worked together to secure the mooring. Gobber and a couple of other able-bodied men received the items that were being unloaded and handed off to them: tents and the remaining rations, most likely. Perhaps even some exotic goods procured by trade?

Astrid imagined what might be found at Helgafell frozen shores: furs, metals, weapons, and wines--all things could promise a fun time during a harsh Norse winter.

Then Stoick disembarked, followed by Hiccup, and all daydreaming evaporated. Spitelout and Gobber pushed themselves to the forefront of the crowd and engaged the Chief in talk of festival preparations at once--what had already been accomplished and what was left to do. Hiccup had barely taken a step before he was rushed by a group of children: the newest of dragon-riders from that year's Selection ceremony--all excitedly shouting over each other about tricks they had learned, and new skills acquired. Hiccup smiled as they tugged on his cloak and his hands, all vying for his attention.

"Wow, really?" he said above the noise, to no particular child. "You'll have to show me."

The gaggle of his adoring, miniature fans all continued to talk at him unintelligibly, until someone called out," Night Fury!"

The mob of small dragon riders scattered with shrieks as a big black, scaly mass tackled Hiccup flat, onto the dock. Stoick, Spitelout, and Gobber reflexively stepped aside without as much as a hitch in their conversation. Toothless was all wiggles and aggressive nuzzling as Hiccup tried to sit up and catch the breath knocked out of him.

"Toothless! Toothless! Stop!" he insisted between laughs, trying to push the enthusiastic dragon out of his face, if only for a moment to collect himself. "For Odin's sake!"

As he sat up, the dragon let out a groan and rolled onto his back, exposing his belly. The children giggled at his antics.

"Oh! Is this why you missed me?" Hiccup teased, scratching Toothless's throat before moving over his chest. He adopted a tone reminiscent of how one might speak to a baby. "This is really why you missed me, huh?"

Toothless's tongue flopped out of the corner of his mouth and one of his hind legs kicked in delight.

"He really did miss you," Astrid spoke up, finally. She smiled despite their fighting. Her boyfriend's relationship with his dragon was endearing and infectious.

Hiccup glanced up, startled. His face faltered, and he scrambled to his feet. "Astrid! I, uh...I didn't see you there."

"Well, it is kind of hard to see anything else when Toothless demands attention."

He wouldn't meet her gaze. "Yeah. Right."

The uncomfortable silence that settled between them was disturbed only by a few sparse snow flurries, and the creak of the dock beneath Toothless as the dragon rolled onto his feet.

"I got your letter." Hiccup said, and Astrid felt the anxious twist in her gut. His Night Fury nudged him in the elbow, demanding his attention.

Facing him had not been so agonizing since that night on Dragon Island when they both were at their limit and had nothing to lose--that argument had a desirable ending. Perhaps, with the proper time and free of distractions, they might go two-for-two.

"Look," she began; and now she was the one who could not quite look him in the eye, "We need to talk. Badly. We've been open with each other before, and--"

"Are you guys fighting?" one of the children spoke up, loud and insistent.

Astrid gave a small start; she forgot they were there and desperately wished they weren't. Now, she was all too aware of the many eyes on them both, with rapt attention for a conflict they could not possibly understand. She frowned, and seized the rude child's helmet from his head, flinging it down the dock so he had to chase after it.

"Heeey!" some of the other kids obnoxiously cried.

When Astrid turned back to Hiccup, smug, he had already climbed into his saddle. Toothless unfurled his wings.

"Hiccup, wait!" she pleaded.

But he either had not heard her over the rush of his dragon taking flight, or at that moment, mending the hurt was not his priority. Either possibility left her standing there, watching her boyfriend and his dragon disappear into the low-hanging, dreary clouds as if she had not sought him out at all. The children wandered off, disappointed and suddenly uninterested in whatever transpired between lovers--boring and unknown things the future held for them too, but far beyond their capacity to care.

The wind picked up and the delicate snowflakes tumbled and twirled with renewed fervor. A shiver rattled Astrid down to her bones, and she held tightly to herself, painfully aware of just had cold it had become.