#maybe even some painting to firelight

[blorbosexterminator]

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

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

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

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

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

[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

[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.

[kissingarthurclaus]

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

[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]

[mollysunder]

Is Ekko Trying to Reaffirm His Identity as a Firelight?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[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?

[rippersz]

𝙎𝙞𝙭 𝙄𝙣𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨

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

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“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.

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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

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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

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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.

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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)

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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.”

[f1shbonez]

💧 Water Under The Bridge 💧

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

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

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

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

Not while The Lanes needed their symbol. 

Not while Vander needed her.

Not while Isha needed her. 

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

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

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

But it made the kid happy. 

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

It was like looking at Powder. But happier. 

A Powder that believed in herself. 

A Powder that everyone else could believe in, too. 

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

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

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

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

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

Look- it’s me- hi! Here I am!

“Long time no see, Ekko.”

[soupandsorcery]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Take your pick."

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

"Leave them alone," Gale says fondly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You certainly can."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Count me in," Ciro murmurs sleepily.

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

"Then it's settled."

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

[bichletmepickaname]

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

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

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

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

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

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

I dunno I might be looking too deep into this 🧍

[hannahssimblr]

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably not, right? That seems dangerous.”

“Should we ask someone?” 

“What? No.” Embarrassing.

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

“What kind?”

“Art.”

“Yeah, what kind?”

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

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

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

“And that’s in Dublin?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, manipulator.”

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

Beginning // Prev // Next

[rita-repulsa-ke]

Death in Second

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're beautiful," she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wins most of them.

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

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

"I'm sorry."

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

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

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

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

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

"…Agatha. Did I hurt your feelings?"

She snorts. "No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"For once, huh," Agatha says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Like what?"

"I don't know, something helpful?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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