#maybe even some painting to firelight

[nomie-11]

Piltover's Princess - Part 2

masterlist! | part 1

synopsis: vi is a little bit less of a blushing mess now that she's got piltover's princess on her territory

pairings: vi x reader

The first time Vi had gotten you alone, she was unreasonably happy. Everytime the two of you had been together before this it had been on your turf, under your circumstances, with your people surrounding you, and Caitlyn had always tagged along. 

You had even let Vi play dress up—something that you never did, not even for your sweetheart of a mother—and let her pick out some casual clothing for you to wear. And she thought you looked absolutely adorable in the plain brown leather jacket and black pants she had picked for you, even if you shifted uncomfortably in the plain clothes. 

“Vi, I feel like I’m wearing a costume,” You said flatly, tugging at your sleeve as you stood in front of her, the fancy decor of your bedroom suddenly feeling foreign and unfamiliar in your new attire. “I look ridiculous.” 

“You look adorable, princess,” she corrected, a wide grin on her face. “Ready to conquer Zaun?” 

With a sharp, yet endearingly deep breath, you nodded, stealing your expression. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

—------------------------------

You were not ready. 

Zaun was an entirely different world from Piltover. The air was thicker, darker, and the streets were damp and uneven as you dutifully walked next to Vi. Even the way you walked made you stick out like a sore thumb, your strides too long, your head held too high. You looked every bit the royalty you were painted to be, even when you wanted nothing more than to become Vi’s shadow. 

“There’s so much I have to show you,” Vi rambled, her eyes bright with excitement as you turned another corner. “You have to try my favorite food ever—oh, you’re going to love Zaun style street food! And I have to take you to The Last Drop—you need to meet Powder and Ekko! And then we need to watch the skyline after the sun goes down from the rooftops, there’s firelights everywhere, and Piltover looks beautiful from Zaun’s rooftops! And–”

You stumbled on a loose cobblestone, the toe of your worn boots catching on the edge of the stone before you could resituate yourself, and you felt yourself falling with a small yelp. 

Vi reacted instantly, her reflexes sharp as ever. Before you could hit the ground, her strong arms were around you, steadying you effortlessly. 

“Whoa, easy there, princess,” Vi said, her voice filled with concern, but her ears pink. “You okay?”

You looked up at her, cheeks flushing. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… not used to these streets.” You straightened yourself, brushing imaginary dust off your pants, trying to calm the blush that covered your face. 

Vi laughed, a warm and genuine sound that made your heart flutter. “Guess we gotta get you some Zaun-proof boots next time, huh?”

You gave her a small smile, grateful for her attempt to lighten the moment. “Maybe. Or you could just catch me every time I fall.”

For a second, Vi wished she dragged Caitlyn along as well, because now there was no one to cover for her as she stumbled over her words—her mouth caught somewhere between “of course I’ll catch you,” and “please marry me.”

————————————

The stand that Vi brought you to for food was… interesting, to say the least. 

“We need to have the seafood skewers. Oh! And we need the tentacle stew—and you have to try grilled Zaun-style fish heads!” She rambled as you approached a stand with a huge blue fish-man behind the counter. 

The vendor, a hulking figure with vibrant scales and a grin that revealed jagged teeth, greeted Vi with a hearty laugh. 

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t Vi! Who’s the fancy friend?” He teased, his eyes flickering to you. 

You swallowed nervously, feeling like you were out of your depth—quite literally. 

“This is Y/n,” Vi said proudly, nudging you forward. “Piltover’s finest—and she’s here to try real Zaun food.” 

The vendor laughed again. “Piltover royalty, huh? You sure you can handle our flavors, princess?” 

You straightened your shoulders, determined not to let the teasing get to you. “I can handle it,” you said with as much confidence as you could muster. 

Vi smirked, clearly amused by your defiance. “We’ll take two skewers, a bowl of stew, and—uh—one fish head.” She grinned at your flushing face. “Start small.” 

As you waited for your food, Vi leaned against the counter, casually talking to the vendor about Zaun gossip. You listened, marveling at how comfortable she was in this world that felt so chaotic to you.

When the food arrived, the smell was… overwhelming. The skewers glistened with an oily sauce, and the stew was bubbling with chunks of blue fish meat. Then there was the fish head, its glassy eyes staring right at you. 

“Ready to dig in?” Vi asked with a grin, holding out a skewer. 

You hesitated, staring at the fish head like it might come back to life. “Do I… eat the eyes?” 

Vi burst out laughing, nearly doubling over as a light blush covered your cheeks. “Only if you’re brave enough!”

You shot her a mock glare, grabbing a skewer instead. You took a cautious bite—and to your surprise, it was delicious. Smoky, salty, with a tangy kick that lingered on your tongue. It was incredible. 

“That’s… amazing!” You beamed, your eyes lighting up as you eagerly went for another bite. 

Vi froze for a moment, staring at you with a mixture of disbelief and adoration. “You… think so?” she asked, her voice unusually soft. 

You nodded enthusiastically, savoring the flavors. “I’ve never tasted anything like this before. It’s so different—but in a good way!”

Vi’s heart did a little flip at your excitement. The way your eyes sparkled, the way your lips curved into that radiant smile, the way you hummed in delight at every bite—it was too much for her to handle. You were too much. 

“Y-you’ve got, uh, sauce on your cheek,” Vi stammered, her usual confidence crumbling as she gestured vaguely at your face. 

You blinked, then tried to wipe it away, missing the splotch entirely. “Here?” 

“No, uh, lower… wait, here, let me—” Vi reached out with a napkin, gently brushing it against your cheek. She was so close now, her face inches from yours, and she could feel her ears heating up as her eyes locked onto yours. 

Your cheeks flushed as you felt the warmth of her hand so near, her punk hair catching the dim light of the streetlamps. You weren’t sure if it was the slightly spicy food or Vi’s proximity, but your heart was racing. “Thanks,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended. 

Vi quickly stepped back, the napkin crumpled in her hand as she tried to collect herself. “N-no problem. Just—uh—looking out for you, princess,” she said, her tone uneven. 

You couldn’t help but smile at her flustered state. “You’re adorable when you’re nervous, Vi,” you teased, leaning slightly closer. 

Vi’s brain fumbled for a moment. Her tough exterior cracked completely as she stumbled over her words, her face growing redder by the second. “I’m not—! I mean, you’re—! Ugh, why are you like this?” she groaned, burying her face in her hands for a moment before peeking out with a sheepish grin. 

You laughed, the sound ringing clear and light in the crowded streets of Zaun. “Maybe I just like seeing you flustered,” you said with a playful wink, savoring the familiar sight of pink dusting Vi’s cheeks. 

Vi shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re impossible, princess.”

—-------------------------------------------------

After the meal, Vi led you further into Zaun, the streets bustling with a lively energy that seemed to pulse through every corner. The closer you got to The Last Drop, the more you noticed how the atmosphere shifted. It wasn’t chaotic or oppressive like you had feared; instead, there was an undeniable sense of community. Neon signs blinked overhead, casting colorful glows on the groups of people gathered around makeshift stalls and street performers. Children darted through the sparse crowd, their laughter echoing off the dark brick walls. 

“You’re going to love this place,” Vi said, glancing back at you with a grin. “It’s basically my home. Vander and Silco turned it into something really special—a real hub for the Lanes.” 

You could see the pride in her expression as you approached the large, well-worn building. The Last Drop’s sign hung prominently, now accompanied by a glowing neon art that gave it an almost welcoming feel. The faint hum of music and laughter spilled into the streets, and you felt your earlier nervousness start to melt away. 

Vi pushed the door open, the scent of aged wood and spiced drinks greeting you. Inside, the place was alive. Tables were filled with Zaunites of all ages, sharing food, playing games, or simply chatting. A small stage in the corner featured a group of musicians, their melodies blending seamlessly with the clinking of glasses and friendly chatter. 

“Vi!” an unfamiliar voice called out, and you turned to see a young woman with bright blue hair bounding toward you. Her grin wide and sparkling eyes were impossible to miss. She had the cutest twin buns in her hair, and a streak of pink contrasting beautifully with the almost neon blue of the rest of her hair. 

“Hey, Pow!” Vi replied, catching her in a quick hug before gesturing toward you. “This is Y/n.” 

Powder’s eyes lit up as she gave you a quick one over. “So you’re the fancy Piltover princess. Vi’s been talking about you nonstop. Welcome to our world!”

You felt your cheeks warm at Powder’s words, glancing at Vi, who was suddenly avoiding your gaze with a sheepish grin. “It’s nice to meet you,” you said, offering a small smile. 

Powder grabbed your hand, practically dragging you deeper into the room. “Come on, you’ve got to meet Vander—oh! And Ekko! You have so many people to meet!”

Vi trailed behind, chuckling at Powder’s enthusiasm. “Easy, Powder, let her breathe.” 

But there was no stopping her. Before you knew it, you were standing in front of Vander, the man who seemed to exude both strength and kindness. His arms were crossed over his chest, but his expression softened when he saw you. 

“So you’re the one Vi’s been sneaking off to Piltover for,” Vander said, his voice deep but warm. “Welcome to Zaun. You must be something special to get her to bring you here. Vi’s always talking about how she and Caitlyn are always running into you, it’s nice to know she has more than one friend.” 

Your cheeks burned as you glanced at Vi, whose ears had turned a bright shade of pink. She scratched the back of her neck, her usual confidence nowhere to be found. 

“Uh, yeah. Cait and I have run into her a few times,” Vi mumbled, avoiding eye contact with Vander. 

Vander smirked knowingly, but didn’t press further. “Well, any ‘friend’ of Vi’s is welcome here. Make yourself at home.” 

Before you could respond, Powder grabbed your hand again, tugging you toward a smaller table in the corner where a boy a few years younger than you with bright, curious eyes sat hunched over a complex-looking device. 

“Ekko! Look who Vi brought!” Powder exclaimed, plopping down beside him and resting her head on his arm, before gesturing toward you with a flourish. “This is Y/n Talis. She’s from Piltover, and she’s super fancy!”

Ekko looked up, his face lighting up with a mix of excitement and curiosity. ��Talis? As in Jayce Talis? What brings you down to Zaun?” 

You hesitated for a moment, still adjusting to the whirlwind pace of the evening. “Vi’s been telling me a lot about Zaun. I wanted to see it for myself—and meet the people who make it so special.” You gestured toward the intricate device on the table. “And from the looks of it, you’re one of those people.” 

Ekko’s grin widened, and he turned the device toward you. “This? It’s a prototype I’m working on. Powder’s been helping me with the mechanics. We’re going to enter it in the Youth Innovator’s Competition in a few weeks.” 

Your eyes widened in recognition. “I know that competition! I mean, you obviously know my brother, but he and his partner won it a few years ago! Their invention changed everything for Piltoverr—if you’re entering, I’m sure your invention will be just as amazing.”

Powder’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “What were their inventions like up close? Are they cool? Do they glow?” 

You smiled, the memories flooding back. “Super cool. Watching them work was inspiring—they poured their hearts into it. And you should do the same. Keep going, even when it feels impossible. I know you’ll create something amazing.” 

Ekko and Powder exchanged a glance, their excitement palpable. “Thanks, Y/n,” Ekko said earnestly. “That means a lot.”

Vi, who had been leaning against a nearby pillar, watched the scene unfold with a soft, almost awestruck expression. The way you spoke, so encouraging and genuine, made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t quite put into words. 

“Okay, that’s it,” she muttered under her breath, crossing her arms. “I’m marrying her.” 

Powder, who had somehow overheard, turned to Vi with a mischievous grin. “What was that, Vi?”

Vi’s eyes widened, her face turning beet red. “Nothing! Mind your business, Powder!” she snapped, though there was no real heat in her voice. 

Powder cackled, leaning over to whisper something to Ekko, who grinned and gave Vi a knowing look. 

Vi just sighed, burying her face in her hands, wishing she could both disappear and live in this moment forever. 

—-------------------------------------------------

By the time the night was winding down, you found yourself walking alongside Vi through the quieter streets of Zaun. The energy of The Last Drop had been exhilarating but exhausting, and now the world seemed softer, the glowing lights casting a warm glow on the damp cobblestones. 

Vi had insisted on showing you the skyline from the rooftop of The Last Drop before the evening ended. You’d hesitated, looking up at the daunting climb, but her enthusiasm was infectious, and you reluctantly agreed. 

“Come on, princess,” she teased, holding her hand out to you. “I’ll be your guide. Trust me.” 

“I do trust you,” you said softly, slipping your hand into hers. 

The climb was not a s graceful as you might’ve hoped. Vi scrambled up effortlessly, her movements fluid and confident. You, on the other hand, struggled to find footing, your amrs trembling as you pulled yourself up the uneven surfaces. 

“Y/n, you good back there?” Vi called, peeking over the edge of the ledge she’d just scaled. 

“Do I look like I’m good?” you huffed, glaring up at her. 

Vi chuckled, her grin wide as she reached down to offer her hand. “Come on. I’ve got you.” 

With her help, you managed the last stretch, panting slightly as you collapsed onto the rooftop. “How do you do this so easily?” 

“Practice,” she replied, sitting beside you and brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “You’re not so bad for a first-timer, though.” 

You rolled your eyes but smiled despite yourself. “Glad I didn’t embarrass myself completely.” 

“You could never embarrass yourself,” Vi said, her voice softer now. 

You turned to respond but stopped when you caught the look in her eyes—something tender and unguarded. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly glanced away, focusing on the skyline instead. 

And what a view it was. 

Piltover stretched out before you, its golden lights shimmering like stars against the dark sky. The faint glow of Zaun’s neon signs framed the edges of the scene, creating a contrast that was both striking and beautiful. 

“Wow,” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s so beautiful.” 

“Yeah,” Vi murmured, her gaze fixed not on the skyline but on you. 

The weight of her stare made you glance back at her. “You’re not even looking at the view,” you pointed out with a small, nervous laugh. 

Vi blinked, startled, and quickly turned her head. “I was—uh, I mean, I am! It’s great! Amazing view! Totally worth the climb!”

You bit your lip, suppressing a smile. Her usual confidence was gone, replaced by an awkwardness that you found utterly endearing. She rubbed the back of her neck, her ears tinged pink, and you realized just how close you were sitting. 

The space between you felt charged, electric. 

“Vi,” you said softly, drawing her attention back to you.

“Y-yeah?” 

“Kiss me.” 

Before she could overthink it, she leaned in, her lips brushing yours in a kiss that was tentative but undeniably warm. For a moment, Vi froze completely, her mind blanking, but then she leaned into the kiss, her hand coming up to cradle your cheek gently. 

When you finally pulled back, her wide eyes met yours, her lips parted in disbelief. “I—uh—wow. I didn’t see that coming,” she admitted, her voice unsteady. 

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You talk a lot, you know that?” 

“Yeah. Sorry, I just—”

You leaned in again, cutting her off with another kiss, this one deeper and more confident. Her arms circled around you instinctively, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. 

When you finally broke apart, Vi rested her forehead against yours, a dazed smile on her face. “So, did Piltover’s princess like Zaun?” 

“Oh, she loved it.”

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

asked to be tagged: @lipglosskxsses

[cupofteatoyou2]

I Loved You Beyond the Law of Gods pt2 (final)

You were born under a heavy sky.

Barcelona was drowning in rain that day — not the soft kind that kissed windowsills and softened the stones, but the kind that hammered down like a warning, soaking the ancient bones of the city to their core.

The nurses said you were too quiet when you came into the world.

No wailing, no thrashing fists.

You only blinked up at the ceiling, your tiny chest rising and falling with a strange, steady calm, as if you had done all this before. And maybe, somehow, you had.

The first cry you gave was not a sound of terror. It was almost a sigh. As if the world, even in its brilliance and brutality, was something you already knew.

The doctors called it a miracle birth — healthy, strong, perfect.

But the old woman who cleaned the rooms whispered another word to herself as she saw you tucked into your mother's arms, your tiny hand curling loosely in your sleep.

Old soul.

You grew up in the veins of the city. Barcelona wrapped itself around you like a second skin — the cracked cobblestones that bruised your knees, the markets thick with spices and shouting, the sea breeze carrying salt and music through the crooked streets.

You were a child of narrow alleys and open skies. A child of murals bleeding down crumbling walls, of sunsets that lit the city gold, of wild, stubborn flowers clawing their way through sidewalk cracks.

You lived a simple life, by all appearances.

Breakfast at the corner bakery where the old men played cards and muttered about football.

Afternoons spent chasing stray cats down sun-drenched alleys.

Evenings curled on your tiny balcony, painting with fingers stained in every color but despair.

You were full of laughter. Full of dreams. But even then, even in your earliest memories, there was always something else too.

A thread of something heavier braided through your days — something you could not name. An ache, an absence, a missing piece you didn’t understand.

It lived in the corners of your mind. It lived in your heartbeat when you stood too long by the sea. It lived in your dreams.

Especially in your dreams.

The dreams started small. Soft. Forgettable.Little flashes of something just beyond reach.

A woman's arms lifting you high into the air, her face hidden by blinding sunlight.

Fingers — not your mother’s — braiding your hair, humming a tune that lingered even after you woke.

A forest you had never seen, heavy with the scent of damp earth and blood.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just dreams. Everyone has them.

You laughed about them with your friends over cheap wine and stolen cigarettes.

You shrugged them off when your parents asked why you sometimes woke crying without knowing why.

You built walls around the dreams. But dreams are patient. Dreams wait. And yours — yours had been waiting lifetimes.

As you grew, so did the dreams. They sharpened. They deepened. They began to carve themselves into you. Whole lives unfolded behind your closed eyes.

A sunburned child racing barefoot across dusty hills toward a village swallowed by war.

A woman weaving baskets by firelight, her hands scarred from a lifetime of work you had never done.

A man’s voice — rough, kind — calling you a name you didn’t recognize, but which made your chest ache with missing him.

You loved and lost and died and lived — again and again and again.

You woke each morning with your sheets twisted around you, your pillow damp with tears you could not explain.

There were nights you woke with the ghost of a blade still biting into your side.

Mornings when you cradled your wrist as if still feeling the shackles of some long-forgotten dungeon.

The memories clung to you like wet cloth, like a second skin you could not shed.

Then came the night that changed everything.

The night the dreams cracked open wide enough to swallow you whole.

You had fallen asleep curled up on your tiny couch, the windows thrown open to let in the restless night air.

The sound of the sea was a lullaby — rough and endless and full of old grief.

The dream gripped you before you even knew you were asleep.

You were standing in the corner of a room you had never seen before — stone walls, heavy with shadows, a fire dying low in the hearth.

The air was cold. The dark pressed against you like hands.

The world felt... wrong. And across the room, you saw them.

You saw yourself — curled in a bed, body small under the weight of heavy blankets.

Sleeping. Breathing. Alive. And beside you —Women. Kneeling. Clutching you so tightly it hurt to watch.

Her face was twisted in a grief so raw you almost looked away.

You tried to move. Tried to run to her, to yourself, to fix something you didn’t understand.

But your feet wouldn't move. You were trapped. Frozen. Forced to watch.

You saw her reach out — trembling fingers brushing hair back from your forehead.

You saw her press desperate kisses against your skin, whispering prayers to a god who wasn’t listening.

You felt the thread snapping before you even saw it.

The door opened without a sound. A figure stepped through — wreathed in shadows, wrapped in the quiet power of something ancient and final.

He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look cruel. He looked inevitable.

You watched as woman scrambled from the bed, placing herself between him and your sleeping body. "Please," she whispered. "Please don't."

You saw him watch her with that same stillness — not hate, not rage — only certainty.

"You knew the law," he said, voice echoing through the bones of the room.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear him apart. You wanted to leap into your own body and run. But you couldn’t move. You were a ghost, a prisoner in your own dream.

You watched her climb back onto the bed.

You watched her pull your body into her arms, rocking you like something precious, something already slipping away.

You stirred.

Your sleeping self blinked up at her — confused, soft, trusting.

"Alexia...?"

The sound of your voice — so small, so human — broke something in you.

She choked on a sob, pressed her forehead to yours.

"I'm here," she said. "I'm right here."

You watched yourself smile. Slow. Sweet. You watched your fingers reach up to wipe her tears — clumsy, tired.

You watched your hand fall away.

You watched your body sag against her.

And you felt it — even from across the room — you felt it.

The moment you left.

The moment the thread snapped for good.

Woman howled — a sound no human throat was ever meant to make.

She clutched your lifeless body to her chest, rocking back and forth like she could shake you back into being.

She kissed your forehead, your mouth, your cold hands — desperate, broken, refusing to believe.

She whispered your name over and over and over.

You wanted to run to her.

But you couldn’t move. You could only watch her crumble. You could only watch man stand silent at the foot of the bed, unmoved by the ruin he had made.

You could only watch as woman pressed her face into your hair, sobbing, whispering

"Come back. Please. Come back."

But you didn’t move. Not the flutter of an eyelash. Not the ghost of a breath.

You were already gone. And she was already broken.

The dream shattered after that — the room collapsing into shadows, the fire sputtering out, the world folding in on itself.

You gasped awake, the sound torn from your throat like a sob.

Your room — your real room — was dark and still.

Your hands shook.

Your heart thundered against your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision.

You pressed your hands to your face, trying to breathe, trying to forget — but the images clung to you.

Women’s face.

Your own limp body in her arms.

The way she had screamed your name like it was the only thing left she believed in.

You sat up in bed, the sheets tangled around you like a trap, and whispered the only name that was repeating in your mind.

"Alexia”

The halls of Olympus held their breath.

beyond the reach of mortal prayers and mortal dreams, the gods gathered in a circle of marble and gold — and they trembled.

It had been so long since fear touched them.

So long since any mortal had mattered enough to stir the heavens.

But tonight — tonight, the old wounds bled again.

Because a mortal had remembered.

And that — that was dangerous.

Because mortal souls were not meant to remember.

Life and death were supposed to wipe the slate clean.

Memory was a weapon against fate itself — a crack in the cycle the gods depended on to keep the world turning.

One mortal remembering could shift everything: destinies, loyalties, even futures the gods thought were certain.

It could create chaos. It could rewrite things even Olympus could not control.

And so the gods trembled. because the balance they had protected for so long was slipping through their fingers.

Zeus sat on his throne, carved from the bones of dead stars, his body stiff with rage barely contained.

He had not spoken yet.

But the air crackled around him — thunder rumbling low in the stones, lightning flickering in the cracks between the pillars.

Every god present — even the proudest — stood at a distance. Because when Zeus’s fury woke, even the mighty bowed.

It was Hera who dared to break the silence first. Sharp, brittle, cruel. "The mortal remembers," she said, voice echoing through the hollow hall. No gentleness. No sorrow. Only cold judgment. Only blame.

Before the echoes had even faded, Ares stepped forward — his armor clinking softly, the scent of old blood clinging to him like perfume.

"We should have crushed this weakness when we had the chance," he growled. "Before Alexia brought shame to Olympus." His mouth twisted into a sneer. "Love made her foolish. Made her weak."

Hera nodded, eyes hard as obsidian. "This time," she said, "we must show no mercy."

Their words curled like smoke around Zeus — feeding him, sharpening him. And deep inside, the storm began to break free.

But not all voices rose in cruelty.

At the edge of the gathering, in the long shadow of the dying fire, Apollo stood with his golden head bowed.

He remembered. He remembered Alexia — bright, fierce, reckless.

He remembered the way she once sang to the stars, fearless and full of life. The way she once laughed, throwing her head back like she could tear the sky apart with joy.

And he remembered the day that light went out. The night she lost mortal girl. The night the heavens themselves dimmed at the sound of her screams.

Artemis stood at his side, her silver gaze heavy with memory. She had fought beside Alexia — had seen her wield valor and loyalty like weapons no blade could match.

She had loved her sister And she had watched that sister crumble. After your death, Alexia became a ghost. No laughter. No rage. No fire.

Only silence. Only absence. Only a grief so vast it swallowed even Olympus’s endless skies. And Artemis had pitied her — as she pitied her still.

Demeter, kind and patient, felt tears burning behind her closed eyes. She had watched Alexia tend the gardens once —gentle, careful, whispering to wounded flowers like they were her own wounded heart.

She had seen the tenderness no battlefield could destroy. And she had seen it die, piece by piece, when mortal girl was torn from her arms.

Demeter pressed a shaking hand to her chest now, feeling the old sorrow rise again — helpless, useless, heavy.

She mourned not the mortal girl — she had barely known you. She mourned the sister who would soon lose everything, once again.

Even Athena, who prided herself on cold wisdom and sharp reason, frowned. She saw the future unfolding — a tapestry unraveling stitch by stitch — and she saw no victory in it. Only ruin. Only loss. Only another god broken past repair.

None of them spoke against Zeus. Because fear was older than love. And tonight, fear ruled Olympus.

Zeus rose from his throne.

The marble cracked beneath his feet, veins of lightning spidering through the stone.

"We end this," he said. Not shouted. Not barked. Whispered. And it was so much worse. Because it was final. Because it was already done.

From the swirling shadows at the edge of the hall, a figure stepped forward. Broad shoulders. Eyes like cold iron. One of Zeus’s son. A weapon given breath. A god without mercy.

"You will find her," Zeus said, voice low as thunder. "You will silence her."

The son bowed — deep, wordless — and turned away. A sword unleashed upon a world too small to survive him.

For a long, terrible moment, the gods stood frozen. Some bowed their heads — not in loyalty, but in grief. Some turned their faces away — unable to bear witness. Some simply stared into the dying fire, watching the last light flicker out, knowing they had already abandoned their sister. once again.

Apollo’s hands trembled at his sides. He remembered Alexia collapsing, clutching a body grown cold. He remembered the way she screamed your name until her voice broke. He remembered begging her to let you go — and the way she looked at him like he had asked her to tear out her own heart.

He remembered. And he said nothing.

Artemis’s throat ached with the memory of her sister’s silence — the endless centuries where Alexia spoke to no one, smiled for no one.

She remembered. And she said nothing.

Demeter wept silently into her hand.

Athena closed her eyes.

And high above the world, Olympus mourned in silence for a sister they would fail again.

They didn’t know she was there. Tucked into the long shadows cast by ancient marble columns, half-hidden by the restless, shivering light of the dying fire, Alexia stood.

Silent. Unmoving. Watching.

Her hands hung uselessly at her sides. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to break free.

She had not stood in this hall for centuries. Not since the night her world ended.

She had come here tonight without hope. Hope had been beaten out of her a long time ago. She came because she felt it — the tremor in the air, the old thread stirring between her ribs — the way your soul had whispered her name into the world again.

And because she knew. Deep in her bones, she already knew. What they would say. What they would decide. What they would do to you.

She listened as Hera fanned the fire of Zeus's fury, her voice sharp and cruel. She listened as Ares — as predictable as a blade swung without thought — growled for blood. They spoke your death as though it were a simple thing.

A necessary thing. A correction of an old, shameful mistake.

Alexia was the mistake.

You were the price.

And the worst part — the part that hollowed her out more than any blade — was the silence. The silence of those who should have loved her most.

Her brothers.

Her sisters.

Apollo, golden and bowed with quiet sorrow, but saying nothing.

Artemis, stone-faced, her mouth a tight, bitter line.

Demeter, tears running unchecked down her cheeks, but voiceless.

Athena, wise and ruthless, already looking past the grief to the ruin that would follow.

Not one of them raised their voice. Not one called her name. Not one even whispered a plea for mercy.

They pitied her. They mourned her. But they would not save her.

Alexia pressed her forehead against the cold stone of the column she hid behind. It was easier to stay hidden.

It was easier than looking into their faces and seeing that she had already been buried in their hearts.

They had mourned her a long time ago. Tonight was only a formality. Tonight they were digging the grave a little deeper.

But more than grief, more than betrayal, something colder, more savage, settled inside her chest.

Fear.

Because she knew. If they killed you this time, you would not return. No new life. No new dreams. No rebirth waiting just over the horizon.

The old laws were clear.

A mortal soul touched twice by divine love — twice by divine tragedy — could not be pulled back a third time.

The soul would not sleep. It would not scatter among the stars. It would vanish.

Oblivion.

A silence even gods could not undo.

Alexia clenched her fists so tightly blood welled from her palms.

The blood ran down her wrists and dripped soundlessly onto the cold marble floor. She didn’t feel it. She felt only the crushing, screaming knowledge rising inside her.

This is not just death.

This is annihilation.

This is the end of her world — truly, finally, forever.

There would be no distant stars to wish on. No faint songs carried through the tides of time.

There would be no you.

No memory.

No trace.

She would be alone. Truly alone.

And the universe would go on, blind and deaf and uncaring.

And she would carry your absence like a scar no time could heal.

She watched through blurred eyes as Zeus stood.

As he called forth his other son — the weapon bred for obedience, shaped to destroy without question.

"You will find her," Zeus said. "You will silence her."

The son bowed — a hollow, empty motion — and vanished into the storm gathering outside.

The gods stayed behind, quiet and unmoving.

Not triumphant. Not victorious.

Only weary. Only resigned.

They had already buried her in their hearts.

Alexia didn’t wait to hear their final prayers.

She had heard enough.

She slipped away through the crumbling side halls — places even the gods no longer walked.

The corridors were dark and empty, choked with dust and silence. Her footsteps echoed hollowly against the cracked stone.

The world she had once loved so fiercely had become a mausoleum — a tomb for a life she could never get back.

She passed the shrines she had built with her own broken hands — shrines no one knew existed, hidden in forgotten places.

Shrines built to you.

Not to gods. Not to heroes. Not to kings.

To you.

Each life you lived, honored in marble and flame.

Each name you wore, whispered into the stones like a prayer.

Each face you carried, carved with reverent, desperate hands.

She paused before one of the oldest shrines — a tiny alcove barely big enough to kneel in.

The name carved there was one you hadn't spoken in thousands of years — one even she sometimes forgot in dreams.

She touched the worn stone with shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice breaking open in the darkness. "I'm so sorry." And then she straightened. Slowly. Painfully.

Piece by shattered piece, she gathered herself together.

Because grief would not save you. Tears would not save you. Only action would. Only defiance. Only fury strong enough to shake the roots of Olympus itself. She would not lose you again.

Not while she still had breath in her body. Not while the earth could still tremble under her fury. Not while she still remembered how to love.

Two days had passed. Two days since the dreams cracked you open from the inside.

Two days since the old ache had begun to pulse steadily behind your ribs — a second heartbeat, slower, older, heavier than your own.

You barely ate.

You barely slept.

You walked through the streets of Barcelona feeling like a ghost — like the world had gone slightly out of focus around you, like everything was happening underwater.

The dreams did not stop. They only grew worse and better and deeper.

In your sleep you saw. the glint of a sword catching the dying sun, the flicker of golden hair caught in a storm, a hand reaching for yours across a chasm of smoke and ruin.

You woke with your cheeks wet and your hands shaking.

You didn’t understand what was happening to you.

You didn’t understand why everything hurt.

You only knew one thing

You had to go.

You left the city behind without thinking. Without packing. Without telling anyone.

You boarded a bus you didn’t remember choosing.

You got off in a town whose name you didn’t know.

You walked — out of the town, past the crumbling edges of civilization, into the waiting mouth of the forest.

The forest swallowed you whole. It wrapped itself around you, thick and green and ancient.

The canopy above was so dense it drowned the sunlight, turning everything into a cathedral of shadows.

The ground was soft beneath your feet — layers of dead leaves, moss, forgotten stones.

You pushed deeper into the trees without knowing why. Without caring why.

Something was pulling you. Something bigger than memory. Older than thought.

You came to a clearing.

At the center stood a low, crumbling wall — half-buried under ivy and time.

You stepped closer, your breath catching painfully in your throat.

You dropped to your knees, hands brushing the rough, ancient stones.

They pulsed faintly under your fingertips — warm, almost alive.

this was once your home.

The home where you had lived your first life.

The home where you had loved her.

The home where you had died.

The grief hit you without warning.

You folded forward onto your hands, gasping, the earth pressing cold and damp against your palms.

Tears blurred your vision, hot and desperate.

You knelt there for a long time.

The forest around you was silent — no birdsong, no wind, no life.

It was like the world was holding its breath. Waiting.

And hidden deep in the trees, unseen by you, someone else was holding their breath too.

Alexia.

She stood half-shrouded by a thick oak tree, watching you with a gaze so full of broken things it could have shattered the sky.

But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Not yet.

She was waiting — waiting for the right moment, waiting for the danger she knew was coming.

And it came.

At the edge of the clearing, across the broken stones and tangled roots, the air shimmered — a ripple, a distortion, a wound opening in the world. And from that wound, he stepped through.

Her brother. The son of Zeus. The weapon sent to kill you.

Alexia’s heart stopped. She recognized him instantly.

Broad shoulders, eyes cold and lifeless as winter stone.

He stood there at the forest's edge, watching you with no anger, no cruelty — only duty.

A predator.

A judge.

The end.

Alexia pressed herself tighter against the tree, her hand going instinctively to the hilt of the sword strapped to her back.

Her breath shuddered out of her — silent, frantic.

She could not cry out. She could not warn you.

Not yet.

Not without drawing all Olympus down upon you.

She watched, helpless, as her brother took a slow, deliberate step toward you.

Toward the girl kneeling in the ruins of her own forgotten grave.

Toward the soul that had already been stolen from her once.

Alexia gripped the hilt of her sword so tightly her knuckles burned white.

Hidden in the thick shadows of the trees, she watched the scene unfold before her — helpless, trembling with barely contained rage.

You had lifted your head.

You had heard the footsteps.

You had turned.

Alexia watched your face shift — from confusion, to unease, to polite caution.

You didn’t recognize him for what he was.

You didn’t know the danger standing at the edge of your life.

How could you? You only saw a stranger. A man in the woods. Nothing more.

Her brother smiled at you.

Alexia’s stomach twisted.

He called out to you — his voice light, cocky, dripping with false friendliness.

"Lost, are you?" he said, laughing lightly, as if he were just another hiker, another traveler, as if he didn’t carry divine orders wrapped around his bones.

Alexia watched you shift uncomfortably, rising slowly from where you knelt.

She could see the tension in your body — small, almost invisible, but it was there.

Some part of you knew something was wrong.

Her brother stepped closer — slowly, carefully, like a wolf approaching a wounded deer.

Casual hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders loose, mouth curved in a smirk that set every alarm screaming in Alexia's chest.

You answered him — your voice soft, uncertain — telling him you were just out here exploring, that you weren’t looking for anything in particular.

She heard the small catch in your voice.

She saw the way you took a tiny step back without even realizing it.

Her heart broke. You were trying to be polite. Trying to be safe. But you didn’t understand. You didn’t know there was no safety here. Not anymore.

Alexia’s breath came fast and shallow.

She pressed herself tighter against the rough bark of the tree, the ancient magic singing under her skin,

begging her to act.

Not yet.

She had to be sure.

She had to wait for the moment he moved — the moment his true intent revealed itself.

She couldn’t strike too soon. If she did — if the gods saw her break the law openly — they would descend like wolves.

Not just her brother.

All of them.

Her fingers tightened around the sword.

The blade pulsed faintly against her skin — a weapon forged for war, for defiance. A weapon that had not tasted blood in too long.

She saw her brother chuckle, easy and relaxed, as he circled a little closer to you. Saw the way his body tensed even as he smiled —readying himself for the kill.

She saw you laugh nervously in return, the sound brittle, unsure, your instincts clawing at you to run even if you didn’t know why.

Her vision blurred with fury. You were trying to be kind. You were trying to be human. And he — he was going to slaughter you for it.

Alexia’s whole body trembled with the effort it took to stay still. The blade in her hand sang for release. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it might shatter the world.

She could not watch you die again. She would not. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

Her brother reached into his coat — slow, casual, as if pulling out a map or a phone — but Alexia saw it. She saw the flicker of divine steel catch the dying light between his fingers.

The killing blow was seconds away.

Alexia moved. Silent. Swift. Deadly.

You didn’t understand what was happening at first.

One moment you were standing in the clearing, nervously smiling at the cocky stranger with something cold and wrong behind his eyes — The next, the world exploded into motion.

The man moved. Too fast. Too sharp. Too inhuman.

You saw the flash of steel in his hand — bright, final.

You didn’t have time to react. You barely had time to breathe. And then — another figure crashed into the clearing, a blur of speed and fury, a blade singing through the air.

Steel struck steel with a sound that split the world apart. Sparks showered the ground between them.

You stumbled back, heart hammering against your ribs. Shock rooted you to the spot — your legs refusing to move, your body refusing to believe what your eyes were seeing.

They fought like storms given flesh. The stranger — the killer — lunged again and again, his strikes brutal, precise, unrelenting.

But the other figure — the one who had come from nowhere — met him blow for blow. Faster. Sharper. More desperate. For a long, endless moment you could only stare. Frozen. Breathless.

Your mind screamed at you to run — but something deeper held you still. Some instinct, some ancient piece of you, knew. You had to see.

The stranger knocked the hood back from the other fighter’s head during a savage blow. And that’s when you saw her.

A glimpse.

Just a glimpse.

Golden hair tangled with sweat and blood. Eyes burning with a fury so fierce it nearly scorched the earth. A mouth set in a line of desperate, furious devotion.

Her.

Alexia.

The world around you seemed to lurch sideways. Your knees nearly buckled under you. A sound tore out of your throat — a gasp, a cry, you didn't even know.

Because in that one glimpse, the dreams you had tried to ignore, the visions you had told yourself were madness, the memories that haunted the edges of your sleep — They snapped into place.

Not all at once. Not perfectly. But enough. Enough to know.

The laughter by the river. The touch of a hand you trusted more than your own breath. The promises whispered against your skin. The final moment — her arms around you, her voice screaming your name into the ruins of the world.

It was all real. It had always been real. You were not crazy. You were not dreaming. You had lived. You had loved her. You had died in her arms.

The ground swayed under your feet. Your lungs burned with the effort of breathing. You could barely feel your body anymore — numb with grief, numb with wonder, numb with terror.

In the clearing, the battle raged on — steel flashing, snarls ripping through the heavy air.

You should have run. You should have moved. You should have screamed. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You stood there, frozen in the wreckage of your mind, watching the past collide with the present, watching the person who had loved you. fighting to save you.

You clutched at your chest, your fingers tangling in your clothes as if you could hold yourself together by sheer force of will.

Tears blurred your vision — hot, helpless, endless.

Because you knew. Because now, you could not deny it no longer.

The dreams were indeed memories.

The love was indeed real.

The loss was real.

The forest cracked open under the fury of gods. You stumbled backward, frozen, watching the impossible unfold in front of you.

The man — the stranger — lunged again, his blade gleaming bright and hungry under the roiling sky.

But Alexia met him with a roar, her sword flashing upward to parry the blow.

The clash of metal rang out like a scream, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

They moved too fast for human eyes to follow — a blur of gold and blood and desperation.

Steel struck steel, again and again — sparks flying, breaths tearing through the thick, heavy air.

Alexia gritted her teeth, driving forward with a brutal swing, forcing him back toward the broken stones at the clearing’s edge.

But he was strong — stronger than her in brute force. He ducked under her strike, sweeping her legs out from under her. Alexia hit the ground hard — her sword slipping from her grasp, clattering out of reach.

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth, heart lurching painfully in your chest.

The man grinned — vicious, sure. He kicked the sword further away and drove forward, dagger flashing from his belt — aimed straight at her throat.

But Alexia was faster. She rolled to the side, grabbing a jagged stone from the earth itself — and as he lunged again, she slammed it into his side.

Hard.

He stumbled, snarling, momentarily thrown off balance.

Alexia scrambled to her feet, blood dripping from her scraped palms, her chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths.

She didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t hesitate. With a cry that tore straight from the center of her soul, she threw herself at him.

Her hands locked onto his wrist, forcing the dagger upward — struggling, twisting, battling him hand-to-hand now.

You could see the muscles straining in her arms, the wild, frantic light in her eyes. You could see the realization, too — She didn't want to kill.

But she would. Because of you. Because if she didn’t — he would bury that blade in your heart without a second thought.

With a savage wrench, Alexia turned the dagger against him.

It happened almost too fast to see. A flash of silver.

A gasp. A burst of blood too dark against the clearing’s mossy floor.

Man froze — eyes wide, shocked — staring down at the dagger buried deep in his own ribs.

Alexia held it there — her hand trembling — her breath tearing out of her in broken sobs.

For a moment, they just stood there — frozen in a horrible, intimate silence.

"You shouldn’t have come," Alexia whispered.

man’s lips parted — but no words came. Only a breath — shallow, disbelieving.

His knees buckled. Alexia caught him as he fell — lowering him gently to the earth, like she could make this less monstrous.

She knelt over him for a single heartbeat longer, her hand trembling over the hilt of the dagger still buried in his side.

And then — slowly, with a shudder that wracked her whole body — she let him go.

He died with his eyes open.

Alexia rose slowly, blood-smeared, wounded,shaking — but alive.

She staggered a step back from the body, her sword slipping from her hand, falling to the ground with a dull, hollow thud.

Alexia turned toward you then — and the world fell away. Her sword slipped from her fingers, falling into the dirt with a dull, final sound.

Her hands — empty now — curled into helpless fists at her sides, as if she was trying to hold herself back, trying not to break apart before she reached you.

She took a single step closer. And then another.

Her eyes locked onto yours — wide, wild, full of a thousand lifetimes of grief, love, guilt, and hope.

It hit you like a storm breaking open in your chest.

Your heart stuttered painfully, like it didn’t know how to beat in the presence of something this real.

You wanted to run. You wanted to fall into her arms. You wanted to scream until the forest itself cracked open and swallowed you both whole.

But you couldn’t move. You could only stand there — trembling, shaking, breaking — as she came to stand before you.

"You're real," you whispered. Barely a sound at all —just a shattered breath in the heavy air. Your voice cracked painfully around the words. Tears blurred your vision again, spilling over before you could stop them.

You shook your head — small, frantic movements —desperate to make sense of it, desperate to deny it, desperate to believe it all at once.

"I thought..." Your voice broke completely. "I thought I was dreaming. I thought I was crazy."

Alexia’s throat worked around a broken, shuddering breath. Her whole body shook with the effort of holding herself together. Slowly — so slowly — her hand lifted.

Her fingers hovered near your cheek, trembling, as if she was terrified that touching you would make you vanish again.

Not touching. Just... close. Close enough to feel the warmth of your skin.Close enough to feel the fragile, fragile hope burning between you.

"You were never crazy," she said. Her voice was low, raw, wrecked beyond repair. Her face crumpled, her mouth shaking as she spoke. A sob ripped from your chest before you could stop it. You swayed toward her — your hands trembling as you reached out, just barely brushing your fingertips against hers. touch so fragile it could have shattered the world. But it didn’t. It anchored it instead.

"Alexia," you whispered, voice broken. Her name on your lips tasted like a prayer — like a home you had been searching for across endless, empty lifetimes.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and unstoppable. You reached up, wrapping your shaking fingers around her wrist, feeling the frantic pulse there, the desperate life still burning inside her.

She stared at you — devastated, awed, overwhelmed — like she couldn’t believe you were real either. And then she moved.

She closed the tiny distance between you, cradling your face in both hands now, her thumbs brushing away your tears even as her own fell freely. You surged into her touch — clinging, needing — feeling yourself collapse into the space between her hands.

The moment fractured. The dam broke. And then she kissed you. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate. It was savage with grief and longing.

Her lips crushed against yours, hot and trembling, and you kissed her back just as fiercely, hands fisting in the fabric of her ruined clothes, pulling her closer, anchoring yourself to her with everything you had.

When she finally pulled back,her forehead pressed to yours again, your ragged breaths tangled together in the cold air.

"I lost you once," she whispered, voice cracking, "I will not lose you again."

Her words wrapped around you like a shield, like a vow stronger than any god’s decree. You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Your hands stayed curled in her clothes, your whole body trembling with the effort to stay together.

Above you, the sky roared — a furious, wounded god waking from his throne. The trees shook. The stones cracked. The world itself trembled.

And from the edge of the clearing, out of the boiling storm and crackling fury, he stepped forward.

Zeus.

The King of the Gods.

The Father of Storms.

The Judge of Souls.

He stood taller than any mortal man, wreathed in roiling clouds, eyes burning like twin suns about to devour the world.

His presence alone nearly knocked you to your knees.

The ground shivered under him. The air itself seemed to recoil.

Alexia stood firm. Between you and him. Bleeding. Breathing hard. Refusing to yield.

"Step aside," Zeus growled, his voice loud enough to shake the trees to their roots. The stones cracked at his feet. The clearing itself seemed to shrink under the weight of his fury.

Alexia did not move "No," she said. The word cut the air cleanly, as sharp and final as a blade.

"You defy me," Zeus thundered. "You break the laws that have held our world together since before your first breath!"

Alexia’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She lifted her chin higher. "I break your laws," she said. "Not the ones written in the blood of love and loyalty."

Zeus’s face twisted into something monstrous. "You chose a mortal," he spat. "You chose weakness over your own blood. You let your heart poison your judgment. You let it corrupt you." His voice dropped lower, sharper. "And now you have murdered your own blood for her."

The words hit like stones. You flinched — shame and guilt surging even though you had no part in it.

Alexia stood straighter. Her jaw trembled, but she didn’t look away. "I didn’t," she said, voice hoarse. "You killed him the moment you sent him after her."

Zeus’s laughter cracked through the clearing — a terrible, hollow sound. "I sent him to protect our realm!" He pointed a hand at you, lightning gathering around his fingers. "Girl must die!"

You gasped, shrinking back. Alexia moved instantly — a shield, a wall, a force that no storm could tear down.

"She’s not a threat," Alexia said fiercely. "She’s my heart." Her voice broke — not with weakness, but with a love so fierce it shook even the storm. "My heart is not a threat to Olympus. But your cruelty is."

Zeus’s face twisted in fury. "You are no longer my daughter," he roared. "You are no longer of Olympus. You are nothing but a traitor. A butcher of your own blood."

Alexia flinched — not from the words, but from the memory they carried. She had loved her family once. But not enough to let you die again.

"If protecting her makes me a traitor," Alexia said, her voice steady even as her heart broke, "then so be it."

Thunder cracked the sky in two. The clouds seethed and screamed above you. "You would throw away eternity," Zeus said, voice trembling with wrath, "for a mortal who will crumble to dust before you?"

Alexia’s eyes burned with a fury to match his own. "I would throw away eternity a thousand times for her."

"You are a fool," Zeus snarled. "And you will die a fool’s death."

The ground split at Zeus’s feet. A bolt of lightning struck a tree nearby, splintering it in a burst of flame and smoke.

The heat washed over you, making you stagger.

Alexia stayed still — a fortress against the coming storm. "You’ll have to kill me first," she said. "And even then — my love will not die."

Zeus raised his hand. The sky trembled. The storm bared its teeth. The first strike was moments away.

The world seemed to hold its breath. The storm tore itself open above you — black clouds swirling in fury, lightning flashing like knives across the sky.

The earth cracked and groaned under the weight of ancient rage. And in the center of it all, they faced each other.

Father and daughter.

King and traitor.

Storm and flame.

Zeus struck first. Lightning poured from his hands — raw, blinding, violent — a spear of white-hot power aimed straight for Alexia’s heart.

She barely dodged. The blast tore up the ground beside her, sending shards of stone and dirt raining down around you.

Alexia rolled, blood smearing the earth where her hands scraped raw against it. She came up low, breathless, but standing.

Another strike — Zeus moved with terrifying speed for a being so massive, his sword flashing into existence in his hand, forged from storms themselves.

He swung it in a wide, brutal arc — and Alexia barely raised her forearm to block it. The impact threw her back again, skidding across the dirt, coughing blood.

You cried out — but your voice was lost under the thunder that roared through the clearing.

Still, she got up. Bleeding. Shaking. But standing.

"You shame yourself," Zeus roared, advancing, his sword trailing sparks where it scraped the stones. "You shame me!"

Alexia wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. She stood her ground, even as the ground itself trembled under Zeus's fury.

"I don't care about your pride," she spat, voice hoarse but fierce. "I don't care about Olympus." She shifted her stance — injured, weak, but unbowed. "I only care about her."

Zeus’s face twisted with rage. He lunged — a devastating blow meant to split her in two.

Alexia sidestepped, barely avoiding the blade, and drove her fist — glowing faintly gold — into his side.

The shock of it made Zeus stagger — but only for a heartbeat. He turned, catching her by the throat with one massive hand, lifting her off the ground with horrifying ease.

Your scream tore out of you, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t reach her. You could only watch — helpless — as Alexia struggled against the iron grip of her father.

"You would destroy yourself," Zeus hissed, "for a mortal that will never understand what you gave up."

Alexia choked, her hands clawing weakly at his wrist. She bared her teeth in a broken, defiant smile. "I don't care," she rasped. "I would choose her again. And again. And again."

With a roar of frustration, Zeus hurled her to the ground. She hit hard — the sound sickening in the silence that followed. You staggered forward a step, desperation burning through your body.

Alexia pushed herself up on shaking arms. Every movement was agony. Blood dripped steadily from a gash above her eye, soaking into the torn collar of her clothes. She couldn't even fully stand anymore — one knee buckled under her, forcing her to half-crouch.

But she lifted her head anyway. She faced Zeus anyway. She faced death anyway. For you.

Zeus lifted his sword. It gleamed, alive with stormlight, the blade thrumming with the gathered power of a god’s fury. He stepped toward her —slowly, heavily — the ground shuddering under each step.

Alexia knelt there, too broken to rise, but refusing to bow her head. Refusing to surrender.

The world seemed to narrow. to still. the wind died. the thunder paused. even the trees leaned in, holding their breath.

You watched — frozen, sobbing, your heart breaking into a thousand pieces — as Zeus raised the sword high above her.

High enough to kill her in a single, devastating blow.

High enough to end her.

And still — still — Alexia stared him down.

Still she protected you.

Still she chose you.

The blade flashed above her head.

The moment hung there — unbearable — on the edge of time.

About to fall.

About to shatter everything.

The sword moved.

It fell through the air like a sentence already written, too heavy to escape, too certain to be denied.

It was meant for Alexia.

It was meant to end her rebellion, her defiance, her love.

But you moved first.

So small.

So fragile.

So heartbreakingly human.

You threw yourself between her and the storm without a second thought.

Without hesitation.

Without fear.

The blade struck.

It drove straight through you, the impact so powerful it stole the breath from the world.

Your body arched for a heartbeat — a moment of terrible grace — before sagging forward, the steel buried deep in your chest.

Your blood spilled in a rush.

Dark and vivid against the grey of the storm.

And the world broke.

Alexia screamed — a sound so raw it seemed to tear the sky itself open.

She lunged forward, catching you before you fell.

Both of you crashed to the ground, her arms wrapping tightly around your broken body, desperate to keep you here.

Desperate to keep you alive.

"No—no, no, no," she sobbed.

Her voice was wrecked. Her hands fumbled helplessly over your wound, over your face, over every trembling piece of you.

She pressed her hands to the bleeding, to your slowing heartbeat, to the last warmth leaving your skin.

"Please," she gasped. "Please stay. Please stay. Please stay—"

Zeus stood frozen. Sword still gripped in his bloodied hand. He had meant to kill Alexia. He had meant to punish betrayal. He had meant to crush rebellion beneath the weight of law. Sword wasn’t meant for you, Not yet.

He had not expected you.

Not like this.

He thought mortals were selfish. Weak. Driven by fear. Chained to survival at all costs.

He thought — even if you loved — you would run.

You would scream. You would beg for life.

But you had done none of that. You had stepped into death with your head high. You had offered yourself, body and soul, without hesitation. You had thrown yourself into the path of a god's fury. for nothing more than love.

And it shook him.

Alexia cradled you against her chest, rocking you back and forth as if motion could call you back.

Her fingers threaded through your hair, desperate to memorize the softness, the weight, the preciousness of you.

She kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, as your skin grew colder and colder under her touch.

"I love you," she whispered against your brow. Over and over again. "I love you. I love you. I love you—" As if the words alone could build a wall strong enough to keep death away.

But your breath came slower. And slower. And slower.

Your eyes fluttered open one last time. You found her.

You smiled. A small, trembling, perfect thing.

You reached for her cheek with fingers that barely obeyed anymore.

You brushed away her tears.

And you mouthed the words back "I love you." No voice left. Only breath. Only soul.

And then you stilled.

Alexia pressed her face into your neck, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

Her body shook around yours, rocking with the force of grief too large for her to contain.

Zeus lowered his sword. Slowly.

Staring at your still body in Alexia’s arms.

At the love he had tried to destroy.

At the life he had ended.

And for the first time in countless lifetimes, the King of the Gods tasted something bitter on his tongue.

Not anger. Not pride. But shame.

Alexia held you tighter. As if love alone could pull you back. As if her heart could beat enough for both of you.

But it couldn't.

nothing would ever be the same again.

The storm crashed against the world. The rain fell in heavy, endless sheets, washing blood into the earth, soaking into the broken stones where you now lay cold and still.

Alexia knelt over you — her forehead pressed to yours, her body trembling with grief too large for her skin to hold.

When she lifted her head, something inside her was gone. Something human. Something soft.

All that remained was fire. And rage. And a love that refused to die, even as everything else crumbled.

She rose. Slowly. Painfully.

The wind ripped at her torn clothes, at her bloodied hands, but she barely felt it.

Her body was broken, but it didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

She screamed — a broken, animal sound — and launched herself at Zeus.

He turned just in time to catch her. Her fists beat against his chest, small and wild and furious.

Magic flickered uselessly at her fingertips, sparks hissing out before they could hurt him.

"Why?" she screamed. "Why did you take her from me?!" Each word was a blow. Each sob was a blade.

Zeus’s jaw tightened. He caught her wrists. Held her struggling form with far more gentleness than his rage should have allowed.

"Enough," he said, his voice low and heavy with something like regret. "This is over."

He shoved her back — not cruelly, but firmly.

Trying to end it. Trying to push her away, to walk away. To leave the ruins of what he had done behind him.

Alexia stumbled, falling to her knees in the mud.

Zeus turned his back on her, starting to walk away into the storm.

The sword hung heavy in his hand. His shoulders bowed low. Like he wanted to forget. Like he wanted to bury what had happened.

But Alexia rose. Broken. Bleeding. Breathless.

But she rose.

Because she had nothing else left. Because without you, there was no purpose. No future. No reason not to fight until her last breath.

She charged at him again.

A flash of gold against the storm.

A cry of pure heartbreak.

Zeus heard her coming. He turned — reflex, not thought — and his body reacted before his mind could stop it.

His hand shot out. A bolt of raw power, wild and unmeasured, leapt from his palm.

It struck Alexia in the chest.

Dead center.

The impact lifted her off the ground, throwing her backward like a broken doll. She hit the stones hard — a sickening, final crack echoing through the clearing.

Alexia lay crumpled where Zeus's blow had thrown her, her body broken beyond healing. Every bone screamed. Every breath tasted like blood.

But she was not dead. Not yet.

Her fingers twitched weakly against the stones, scraping through the mud and blood.

Her vision blurred, the world swimming in and out of darkness.

Her lungs burned for air she could barely drag in anymore.

Her ribs refused to expand. Her legs refused to move.

But still — still — she turned her head.

She saw you. A few paces away. So close, yet So far.

Lying silent and still in the mud, your body soaked through by the endless, uncaring rain. Your hair fanned out like a halo around your head. Your face too pale, too peaceful.

Her heart shattered all over again.

She needed to reach you. She needed to touch you one more time.

If she could just feel your skin, just once more, maybe she could find the strength to follow you wherever you had gone.

With a broken, gasping sob, Alexia dragged herself forward.

Her arms shook violently, barely able to hold her weight. Her legs refused to respond at all, trailing uselessly behind her.

Every scrape of her bloodied hands against the stones was agony. Every inch closer was a battlefield won.

And still Alexia crawled. One hand forward. Pull. Gasp. Collapse. Then another.

Her breath rattled wetly in her chest, each gasp thinner than the last. Her vision narrowed —shrinking down to nothing but you.

Your hand. Just a few inches away now. Waiting. Silent.

She sobbed, a broken sound that twisted the air around her, and reached out.

Her fingers trembled, slick with blood and rain.

Just a little further.

Pain lanced through her chest. Her vision dimmed again. Her heart lurched violently once, twice.

She almost collapsed. Almost gave up. But she didn't. She would never give up on you.

With one final gasp of broken strength, Alexia stretched out her hand. And touched your fingers.

The connection was feather-light, so soft it almost wasn’t real. But it was enough.

Her fingers curled weakly around yours. Not strong enough to hold you.

Only enough to say

I found you.

I love you.

I am coming with you.

Her forehead dropped to the ground, pressing against the earth that cradled your body. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips. Her body trembled once more.

Then went still.

Zeus stood frozen. Watching. Listening. Feeling — for the first time in an age — the full, unbearable weight of what he had done. The full, unbearable cost of a love he had never understood.

His daughter. His shame. His broken pride. Gone.

The world was smaller now. Quieter. Darker.

And in the center of it all — in the ruin of what had been — two bodies lay together.

Hand in hand.

Side by side.

Together.

Even in death, refusing to be separated. Even now.

Especially now.

Forever.

It was a quiet night. No gods roared. No thunder cracked the sky. Only stars scattered across the heavens, twinkling in solemn silence.

In a small town near the sea, a baby’s first cry rang out — sharp, fierce, full of life.

She kicked her legs wildly, as if already fighting unseen chains.

They named her Alexia.

Her mother laughed through tears, pressing kisses to her damp forehead, whispering promises of love and protection she could never fully keep.

Miles away, across green hills and winding rivers, another newborn blinked up at the ceiling with wide, wondering eyes.

Silent.

Observing.

Her little fingers curled around her father’s thumb — a soft, sure grasp for something she didn’t understand.

They named her Y/N.

Neither family knew.

Neither mother, neither father.

No one knew that inside those tiny bodies lived souls older than cities, souls carrying a love so deep, so stubborn, it had refused to die even when the gods themselves had tried to destroy it.

The world gave them new bodies, new chances. A blank page. A softer beginning.

Alexia learned to run before she learned to speak properly.

Her legs carried her across beaches, through dusty alleys, fast and wild and unstoppable.

There was a fire in her chest even then — an ache she could not name, a hunger to move, to reach, to find something missing. Something... or someone.

Far away, Y/N spent afternoons in fields of yellow flowers, sitting cross-legged in the sun, humming songs with no words. Her mother would ask, "What are you singing, sweetheart?"

Y/N would just shrug. She didn't know. The songs were inside her, old and aching and too big for her tiny body.

Alexia began to dream. Of waves swallowing cities. Of lightning shattering mountains. Of hands — warm hands — slipping away from hers in the dark.

She woke up screaming sometimes, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her parents would rush to her bedside, whispering soft reassurances, stroking her hair.

But she couldn’t explain it. She only knew it felt like losing something she had never really had.

Y/N too dreamed. But hers were softer.

She dreamed of gardens, of laughter she couldn't place, of arms that made her feel safe beyond reason.

When she woke, she cried without understanding why.

One sunny afternoon at a bustling seaside market, their families crossed paths.

Alexia tugged at her father's hand, drawn toward a particular stall — a place thick with the scent of oranges and salt.

Y/N, holding her mother’s hand, skipped past that very stall, laughing at something her brother had said.

For the briefest of moments, their shoulders almost brushed.

Alexia’s head snapped up, her heart tripping over itself.

She looked around wildly, frowning, searching.

But the crowd swallowed Y/N back up before she could see.

Y/N, too, felt it —a sudden shiver down her spine, a pause in her laughter.

She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd.

Nothing. Only strangers. Only noise.

And so they moved on, carried by the tides of life, two ships passing in the same ocean, never realizing how close they had been.

Alexia was a name starting to be whispered on football fields. Fast. Fearless. Fierce.

She trained until her muscles screamed, played until her lungs gave out. There was a fire in her blood she didn’t know how to put out.

Sometimes, standing on the grass under roaring stadium lights, she felt like she was chasing something she could never quite catch.

Something she was born to find.

Y/N sat at her bedroom window, a guitar balanced on her knees, writing songs by lamplight.

Songs of longing. Songs of missing.

Her friends laughed and teased,

"You're writing love songs about a person you haven’t even met yet!" Y/N only would smile.

Alexia signed her first professional contract.

The world opened before her — wide and brilliant and hungry. And still, at the end of every game, every medal, every headline, she stood alone under the stars and felt the same hollow ache.

She didn't know what it was. Only that she was waiting for something more.

Y/N released her first EP — soft, aching songs about oceans and storms and hands she couldn't hold.

Critics called her a dreamer. She smiled and let them. She didn’t write for them. She wrote for the echo inside her chest.

A charity concert. A football fundraiser.

One of those meaningless little events that no one really paid attention to.

Except fate did.

Alexia stood backstage, waiting for her turn to speak, nervous for the first time in years.

Music floated through the thin walls. Soft. Clear.

A voice like the first breath of spring.

She stopped breathing.

On stage, Y/N sat on a stool with her guitar, eyes closed as she sang.

The song was simple. A song about loving someone across lifetimes.

A song about promises that even time couldn't break.

A song written without knowing why — only knowing that it mattered.

Alexia's legs nearly gave out. Her hands trembled.

Her heart stuttered, then roared in her chest.

And when Y/N opened her eyes and looked straight at her — through the crowd, through the noise, through the years — they both knew.

Without memory.

Without explanation.

Without words.

It was her.

It had always been her.

They fell in love like breathing.

Easily.

Painfully.

Inevitably.

Coffee dates that stretched into sunrise.

Football games with Y/N screaming Alexia's name louder than the whole stadium.

Songs written on scraps of napkins and sung into Alexia’s laughing mouth.

Home.

Finally.

On a warm summer evening,

Alexia sat on a porch swing, a lazy hand running through Y/N's hair as she dozed in her lap.

The sea sighed in the distance.

The stars blinked overhead — the same stars that had witnessed their endings and now, finally, their beginning.

Alexia leaned down, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s forehead.

She didn’t know why, but she whispered anyway

"I've waited my whole life for you."

And Y/N, half-asleep, smiled.

This time, they were home.

Together.

Forever.

(I think this story didn’t go as I expected 😆it’s not good)

[vivid-dreamscapes]

Boyfriend!Ekko who, when you don’t get to come along on raids, makes sure to say “this is from [reader]” at least four times when hitting one of Silco’s goons.

Boyfriend!Ekko who gladly accepts scrap metal parts you find him, finding ways to make his hoverboard faster, or making tools and weapons to use.

Boyfriend!Ekko who watched you help paint the mural, and begrudgingly lets you use the non-toxic paint on his face, painting little hearts or stars or firelights on his cheeks.

Boyfriend!Ekko who rarely ever has a high sex drive—in fact, the thought of making love to you rarely ever crosses his mind, and when it does, it’s not like he needs you then and there.

Boyfriend!Ekko who, when he does get in bed with you, is nothing but sweet. He’s soft, praises you the whole time, and honestly could be a top or bottom. He’s really a very vanilla kinda guy.

Boyfriend!Ekko who watches you play with the younger kids in the firelight base with a smile. Scar honestly wonder sometimes if Ekko has baby fever, but he doesn’t really. Maybe when your both older and threats aren’t constantly presenting themselves.

Boyfriend!Ekko who refused to let you come to raids when he knew Jinx might make an appearance. He knows how many Firelights he’s lost to Silco’s almost-daughter, and he’s not willing to let you be one of them.

Boyfriend!Ekko who lets you come to a mission where Jinx makes a surprise appearance, and you handle yourself so well against her, he never doubts you or keeps you out of raids again.

Boyfriend!Ekko whose hut is rarely even his own. When he tinkers with stuff, your there chatting about your day to give him some background noise. He likes your voice.

Boyfriend!Ekko whose hut isn’t just his even at night, because you often stay the night. You both have plenty of nightmares, but his are definitely impacting his sleep. For a while now, you two basically cuddle and talk about random things until you fall asleep.

Boyfriend!Ekko who can cook well…but only some things. There are a few dishes he can make perfectly, but other than that, he’s not great in the kitchen. But he takes pride in making you dishes Benzo taught him when he was little. It’s all worth it to see the look on your face when you eat it, even if you’ve had it a million times.

!Not proofread!

My first tag list! If you could call it that. Hope it works!

@spncrrdlvr

BEGGING FOR REQUESTS 🙏🙏🙏

[cosmiclily]

the ruins of our world- part two

•vi x firelight!reader

part one

wc: 3.2k

notes: hmm… a little angst on this one i’m sorry 😞 i tried to make it as fluffy as i could, but i hated pitfighter vi (don’t get me wrong she looked hot as fuck, but she was going through so much, i could write an essay about her), anyways here is part 2!!

The next time you heard of Vi, she was still running around with that Piltie, doing what she thought was helping—tracking down Jinx, taking on the Chembarons, fighting battles that weren’t just hers to fight.

But in the middle of all that, you never once crossed her mind.

She never asked about you. Never came by to see how you were doing, how the Firelights were holding up. Not even a simple hi—nothing.

It stung more than you wanted to admit.

You had spent years mourning her, carrying the weight of her absence like a wound that never fully healed. And now that she was back—alive, breathing, fighting—she still wasn’t here.

Not with you.

But the first time you saw Violet after everything, you couldn’t believe your eyes.

You were on your way back to the base, arms weighed down with medical supplies, when a dark blur caught your attention. Normally, you wouldn’t have spared a second glance—this part of the Undercity was always crawling with drunks and adrenaline junkies, itching for a fight or drowning themselves in some underground ring.

But something about this figure made you stop.

Maybe it was the way they carried themselves, that unmistakable swagger hidden beneath exhaustion. Or maybe it was the mop of hair—different in color now, but still achingly familiar.

Your breath caught in your throat, heart hammering against your ribs as realization settled in.

It was her.

Vi.

She was slumped near a set of stairs, barely conscious, her breathing shallow. The bandages wrapped around her chest were filthy, stained with the same paint smeared across her face, which was covered in fresh cuts and bruises.

You really wanted to leave her there.

It was petty, sure, but after everything? After she disappeared on you—after Jinx blew up the council, after she was back on Zaun and you heard nothing from her? You figured she deserved it.

But as much as you wanted to turn away, you couldn’t.

“Vi?” You crouched down, nudging her shoulder, but all you got in response was a low grunt. “Do you live here? Can you get up?”

She made a noise, cracking one eye open. Bloodshot. Unfocused. “Shhh, don’t yell… I live upstairs” she mumbled, pointing lazily toward the steps.

You sighed. “Alright, help me get you up there.”

You hooked an arm under hers, trying to lift her, but she was dead weight—all muscle and stubbornness, and definitely drunk out of her mind.

Vi let out a breathy laugh, tilting her head back against your shoulder. “Y’know… you look like a friend of mine. Did you know that?”

Her words were slurred, barely making sense.

You swallowed hard, ignoring the way your chest ached.

“Yeah, I have a familiar face” you muttered, brushing off the lump in your throat.

It took way more effort than it should have to drag her up the stairs—her body was heavy with exhaustion, with something deeper than just drunkenness. Every few steps, she mumbled incoherent things under her breath, but you didn’t stop to listen. You just focused on getting her inside.

When you finally managed to shove open the door and lay her down on the bed, you took a step back, glancing around.

The place was bare. No pillows, no blankets. Just a thin mattress, bottles scattered across the floor, and a single dim light flickering in the corner.

Your stomach twisted.

You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling slowly. You weren’t sure what you expected—maybe for Vi to be better than this. To have somewhere to go, someone to lean on. But it was clear now that she had no one.

You turned to leave, stepping carefully over the bottles, but something made you stop.

You looked back at her, curled up in a tight ball on top of the tiny bed. She looked so small. So different from the Vi you had once known—the girl who had always stood tall, shoulders squared, ready to fight the world.

Now, she just looked tired.

Your voice barely carried over the sound of the flickering light.

“What happened to you?” you whispered.

──────────────────────

From that day on, passing by her place became part of your routine. You told yourself it wasn’t on purpose, that it was just a coincidence, but deep down, you knew better.

It took a week before you spotted her again—and you weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

Vi was sitting on those same stairs, a clear bottle dangling from one hand, her knuckles bruised and raw. The paint on her face was smeared, probably from a mix of sweat and whatever fight she had thrown herself into this time. Her jacket was half off her shoulders, exposing more bandages, more reminders of how reckless she had always been.

She looked like a mess.

"Did you get tired of running around with the Piltie?" The words slipped out before you could stop them. You knew it was mean, but seeing her like this—bruised, disheveled—it hit something deep inside. "Did she dump you?"

Vi raised her eyes at you, her expression a mix of confusion and anger. The sharpness in her gaze made it clear that she wasn’t in the mood for your questions.

"It’s none of your business” she muttered, her voice low and laced with exhaustion. She tried to shift herself upright, but the alcohol and whatever else she had been drowning in clearly had her off balance. "What are you doing here?" she added, as if you were the one out of place.

You hesitated. You should’ve walked away. You should’ve kept going, because everything about this felt wrong. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

"I don’t know" you admitted softly, taking a step closer. "Maybe I was hoping you'd let me help. Maybe I just wanted to know what happened to you, Violet."

There was silence for a moment. Her eyes flickered with something—regret, pain, or maybe just the weariness of everything she'd been through. She didn’t say anything, just sat there, eyes staring into the distance.

You had never seen her like this before, so broken. It was hard to believe that this was the same woman who had once been a symbol of strength, someone who could face anything without flinching.

"Vi..." You knelt down in front of her, trying to catch her eyes. "Please, talk to me. You’re not alone in this."

She clenched her jaw, but it was clear she was struggling. Her pride—her wall—was crumbling, piece by piece. And even though she didn’t admit it, you could see it. She needed someone, and deep down, you knew it was you.

"I’m sorry," she whispered, so softly you almost didn’t hear it. "I didn’t know how to... I didn’t want you to see me like this."

You reached out, gently placing a hand on her cheek. "Vi, you don’t have to hide from me. Whatever you’re going through, we can figure it out together. You don’t have to be alone."

She finally looked at you, her eyes tired and filled with regret. For a moment, you both just stood there, the weight of everything that had happened between you hanging in the air.

"I don’t deserve your help” she muttered, her voice rough.

"You do" you replied, your voice firm. "You always have."

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Vi didn't pull away.

You once again helped her up the stairs, and this time, she was conscious enough to at least support some of her weight. Her steps were unsteady, but there was a faint spark of awareness in her eyes, a glimmer of the old Vi you remembered.

You opened the door with a small kick, the creak of the hinges echoing in the quiet. The apartment looked exactly the same as last time. The bathroom sink was stained with black paint, the bed was still bare, and bottles were scattered across the floor.

"Don’t mind the mess," Vi said dryly, her words laced with bitterness and a touch of forced humor. "Didn’t have time to clean. Didn’t know I was gonna get visitors."

You couldn’t help but feel the weight behind her words. She was trying to make light of it, but you could see it—her frustration, her exhaustion. But you didn’t comment on it. It didn’t matter.

"It’s fine," you replied, walking over to the bed. "Just sit down. Where do you keep your medical supplies?"

Vi gestured weakly towards a rickety shelf across the room, the movement slow and labored. "There” she muttered, her eyes not quite focused. "First aid kit’s on the top shelf, if you can reach it."

You didn’t hesitate, walking over to grab the kit. As you opened it and started to gather the supplies, you couldn’t help but feel the gravity of the situation. Vi had always been strong, the one who took care of everyone, the one who protected you. And now, here she was, broken and vulnerable, and you were the one taking care of her.

When you returned to her side, she was sitting on the bed, her gaze fixed on the floor. Her hands were trembling slightly, but she made no attempt to hide it.

"You don’t have to do this," she said softly, as you carefully cleaned the cuts and bruises on her arms. "I’m a mess. You shouldn’t waste your time."

You paused for a moment, looking at her. "Vi, you’re not a mess," you replied, your voice gentle but firm. "I don’t really know what happened, but I know you’ve been through a lot. And I’m not wasting my time." You continued to focus on bandaging her arm, your hands steady despite the weight of the moment. "You’ve always had my back. It’s my turn to have yours."

There was a long pause as you worked, the silence heavy with the years of hurt and distance between you both. But beneath that, there was a quiet sense of hope—maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something different.

Vi let out a shaky breath. "I don’t know how to fix this" she admitted, her voice cracking slightly, her vulnerability raw and unguarded.

“You don’t have to fix everything right now. You just have to take care of yourself first.”

Your voice was soft but firm as you tied off the last bandage around her arm. Vi’s skin was warm beneath your fingers, marked with fresh bruises and old scars. When you looked up, your gaze traced the cuts scattered across her face—the one on the bridge of her nose, another on her cheek, the split on her lip.

The black paint was still smeared across her skin, covering up the worst of the damage. You sighed, grabbing a cloth and running it under some water from the sink before gently pressing it against her face.

She flinched at first, but then she let you.

As you wiped away the paint, more of the bruises beneath were revealed—deep purples blooming into greens and yellows, proof of just how much she had been through. You worked carefully, your movements slow and deliberate, until her skin was clear again.

“I want to help you,” you murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair away from her forehead. “Even if you think you don’t need it, even if you try to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Your fingers lingered near the tattoo on her cheek, tracing it lightly. Vi leaned into your touch without hesitation.

“You do need help,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now. “And I’m here. You can lean on me.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slowly, the corners of Vi’s lips tugged up in something small, something fragile, but real.

And you thought that maybe—just maybe—she was going to be okay.

──────────────────────

After that night, after she let you in—both into her home and into whatever mess of emotions she was drowning in—you couldn’t just walk away.

You promised her you’d come back. You had taken one look at that bare mattress and knew you couldn’t let her keep sleeping like that. It wasn’t just uncomfortable—it was wrong. Vi might be stubborn, might not ask for help, but she deserved better than this.

So you did come back.

You explained everything to Ekko, and he only nodded, encouraging you to do whatever you could for Vi. With his help, you gathered some supplies from the Firelight base—a pillow, some sheets, a towel that wasn’t falling apart at the seams. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And now, here you were.

Standing outside her door, arms full, you knocked—loudly. “Wake up!”

Nothing.

You shifted the bundle of supplies in your grip and knocked again, harder this time. “Viooleeett!”

From inside, you heard a thud, followed by a string of curse words.

“I’m coming!” she yelled, her voice hoarse and groggy.

You smirked.

A few seconds later, the door creaked open, revealing a very disheveled Vi. Her hair was even more of a mess than usual, sticking up at odd angles, and her eyes were still heavy with sleep. She squinted at you, rubbing at her face before glancing down at the supplies in your arms.

“What the hell is all that?” she muttered.

“Basic human necessities,” you shot back, stepping past her into the apartment without waiting for permission. “Pillow, sheets, a towel that isn’t falling apart. You’re welcome.”

Vi snorted, closing the door behind you. “Didn’t know I was getting a personal maid.”

You rolled your eyes, setting everything down on the bed. “Yeah, well, your old one got sick of you, so they sent me instead.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. But when she looked at the things you’d brought—really looked—her expression softened.

“…Thanks,” she said, almost too quiet to hear.

You just smiled. “Anytime.”

──────────────────────

You started stopping by Vi’s place more often after that. At first, you were careful, hesitant—trying not to push too much, to respect whatever boundaries she might have. But before you knew it, you were spending more time at her place than at your own.

You still had your duties at the Firelight base, of course. You were one of the few medics there, and that meant long nights patching up injuries, restocking supplies, and making sure no one bled out from their own reckless choices. But even after those long shifts, your feet carried you back to Vi’s without a second thought.

And she let you.

Some nights, the two of you barely talked. You’d sit across from each other, sharing a meal in silence, or just exist in the same space without words. Other nights, she talked about everything—Caitlyn, Jinx, the fight, the explosion, about her time in stillwater, the choices that led her here. She told you how she saw drinking and fighting as an escape, a way to not think, to not feel.

And you listened.

But healing wasn’t linear and it wasn’t easy.

Some nights, you found her passed out drunk—on clean sheets, at least. The room still smelled of alcohol, but the bottles seemed to stop piling up, and you were patient. You cleaned up after her, made sure she didn’t hurt herself, made sure she woke up with a bucket nearby so she wouldn’t be sick all over the floor.

One night, though, things were different.

You walked in to find her sitting on the edge of the bed, a half-empty bottle in her hands. She wasn’t completely out of it yet, but you could see the storm brewing behind her tired eyes, the weight of everything crushing down on her again.

“Vi…” you started, stepping closer.

“Don’t.” Her voice was sharp, but it wavered at the edges. She ran a hand through her hair, exhaling harshly. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you still believe in me,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Like I can be saved.”

You frowned. “You can—”

“Can’t you see that I’m broken?” she snapped, suddenly on her feet, eyes burning with frustration. “There is no fixing this!”

Her voice cracked at the end, but she turned away before you could see the full extent of it. Her fists clenched at her sides, shoulders tense like she was bracing for a fight.

But you weren’t going to fight her.

Instead, you took a slow step forward, your voice steady. “I don’t want to fix you, Vi.”

That made her pause.

You reached out, carefully, placing a hand over one of her clenched fists. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t look at you either.

“I just want to be here,” you said softly. “For you. With you. However you need.”

The silence stretched between you. Then, slowly, her fingers uncurled beneath yours. The tension in her shoulders eased just a little, like some part of her was finally letting go—if only for a moment.

“Go to sleep,” you said gently. “We can talk about this in the morning.”

Vi hesitated, like she wanted to say something else, but instead, she just nodded. She sat back down on the bed, exhaling as she let herself sink into the mattress. You picked up the half-empty bottle, turning it over in your hands for a moment before setting it aside.

You started making your way toward the door, ready to leave her to rest, when you heard the sheets rustle behind you.

“Stay…”

It was barely more than a whisper, but you heard it.

You turned back, meeting her gaze in the dim light. There was something raw in her expression, something vulnerable. You had seen Vi in all kinds of states—furious, reckless, determined—but this was different.

A quiet plea.

A part of you hesitated. The bed was small, barely enough for one person, let alone two, but none of that really mattered. If she needed you here, you weren’t going to leave.

“It’s going to be a tight fit,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips as you stepped closer, “but I can try.”

Vi let out a breathy chuckle, shifting to make space for you. You kicked off your boots and carefully slid in beside her, your body awkwardly pressed against the edge of the bed. It wasn’t the most comfortable setup, but none of that mattered when Vi turned slightly, hesitating for just a second before wrapping an arm loosely around your waist.

Your heart skipped a beat.

You stayed still, barely breathing, waiting to see if she’d pull away, but she didn’t. If anything, she pulled you a little closer, her head resting just near your shoulder.

“Y’know…” Vi’s voice was quiet, rough from exhaustion. “I think I finally get it.”

You tilted your head slightly, glancing at her. “Get what?”

She let out a soft, humorless laugh, fingers idly tracing patterns against your side.

“That true love’s always been by my side.”

Your breath caught.

Vi didn’t say anything else after that. She just sighed, letting her body relax fully for the first time in what felt like forever. But even as she drifted off to sleep, her arm stayed firmly around you, holding you like she was afraid you might disappear.

And for the first time in years, Vi wasn’t running.

���─────────────────────

masterlist

[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.

[rexscanonwife]

It's actually SO much fun trying to imitate the Arcane rendering/painting style?? I mostly eyeballed it for my first try and I think it turned out really good! I still gotta put together an official outfit ref for my s/i but man...I honestly can't stop thinking about them so here's a couple of little sketches as well!! 😭😭 (little lore dump + taglist under the cut!)

They were childhood friends, maybe even sweethearts, but they were definitely close! Unfortunately, my s/i's family fell on some pretty hard times, and she needed to find some kind of work to help support them. Suddenly she didn't have much time for him, and Viktor ended up alone again. They still cared about each other, but they grew apart, and with Viktor eventually moving topside to attend the academy she was left behind.

I imagine that they meet again just a little bit before Viktor meets Jayce when he's paying a visit to the Undercity and they bump into each other by chance. As an adult, she's running a body alterations shop with her best friend (my irl best friend hehe) where they do tattoos, piercings, even prosthetics! Later in the series, the shop is taken over by Silco but the two of them act as a sort of information hub for the Firelights.

I'm still working on some of the lore, like how she ends up meeting Jayce and Mel too and how they all end up dating but Viktor was the first one she fell for 💖 and a funny story that my mom told me once is actually that when I was a toddler she occasionally babysat a neighborhood boy named Victor!! We played together and bcs I was a baby I couldn't pronounce his name correctly so I called him 'pictor' and kinda bossed him around 😂 needless to say I'm using that in my lore!! I don't know something is just so special to me about childhood friends to lovers and I'm cooked aren't I??

Taglist♡: @me-myself-and-my-fos @tiny-cloud-of-flowers @sunstar-of-the-north @dearly-beeloved @adoredbyalatus

@changeling-selfship @crushes-georg @cherry-bomb-ships @rosieaurora @rejaytionships @tropgothships @little-miss-selfships

@starlos-soulmate @limey-self-inserts @candyheartedchy @space-sweetheart @halsinkisser @clancykisser @squips-ship @berryshipbasket @soulnottainted @homevideorentals @cordshake @emceescha

[thelostclassics]

Hiii! I love your writing style! I wanted to request, if possible, Henry with a slightly plump girlfriend, like in a "ancient greek beauty" way, I think he would be head over heels because of it. Maybe he enjoys that she's not really insecure about it, and that instead of rejecting the "girly" part of it, she embraces it. I think he would be "sweet" (well, as much sweet as Henry Winter can be, which is barely tender lmao)

I absolutely adore this idea. Thanks for requesting, babe! 💙

Venus in marble and flesh.

Pairing: Henry Winter x fem!reader

Warnings: none I believe, soft!Henry, use of Y/, as said in the request; reader is described as being plump.

It wasn't the first time Henry had observed her as if she were a sculpture, but it was the first time she had noticed him.

Y/n was sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, her legs crossed under her skirt and her hair pulled back in a messy way. They were at Francis's house, as so often, with the others scattered among the garden, the couches, or in private rooms where conversations grew thicker.

She was laughing at something Richard had said-a soft, enveloping laugh, like wind chimes-as she leaned back slightly, leaning on her arms. It was then that she felt the stare.

She raised her eyes and Henry was watching her from across the room, a book in his hand that he was clearly no longer reading. His expression didn't have the fierce intensity he displayed when discussing philology or strategy. It was something else. Something quiet, restrained. Something that made her feel... seen.

“What?” she asked, smiling, one eyebrow raised naturally.

Henry took a second before answering. He closed the book leisurely, set it down on the low table, and walked over.

“It's nothing," he said at last, standing in front of her, "I was just thinking about how you'd fit perfectly into a Hellenistic bas-relief.”

She let out a little laugh, amused.

“Are you saying I look like a fat marble goddess?”

“I'm saying that classical beauty has nothing to do with lightness," he answered, in his low, slow tone. “And that there's something about you... round, serene. As if the centuries did not touch you.”

Y/n looked at him with narrowed eyes, half amused, half surprised. The way he spoke was so uncommon, so utterly devoid of superficiality, that it disarmed any defense before he could even raise it.

“I don't mind you seeing me like this," she said, looking down at her own body, where the soft curves of her hips and thighs filled the space like a Botticelli painting. Then she looked at him again, "I suppose some people would be embarrassed. But not me.”

Henry bowed his head barely, as if approving of what he had just heard. Then, in a gesture as simple as it was revealing, he sat down behind her on the rug, and with studied slowness, placed both hands on her shoulders.

“Good," he murmured, as his fingers began to massage her neck with methodical clumsiness. “Because I like it that way.”

She let out a restrained laugh, closing her eyes with a sigh.

“You know, if you were anyone else, I'd think you were trying to seduce me.”

“And if you were anyone else," Henry replied, his voice low, "it wouldn't work.

The fire crackled between the two of them.

And though Henry was not the kind of man who kissed lightly, that night-in the shared silence, with the firelight dancing on his classical forms, with her warmth enveloping him like an ancient spell-he allowed himself to lean into her cheek and brush her skin with his lips. Barely an instant.

A simple gesture.

Almost imperceptible.

But for him, more intimate than anything else.

———

It was Sunday morning and Francis' house was still sleeping under the weight of the collective hangover. Outside, the sky was overcast with low clouds, but inside it was warm, permeated with the smell of wood and freshly brewed coffee.

Henry was in the kitchen, white shirt rolled up and hair messier than usual. He was slowly moving a teaspoon inside a porcelain cup, almost mechanically, as if he had been doing that for her for years already.

Y/n entered quietly, her face still sleepy and her body wrapped in a thin robe that didn't belong to her, one of those she wore when she was at Henry's or Francis's house. She walked to him barefoot, with that quiet, confident gait he had learned to recognize without looking. He noticed her before she spoke.

“Is it for me?” she asked, her voice still numb.

Henry simply extended the cup to her.

“You know it is.”

She took it in both hands and smiled against the hot rim.

“You're going to spoil me.”

“You already are," he muttered, sipping his own coffee. “Which isn't necessarily a bad thing.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds, leaning against each other on the counter, not needing to fill the space with words. It was one of those routines they had started unintentionally: he would get up earlier, make coffee, and wait for her to come seeking warmth and comfort in his arms or in the cup he extended to her.

“Are you going to keep reading Plotinus all day?” Ophelia asked after a sip.

“Yes" he answered, without irony. “But only if you stay with me.”

Y/n turned her face to look at him. The way Henry said those things, so simple and so clear, without embellishment, without posturing, still disarmed her a little. As if it were impossible that this man, so hermetic to the world, would let her see so clearly that he needed her near.

“I'll stay. But only if you read aloud to me afterwards.”

“Done.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and Henry, without thinking, slipped his free arm around her waist.

And there, in that silent kitchen, with the alien world still asleep, she felt more loved than anywhere else. For with Henry, love was not fuss or declaration; it was presence. Routine. Permanence.

Later, they were both in the library, which smelled of old dust, leather and paper, with that unmistakable perfume of the eternal. Outside it was raining with an almost monastic constancy, but inside silence reigned.

Y/n was sitting on the window sill, with a blanket covering her legs and a book in her hands. The fogged glass softened the gray light coming in from outside, and enveloped her in a milky, almost dreamlike glow.

Henry was at the desk, presumably taking notes on a Greek treatise he had been meaning to review for weeks. The pen rested in his hand, but the ink had begun to dry without his noticing.

He watched her.

He wasn't just watching- he was observing her.

The way her hair fell, still damp, in soft waves over her shoulders.

The delicate curve of her cheek, rounded, smooth.

The slight fold of her belly under the blanket, natural, unconcealed.

Her hips, wide and calm, as if they belonged to another era.

A baroque goddess wrapped in wool and books.

Y/n did not hide. She never did. There was something about her that offered herself to the world with serene firmness, with that gentle confidence of one who knows and accepts herself. There was no shame in the way she moved, or in the way she pulled her sweater across her chest, she carried herself with confidence.

Henry had spent years surrounded by marble, by perfect ideas, by impossible symmetries. But now...this.

Her.

She lived in his body like a living sculpture, but with more than form: with warmth. With laughter. With soul.

“Are you going to keep looking at me like that, or do you want me to read aloud?” Y/n asked without looking up, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Henry blinked. He hadn't noticed that she had stopped writing, or that the pen had dripped a dark stain on the paper.

“Both of those things sound good to me," he replied with complete seriousness.

She let out a soft laugh, closing the book carefully.

“You're a mess, Winter.”

“I am a man distracted by his muse," he replied, as if reading a passage from Herodotus.

Y/n rose from the windowsill, dropping the blanket at her feet. She walked toward him unhurriedly, the soft creak of the floor accompanying her steps.

When she reached the desk, Henry leaned over without a word and rested his forehead against her belly, wrapping his arms around her waist. Y/n stroked his hair tenderly, silently. Then, she sat on his lap and nestled her cheek on his chest. Henry read to her as he stroked her hair.

There, among bookshelves full of dead voices and rain pattering on the glass, Henry Winter allowed himself a moment of total surrender.

Not to an ideal, not to a theory, not to an idea.

To her.

To her real, warm, beautiful body.

To life.

[arcane-ish]

"but what was his tax policy" and way too lenghty ramblings about Vander's statue and reputation

Which always makes me wonder who built the statue of Vander that we see Silco talk to. Because who else in Zaun actually has the funds to build something that size? Did Silco keep up the lie that Vander started the Lanes and led rebellions and was a hero? (It wouldn't surprise me if Silco did it to keep the crowd on his side as he took over the Last Drop. That man has so many unaddressed issues, I love him.)

@out-there-tmblr

I have to admit I never considered that people don't know that Silco killed Vander and that he could have built the statue. It's a very interesting thought.

I just kind of assumed that it would have been in Silco's interest to be open about having killed Vander to appear fearsome and impressive? And the statue just looks very different to the more harsh/jagged "big brother is watching you" style that to me always suggested that Silco doesn't really try to make nice with people.

The statue looks kind of jagged, like it is made up out of spare parts that suggests more that it could have been built from scraps by amateurs rather than it was commissioned.

And would Ekko really sign a statue made by Silco to cover up the fact that he killed Vander?

So I just always assumed it must have been Ekko or people who feel like Ekko who built it. To me it always made some sense to me that it exists. That this and this would exist.

Like maybe the mural and the statue were created relatively soon after Vander's death. The mural in the Firelight base makes sense because that is just all Ekko.

I could picture somebody making the statue shortly after Vander's death, maybe even as a bit of a fuck you to Silco a "we remember that you killed the guy to get where you are and we the people were never asked if we were okay with it". There are signs that people came and tagged the statue, maybe that even maybe somebody comes and has to "keep the flame burning"?

And similarly even if the statue was meant as a fuck you, I can picture Silco not giving a shit (because he doesn't care as much what people think of him), or even find it funny. Whether despite his disagreement with Vander personally he doesn't mind if people hold up the image of a fellow revolutionary (ie I could easily picture not bothering to spread the news that Vander had a deal with Grayson and just portraying it as a normal power struggle and Grayson's death as an accident by werewolf the way the Pilties think it happened).

Or that he even thinks it's a cute that the people are rebellious (not to the extent to go and work with the Firelights, but you know, just appreciating that Zaun is kind of punky and wild).

It makes sense to me that the people of The Lanes might see Vander as a symbol of comfort and peace. ie maybe not everybody benefits from Silco's new reign. Also when somebody gets murdered it's not rare that people overemphasize their positive qualities. For that to work there really isn't much necessary than Vander being an okay, non-offensive leader. Doesn't tax people too bad, asks for their opinion, doesn't murder too many people (to their knowledge).

So that part doesn't seem too weird to me.

Firelight mural = that's just Ekko. Especially since season 2 establish that he can pull off a mural like that (okay maybe even in the AU he knew what people to ask help him or maybe he painted it 100% himself, doesn't matter, he is certainly the driving force behind it)

Statue = could have been built somewhat shortly after Vander's death. People have vague recollections of "things were better under Vander". Even that people still meet there for important political debates in a "townhall" kind of way doesn't bother me. You an still to agree to meet at Trafalgar square without having any opinion on Trafalgar.

No, what bugs me is this one.

How the fuck is Vander still a symbol of rebellion like what, 6-8 years after his death and 10+ years after presumably the last time he did anything revolutionary?

Especially since in this case we KNOW that Ekko (one of the people we know has an emotional connection to Vander) didn't paint it because he was sucked away by the hexcore and likely wouldn't just that casually made a mural celebrating Jinx at this point.

So somebody who is NOT Ekko had a high enough opinion on Vander to put him in a mural and a mural that represents revolution.

To me it has just always made more sense that within Zaun Vander would represent peace. Because the statue has always looked kind of peaceful to me with the soft glowing light. And it was Vander spent his last few years working on/building up. [maybe even longer since he seems to already be flirting with peacefulness in the Silco and Felicia flashback] And simply because to me it just seems like a very relatable thing that imo the vast majority of radicals/revolutionaries have to deal with: that they find out that in most situations the vast majority of people don't like revolutions and prefer peace/protection (see the long list of revolutions that were totally counting on "the population will rise up and support us!!" and completely whiffed on that)

As the mural venerates Jinx, there's a decent chance that one of the Jinxers made it. So why would they have a reason to have a deep opinion on a guy who those last claim to fame that we know off was to lead some sort of uprising on the bridge that got slapped down? Most of them seem young, so why would they care? There's a huge difference between somebody building a statue rather shortly after Vander's death when he might still be vivid in people's memory and years later*.

I guess a Firelight could have made it and maybe Ekko has been spinning on the tale of how awesome Vander was. But again, considering his age, shouldn't Ekko's experience be more about peaceful community leader Vander?

Admittedly, the underlying context of the mural is it being about at least one person who doesn't want it and who is in a very different frame of mind than what the mural depicts at least at that point in time. So it also misrepresenting Vander/it being there because somebody didn't properly know or understand his story is certainly feasible.

Anyway, really got me thinking that we don't really know what exactly Silco, Vander and friends really did.

The only thing we know for sure:

Built up/ran a bar

Organized something the bridge that escalated and went badly

Both Vander&Benzo and later Silco&Sevika collect "taxes" in the form of protection money

Vander seems to maybe be slightly more open to hearing from the people and responding to their wishes

We also know from writer hints that smuggling was big part of what Silco and Vander did.

Fixing the Mines

So in season one my working theory was that the mines were a shit place to work and maybe Vander & Silco "freed" people from having to work in the mines and instead shifted the economy towards more smuggling/trade which isn't as physically grueling. But that was kind of dashed by season 2 because it suggests that Connel and Felicia still worked in the mine even though Vander and Silco already own the Last Drop. So why would she still work in the mines if she could just work with them at the Drop?

Maybe they just vastly improved working conditions/worker safety? Or maybe they led a rebellion against the mine owners and actually succeeded in setting up a worker run mine?

That's the kind of thing that I could picture inspiring people years later even if it went badly (because looking around in history even short periods that feel like a lot of freedom and self actualization can inspire people for a long time even if historically speaking it wasn't around long).

Daring acts of crime

Then there's Vi's statement about the kind of stunts Vander would have pulled in his youth. So maybe Silco and Vander's early revolutionary activity contained a lot of daring and showy attacks on Piltover rich people that get them celebrated in the Undercity. Robbing big fancy townhouses and spreading the loot around generously (even if it's just by generously buying rounds or food). Or leaving showy calling cards.

Vander could be living off just that old reputation. And if he had a reputation for showy stunts against Piltover then maybe that would fit slightly better with why people might associate him with Jinx in a moral that specifically celebrates her color attack on Piltover.

Cleaning Up The Lanes I (fighting the old system)

I don't think that there's actually much trace of it. But it's a trope in a lot of fiction and I think it's worth thinking about what exactly where "the Lanes" before? Is it just one of those situation where there's always a long line of cruel crime bosses and Vander was one of the softest. And Vander and the gang got into power by picking fights with other criminal gangs and winning or by kicking out whoever was the previous boss?

And people have positive associations with that time period because they helped git rid of . Maybe that could be a good way to explain where the Hound of the Underground nickname could have come from, if they spent some time fighting or pacifying other gangs. (again personally I think it could also just be a pitfighting nick name)

Cleaning Up The Lanes II (establishing order)

Or were the Lanes lawless and Vander (with or without Silco) brought structure to it? Is this the first time the Lanes have a boss at all? If yes, what does that mean? Does it mean a pseudo government system, where taxes are collected from the ones who can afford it?

Was there maybe some sort of social system under Vander where maybe he collects the taxes and then has like a fund to like help people in need, like if they lost their house or had an injury? If Vander and Benzo collect taxes, what does Vander spend it on (presuming he might also have income from the bar?). Is that all going straight to feeding his kids

Silco when he rules doesn't live super ostentatiously either, but at least you can picture that the taxes he collects go to buying research materials for Singed or buying weapons or buying machines for Remi's factories.

(if Vander really had like the tiniest traces of a homemade social welfare system then maybe that would explain why people hold him in high regard years later, but again, how realistic is that?)

Or does running the Lanes mean for Vander that he like helped people negotiate their quarrels, like the barest hint of a court/justice system? If somebody acts out on the Lanes, what happens? Do people come to Vander and ask him to take care of it? Does he just keep his ear on the ground and go out and take out people who he perceives to act out? Do people show up at his place and ask him to decide in one of their quarrels? (I was thinking how in a bunch of RPG video games in the recent years they have introduced sequences where people ask you to decide a conflict, but even if it's not a "petitioning the duke" kind of situation, if Vander has a rule he's giving out, how is it handled when people go against that rule?)

Again going here with the idea that people might remember Vander positively if they perceived him as a guy they could go to for help and Silco later is more a hand off lawless "fix your stuff yourself" kind of guy where the normal people are concerned.

Like I said, I think Vander doesn't have to be a super duper special guy beyond "he was a nice charismatic guy with a bar people like to go to and who got killed surprisingly in way people don't really understand" for the statue to exist. But that he still gets remembered years later by people other than Ekko is more weird to me. And even if one assigns less value to the acts of season 2, there's still he whole "why does he have a nickname and reputation that even foreigners know" and what Vi is referring to with the stunts of Vander's youth that she presumably heard from other people about.

(and yes: I just wrote a whole "okay, but what would be his tax policy?" post)

[*and yes the mural that bugs me so much could be a "two part" one, ie the Vander part could be older and then somebody else added Jinx to the existing Vander mural, ta least getting around my "Ekko definitely didn't paint the Jinx mural" issues with it]

[s1e1lar]

“The Hollow Watchers” | various Creepypasta x youtuber!reader

a/n: now that im out of my depression slump writing is back in session!!

Wc: 6,691

CW: female reader, uncomfortable social situations, blood, feeling of being watched, panic attack, throwing up, and overall creepiness

⛧°.⋆༺🦇༻⋆.°⛧

The hallway felt endless, a stretched corridor lined with stained wallpaper and aged wood that creaked under their footsteps. Despite the clutter and chaos of the weapon room they'd just left behind, this part of the mansion was cleaner—more cared for. The kind of place someone went to think.

You still held the charm in your hand, the tiny ankh warm even through your palm. Every now and then, you’d glance at it, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Pestilence. That word clung to your mind like smoke. You didn’t know what it meant—not yet—but the weight of it, the scythe, EJ’s nod… it all meant something.

Toby walked beside you, still buzzing with excitement.

“You have no idea how rare that is,” he was saying. “Like, I’ve only seen something like that once, and it wasn’t good. But, like, in a cool ‘end-of-the-world’ kind of way.”

You gave him a sidelong glance. His cheeks were still scarred, that signature ticking echoing faintly with each jittery movement. But despite the chaos of his energy, you could tell he wasn’t just rambling to fill silence. He was watching you carefully—filing you away, just as you were doing with him.

EJ, as always, walked in complete silence. His hands were tucked neatly behind his back, his steps measured. You couldn’t tell if he was deep in thought or just listening.

The hall opened up ahead, tall double doors already cracked ajar. Warm light spilled from the space beyond, flickering like firelight and casting soft shadows on the floor. You could hear voices—low at first, then clearer.

And unmistakably… Jeff.

“I’m just saying,” he was saying, his voice irritatingly smug, “you see the way she walks? Bet she'd make real good—”

“You finish that sentence, I break your fingers.”

The new voice was cool. Calm. But beneath it was steel—like if you blinked wrong, it’d snap your spine in half.

You stopped.

Your eyes flicked to the speaker, and for a second, your brain stuttered. The man—no, the presence—looked like Toby. Same height. Same frame. But that was where the similarities ended.

A dark gas mask obscured the lower half of his face, worn and scratched but well-kept. His goggles, unlike Toby’s blinding orange ones, were the classic clear kind—pushed up onto his head, revealing sharp, inhumanly bright eyes that practically glowed atomic green. His hoodie was a deep, dusty blue, faded with time but clean, with the hood slouched against his back. A tan satchel hung from his side, heavy with unseen contents.

But what truly caught your attention was the symbol.

Stamped into the sleeve of his hoodie near his shoulder, barely faded, was a circle with an X drawn through it.

You froze.

You’d seen that before. Everywhere. Spray-painted on alley walls, carved into benches, scratched into metal poles near the outskirts of town. You always thought it was some weird graffiti tag, maybe from a rebellious art kid or a gang without imagination.

But now you knew better.

That symbol had meaning here.

The man in the mask turned as the group entered, his gaze snapping to yours the second you stepped through the doorway. And those green eyes—unnatural, sharp, electric—locked with yours in a way that made your breath hitch.

Jeff, for once, had gone silent. He didn’t meet your gaze. He didn’t smile. Not now.

“Eyes up here, princess,” the masked man said—this time to Jeff, who shifted uncomfortably but said nothing.

The room was vast—an enormous library that seemed to stretch both up and outward forever. Towering shelves lined the walls, heavy with old books, ancient tomes, and strange objects you couldn’t begin to name. But in the center of the room was something unexpected: a massive sunken conversation pit, circular, with deep couches and mismatched cushions scattered about. A fire roared quietly in the center, the light licking up.

It felt like a strange blend of eerie and… lived-in.

You felt EJ stop beside you, and you mirrored him instinctively.

“Library,” he said plainly. “Most meetings happen here. Most arguments too.”

Toby muttered a quiet “he’s not wrong” under his breath, his eyes darting between you and the masked figure.

You turned to EJ, voice low. “…Who’s that?”

EJ didn’t even blink.

“That’s Cody.”

Cody.

You filed the name away immediately.

Just like all the others.

Toby was already halfway down the steps into the sunken pit by the time you'd processed the room. He practically threw himself onto one of the couches, limbs flopping every which way like a scarecrow with too much caffeine.

"I call this one!" he announced, laying dramatically across the cushions with his arms behind his head. "Couch privileges. Seniority, baby."

You lingered near the edge of the conversation pit, arms still stiff at your sides. Despite the soft flicker of the fire, the room didn’t feel warm—not to you. Maybe it was the pressure of too many unknowns, too many killers sitting in a room like it was some twisted little family reunion.

Then, from behind, a gentle but firm tap between your shoulder blades. EJ’s gloved finger.

A nonverbal, "Move."

You scowled slightly but obeyed, your boots thudding softly down the stairs. You headed toward the couch without letting your eyes drift too long on anyone—especially not Jeff, who was now sprawled in a different corner with that smug grin starting to reappear. He hadn’t said anything since Cody stepped in, but you could feel the weight of his stare like a mosquito whining too close to your ear.

Just as you were about to sit, the hairs on your neck stood up.

Footsteps.

Two sets. Heavy and unhurried.

You didn’t need to turn to know who it was—you felt it.

Cold, sharp, dangerous.

They stepped into the room with the kind of silence that made your fight-or-flight reflex scream. Your gut twisted.

The man in the porcelain mask came first, dressed in the same Carhartt jacket from the mall—the one that had barely rippled when a hatchet was thrown. His mask was unnerving: completely featureless save for its empty eyes, like staring into a void.

Beside him was the one in the mustard hoodie, the ski mask stretched over his face like an insult. Two glowing red dots where his eyes should be, and a red downturned mouth painted in the shape of a permanent, cartoonish frown.

You could handle Toby.

These two? You didn’t even know their names, and yet your body already cataloged every muscle twitch, every inch of distance between you and them.

You clenched your fist so tightly you felt your nails press crescents into your palm, the ache keeping you grounded. For half a second, your body wanted to move. Kick. Strike. Put both these guys down hard.

Instead… you sat. Directly between EJ and Cody.

Cody barely looked at you as you settled, but you could feel his presence nonetheless—calm, silent, calculating. Unlike Toby, who radiated chaotic energy, Cody was stone. Still. The kind of still that made people nervous.

Your eyes flicked toward EJ. He sat closest to the steps that led out of the pit, arms crossed as if this whole thing was routine.

Good, you thought. If things go bad, that’s the exit. He’s my way out.

Then, without fully turning your head, you scoped the windows to your left. Tall. Thin. But they lined the wall directly behind you, opposite the door. Sunlight streamed in just enough to let you imagine it—grabbing a chair, a bookend, hell, even the scythe if you had to, and smashing your way out. Running through the woods barefoot if it came to it.

You were already planning.

Always planning.

And while your cereal still sat untouched somewhere in the kitchen, cold and soggy by now… this? This felt like survival again.

And you were good at survival.

The two masked men sat across from you in unison, like synchronized predators watching their prey from across the flame. The fire between you danced lazily, crackling with a low pop every now and then, casting deep shadows across their faceless visages. Despite how out of place it felt, the fire somehow didn’t fill the room with smoke. Just warmth. Controlled. Engineered.

You blinked at the flames, then up.

How the hell was there a fire pit in the middle of a damn library?

Your eyes scanned the towering shelves that surrounded the sunken pit like the ribs of some great beast, and eventually caught sight of an open skylight far above. A soft beam of late afternoon light trickled in through it. You almost relaxed—

Until you noticed eyes staring back.

Not just any eyes.

One was stark white with a pinprick of black in the center. The other? Pitch black with a swirling white spiral. No lids. No blinking. Just… watching.

"What the fu—"

You barely had time to gasp before a figure began descending—gracefully, almost theatrically—on a pair of thick, black-and-white acrobatic silks. If the situation hadn’t been straight out of a nightmare, you might have laughed at how absurd it was. But your heart was in your throat.

He dropped lower.

Slow, deliberate, inhuman.

And then he landed lightly just beside the fire pit. Not with a thud. With a whisper.

Your breath hitched.

He was completely monochrome. Like someone had dragged him from an old film reel and dumped him into reality. His skin was so pale it bordered on translucent, stretched thin over a tall, almost skeletal frame. His hair was wild, jet black, and shot in every direction like he’d electrocuted himself and liked it. A grotesque grin split his face unnaturally wide, exposing rows of jagged, yellowed teeth that didn’t belong in a human mouth.

His smile extended too far, impossibly so, as if the corners of his mouth had been pulled by invisible strings.

You froze, caught in the predator's gaze.

He wore a Victorian-style clown outfit, striped black and white from the puffy shoulders down to the oversized, pointed shoes. The ruffled collar bobbed slightly as he tilted his head, and even the gloves on his long fingers followed that antique harlequin pattern.

You stared.

He stared back.

Unblinking.

The fire between you popped, and you flinched.

“You got a name, pretty thing?” the creature asked, his voice a strange mix of melodic and grating. It scratched at your ears like a record just out of tune but still trying to hum a lullaby.

No one moved.

Toby leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, great. Now he’s here.” His voice was flat. Almost tired.

EJ didn’t react at all. Cody shifted subtly beside you, not out of fear, but readiness. You could feel it, like static coiling under his skin.

“Y/N,” you answered finally, your voice steadier than you expected.

The monochrome figure placed a hand over his heart and gave a bow so deep and formal it seemed mocking.

“Pleasure.”

Then his smile widened somehow—impossibly.

“You can call me Jack.”

Jeff burst into uncontrollable laughter, nearly doubling over in his seat across the fire pit.

“Are you serious?” he wheezed, slapping his knee. “No one told her about Jack? Oh, this is gonna be good—”

You tuned him out.

It was easier that way. His voice felt like nails on a chalkboard dragging through your spine at this point. Instead, you focused on the others. The ones who hadn't made a show of themselves yet. You needed to start piecing things together—how they moved, who they watched, who they didn't. Their power dynamics.

And then you felt it—just the faintest pressure on your thigh.

You flinched and looked down.

EJ, silent as ever beside you, was dragging the edge of his index finger along the fabric of your pants. His movements were small and methodical, letters forming with precision, the tiniest indent pressing against your skin as he wrote:

S-A-L-L-Y

You furrowed your brow and looked up.

And there she was.

You hadn't even seen her enter.

She was sitting on the floor just a few feet away from Jack, her tiny frame partially obscured by a low shelf. Pale—deathly pale, almost grey—her skin looked like porcelain pulled too tight over bones. Her wide, dark brown eyes were glossy and too big for her face, staring blankly at the fire as if it held the secrets to the universe.

Her hair was long and brown, straight but messily tangled at the ends, falling past her shoulders in jagged strands. She wore a faded pink dress that looked like it belonged to another decade, tattered at the hem and smeared with something too dark to be dirt.

Blood.

Her bare feet were tucked underneath her, toes curling against the plush rug, and in her small arms she held a teddy bear—worn, but oddly pristine. No blood. No dirt. Just a soft, faded brown bear clutched so tightly to her chest you wondered if it had grown there.

Around her, a faint glow pulsed—soft and cold. Like moonlight after a snowstorm.

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t have to.

Your stomach twisted at the sight of her. She was beautiful and broken and terrifying all at once. A child frozen in time—maybe literally—and the kind of quiet that carried weight. Not innocence. Not anymore.

Jack gave a little flourish with his arms as if presenting her on a game show.

“And that would be our darling little Sally.” His voice dripped with mock affection, but his eyes flicked to her with something else. Caution.

Jeff had stopped laughing.

Toby let out a soft hum, rocking back and forth in his seat like he was trying to match the rhythm of the flames.

You leaned toward EJ slightly, your voice low.

“What’s her deal?”

He traced out a single word against your thigh: D-E-A-D

You swallowed hard.

Sally blinked slowly and, as if sensing your question, turned to look directly at you. No smile. No frown. Just… eyes.

She raised her bear a little higher, nuzzled her face into it, then whispered something. You couldn’t hear it. But whatever it was, the air around her shifted.

You looked away.

And caught Jack’s eyes again—still fixed on you. Still smiling.

God, always smiling.

You’re still reeling from the last five minutes when you feel a subtle shift beside you.

Ben is there now—how he got in without you noticing, you have no idea. He’s perched on the ledge of the sunken conversation pit, legs casually dangling over the edge, resting against the back of the couch you’re sitting on. He’s slouched like he doesn’t have a care in the world, the sharp glow of his Nintendo Switch casting little colored flickers across his blank, pale face. The shell gleaming like it had been bought yesterday. Stickers covered the back—some cute, some chaotic. One was a low-res pixelated skull, another was a suspiciously realistic eyeball, and the rest… were better not stared at for too long.

He didn’t even look up, tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he pressed furiously at the buttons. A faint 8-bit melody leaked from the speakers—something unnervingly cheerful.

He doesn’t look at you. Just chews his bottom lip and keeps tapping buttons like the world around him is a game he already beat.

You’re about to shift away—just a little—when you feel it again.

EJ’s glove.

Slow. Controlled. Tracing a name into your thigh.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It’s higher now. Closer to your hip. The butterflies that had settled start clawing their way back up, but they’re tangled with something worse this time. Your stomach flips, cold sweat prickling the back of your neck.

You glance down.

C-L-O-C-K-W-O-R-K.

Longer name. More space. His finger trails the last curve of the "K" with a subtle press before he pulls his hand away like nothing happened.

You swallow hard.

And then you see her.

She’s leaning against the far shelf of the library like she’s been there the whole time, half in shadow, one boot crossed over the other, arms folded across a flannel-clad chest.

Clockwork.

The name sticks in your head like gum on concrete.

There’s a literal clock embedded in her right eye socket—real, ticking, alive. Its hands twitch subtly, gears clicking just loud enough to be heard under the crackle of the fire. The skin around it is torn and tight, a patchwork of bruises, faded blood, and stitches that look like they were sewn by someone angry and impatient.

Her other eye—still intact—is sharp. Bright green, or maybe hazel, depending on how the firelight hits it. And it’s locked directly on you.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Just… studies you.

You feel like a bug under glass.

Scars lace her face—across her mouth, down her chin, jagged and ugly in that "don't ask what happened" kind of way. Her hair’s pulled into a messy ponytail, but strands stick out in every direction like they’ve given up fighting gravity. She wears a dark green flannel, black tee underneath, ripped jeans, and beat-up combat boots.

If Frankenstein built a soldier, she’d be it.

Her expression doesn’t shift when you meet her eyes. There’s no friendliness there—but no hate, either. Just a quiet, burning awareness. Like she’s thinking: How fast can you run? How hard can you hit? And how long before I have to find out for myself?

You don’t look away.

And for a moment, just a flicker, one side of her stitched-up mouth quirks upward.

Not a smile. Not quite. But close enough to make your spine tighten.

Ben, without glancing up, lets out a low, bored snort.

"You're gonna die playing staring contests like that. Clock's never lost one."

You keep your gaze forward, pulse thudding as the tension in the room grows thick and crackling. You don’t even realize you’ve leaned slightly toward EJ until you feel the edge of his coat brush your arm.

Before you can say a word, Jack explodes with theatrical flair from where he’s now hanging half-over the back of the couch:

“WELL THEN!” he drawls, all manic energy and glee.

“Now that the gang’s all here… shall we begin our adorable little house meeting?”

Jeff groans somewhere behind you, his voice sharp and too loud.

“Ughhh, not this again. Who even made this a thing?”

“Probably Cody,” Toby chirps from the other side of the pit, flopped upside down on one of the seats like it’s a trampoline.

“He loves boring serious people shit.”

You barely hear them.

Because you can feel the presence again.

Them.

You stiffen slightly. Turn your head.

The two men from the mall—porcelain mask, and mustard hoodie with the ski mask and red markings. They still sit across from you, flames dancing between you and them, flickering light bouncing off their unnatural stillness.

There’s something about them that makes your instincts scream. Not loud like Toby. Not unsettling like Jack. Not clinical like EJ.

They’re deadly.

Even sitting still, saying nothing, they radiate a cold finality. Like if you breathed wrong, they’d put you down without a second thought.

Your hands tighten into fists.

Your knee bounces once, ready to launch toward the massive windows on your left. Easy escape, you think. One good kick, you could be through the glass. Maybe not clean—but free.

You flick your eyes to the stairs, to EJ’s shoulder beside you.

You’re not stuck. Not really.

But you are, for now, trapped in a den of monsters.

And every single one of them just started watching you like you're part of the collection now.

As soon as EJ prepares to speak, the room goes unnervingly silent. The tension thickens, like the air’s been sucked out of the room, and all eyes shift toward you. You feel it—the change. You’re no longer just an observer, a bystander to their madness. You’re one of them now, in some twisted way.

EJ clears his throat, breaking the silence with his usual, monotone voice.

“Obviously, not everyone’s here, but you all should spread the word just fine. Y/N is joining us. She won’t be living here full-time, but she’ll definitely be sleeping in her room tonight. Her first mission is on Halloween, in a couple of weeks. Before then, she’ll come around occasionally for details and training.”

The room seems to stir at this, mutters spreading like wildfire. You feel the weight of their judgment in every quiet exchange, the whispers skittering through the room like cold wind.

Then Toby, always with his tic, speaks up. His stutter barely masks the excitement in his voice.

“She g-got Pestilence.”

For a second, everything stops. Then, the room erupts.

Ben’s face lights up with a twisted kind of amusement. His fingers stop twitching on the buttons of his Nintendo Switch, eyes wide in something that looks like respect—or maybe a little fear. Jack, leaning forward from his seat, grins so wide you can see every sharp, jagged tooth in his mouth. His eyes gleam with curiosity. Cody, his expression always neutral, allows himself a small, approving nod.

But the rest of them? They don’t seem as pleased.

The room fills with shouting, voices cutting through the air with anger and disbelief. Sally’s small figure barely moves, but her eyes, dark and deep as an ocean, never leave you. Porcelain Mask, one of the men you saw at the mall, snarls under his breath.

“Pestilence? That’s who we’re taking in?”

You don’t catch the rest of his words, but you can feel the mockery in his tone. They’re questioning you, judging you already.

Before the argument can go any further, there's a sudden pop behind Ben. It’s so sudden, it almost makes you jump, but you’re quick to spin around. There, standing just between the shelves, is Nina. She steps forward with a casual, almost careless grace, her eyes studying you with mild interest.

“Woah, that’s impressive, newbie,” she says, her voice a mix of disbelief and casual curiosity.

The way she says it—half-sarcastic, half-amused—makes you feel like you’re still on some kind of test, something she’s been watching unfold for a while. She gives a small chuckle, but her eyes remain sharp, calculating.

The room, once buzzing with confusion, quiets again, and the conversation shifts toward you, like everyone’s just waiting for your reaction. You can feel the pressure of their gazes on you, each of them sizing you up, dissecting you from the inside out.

EJ’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Enough,” he says firmly. “The fact that she got Pestilence means she’s got potential. Whether you like it or not, she’s part of this now.”

His words land heavy, like a stamp of finality. No more arguments. This is happening. And you're caught in the middle of it, tangled up in something far darker than you can understand.

The others shift in their seats, still grumbling under their breath, but it's clear that whatever protests were brewing are now muted.

Clockwork, eyes never leaving you, doesn't speak. But you can feel the weight of her gaze, intense, as if she’s dissecting every part of you. The same goes for Ben, still too focused on his Switch but giving you the occasional glance, the look of someone trying to gauge if you're an ally or a threat.

You’re part of this now.

Whether you want to be or not.

And as much as you’d like to bolt, escape from this twisted house of horrors, you know one thing—you’re trapped. With no clear way out, no answers, and no idea what the hell you’re supposed to do next.

And just when you think you can breathe, Nina tosses out her last line, casually but pointedly,

“Guess we’ll see how well you handle your first Halloween.”

Her words echo in the space between you and the others, another cold reminder of what you’ve signed up for.

The tension in the room is palpable, suffocating. You feel it rising within you, a pit of raw frustration threatening to break free. You can’t help it—every single person here, their faces, their voices, the way they look at you like they own you, like you're nothing more than an experiment or a tool—it makes something inside of you snap.

EJ senses it too. He moves quickly, his hand pressing against your arm, a subtle reminder to ground yourself. But the touch does little to calm you. Instead, it ignites something darker within you, and as you try to swallow the words building up in your throat, they spill out before you can stop them.

“You think you're all so special, don't you?” You hear yourself say, the words sharp and venomous. “You, Toby, with your stupid stutter and your incessant tics. You think you’re funny, but really, you’re just pathetic.”

Toby’s face flickers with shock. His eyes dart nervously, a quick flash of hurt before the usual mask of arrogance falls back into place.

“And you, Ben? You think your little video games and your sad attempts at normalcy make you any less twisted? You’re not ‘innocent,’ you’re just a child hiding behind a screen, pretending this is all a game.”

Ben flinches, but doesn’t respond. He turns back to his Nintendo Switch, fingers stiffening on the buttons, but you can see the way his shoulders tense. He’s not as unaffected as he pretends to be.

Your gaze lands on Jack next, and the sneer that curls your lips surprises even you.

“You? Jack? What are you, the resident clown?” Your voice drips with disgust. You hide behind that freaky smile, but we all know you’re just as messed up as the rest of them.”

Jack’s grin widens, but there’s a flicker of something—guilt? Shame? You can’t be sure, but it makes him hesitate for just a moment.

“And you, Jeff...” You finally turn to the man who stands farthest to you now, his imposing presence shifting as you glare at him. “Don’t even get me started on you. You’re all high and mighty, wearing that ridiculous hoodie like you’re some kind of god. What’s under there, huh?” You take a step forward. “Scared of what you really look like?”

Jeff’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes narrow, the gaze sharp enough to pierce through you. He opens his mouth, but you don’t wait for him to speak.

With every word, your heart races faster, your breaths becoming more erratic, your fists clenched so tight your knuckles turn white. It feels like all of the rage, the confusion, the helplessness you’ve been holding inside for so long is coming out all at once. You don’t even care anymore. You just want them to feel it, to know how much they’ve pushed you, how much they’ve hurt you.

“You’re all monsters.” The words slip out like acid, burning with the truth you don’t want to face. “And I don’t know why the hell I’m even here, why you thought I could ever be part of this.”

EJ’s hand tightens on your arm, trying to anchor you, but your emotions have taken over. You stand abruptly, the movement sharp, as if your legs have a mind of their own. Without even thinking, you start to walk toward Porcelain Mask and Ski Mask, the two men from the mall, the ones who wanted to kill you then.

Your vision blurs with fury as you march toward them, ready to do whatever it takes to make them feel something—anything. But before you can reach them, you feel a strong pull on your arm. Cody is standing, his grip tight on your shoulder, forcing you to stop.

“That’s enough.” His voice is low, but there’s an undeniable authority in it. The words cut through your hysteria, and for a second, your vision sharpens, and you realize where you are.

You try to jerk away from his grasp, but Cody doesn’t let go. He pulls you back gently, but firmly, keeping you at a distance from the others, and his eyes are locked on yours, intense, unwavering.

“Calm down.” His voice is colder now, like steel wrapped in velvet. “You’re not going to get anything by provoking them like this. It won’t help you. It’s not your fight. Not yet.”

You look at him, chest heaving, body still on edge, but the words start to settle in. The anger, while still burning inside you, loses some of its power. You're still trembling, but now you’re more aware of the situation. You’re not alone in this mess, and maybe—just maybe—this is the moment you need to choose your next move wisely.

Cody doesn’t release his hold right away. He keeps his hand on your shoulder, steady and unwavering, as the rest of the group looks on, some with curiosity, some with confusion. You’re all silent for a beat, the room frozen in an awkward stillness.

EJ’s voice cuts through again, more composed than before, though the edge of his authority still lingers.

“Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s continue. Halloween’s coming up, and you all know what that means.” He pauses, glancing at you briefly, his fingers still gently pressed to your thigh. “Y/N’s mission starts then. Get ready.”

The rest of the group falls quiet again, but the weight of the moment isn’t lost on anyone. You’re no longer just the new girl—you’re one of them now, and that means learning to walk their dangerous line.

The room slowly empties, the buzz of conversation fading into the distant echoes of the mansion. It feels like a weight lifts off your shoulders, but the tension in your chest remains, taut and ready to snap again at any moment. EJ gives a final nod, his voice cool as he calls out, “Get some rest, everyone. We’ll reconvene later.”

No one dares argue. They all shuffle out, some lingering to give you strange looks, but the majority seem eager to retreat to whatever dark corners they call home in this place. You watch them go, feeling the burn of their glares lingering like a heavy cloud, then turn back to EJ, who’s already stepping toward the door. Cody follows, his gait slow and deliberate as he waits for you to catch up.

“Let’s go,” EJ mutters, his hand gesturing toward the hallway. You follow them silently, not saying a word. Every footstep echoes in the vast, unsettling quiet of the mansion.

Cody doesn’t say anything for a while, until you reach a door at the end of another long hallway, the sound of your shoes tapping against the cold floor loud in the stillness. When you stop at the threshold, he reaches into his tan satchel, pulling out a small, sleek cellphone. He glances at it for a second before handing it to you.

“Here. Boss man wanted me to swap out your sim card.” He then gestures toward the small, vibrant keychain attached to your keys that’s now dangling in his hand. It’s clear from the look in his eyes that he’s a little amused, but there’s no denying the slightly strange mix of something almost sentimental about the charms attached to it.

Your fingers curl around your keys instinctively, but a bitter taste rises in your mouth. You barely stop yourself from snapping at him. “You damaged my phone? Took my stuff?” Your voice cracks slightly. “You didn’t have the right to mess with it.”

Cody shrugs, his expression unbothered. “ He said to make sure you didn’t have anything traceable on it. If it helps, I got you a new one, so you can stop whining.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look, but as you take the new phone, your eyes flick over the screen. The moment you unlock it, a flood of names and numbers start to populate the contact list. You don’t even need to check to know what it is—it’s a list of residents.

You immediately scroll through it, seeing names that make your stomach tighten. They’re all here—people you’ve seen, people you haven’t fully met, the people who are part of this mansion, this life you’re unwillingly caught up in. But there’s something about it all that gnaws at your mind. How long have they all been watching you?

Cody leans against the wall casually, watching you as you scroll through the list, a half-smile tugging at his lips. “What’s the matter, huh? You’re starting to realize the weight of all this?”

You look up at him, biting back a retort. You don't need to explain yourself to him. Instead, you focus on the strange flood of feelings running through you. This new phone, a fresh start but with an unsettling layer of control behind it. The numbers, the faces, all linked to a life that you don’t know if you can ever escape.

Cody’s eyes flick to the phone again, his voice breaking the silence. “Don't worry, the list will make things a bit easier for you. You’ll want to know who’s who in this place sooner or later.”

His tone shifts, a little darker. “And if you’re smart, you’ll learn to rely on your resources.”

The implication is obvious. It’s not just about survival. It’s about playing the game. But you know that already. You feel it—the instinct to protect yourself, to build some kind of power where you can. And with this phone, these numbers, you're one step closer to gaining some control.

“Right.” You mutter under your breath, your fingers tightening around the new phone, a cold feeling settling in your gut. There’s nothing left for you to do but accept the situation, at least for now.

Cody gives you a brief, almost careless nod as he steps aside, gesturing toward the door. “Your room’s in there. Boss said you’ll sleep here tonight. But don’t get used to it. We’re all going to be moving around soon enough.”

You look at the door for a moment, the weight of everything pressing down on you. You don’t feel like you belong here. Not yet. But you have to. For now, this place is your reality. You can either accept it and survive, or rebel and risk everything. Neither option is comfortable.

With one last glance at Cody and EJ, you step through the door, the weight of the situation bearing down on you. The phone feels heavy in your hand, the names and numbers blurring together as your mind spins.

The mansion is silent behind you. But you know it's far from peaceful. It’s a cage, and you’re its newest occupant.

And now you have to figure out how to break out—without getting broken first.

You step into the room, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft, hollow sound. It’s a surprisingly large space, especially considering where you are. The bed is neatly made, a thick, plush blanket covering it, but it’s the attached bathroom that catches your attention first. You let out a small, involuntary sigh of relief.

"At least I won't have to share," you mutter under your breath, feeling a slight sense of comfort that’s quickly overshadowed by the unease gnawing at the back of your mind.

You glance around, the feeling of being watched creeping over you. You swallow hard, nerves on edge. The furniture in the room is simple but functional—nothing too fancy, nothing out of the ordinary. But that’s the problem. Everything about this place feels like it’s been designed to keep you off-balance, to keep you questioning what’s real, what’s normal.

The room feels too clean, too quiet, and the silence presses against your ears like an invisible weight.

With slow, deliberate steps, you start another walkthrough of the space. Your eyes scan every corner, every shadow, looking for anything that might give you a sense of control in this claustrophobic space. You tug open the closet, inspecting it for anything out of place. It’s barren. Just clothes—simple, almost plain, hanging from hangers.

But then your gaze shifts, scanning the walls, the shelves, the light fixtures. You press your fingertips to the corners of the ceiling, searching for hidden cameras, hidden microphones—anything that could be lurking just out of sight. The paranoia builds, tightening around your chest, but there’s nothing.

Nothing.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re just being paranoid. You have to be. But still, the feeling of being trapped, of being watched, won’t leave. It feels like the walls are closing in on you.

Your phone pings, breaking the tension in the room.

You pull it from your pocket, almost relieved to have something to focus on. The message is from your roommate.

Hey, where are you? 4:32pm

Are you okay? 7:05pm

You stare at the message for a moment. You’re supposed to be with her. You’re supposed to be back home, in your apartment, far away from this nightmare.

But you can’t go back. Not yet. Not until you figure out what’s going on here—why they’re keeping you, what they want from you.

You sit down heavily on the bed, fingers trembling as you type a response, the words feeling hollow and fake even as you send them.

I’m fine.

I’ll be back tomorrow night. Don’t worry. 7:06pm

But as soon as the message is sent, a wave of dread washes over you. The weight of the situation finally hits you, crushing down on your chest. Your heart begins to race, the blood in your veins turning to ice.

You try to take a deep breath, but your lungs betray you. It’s like there’s not enough air. The walls feel like they’re getting smaller, closer, pressing in until you can’t breathe, can’t think.

You tear at the bedding, throwing the blanket off the bed in frustration. The soft fabric tangles around your fingers as you claw at your skin, trying to escape the feeling of suffocation. You can feel the panic rising—its sharp claws digging into your throat, making it harder and harder to stay calm.

Your mind races. There’s no escape. There’s no way out of this. You’re stuck here, and no one can help you.

The tears start to fall then, hot and fast. You can’t stop them. You feel them running down your face, your chest shaking with the force of it.

But somehow, you don’t scream. Instead, you stand, feeling the weight of your own body. Your legs are weak, and everything feels like it’s spinning around you.

Without thinking, you turn and rush to the bathroom, your stomach churning as the panic takes over. You barely make it before you’re retching, bile burning in your throat, and everything comes up in a messy, violent rush.

You clutch the edge of the sink, gasping for breath, the cold porcelain grounding you, but it doesn’t make the feeling go away. It doesn’t make the anxiety stop gnawing at your insides.

Slowly, shakily, you pull yourself away from the sink. You turn the shower on, running the water as hot as it’ll go, steam billowing up around you. You step into the stream of water, letting it hit your skin, letting the heat sear through you.

You stand there for what feels like an eternity, the water scalding against your skin, and yet it doesn’t seem to be enough. Nothing feels enough.

Eventually, the panic fades, the adrenaline seeping out of your bones. The shaking doesn’t stop, but the worst of it passes.

After a long while, you turn off the water. You wrap yourself in a towel, thanking the heavens above you found one in the cabinet below the sink, but the exhaustion is undeniable. Your limbs feel heavy, like lead. You stand there for a moment, staring at your reflection in the fogged mirror, before you gather enough energy to make your way back to the bed.

The bedding is still tossed aside, but you pull it back over yourself, curling into the warmth, the weight of it heavy and comforting.

You close your eyes, not able to fight the exhaustion any longer. You don’t even care that the bed is still cold, or that you’re wrapped up in a mess of blankets.

For once, you don’t care.

You just need to sleep.

[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?

[belit0]

i think the uchiha would love a cozy candlelit hygge type relax sesh. like you walk into their house and its just candles everywhere (cuz fire is sacred to them). some of the stubborn old timers refuse to switch to electricity bc of it lol

They thrive in a candlelit, fire-glow atmosphere.

That rich, amber warmth flickering across black stone floors and wood-panel walls? That's peak Uchiha vibe.

You walk into an Uchiha home and it smells like cedarwood, faint smoke, and something slightly spiced—clove maybe, or sandalwood.

The kind of scent that clings to robes and lingers in your hair after you leave.

Every room has low-burning candles in cast-iron holders or carved lacquered bowls, and the flames aren't just for light—they’re revered.

Some elders probably still chant soft prayers when lighting them.

And yes—those old-timers? They’d definitely mutter something like:

–Artificial light dulls the spirit. Let the Senju flick their switches like cowards.

Meanwhile, Izuna’s there with his feet up, dramatically bathed in firelight like he’s in a painting, sipping tea and saying:

–It’s about ambiance. You wouldn’t understand.

Madara? Full hearth going at all times.

A traditional brazier in the center of the main hall, incense curling from the edges. If someone dares bring in a modern lamp, it mysteriously disappears the next day.

Coincidence? Never.

Even the kids are taught how to light a candle with chakra instead of matches—properly, without arrogance.

It's sacred, not flashy. A way to show control. Focus. Pride.

And of course, when it comes to hosting guests?

The Uchihas pull out their best fire-glow. Soft floor cushions, mulled wine, heavy quilts draped over shoulders, the quiet crackle of flame while someone hums a lullaby from the old days.

A clan built on intensity, but when they rest—they do it in warmth, shadow, and that ancient reverence that says:

This flame is ours. It always has been.

[hanstruman]

Running Water, Ruthless Hands

chapter 4

Hyunjin's voice is soft, threading through the quiet tension like silk. "Y/N, I'll introduce you to everyone later," he says, barely above a whisper. "But please, follow me to my room."

You blink at him, caught in a moment of disbelief. The flickering firelight plays against the walls of the hallway, casting long shadows. His gaze holds yours, earnest and unwavering.

"Remember what I said," he adds, a protective edge to his tone. "Nobody will hurt you."

You nod slowly, the echo of your own footsteps sounding louder than usual as you trail behind him. When he opens the door, warmth spills out like a memory of a time before everything fell apart.

The room is glowing softly in the firelight, like a capsule untouched by the infected world. The bed is neatly made, blankets pulled tight, corners tucked — too careful to have been done in a rush. There are paintings on the wall, some done by hand, some clearly torn from books and framed with scrap wood.

You pause. "Who started the fire for you?"

Hyunjin glances at it for a moment, like he hadn't even noticed. "Probably Minho. He knows what time I usually get back when I go out."

It's strangely comforting, the casualness of it — as if this kind of care still exists, even now.

"I know this is a surprise," Hyunjin continues, moving toward a dresser, pulling open a drawer. "But we still have running water. Please — take a shower. I have towels for you, and a pair of warm clothes."

He meets your eyes again, softer now. "Make yourself at home. Rest in bed after, if you want. I need to go speak to Chan."

He pauses like he wants to say more — like there's a hundred things he hasn't found the words for yet — but then he just gives you a small, almost sad smile, and steps out, the door closing quietly behind him.

And for a moment, you're left with warmth — not just from the fire, but from him.

The words "running water" echo in your ears long after Hyunjin's footsteps disappear down the hall.

Running. Water.

You stand frozen in place for a moment, staring at the closed bathroom door like it might vanish if you blink. Your fingers tremble slightly as you push it open. The bathroom is clean—cleaner than anywhere you've been in a long time. The mirror's not cracked, the sink's not rusted, and the faucet doesn't groan when you twist it. It just runs. Steady. Clear.

You reach into the shower and turn the knob. It sputters at first—your heart lurching—but then it gives in, and water spills from the showerhead like it's nothing. Like this is still a normal world.

It's not hot, not exactly, but it's not cold either. Somewhere in the middle. And after nearly a year without a real shower—after months of dirt and blood and sweat and fear clinging to your skin like second flesh—it feels like salvation.

You rip off the thin, blood-stiff clothes in a rush, the fabric peeling from your skin, and step under the stream. The water hits you like a thousand tiny needles, and it's overwhelming. You lean against the wall, eyes closed, as the grime of survival slides off you and spirals down the drain.

He has shampoo. Actual shampoo. And body wash. Which is strange, considering Hyunjin's rocking a buzzcut that probably doesn't even need much soap. You run the thick lather through your hair anyway, your fingers catching on snarls and dried blood.

Maybe someone else in the group has longer hair. You wonder who else is part of this little haven. You'll find out soon enough. You rinse off slowly, reluctant to step out of the one thing that feels remotely human again.

When you finally do, you find towels exactly where he said they'd be. Fluffy. Clean. The clothes are clearly his—soft cotton, oversized on your frame, smelling faintly like firewood and something warmer underneath. Like comfort. You slip them on, grateful in a way that aches in your chest.

You don't lie down. You can't. Your heart's still pounding from too much: too much kindness, too much warmth, too much uncertainty.

So you open the door and step quietly into the hallway. The firelight from the main room spills around corners, and just as you round one, you hear voices—sharp, cutting through the stillness.

Hyunjin.

"I told you, Chan, we can't make her leave. She's frail—she's freezing."

You stop. The voice that answers is lower, firmer. Controlled, but laced with frustration.

"You betrayed what you went out for, Hyunjin," the other man—Chan, you presume—says, voice dark with disappointment. "You weren't supposed to bring anyone back."

Your pulse hammers in your throat. You inch closer to the wall, pressing your back against it, trying not to breathe too loudly.

"She wasn't going to survive out there," Hyunjin bites back. "You saw her. She was barely standing."

"That's not the point," Chan snaps. "You risked everything—our supplies, our safety—for someone we don't even know."

There's a pause. A sharp inhale.

And then Hyunjin says, softer this time, "She looked at me like she didn't think she deserved to live. What was I supposed to do, walk away?"

Your chest tightens. You don't know what to do. Part of you wants to go back to the room, to the fire, to pretend you didn't hear any of it.

But you can't move. Not yet.

You want to be angry—furious even—but all you feel is hollow. Like the warmth he gave you was a trick, and now the cold is crawling back in.

You knew you were a risk. You just didn't know how much.

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek, fingers curled tight at your sides. You shouldn't have come out. Shouldn't have listened.

But it's too late now.

Your foot shifts against the floor and a tiny creak gives you away. The voices stop.

You try to pull back, to run, to melt into the darkness of the hallway—but you barely take a step before a hand shoots out and grabs your wrist.

It's not Hyunjin.

The grip is unforgiving, rough, and too tight—like a trap slamming shut.

"Who the hell said you could wander around?" the man growls.

Bang Chan.

Up close, he's nothing like the warm leader you imagined from Hyunjin's tone. His eyes are sharp, cold, calculating—like he's already considered ten ways to throw you out without blinking.

You try to pull your arm back, but he doesn't let go. His fingers dig into your skin.

"I should drag you back to whatever hole you crawled out of," he snaps, low and brutal. "We're not a charity. We're not here to fix strays Hyunjin gets soft over."

Your voice is stuck in your throat, the burn of humiliation rising fast. You're trembling—not just from fear, but rage.

You want to scream at him. You want to ask why it matters so much that you're alive. But the words won't come.

"I told you she's not a threat!" Hyunjin's voice cuts through the tension, sudden and sharp. He shoves between you and Chan, his hand slamming down on Chan's wrist.

"Let her go."

Chan doesn't move for a second. His jaw flexes—then slowly, he releases you.

You stumble back, clutching your wrist, heart hammering so loud it drowns everything else out.

Hyunjin turns to you, eyes wide with worry.

"Y/N..."

But you're already backing away, heat rising to your cheeks, your throat closing. You nod—just once—before disappearing down the hall, not stopping until you're back in his room, the door locked behind you, your back pressed to it like that might keep the world out.

You don't cry.

You just stand there, shaking, the warmth of the fire now feeling a little too far away. A little too fake.

A little too much like hope.

[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.

[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.”