#pawn-lane

[ritens]

Holding him like a pedigree beast. Small pawn, big shrimp.

[muralikesgames]

I'm completely spellbound by Dragon's Dogma 2.

Kassandra's Pawn ID (PC): ZIO32E71O128

[arisenreborn]

Also cracks me up in retrospect (because at the time I was just OOGHGHGHGHG and fawning over blushies) that the first Rann blushies were while doing the Glyndwr escort quest like. My boy was having a Realization watching Glyndwr fawn over Reverie.

[transshion]

pathfinder you fucking cunt you interrupted my post-victory rough-housing with my son

[pucksandpower]

Changing Lanes

Charles Leclerc x Horner!Reader

Summary: Charles Leclerc always thought he would spend the rest of his career racing in red. But you make him see that he deserves better than false promises and unrequited love

“Took you long enough,” you say, lounging casually on the small leather couch in Charles’ driver’s room, your fingertips tracing intricate patterns on the cushion beside you.

Charles raises an eyebrow, letting out a dry laugh as he kicks off his shoes. “Every single time I see you, Y/N, you always have something to say.”

You linger on him. “Is it my fault you had to chat with the entire paddock before coming here?”

He smirks, crossing the room. “It’s called being polite. Something you could learn from.”

“Polite?” You scoff, feigning innocence. “Oh, like how Ferrari celebrated that P3 like it was a win? That kind of polite?”

Charles stiffens but he keeps his cool. “We take what we can get.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing. “Starting on pole and settling for P3? Charles, you deserve better.”

“I know,” he sighs, avoiding your gaze. “But this is racing. Sometimes it just doesn’t go your way.”

You lean in closer, your voice dropping an octave. “It could, though. If you were with a team that actually valued you, that gave you a car worthy of your talent.”

He looks up, meeting your gaze with a challenge. “You mean Red Bull?”

A coy smile plays on your lips. “It’s not a secret that Dad wants you. And imagine … you, in a competitive car, and me, right by your side as your race engineer.”

Charles’ eyes dart to your lips then back up to your eyes. “Tempting,” he murmurs, leaning in just a fraction closer. “But is this for the team or for you?”

“Can’t it be both?” You whisper back.

His breath hitches and he pulls back slightly. “This isn’t just about racing, is it?”

You hesitate. “I see how they treat you. How they let you down time and time again. But with us ... with me ... it would be different.”

He looks conflicted. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?” You press. “With Red Bull, you’d have support, a competitive car, and … me.”

Charles sighs, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not just about what happens on track. It’s about the politics, the contracts, the media ... it’s all complicated.”

“You make it sound like an impossible puzzle,” you say, tracing circles on his wrist. You gaze locks with his, trying to convey everything you feel.

“It might be.”

You lean in, lips just inches from his. “Then let’s solve it together.”

He hesitates, searching your eyes. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N.”

You smirk, confidence oozing from every pore. “Isn’t that what racing’s all about?”

Charles chuckles softly, the tension in the room slowly melting away. “You always have an answer for everything.”

“It’s the Horner in me,” you retort with a smug smile. “Besides, aren’t you tired of being just another pawn in Ferrari’s game?”

“It’s not easy. To just switch teams, to give up on something you’ve worked for your entire life.”

You reach up, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “Who says you’re giving up? You’d be making a choice. A choice to be somewhere you’re valued. Somewhere you have a real shot at the championship. With people who truly care about you and actions that reflect that.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. “It’s not just about the racing. There are so many other factors.”

“Like what?”

He opens his eyes, meeting yours. “Like us.”

You blink, taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“If I come to Red Bull … if I work with you … it changes everything. Our relationship. Our dynamic. Everything.”

You take a moment, absorbing his words. “We can handle it. We’re strong enough.”

He gives you a sad smile. “I wish I had your confidence.”

You cup his cheek, your thumb stroking his skin. “You have me. Together, we can face anything.”

Charles looks at you for a long moment, his emotions raw and exposed. Finally, he speaks. “I’ll think about it. But whatever I decide … know that it’s not just about racing. I refuse to give you up.”

“Just promise me one thing.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You lean in, your lips brushing his ear. “Never settle for less than you deserve.”

He smiles, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss. “Same goes for you, Y/N Horner.”

***

“I still can’t believe they forgot to remove the radiator blank,” you murmur, your fingers softly tracing patterns on Charles’ bare chest as he lies next to you in his São Paulo hotel. The dim light from the bedside lamp paints soft shadows on his face, emphasizing the frustration in his eyes.

Charles sighs heavily, turning his head to look at you. “Neither can I. Another race, another issue. I don’t even know why I’m surprised anymore.”

You lean in closer, lips brushing against his ear. “You don’t deserve this, Charles. You’re better than this. Better than them.”

He chuckles humorlessly, eyes closing. “It seems like it’s one thing after another.”

“Come to Red Bull,” you whisper, fingertips dancing down his arm. “You know it’s the right move.”

He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours. “Y/N, we talked about this.”

You press a gentle kiss on his jaw, speaking against his skin. “Hear me out. If McLaren overtakes Ferrari in the Constructors’ standings, you can activate your exit clause. You could leave them, Charles.”

Charles swallows hard, feeling the warmth of your breath on his neck. “And if they don’t?”

“Then we’ll buy you out,” you say confidently, trailing kisses down his collarbone. “Dad’s already spoken about it. We want you. I want you.”

Charles’ breath catches as your hands explore his torso but he tries to focus. “Equal status with Max?”

“Of course,” you assure him, pressing your body flush against his. “You and Max, racing side by side. Just think of the possibilities.”

He groans, both from your touch and the tempting offer. “A car designed by Adrian Newey ...”

You nod, “With plenty of oversteer, just how you like it. No more one-sided compromises.”

He laughs softly. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

You smirk, lips hovering over his. “Always. And instead of Xavi, you’d hear my voice on the other end of the radio, guiding you, supporting you.”

Charles captures your lips with his, deepening the kiss before pulling back. “You’re making it very hard to think.”

“That’s the point,” you whisper with a playful grin, your hands tugging at his waistband.

He bites his lip, trying to resist your charms. “But Y/N ... it’s not just about the racing. It’s ... it’s us. What happens to us?”

You cup his cheek, gazing deep into his eyes. “We fight together, we win together. Every podium, every championship, we celebrate together.”

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “You make it sound so perfect.”

“It can be,” you promise, pressing soft kisses on his eyelids. “With Red Bull, you’d have everything you’ve ever dreamed of. And me.”

Charles smiles, caressing your cheek. “You’re very persuasive, you know?”

You grin. “It’s one of my many talents.”

He chuckles, capturing your lips once more. “I’ll think about it.”

“Whatever you decide, I’ll still be by your side.”

He smiles, pulling you closer. “I know. And that’s what makes this decision so hard.”

***

“Absolutely unbelievable,” your father mutters, watching the replay of Ferrari’s disastrous double stack. “You would think they’ve never done a pit stop before.”

You nod, equally shocked. But your attention shifts as the familiar figure of your favorite Monegasque storms into the Red Bull garage, his helmet still on and visor obscuring his face. You can feel the fury emanating from him.

“Charles?” You question hesitantly.

He doesn’t respond to you but instead turns to your father, “Christian, can we talk? Now. Somewhere private.”

Christian looks taken aback by the intensity in Charles’ voice but nods. “Of course.”

Charles glances at you. “You too, Y/N. Please.”

You follow, the weight of the moment heavy on your shoulders. Once inside the small office, Charles finally removes his helmet, revealing eyes red from restrained tears. He takes a moment, collecting himself before he speaks.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Charles exhales. “Every single time I think they’ve hit rock bottom, they find a new low. Today was the last straw.”

You approach him, gently placing a hand on his arm. “Charles, I’m so sorry.”

Your father is equally sympathetic. “That was hard to watch. I can’t even imagine what it felt like.”

Charles closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. “It’s not just today. It’s everything. I gave them everything. I wanted to win with them. For my father. For Jules.”

You swallow hard, emotions swirling. “They would be so incredibly proud of you. No matter what.”

He blinks back tears, voice strained. “I wanted to drive that red car to the top for them. But I can’t keep sacrificing myself for a team that clearly does not value me in return.”

Your father speaks up, “Charles, if you’re thinking of a change ... Red Bull is ready to welcome you with open arms.”

Charles looks up, locking eyes with him. “I know. And as much as Ferrari has been my dream, my home, I can’t do this anymore. I want to be with a team that values me. I want to join Red Bull.”

You’re taken aback by his sudden declaration but the look in his eyes tells you that he’s made up his mind. “Charles,” you whisper, stepping closer. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“It’s hard,” he admits. “But this is where my heart is telling me to go.”

Your father gives the two of you a moment, leaving the office to give you privacy.

Charles takes a shaky breath, pulling you close. “I never imagined leaving Ferrari. But after everything, I know it’s the right decision.”

You wrap your arms around him, resting your forehead against his. “They will be so proud of you, Charles. No matter what colors you wear or what car you drive.”

He smiles weakly. “Thank you. I really needed to hear that.”

You pull back slightly, searching his eyes. “This is a big step. I don’t want you to regret anything. Are you still sure?”

He nods, determination in his gaze. “More than I’ve ever been.”

You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Then welcome to Red Bull.”

***

“I have to tell Ferrari,” Charles straightens, determination evident in his eyes. “I just need to get it over with. Will you come with me?”

“Of course.“

Charles grabs your hand, pulling you towards his driver’s room. “Wait here,” he says, going in and returning moments later with his Ferrari jacket. He places it over your Red Bull team polo, attempting to keep your allegiance concealed for now. You both then proceed to the debrief room where the Ferrari team is waiting.

Fred Vasseur begins his speech the moment you both enter, “This wasn’t how we wanted to end the year but looking ahead to next season—”

Charles cuts him off, “Actually, there won’t be a next season. Not for me.”

The room falls into a tense silence, all eyes on the driver who has given them his heart and soul.

“What do you mean?”

Charles takes a deep breath, “I’ve decided to leave Ferrari.”

Gasps fill the room. Fred’s eyes land on you, finally noticing the Red Bull logo peeking out from under the jacket you’re borrowing. “And you bring her, of all people, here to tell us this?”

Charles squares his shoulders. “Y/N is here because I asked her to be. This decision is mine and mine alone.”

Xavi stands up, “After everything we’ve done for you! This is how you repay us?”

You can’t hold back any longer. “Everything you’ve done? You mean the countless strategy mistakes, the endless car issues, the complete lack of support?”

Another team member cuts in, “This is not your place, Y/N!”

“It is today,” you retort. “I’m here to support my new driver.”

Charles’ voice shakes but he speaks with conviction, “I gave everything for this team. I bled Ferrari red. But I can’t keep doing this. Not when it’s clear that my effort and commitment is not matched in return.”

Fred’s voice softens. “Charles, we’ve had our challenges but we can overcome them together.”

Charles shakes his head, tears threatening to spill. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m joining Red Bull. My manager will send over the necessary legal paperwork as soon as possible.”

The room is filled with murmurs, disbelief evident on every face. Charles takes one last look around, his eyes filled with pain, and turns to leave.

You follow closely, feeling the weight of every step as you exit the debrief room.

The second you’re around the corner, Charles breaks down. He rests his forehead against the wall, tears rolling down his face silently. “I didn’t ... I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”

You pull him close and try to find the right words. “It was never going to be easy. But you did what you had to. For yourself. For your future.”

He turns to look at you, eyes red-rimmed but determined. “I just wanted to make them proud.”

You cup his cheek, wiping away a tear with your thumb. “They would be proud of you. Not for the badge you wear or the car you drive but for the man you’ve become.”

Charles takes a shaky breath, pulling you into a tight embrace. The two of you stand there for a moment, finding solace in each other’s presence.

When he finally pulls away, he manages a weak smile. “Thank you. For standing by me.”

You squeeze his hand. “Always.”

***

***

***

Charles stands in front of the massive two-story trophy wall at the Red Bull Racing factory in Milton Keynes, eyes wide with wonder. “Ferrari would never do something so ... gaudy.”

You smirk, sidling up next to him. “And yet, you love it.”

“I do,” he laughs. “It’s … different.”

You lean in, whispering conspiratorially, “Well, Ferrari hasn’t had all that much to exhibit in the last two decades. Not for lack of trying from the drivers, of course.”

He playfully nudges you with his elbow, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Cheeky.”

The two of you walk further into the factory. “So,” Charles draws out, “I was wondering if you could recommend a good real estate agent in the area.”

You raise an eyebrow in confusion. “Why would you need an agent when I have a perfectly good apartment we can share?”

“Really? Are you sure? I just … I wasn’t sure if you would want that and I don’t want to pressure you.”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Of course I do, Charles. It’s not even a question.”

He smiles, the weight of the decision to move seeming a little lighter now. “Thank you.”

You wink, taking his hand. “Come on, let me show you around.”

As you guide him through the factory, he’s like a kid in a candy store, eyes wide with wonder and curiosity. “This place is incredible,” he murmurs, running a hand along a piece of machinery.

You grin, pulling him towards the simulator room. “Wait until you see this.”

He steps inside, eyes immediately drawn to the impressive simulator setup. “Wow.”

You gesture for him to sit down, watching as he takes a seat, adjusting the settings. “Ready for your first sim run in the RB20?”

He nods eagerly, “Let’s do it.”

As he starts the simulation, you watch closely, monitoring the data and providing feedback. The two of you work seamlessly together, the connection between race engineer and driver already forming and growing.

After several runs, Charles steps out of the simulator, a huge grin on his face. “That was incredible! The car feels amazing.”

You smile. “I’m glad you think so. The team has put a lot of work into it.”

He pulls you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. “I can’t wait to get on track with you on the other side of the radio.”

You pull back, looking into his eyes. “Me too. We’re going to do great things together. I know it.”

He nods. “I know we will too.”

***

“I have to admit,” Charles says, eyes scanning the paddock, “I’m thankful that Mercedes and McLaren are between our motorhome and Ferrari’s. Makes things less ... awkward.”

You glance towards the distant red of the mobile Ferrari building, understanding the sentiment. “Must be weird being so close and yet so far.”

He nods, a hint of melancholy in his gaze as he looks at the place he called home for so long. “It’s bittersweet.”

Pulling him from his thoughts, you nudge him playfully. “Come on, Mr. Pole-Sitter. We have a race to prep for.”

Charles smirks, playfully rolling his eyes. “Always so professional, Miss Horner.”

You grin. “Only when it counts.”

The atmosphere in the Red Bull garage is electric. Mechanics and engineers hustle around, getting everything ready. The RB20 sits gleaming, waiting for its moment to shine.

Charles adjusts his gloves, taking a deep breath. “Feels different,” he admits, looking at you. “Being here, in this car, with this team. But a good kind of different.”

You lean in, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’ve got this. It’s just another race.”

He smiles. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one in the hot seat.”

“True, but I’ll be with you every step of the way. Just listen to my voice and trust me.”

“I always do.”

As he gets into the car, you lean in closer to his helmet, your lips touching it’s hard shell. “And Charles? Stay safe out there.”

He looks at you and winks. “I’ll come back to you.”

The race begins with a burst of energy. Charles takes off from pole, holding his position as the field jockeys for placement behind him.

“Good start,” you say through the radio, your voice calm and composed. “Keep it steady.”

“Copy.”

The race is intense, with Charles and Max battling for the lead, their cars dancing on the edge of perfection. The radio chatter between the two of you flows naturally, filled with technical details, strategy adjustments, and the occasional personal quip.

“Feeling the heat from Max?” You tease after a particularly close call between the two Red Bulls.

Charles laughs breathlessly. “Just keeping things interesting for the fans.”

The race continues at a blistering pace, with Charles and Max pushing each other to the limit. But through it all, Charles remains in the lead, with you guiding him from the pit wall.

“Final lap,” you inform. “Bring it home.”

He nods, pushing the car to its limit. The cheers of the crowd grow louder as he crosses the finish line, securing his first victory with Red Bull.

“Amazing job, Charles! I knew you could do it!”

He lets out a whoop of joy. “Yes! Thank you, team. Thank you, Y/N. I couldn’t have done it without you all.”

The two of you celebrate the victory, and as the rose water sprays and the cheers of the crowd fill the air, you know that this is just the beginning of an incredible journey together.

***

“You’re sure about the medium tyres, Y/N?” Charles asks nervously as he looks at the other cars lining up. “Everyone else is starting on softs.”

You nod confidently, tapping the race strategy on your clipboard. “Yes. The upside of using the mediums is it gives us flexibility. We can extend our first stint if needed, especially with possible rain on the forecast. While everyone else has to pit early for hards and then again for inters when the rain starts, we’ll only have to pit once. Trust me.”

He inhales deeply, trying to quell the unease bubbling inside. “I do trust you. It’s just ... Ferrari ... the strategies there ...”

“I know,” you interrupt softly, understanding the trauma and distrust years with Ferrari had instilled in him. “But this isn’t Ferrari. It’s Red Bull and we work differently. I’ve got your back.”

“Alright,” he looks into your eyes, finding assurance and conviction there, “let’s do this.”

The race begins, and Charles holds his ground well on the medium tyres, though the drivers running softs initially show quicker pace. But as predicted, the clouds soon darken and the threat of rain becomes increasingly evident.

“Stay focused,” you guide through the radio. “Remember the plan.”

He pushes on, expertly handling the streets of Monaco. The cars around him begin to lose grip and one by one they dive into the pits for hard tyres.

Charles keeps lapping. He moves up the order.

“You’re doing great,” you encourage. “Stick to the plan. We’re right on schedule.”

However, as the first raindrops begin to fall, panic sets in among the other teams on the grid. Those who just pitted for hard tyres are forced to pit again for intermediate tyres, losing precious time.

“Now,” you command, “Box this lap.”

He follows your instruction, driving into the pits, and with a flawless stop by his Red Bull crew, re-emerges in the lead.

The rain continues but Charles navigates the treacherous streets of Monaco expertly, maintaining his lead. When the chequered flag waves, it’s Charles who crosses the line first and finally claims victory at his home Grand Prix.

Tears of joy and relief pour from Charles’ eyes as he takes in the moment. “Thank you,” he says over the radio, voice choked with emotion. “I can’t believe it. We did it in Monaco!”

You smile, tears in your own eyes. “We did. I told you to trust me, didn’t I?”

He laughs, the sound full of pure joy. “You did. And I’m so glad I did. Thank you for everything.”

As he steps out of the car and jumps on its nose, arms spread wide, the crowd roars in approval, their prince finally crowned in his home race.

Then he rushes to the barriers and jumps into the cheering crowd of dark blue waiting for him. When his sweaty lips find yours surrounded by the celebrating Red Bull team, you take a moment to whisper a promise, “This is just the beginning. It will only get better from here.”

***

The season flies by in a blur of champagne showers. Heading into the Italian Grand Prix, Charles find himself leading the Drivers’ Championship with Max nipping at his heels.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” Charles confesses, staring out at the Autodromo Nazionale Monza. “This was home. I don’t know how they will react now that I’m no longer wearing red.”

You rest a reassuring hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “Many fans support the driver, not just the color he wears.”

He takes a deep breath and looks over the crowd. “The Tifosi are different. They bleed Ferrari red. I’m afraid they will see me only as a traitor.”

“You gave them your all,” you counter. “They’ve seen the struggles. They know why you left. They understand. Trust in them and in yourself.”

As the two of you make your way towards the paddock, the familiar chorus of cheers fills the air. But instead of the jeers and boos he feared, a chant begins to rise among the crowd of red: “Charles! Charles! Charles!”

Charles stops in his tracks. “They’re ... they’re cheering for me.”

You nod, a smile playing on your lips. “Told you.”

He’s soon swarmed by a group of fans, all clamoring for autographs, photos, and just a moment of his time. It’s clear that the bond between Charles and the Tifosi remains unbroken.

An older fan steps forward, his Ferrari cap worn with age. “You are still Il Predestinato. We wish it ended differently but we have eyes. We watched the races. We know why you left. No matter what team you drive for, you always have our hearts.”

Charles blinks back tears, deeply touched. “Grazie,” he whispers and claps the fan’s weathered hands in thanks.

Another fan, a young girl with a homemade sign that reads Once a Tifosi, Always a Tifosi, shyly approaches. “We still love you, Charles,” she says.

He kneels down to give her a gentle hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs, taking off his Red Bull cap and placing it on her head.

As the day goes on, the support from the Tifosi only grows. They cheer for him during practice, during qualifying, and every time he appears in front of the stands.

It’s clear that the bond between Charles and the Tifosi is as strong as ever.

That evening, as the two of you sit in the garage looking over data, Charles reflects on his day. “I was so afraid,” he admits. “Afraid of being rejected, of losing their love. But today ... today was incredible.”

You close the analytics. “The Tifosi love you. Not because of the car you drive or the colors you wear but because of who you are. Just like I do.”

He nods slowly. “It’s overwhelming. Monza has always been special to me. To feel this level of love and support ... it’s more than I ever expected.”

You lean closer, resting your head on his shoulder. “They see your passion. They see how much you give on and off the track. Anyone who does not love and respect you for that needs to reconsider.”

He exhales slowly, “I just ... I wanted to make them proud, to win for them in red and bring glory back to Maranello. But knowing they still support me no matter what ... it means everything.”

You look up into his eyes. “And they always will. Because they know you always gave and will continue to give your best. They love you because they are loved in return.”

He laughs, pulling you into a tight hug. “Thank you,” he murmurs into your hair. “For always being my rock, especially in moments like these.”

“Now let’s go out there tomorrow and win.”

***

“Vegas, baby!” Charles shouts, swinging an arm around your shoulders, both of you holding champagne glasses that have been refilled one too many times.

You giggle, distinctly feeling all of the alcohol you’ve consumed. “We won! We did it!”

Charles laughs, pulling you closer. “We did! And do you know what people do when they’re in love and win in Vegas?”

You think about it for a moment, a mischievous glint appearing in your eyes. “Get ... married?”

Charles nods enthusiastically. “Exactly! Y/N Horner, will you marry me tonight?”

You don’t hesitate, “Hell yes!”

The two of you, in your drunken stupor, begin your mission to find a wedding chapel. However, before you can get very far, Max spots you and quickly catches on to what you’re planning.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Max exclaims, grabbing Charles by the shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going with Y/N?”

Charles replies with a sloppy grin, “To make her Mrs. Leclerc!”

Max bursts into laughter, trying to play the voice of reason. “Mate, as much fun as that sounds, I think you might want to sleep on that idea.”

But you’re not having it. “No, Max! We’re in love and it’s Vegas. We’re doing it!”

Before the conversation can escalate further, your father joins the fray, looking both amused and concerned. “What on earth is going on here?”

Max chuckles, “Your daughter and Charles here have some ... ambitious plans for the evening.”

You pout and stumble slightly, “Daddy, we want to get married! Right now!”

Your father’s eyebrows shoot up. “Married? Tonight? Seriously?”

Charles nods with absolute seriousness, though his precarious swaying contradicts his tone. “Christian, I love your daughter. And we won. In Vegas. So ... wedding?”

Your father places a firm hand on his driver’s shoulder. “Listen, Charles, I have no doubt about your feelings for Y/N. But my baby girl deserves the world. When and if you ever decide to propose, I expect you to get down on one knee, stone-cold sober, and ask her properly.”

Charles blinks, processing the words. “But ... Vegas?”

You laugh and go to hug your father, almost falling over in the process. “He’s right. Let’s just enjoy tonight. And if we still feel like getting married in the morning, we can discuss it then.”

Max smirks, “Trust me, you’ll thank us in the morning. If you can even remember this conversation, that is.”

***

“Charles,” you begin, your voice echoing in his helmet, “The team has made the call. You and Max are free to race. No team orders.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Understood. May the best man win.”

The tension in the garage skyrockets as soon as the lights go out. It’s evident that this is going to be an epic battle from the very first turn. Max and Charles swap places multiple times, pushing their cars to the very edge of their limits.

“Breathe,” you remind him calmly as the laps go by, “Don’t loose sight of the race as a whole. There’s a championship at stake.”

The entire race is a blur of overtakes, pit strategies, and nail-biting moments. The two Red Bull cars battle wheel-to-wheel lap after lap. One side of the garage against the other.

Coming into the final laps, Charles is right on Max’s tail — the championship hanging in the balance between them.

You know there’s not much you can do to guide him anymore … it’s all up to Charles.

“Last lap,” you try to sound composed despite the pounding of your heart. “You can do this.”

The cheers and gasps of the crowd are deafening as Charles makes his move, taking the inside line and overtaking Max on the penultimate turn.

“Push now! Just a few more corners.”

As Charles crosses the finish line, the enormity of the moment crashes over both of you.

“Charles Leclerc,” you scream over the radio as tears stream down your face, “you are the World Champion!”

“Yeeeesssss! Yes! Yes! I ... I can’t believe it. This is ... thank you, everyone. To the entire Red Bull team, you’ve given me the chance to chase and achieve my dreams. To my friends, my family, to every single person who’s been by my side, believed in me, and supported me … thank you. And Y/N, you’ve been my rock and my oxygen. Without you, this wouldn’t have been possible. Thank you! Thank you. Thank you so much!”

***

“Whew! That was a lot of rose water!” Charles laughs, wiping the bubbly liquid from his eyes.

You chuckle and try to wring out your hair. “You didn’t have to drench me, you know!”

Charles grins cheekily. “It’s a special occasion, after all. Both of us on this podium? It’s a dream!”

Then suddenly, he turns serious and signals to his brother in the crowd below, who throws him a small leather box. Charles catches it and promptly lowers himself down on one knee in front of you, making the crowd fall into a stunned silence.

“I tried this in Vegas,” he starts with a laugh, “But I might have been too drunk and missed a few pretty important steps.”

Charles takes a deep breath and his eyes lock onto yours, saying everything that words would never be sufficient to. “Y/N, being on this podium with you, winning the World Championship, it’s the pinnacle of my career. But what we have ... it’s the pinnacle of my life. I can’t imagine going on this journey with anyone else, facing the highs, the lows, the in-betweens. Will you marry me?”

Tears flow steadily down your cheeks and you nod with a fervor that would make bobbleheads jealous, “Yes! There’s no one else I’d want to spend forever with.”

The crowd erupts into cheers and applause, the deafening roar echoing around the Yas Marina Circuit. Max gives a loud whistle, his face lit up with a big grin next to you on the podium stage.

Charles rises to his feet and pulls you close, attacking your lips as the crowd goes wild.

“Promise me we won’t head to a chapel right after this race?” You joke, sniffling and giggling at the same time.

Charles laughs, looking slightly sheepish. “I promise, mainly because I’m too young to die and your father would definitely kill me if I even thought about pulling the stunt we tried in Vegas again. You deserve a fairytale wedding.”

You press your face against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heartbeat as fireworks explode overhead. “All I need for my fairytale is you.”

[band--psycho]

Vander x Reader - 5 Years Later...(Part 2)

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated!

Requests are still open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

Part 2 to my Vander x Reader series - Part 1

I hope you all enjoy this! 💛

Thank you all for the continued support!💛

I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!

Vander Masterlist / Arcane Masterlist / Join My Taglist

Warnings: Mentions of death, mentions of grief, feeling of dega-vu

You knew the Undercity wasn’t the safest of places to go, at least that’s what your father had always told you. 

So why were you down here? 

Because as much as you appreciated your fathers protectiveness, what type of friend would you be if you let one of your closest friends go down there alone? 

A pretty shit one. 

Which is why, despite the risks, you went with Jayce down to the Undercity. 

Besides, seeing as you were training to be an Enforcer and Jayce was just a student at the academy it was basically your job to escort him and make sure that nothing happened to him; that’s at least what you’d tell Greyson if she asked where you’d been…and your parents, if they asked which you hoped they wouldn’t. 

“Remind me where we’re going?” You asked in a slightly hushed tone as the two of you turned a corner walking down a dimly lit alley, before 

“I need to get some supplies for a project I’m working on,” Jayce answered simply; with an optimistic gleam in his eyes. 

“What project?” you inquired, unable to keep your curiosity at bay; it had certainly been a while since you’d seen Jayce this excited about a project.

“It’s best I don’t tell you, until I can get it working,” he replied; his answer only furthering your curiosity, but perhaps it was for the best for you to know as little as possible…especially if the academy wasn’t aware of it, which by the seams of things, they weren’t. The less you knew the better; though it still played on your mind as the two of you continued walking through the Undercity.  

To most people the Undercity was just an underdeveloped land across the river, deep in the canyons,  beneath Piltover, filled with misfits and thugs; but as you walked through the lanes of the Undercity, you couldn’t help but admire the beauty of it. 

The beauty of how vibrant the lights atop of the shops shone in the darkness; the difference of industrial architecture, making each building its own, if only in a little way.

It was different from Piltover, of course, but beautiful nevertheless. 

Since you'd arrived down here you couldn’t shake this feeling of deja-vu…like you’d been here before. 

It was odd. 

You’d never been down here; not once; so why did it feel so familiar?

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you hadn’t realised Jayce had stopped walking until you walked into the back of him. 

“Sorry,” you whispered, hearing a small chuckle fall from his lips. 

“Lost in your own world again?” he teased, turning around to look at you. 

You simply rolled your eyes at his comment and looked at the building you’d stopped outside; a pawn shop. 

You shot Jayce a confused look; you didn’t understand what this place had that any of the shops in Piltover didn’t; except from some anonymity. 

Down here no one knew him. 

But that only caused the curiosity you had about his project to grow. 

“Stay out here, I won’t be long,” he said before disappearing inside the shop. 

You went to follow him, before you heard a song in the distance, that halted your steps. 

You knew it. 

But you were certain you’d never heard it before…

How did you know a song from the Undercity? 

You turned on your heel, following the sound of the song; you knew it was risky, venturing off into the Undercity alone and you knew Jayce would be worried if he came back outside and noticed you gone, but you couldn’t help it. 

It was like your feet had a mind of their own and before you knew it, you’d come to the source of the music, it was a bar, or at least that’s what you assumed it was seeing as it was called ‘The Last Drop’ and had a logo of a tankard in the middle of the name. 

‘Why does this place seem so familiar?’ you thought to yourself, your eyes narrowing as you stared at the building in front of you. 

You were about to take another step, before you felt someone grab ahold of your wrist; instinctively your training kicked in and your guard went up, ready to fight. 

That was until you saw that it was Jayce who was holding your wrist; he was panting slightly with a worried look in his eyes, “I thought something had happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologized, guilt washing over you, “I didn’t mean to worry you,” 

“It’s okay,” he answered softly, tugging on your wrist slightly, leading you away from the bar, “Let’s just get out of here.”

And with that the two of you made your way past the pawn shop Jayce had been in, passing a little boy with white hair leaning against the wall, he had a proud smile on his face that was until he saw you. 

You waved at him politely, confused about why he was staring at you; but the little boy said nothing, he just continued to stare at you, his mouth hanging slightly agape as you vanished out of his view. 

All you could think about as you made your way back to Piltover was how strange today had truly been. 

The deja-vu, the song, the bar, the little boy….none of it was making any sense….

~~~~~~

Vander hated seeing Vi hurt; he also hated that she was a mirror image of how he was when he was younger, so eager to rebel against the topsiders…but it wasn’t that simple. 

That’s what he was trying to get her to understand.

Every action had a consequence. 

He knew that better than anyone. 

He was the one who was too stubborn to call off the uprising, because he wanted to show Piltover that they were worthy of not being left behind on all the grand new ventures Piltover were indulging in; and because of that, he lost so many people that were close to him. 

But no ones ghost was more haunting than yours. 

He just needed Vi to understand that violence wasn’t the way to play this. 

He knew Greyson would probably be paying him a visit soon; the kids, unintentionally, broke an agreement that he’d made with the current sheriff of Piltover, to keep a peace between topside and the Lanes. 

A peace that was now hanging by a thread. 

Once he was sure Vi’s injuries were clean, he rose from the table and began putting away the supplies he’d used to clean her cuts. 

“Vander…there’s something else,” Vi began, halting Vanders movements and making his attention focus back on her. 

“Go on,” he  said calmly, though in his mind he was dreading the next words that were going to come out of her mouth; she’d just been part of blowing up a building in Piltover, what more could there be.

“Ekko said….he said he saw Y/n,” 

Her words short-circuited his mind at the mention of your name.

“What?” he asked; thinking that maybe, somehow, he’d misheard what Vi had said. 

“He said he saw Y/n walking with that topside guy that came into the shop,” she repeated, noticing how Vanders eyebrows furrowed together as he tried to process her words. 

“That was partly why I went up there….to see if she was there,” she continued, rising from her seat, walking over to Vander and placing her hand on his arm. 

She knew how much Vander loved you. 

She knew how much losing you broke him. 

She knew how much losing you hurt both her and Powder; who’d grown so close to you in the few years prior to the uprising. 

That’s why she wanted to be sure that Ekko wasn’t wrong; she’d barely believed him herself when he first told her, but before the explosion happened, she was sure she heard your voice; but without actually seeing you, she couldn't be sure if it was you or if it was just the wishful thinking in her mind.

“She’s dead, Vi,” Vander stated; his voice remaining balanced; although the look in his eyes showed a growing sadness. 

“You’ve never believed that,” 

It wasn’t a lie; he didn’t believe it. 

He might’ve said that you were dead; but Vi knew that deep in his heart, he had never believed it.

He never found your body; and without your body, he could still cling on to the hope that you were alive. 

Vi never really understood why he couldn’t believe your death was real; but now she knew that he was right all along. 

“Ekko got it wrong, it can’t have been her.”

“Vander, he knows what she looks like….” Vi tried to counter, they all knew what you looked like from the photos Vander kept of the two of you; but Vander just went back to putting away the medical supplies before heading to the stairs. 

“He got it wrong,” he answered back, slightly harsher than he’d intended to,before leaving the basement entirely and heading to his own room. 

He all but collapsed onto the side of your bed; his eyes landing on the photo of you he kept on his bedside table. 

You were dead.

That’s what he kept telling himself. 

That’s what he'd had to tell himself for the last five years to keep his own sanity. 

But there was a little voice in the back of his head, a voice that reignited his failing hope…what if you weren’t…what if what Ekko said was true…?

Vander didn’t know what to believe….the memories from that day flooding back into his mind as the pain he’d felt re-entered his heart, tears fell from the Hound Of The Undergrounds eyes, as he tried to work out what to believe. 

What if all these years you’d been alive? 

Why were you in Piltover? 

Why hadn’t you come back to him? 

Did you blame him for what happened on the bridge….did you blame him for the deaths so many people had succumbed to…? 

Is that why you never came home?

So many thoughts were running through his mind; but even if his mind hadn’t settled on a decision, his heart had; he needed to find out the truth. 

And he would; just as soon as he’d smoothed everything out with Greyson about today's incident.

Taglist:

@xacatalepsyx @the-lone-librarian @conretewings @barbersjoy @eternallyvenus @trixiex2 @newlosadventures @eternalgoddessofart @cass-brightwood @fortune-fool02 @arielpanda1 @mothratic @simping-ella @stickyrice5096 @levis-butterfingers @lesbianinyourarea @nagislemontea @dazecrea

I apologise in advance to those who have asked to be on the taglist and aren’t - I’m not ignoring you, I just can’t tag you in it for some reason :(

[flattocatto]

Gym glow

a fanfic based off the art by the TALENTED @thatbunnibaby on X. i drool at their art at least 5 times a day. idk if i should make a part two heheheh

synopsis: Sevika had the gall to invite you to the gym with her. She wanted to spot you, help you build muscle. All the meanwhile, she’s a terrible distraction… a terribly sexy one.

sevika x f!reader (lets be real shes for the girlies), gawking, reader has like never been to the gym (sorry gym girlies), writer hasnt been to the gym jn four years…, i dont know the currency but google told me, probably incorrect use of gym equipment, reader has 0 muscle built (that is the only body description)

nicknames she used on you: doll, princess, munchkin

WORD COUNT: 3,590

The fact that Zaun had a gym was news to you. Last time you checked, all Zaun truly advertised was bars, gangs and Shimmer. The address that was given to you on a napkin was messy, some back alley off of the Lanes. Under it read, ‘5:30 am. 5 silver cogs per admission. Don’t be late. - S’. The ‘don’t’ had been underlined four times.

It boggled your mind that you had gotten into talking to Sevika last night. You barely remembered it. Probably because of the several rounds you recall her ordering for the two of you. All you remember about being invited to the gym in the first place is you got caught staring.

“Is there something on my abs or something?” The woman had teased you.

You had said something along the lines of, “No! I like your muscles,” or some other. It was so much easier to remember Sevika’s voice. It almost demanded authority… and well, it was hot. What could you say?

And the next thing you know, you were roped into not only waking at the crack of fucking dawn, but waking up still hungover. You had only gone to bed at 1 in the morning too. Your brain was not agreeing with you at all, stumbling to get something to wear. You changed into some suitable clothes to leave, and packed a bag with some gym clothes. Also known as that one pair of sports shorts you splurged on for a New Year’s resolution years ago, and an old tank top.

You began the walk down to the general location of the gym. At 5 am, The Lanes were quieter, minus a few people sleeping or passed out drunk. The directions on the napkin were odd. ‘Pass the pawn shop, turn into the alley on the east. Walk past the food stall �� first door on the left.’ You had to check the napkin at least 10 times before you stood in front of the door. A sign on the door said in big, bold letters, ‘gym entrance.’

Pushing open the door, you were met by a woman at the front counter. She was messing around with the chipping wood of the desk before she looked up at you. The door to the gym (you assumed) was blocked off by a gate — that the woman at the counter could probably open.

You approached the counter and placed the 5 silver cogs down. The woman took them with a grin, making sure they were real. She analyzed each coin, before she nodded. “One hour. Be out by 6:30.” She moved over the desk to open the gate for you. “Change rooms are to the left.”

With an exchange of thanks you headed past the little gate and into the gym. To your right was indeed the change rooms as the lady said, but then in front of you was the gym. You looked around, to not see Sevika at all. Only some other stronger women were working out. A frown fell on your lips, but you quickly allowed your face to relax. Maybe she was changing. Going up to the change room, you see there is no sign to separate genders. Odd… every gym you had seen in magazines and heard of in books normally separated men, women and others.

The door squeaked as you pushed it. The hinges definitely needed some sort of TLC, grease or whatever. You headed to a nearby bench and began to change into the clothes you had brought. Face to the wall of the bench. Not wanting to stare at anyone else potentially changing.

Just as you were taking off your shirt, the light you had around you was cut off by a dark, larger shadow. You almost felt frozen. Well, you were. You didn’t move past your arm half stuck in your sleeve. A chuckle came from the figure at that. “Don’t be so scared now. Surprised you even remembered to show up.”

You let out a sigh of relief, knowing that voice. You look up and back to confirm your suspicion, meeting your eyes with Sevika’s. The older woman stepped back some, arms crossing over her chest. “Well? Don’t let me stop you from changing,” Sevika spoke firmly.

It was obvious she wasn’t leaving until you were finished. You nodded, a little too fast, continuing to get undressed. It didn’t take too long, all you knew is she was watching you. Which, of course, made you go quicker. Not like she needed to see all that. Even if you wanted her to…

You turned around to face her and — for the love of all that was holy, whatever she had on? Was not making you feel holy. Whatever it was, it was tight. A sports bra that hugged every aspect of her chest… though terribly. It rather exposed it, as well as her abs. They were toned and defined from her efforts, and down… a lovely happy trail. You couldn’t help but ogle at it, a little too long.

“My eyes are up here,” Sevika said lowly, a smile to her face. It caused you to look up again, meeting her eyes.

“Sorry,” you apologised, then looked away. A flush rose on your cheeks quicker than you’d like to admit, the embarrassment hitting you as quick as a chilly wind.

The two of you headed out to the gym part, it only being you two this early. The place had seemingly just opened. Sevika didn’t even mind the solitude, she just walked to the rack of dumbbells. They were worn down. To you, it was obvious the equipment wouldn’t be top class. This was Zaun, after all. Sevika grabbed one, for her one organic arm. A 40 pound one, then motioned toward the rack for you.

“Grab some. We’re gonna warm up.”

“With these?” You grabbed a set of 5 pound ones. Too light… you went up to 10, which was comfortable enough. But you set them back, grabbing the 15 pound ones. These were better — if you went up any more in weight, it’d be a jump to 25. A gap in the pattern.

Sevika just nodded, looking at you. Blank faced. “You’ve never worked out like this before, huh?”

Embarrassment quelled within you again. Like a gnawing anxiety. You felt scrutinized, even though Sevika didn’t look like she was scrutinizing you. You shook your head left and right in response, earning a chuckle from the other woman.

“It’s a new place, I wouldn't expect as much from a girl like you… no offence. It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it. You gotta warm up so you don’t break your muscles.”

You just nodded as she explained. The dumbbells in your hands had gone down with your arms to your sides in her explanation. She then moved one leg in front of the other, bending it forward. The one behind her was slightly bent too, yet not on the floor. Like she was getting down on one knee, except wider in the length of the stature.

She looked over at you, “Copy me. Come on now, don’t just stand there like a deer in headlights, doll.”

Quickly you copied her movements, lunging down as she did. You were a tad wobbly with the dumbbells on your side, but eventually you found balance with your hips.

“Good.” Sevika nodded, “Now curl the dumbbells up like this,” she demonstrated, moving the one in her hands up to her shoulder. “All the way up, just above your collarbone. 10 reps — that’s 10 times.”

You did it 10 times, as she had said. It started off quite easy, but the strain in your legs began to develop. You made a little face, one of which Sevika noticed, but made zero comment. She had already done her 10 reps. After you finished, you let out a sigh.

“Okay. Switch legs now. Do it all over again, the 10 reps.”

There was more?! You did as she said, though. You didn’t want to look weak or anything in front of her. This was essentially like a first meeting. The first one you were sober, that is. She was already in her position, and once again you were still finding damn balance.

You curled the dumbbells up, then back down, then up again. She was doing some extra reps, before she stood. You finished your last rep, standing up as well. She went to set her dumbbell back, and you did too.

“We’ll do more with those some other time,” Sevika said, before moving over to a mat again. She pat the spot next to her with her mechanical arm, to which you immediately sat next to her. “We should stretch those hamstrings of yours. Also good for the hips.”

She put her legs out in front of her. You copied. She reached out, grabbing her foot with her hand. You copied again. “You feel a pull?” She asked you.

“Yeah, kinda hurts…” you mumbled, but kept there.

She looked over at your form and tutted, “Full hand. Not just those fingers on those toes. Put your palm over your toes.”

You tried, but you could feel your knee bending a tad. With a frown, you looked over at her. “I don’t think my arms are long enough.”

“Then with your fingers, bend your foot back some. It’s gotta pull to stretch ‘em out.” She sounded much more relaxed like this. Not as gruff as she did at bars.

You did as she said and took a deep breath. It burned, it hurt. But not too bad. Nothing unbearable.

“Next leg,” she said after a few moments. You both switched legs at the same time, and repeated the motion. She was mouthing something. Numbers, counting the seconds per each ‘rep,’ it seemed.

After that, she moved her legs to sit crisscross. Almost. Except her feet were together, hands holding them that way. You mimicked her, as usual, silently. She moved her legs up a little then down, almost pressed to the floor. Then she leaned forward as her legs were down. It was a pretty sight, you had to pick your damn jaw up to copy the movement.

While you could only get your head slightly close to the floor, her forehead was much closer to the mat. She was focused, face tense with it. You kept staring, even as you copied her movements.

When she leaned up again, she looked over to you. Catching you staring. Caught, again, staring at her. Again. She did tell you to copy her, though, so she couldn’t blame you too much. “You enjoying the show, princess?”

You looked away, sitting up again like she did. Swallowing, you avoided the question. “You’re a good teacher.”

Sevika let out a breath of a laugh at that, standing up again. “Sure thing. You ever deadlifted?”

You shook your head, and she went over to grab a barbell. She set it on the ground, motioning for you to go by it. As you did, she grabbed another, a larger one. Yours was thinner, a little bit shorter too. She didn’t grab any of those little worn out plates, though. She set her bar next to yours.

“Put your feet apart like this, not too much, like shoulder width.” She moved her feet, about a foot and a half apart. You copy that, again. It felt like you were a toddler being taught to walk at this rate with how much you mimicked her. She nodded at your form then continued. “Make sure the bar is at the midpoint of your foot here. Like over the middle. Then bend over, like there’s some stool or whatever behind you. Kinda like a squat…”

You do as she said, but you leaned a little too forward. She noticed, and shook her head. “No, that’s how you’ll hurt yourself and fall on your ass. Y’gotta make it so your shins are parallel with the bar if you were gonna lift it up. Now grab it, get a good grip there. Not directly shoulder width this time.” She demonstrated, and you nodded, doing as she said. “Good, yeah. Now, pull up, but don’t be all limp. Keep those muscles tense. Again, so you don’t fall on your ass.”

You did as she said, lifting the bar up. It was quite light. Sevika nodded at your movements, heading over to you. She placed her flesh hand on your back, the mechanical one just under your boobs. She straightened your back out. ��Keep your back straight. Won’t strain as much. Always keep your gaze forward, to prevent neck strain. Put it down.” She moved her hands away, resting them on her hips as she stepped back.

With a nervous swallow, you set the bar down. Reversing the motion from before. “Lift it back up,” Sevika commanded, to which you complied, heeding her earlier advice. Back straight. Gaze forward. It felt more natural. Less… well, less tense, despite being tense to lift it.

Sevika nodded and smiled a little. Just a quirk of her lips upright. “Now y’won’t throw your damn back out lifting, huh?”

“Thanks,” you said in response.

“No issue. Can’t have a pretty thing like you gettin’ hurt.” There that smile was. Slyer, gap toothed and… well, attractive. She went over to the rack of worn weight plates, grabbing two 25’s. “Here, put these on your bar.” She handed you one.

You both began putting the plates on your barbell, then clamping them on so they didn’t slip off. She grabbed two 50’s for her bar, as if it was nothing. With her prosthetic arm, of course, it would be nothing. After she made sure her bar was all set, she got in formation as she had taught you. “Let’s do 10 reps again, mm?” She already started before you could argue.

You stood there and just stared at her a little bit. Ogling, sure, but damn was she something. That focus back on her face, lips slightly pursed, muscles bulging… it was doing something to you. The way her thighs swelled with each up and down, it was mesmerizing. You snapped yourself out of it and began to do your own reps, as she instructed.

It was easy to start, as usual. Then once your muscles tired it grew more difficult. Still, you pressed on, once again wanting to impress her. When you finished, you set it down almost shakily. Your arms were sore, they felt like noodles. You looked over at her, catching her being the one looking.

“Not too bad for your first time, munchkin.”

“Munchkin?” You looked at her, brow slightly furrowed.

“Yeah. You ain’t got any muscle on ya. Essentially a munchkin.” She smirked, and began to take the plates off her barbell. A few more people were coming in now, seeing as it was a little past 6 in the morning. You took the plates off yours as well, tossing the clamps in the little bucket with the rest. You put your barbell back in the stand, and Sevika didn’t. You looked over at her, hand going to grab your barbell again. “Nah,” she shook her head, picking hers up easily with her mechanical arm. “I’m gonna teach you how to bench press right. Keep that bar there, c’mon.”

She led you two over to a bench, setting the barbell down on the bar catch. She motioned to the bench. “Lay back on it. Legs on either side, head at the little separator part up top. You want your shoulders at about where the bar is so you can put your arms up comfortably at a 90 degree angle there.”

You did as instructed, once again. To test, you lifted your arms to grab the bar. It was a tad too high, and you were a bit too forward, so you shifted down. Sevika, on the other hand, took the bar off and moved the bar catches down one slot.

“Try that. Is it low enough that you can bend your arms slightly to put it in the catch?” Sevika asked, and you reached again. It was much more comfortable, you tested by lifting the bar a bit. You could lift and put it back.

You nodded, affirming more with a soft, “Yep. Seems alright.”

“Good. Take it off the rack. Arch your back slightly, then bring the bar down comfortably…” you did as directed again, as she spoke. “Yeah, like that. Then push it back up.”

It felt a lot easier than the deadlift so far. Yet you were scared you’d drop it and snap your damn neck. But it wasn’t too heavy, not with any weights. Still heavier than your deadlift bar, but not overwhelmingly so. You did a few reps like that before she could even tell you, before you put it back on the bar catch.

The stronger woman had her arms crossed over her chest, nodding a bit. “Keep that form. I’m gonna go get some plates for you.”

She left you. Lying there, staring at the ceiling. You didn’t bother to move an inch, not wanting to defy her. She was back in a few moments, applying two 10 pound weights to each side of the bar. Then she grabbed some clamps to stick them on.

“I’ll be spotting you,” she said, and moved back toward your head. “Do a couple reps. As much as you feel you can.”

She rested her hands on her waist as she watched. You grabbed the bar and when you set your head back against the bench again… you got a face full of boobs. Well, not literally. They were like the only part of Sevika you could see. You swallowed your saliva, your throat suddenly dry. Like you ate a cup of sand. Drank? Ate…? Whatever. You did your reps as she said.

You kept pushing on. You could do a few more, you said in your head. Trying to look cool for her. Knowing Sevika, she was probably counting. Your arms shook slightly, each time getting more shaky. You went to put it back on the catch but slipped. This was it, you were about to be choked out by a damn barbell on your first time. All because you tried to impress the woman whose boobs were the only thing you saw going out. An honourable way to die. Eyes full of a pretty lady’s breasts.

Except it never fell. And you were breathing, alive, startled. You had shut your eyes at some point, and opened them to find Sevika setting the bar in the catch herself. She looked down at you, and you could actually see her face now. “You can’t let yourself be distracted,” she said lowly, “and you shouldn’t push yourself past your limits. If I weren’t here, you’d give the front desk lady a messy clean up job.”

Before you could say anything, she scooted the bench forward. “C’mon. Our time is about up anyway.” She took the weight plates and clamps again, beginning to put them away.

You grabbed the bar, heading generally to the same location she was. You put it back with the rest before you followed Sevika to the change room, flush in the face. She saved you… and you embarrassed yourself. Not too badly, but still! You would think about that too much later. When you were in bed, alone… stuck on the thought of her over you like that. Then of course your brain would remind you of your mistake.

Sevika began to change — next to your spot. Of course. Why wouldn’t she have put her stuff there. You pursed your lips and kept your eyes to yourself, changing into the extra clothes you brought. You wanted to look over so badly, but you told yourself you were one, not a pervert, and two, not looking for any trouble from the lady with a mechanical arm.

After you packed up, you looked over to Sevika who had begun to head out as well. You both left the gym, almost immediately after one another. Sevika nodded at the front desk lady, and you mumbled a quick thanks. Before Sevika could turn to leave, you couldn’t help but shoot your shot. After all, you live once, right? Well, obviously, you almost lost that ‘once’ today.

“Hey, um, Sevika,” you called out, causing her to stall. Her head turned to look at you, the look in her eyes prompting one thing — to get out with it. “Thank you for teaching me all that today. If there’s any way to repay you… let me know.”

Sevika’s lips upturned at that, and she let out a huffed laugh. “I’ll let you know for sure, doll. You’ll know.”

And with that, she turned her way. After staring, letting her words sit in your head, you turned your own way and headed back towards your place. You’d lay in bed tonight, thinking about everything. Her last words rang in your head. What did she mean by that? How would you ‘know’?!

Maybe you’d catch her at The Last Drop tonight. Maybe, just maybe you’d get drunk enough to ask what she meant. Or there’s a chance you run into her after today. At the gym again… you should really start working out more. Then you definitely would know, and it would come from those slightly asymmetrical lips of hers. And you could watch it spill past them.

| ©️ copyright flattocatto, 2025

[isa-grapes]

beverlin will always be THAT BITCH to me. like. it’s the duality of being in love with the chosen one and being in love as the chosen one. it’s the both of them saying “he’s too good for me.”

like erlin will never be as strong or brave or significant as Beverly. he isn’t the one who killed the gods or the devils, he isn’t the one time was reset for over and over, he isn’t the one who saved the world. he was just one of the pawns on the board, the body on the altar. loving a hero of the realm casts a hell of a shadow. your hands must seem so small against his. how are you supposed to deal with that? when you’ve never been good with a sword, when all you do is give yourself over to other people?

and bev’s love is dangerous, because power is a magnet for risk. you kidnap lois lane because she doesn’t punch as hard as superman. you lock erlin in a crystal because the heart of a hero is the only part that’s flesh. there’s always a prison gem or an eternal damnation, and bev can’t shake it off. he’ll never be able to just sit one out because part of being important is that the personal things aren’t anymore, part of being important is that you never really get to go home. you don’t stop moving, something always needs to be saved, someone always has to intervene. your life isn’t your own. a hero is selfless. he puts himself aside.

bev walks, erlin trails. erlin rests and bev has to stay on his feet. it’s this inherent distance that they didn’t ask for, that they can only bridge if they really mean it, right? but it works. it works because they love each other. because they’re wrong when they say “he’s too good for me.” because an angel needs the ground when his wings are failing. and a cleric needs something to worship.

[ritens]

quick pawn profile for a trend on bsky. scrimp is on pc. forgot to add platform info.

[muralikesgames]

Kassandra being an adorable tall bean.

[rubyuji]

Where the Roses Bloom (Joshua Hong) ✞⋆⭒˚.⋆

"Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." 1 Corinthians 13:4-7

Genre: Slowburn, Angst

AU: 1950s AU

Pairing: Friar!Joshua x Afab!Reader

Warnings: Working unconventional jobs (Reader is a dancer in the red light district because she's a run away), Seungcheol is an asshole

Synopsis: A wealthy runaway seeking freedom and a devout seminarian devoted to faith find an unexpected connection in Crimson Lane, where love becomes their greatest salvation and torment. Torn between their hearts and the lives they are destined to lead, they are forced to confront sacrifice, identity, and the cost of their choices.

Note: I've been obsessed with Hilda Furacão lately and am currently watching it because the story is so intriguing, so why not publish my own take on Hilda and Malthus' story you know? Also, I'm so glad I've found the time to publish a few more works in my busy schedule because I've missed writing. I hope you guys enjoy reading! Don't forget to like + reblog as always.

W.C: 7.2k

You are the beloved daughter of a wealthy, conservative family, a fragile porcelain doll meant to adorn the halls of high society. Every word you speak is measured, every gesture rehearsed, every smile carefully crafted to maintain the illusion of perfection your family has built around you.

You have always known your place in their world—a tool to be wielded in their quest for status and legacy.

But tonight, the cracks in that porcelain threaten to shatter completely.

“You bring shame to this family!” your father’s voice thunders through the drawing room, his face flushed with fury. He paces back and forth like a predator circling its prey, while your mother sits rigidly on the velvet settee, her lips pressed into a thin line. 

“Do you even realize what you’ve done? Do you understand the humiliation you’ve caused us?”

Your fiancé stands off to the side, his arms crossed and a self-satisfied smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. He says nothing, content to let your parents do the dirty work of berating you. 

You can still feel the sting of his earlier words, the way he dismissed your reluctance as childishness and called you ungrateful for even questioning the life planned for you.

“Humiliation?” you finally snap, your voice trembling but strong enough to cut through the oppressive atmosphere. “The only humiliation here is being forced into a marriage with a man who sees me as nothing more than property!”

“Watch your tone!” your father bellows, slamming his hand against the mahogany table. “You will marry him, and you will do so with dignity. That is your duty to this family.”

“And what about my duty to myself?” you demand, your voice breaking. “Don’t I deserve to choose my own life? To be something more than just a pawn in your plans?”

“Enough!” your mother interjects sharply, her icy gaze locking onto yours. 

“You are selfish, ungrateful, and disgraceful. Do you think anyone else would have you after this display? Your childish rebellion ends now. Tomorrow, you will apologize to your fiancé and prepare for the engagement ceremony.”

The room falls silent, the air thick with unspoken threats and unrelenting pressure. You look at each of them—your father, red-faced and seething; your mother, cold and unyielding; and your fiancé, smug and victorious. It feels as though the walls are closing in, the weight of their expectations suffocating you.

“I’d rather die than live like this,” you whisper, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.

Your father stiffens, his face twisting with rage, but you don’t wait for him to respond. Instead, you turn on your heel and storm out of the room, the sound of your mother’s sharp voice calling after you fading into the background.

You run to your room, grabbing a small bag and stuffing it with essentials—money, jewelry, a coat. 

The thought of staying here one more night, of bowing to their will and losing yourself completely, is unbearable. With shaking hands, you throw open the window and climb out, your heart pounding as you disappear into the cool night air.

The city is a blur as you wander, your breath visible in the chilly air. Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You’ve made your choice. There’s no turning back now.

By the time you reach Crimson Lane, your feet ache, and your throat is raw from the cold. 

The district looms before you like a forbidden dream—a world of sin, danger, and freedom. Smoke rises from narrow alleyways, mingling with the faint strains of music and the chatter of strangers.

You stumble, and a hand reaches out to steady you. A woman with painted lips and tired but kind eyes looks you over, taking in your disheveled appearance and the fine fabric of your coat.

“You’re not from here, are you?” she asks, her voice gentle but wary.

You shake your head, your voice faltering as you say, “I… I have nowhere else to go.”

She studies you for a moment, then gestures for you to follow her. “Come on, then. You’ll freeze out here.”

She leads you deeper into the district, where the streets glow with lantern light and the scent of spice and smoke fills the air.

The people here are rough around the edges, their laughter loud and unapologetic, but there’s a warmth to them—a sense of camaraderie that you’ve never felt in your old life.

The woman introduces herself as Lucia and takes you to La Rosa, a club that feels like the beating heart of Crimson Lane. The velvet curtains, the glittering chandeliers, the sound of laughter and music—it’s a world so far removed from the one you left behind that it feels almost dreamlike.

“You’ll be safe here,” Lucia says. “We take care of our own.”

For the first time in your life, you feel a flicker of hope. Here, you are not a disgrace or a disappointment. Here, you are free to be whoever you want to be.

Joshua steps hesitantly onto the cobblestone streets of Crimson Lane, his polished shoes carrying him into a world that seems to pulse with temptation and sin. The air is thick and heavy with the mingling scents of smoke, cheap liquor, and perfume. 

Neon signs flicker above the doorways of clubs and gambling dens, casting the streets in a kaleidoscope of red and gold. Laughter and music spill out into the night, wild and unrestrained, unlike anything he’s ever known.

He grips the cross hanging from his neck, the smooth metal cool against his palm, as if to remind himself of who he is and why he’s here. 

This place feels godless, a maze of excess and indulgence, yet it is precisely where he believes his mission lies. Beneath the vice, he is certain there is still humanity—still souls waiting to be saved.

Joshua’s purpose tonight is clear: to bring a young man, barely more than a boy, back to the fold. The boy has been seen frequenting La Rosa, a club infamous even in this district.

Its reputation precedes it—a place of opulence and decadence where rules are rewritten nightly. Joshua’s breath quickens as the club comes into view, its crimson façade glowing like an ember in the darkness.

The doorman eyes him with suspicion as he steps inside, but no one stops him. The moment he enters, the atmosphere changes. It’s warmer, almost stifling, and alive with sound. 

The low hum of a saxophone weaves through the air, mingling with the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses. The scent of wine and something floral—jasmine, maybe—lingers in the room, intoxicating and overwhelming.

He scans the room, searching for the boy, but his attention is drawn to the stage. The lights dim, and the murmur of the crowd fades as a figure steps into the spotlight.

And then he sees you.

You command the stage with an effortless grace, your every movement exuding confidence and allure. The dress you wear shimmers under the soft glow of the lights, its fabric hugging your figure in a way that makes the audience hold their breath. 

You are radiant, magnetic, and utterly otherworldly. But what strikes Joshua most is your voice—a sultry, melodic sound that seems to reach deep into his chest and pull something loose.

His heart stirs in a way it never has before, and for a moment, the weight of his faith feels distant. He forgets his mission, forgets the boy, forgets where he is. All he can do is watch as you weave your spell, your voice filling every corner of the room.

And then, as if sensing his gaze, you look at him.

The moment your eyes meet his, time seems to slow. You’ve seen countless faces in your time at La Rosa, most of them predictable—men with hungry eyes and insincere smiles, women with envy or admiration etched into their expressions. But he is different.

There’s something pure in the way he looks at you, something almost reverent. His gaze doesn’t linger on your body like the others; instead, it searches your face, as if he’s trying to understand you. It unnerves you, yet you can’t look away.

Joshua’s grip on his cross tightens, a silent prayer forming on his lips as his mind races.

Who are you? How can someone so captivating, so seemingly untouchable, exist in a place like this? He feels a pang of guilt for the way his heart beats faster, but there’s something deeper, something undeniable, that draws him to you.

The song ends, and the applause erupts, breaking the spell. You step back from the spotlight, but your gaze flickers toward him once more before you disappear into the wings. Joshua stands frozen, the world around him fading into a blur.

Later that night, as the crowd thins and the music softens, Joshua lingers near the edge of the stage. He tells himself it’s to wait for the boy, to fulfill the purpose that brought him here. But his eyes keep darting toward the backstage entrance, his mind replaying the moment your eyes met his.

When you finally approach, your footsteps soft against the polished floor, he feels a jolt of panic and something else—anticipation. You stop in front of him, your head tilted in curiosity. 

Up close, you’re even more stunning, but there’s something in your expression that takes him by surprise. Beneath the confidence, there’s a flicker of vulnerability, a depth that the stage lights couldn’t fully reveal.

“You don’t look like the type to spend your nights in places like this,” you say, your voice softer now, laced with intrigue.

Joshua clears his throat, his fingers brushing against the cross again. “I’m… not,” he admits, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. “I’m here for someone. A young man from my parish.”

“Ah,” you reply with a wry smile. “A shepherd in the den of wolves.”

Your words are teasing, but your tone isn’t cruel. There’s a warmth in your gaze that disarms him, even as his instincts tell him to tread carefully. “I believe there’s good here,” he says, surprising even himself with the conviction in his voice. “Even in a place like this.”

Your smile falters, just for a moment, and Joshua catches the shadow that crosses your face. “Goodness,” you murmur, almost as if testing the word. “Not many would think so.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but you step closer, your presence enveloping him in a way that makes the world feel impossibly small.

“So, what’s your name, shepherd?” you ask, your eyes studying him with genuine curiosity.

“Joshua,” he answers, his voice barely above a whisper.

You repeat his name, letting it roll off your tongue as if savoring its simplicity. For a moment, you forget about the performance, the crowd, the life you’ve built in La Rosa. There is something about this man, something untainted and sincere, that draws you in despite yourself.

And as you stand there, the weight of your respective worlds pressing against you, neither of you realizes how deeply your lives are about to intertwine.

The first time you and Joshua meet outside of La Rosa, it’s in the quiet corner of a small café tucked away from the chaos of Crimson Lane.

You arrive first, your coat wrapped tightly around you to ward off the chill, though you know it does little to shield you from the prying eyes of those who recognize you.

When Joshua enters, his presence shifts the room. He isn’t dressed in his cassock but in simple, clean-cut clothes that make him seem less like a devout seminarian and more like a boy trying to blend into a world he doesn’t belong to.

Still, his earnest gaze gives him away, and the way he hesitates before sitting across from you tells you he’s nervous.

“You came,” you say softly, sipping your tea to mask the flicker of relief in your voice.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” Joshua admits, his hands fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “But I thought… maybe you needed someone to talk to.”

The words catch you off guard. Most men come to you with expectations—of entertainment, of distraction, of something shallow and fleeting. But Joshua looks at you as if he genuinely wants to understand, to know the real you beneath the performance.

“I’m not used to people wanting to just ‘talk,’” you reply, your lips curling into a small smile.

He smiles, too, and for a moment, the tension between you eases. “I’m not like most people.”

Your meetings become a routine, a secret shared only between the two of you. Sometimes you meet in quiet cafés; other times, it’s in the park just as dawn begins to break, the city still cloaked in silence.

Joshua asks you questions no one has ever dared to ask. “Do you ever miss your old life?” he asks one morning, his voice gentle but probing.

You pause, your gaze fixed on the horizon where the sun spills golden light over the rooftops. “I miss parts of it,” you admit. “The security, maybe. The certainty. But not the suffocation.”

Joshua nods, his expression thoughtful. “And now? Do you feel free?”

You turn to him, meeting his earnest gaze. “Freedom isn’t as simple as leaving behind what holds you back. It’s… complicated.”

He doesn’t push further, but the way he looks at you lingers, as if he’s trying to piece together a puzzle that’s missing too many pieces.

The conversations shift over time, becoming deeper, more intimate. Joshua talks about his faith, his calling, and the doubts that sometimes creep in despite his unwavering belief in something greater.

“I’ve always wanted to help people,” he says one evening, the two of you seated on a bench under the soft glow of a street lamp. “To give them hope, to remind them that they’re not alone. But sometimes… I wonder if I’m enough.”

“You’re more than enough,” you say, the words slipping out before you can think better of them. He looks at you, startled, and you feel a rush of heat rise to your cheeks. “I mean… you’ve already helped me, haven’t you?”

Joshua’s expression softens, and for a moment, the distance between your worlds feels smaller.

The unspoken desires between you grow harder to ignore. There are moments when your fingers brush as you walk side by side, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through you. 

When he speaks, his voice low and full of conviction, you can’t help but imagine what it would be like to pull him closer, to feel the weight of his devotion turned entirely toward you.

For Joshua, the temptation is both exhilarating and terrifying. He tells himself that he is here to guide you, to help you see the light. But with every meeting, every shared smile, he feels the foundation of his faith tremble. 

You are not the sinner he expected to find in Crimson Lane. You are complex, brave, and endlessly captivating.

In you, Joshua sees a reflection of his own humanity—the doubts he wrestles with, the longing for something more than the rigid path he has chosen. And in him, you see the purity and sincerity you thought the world had forgotten.

One night, after hours of quiet conversation and stolen glances, the silence stretches between you. The streets are unusually still, the usual hum of Crimson Lane reduced to faint murmurs and the occasional clatter of footsteps in the distance. 

You’re seated on a weathered wooden bench beneath a streetlamp that flickers every so often, casting fleeting shadows across your faces. The glow illuminates Joshua’s profile, highlighting the soft curve of his jaw and the furrow in his brow that deepens when he’s lost in thought.

The air between you feels heavier tonight, charged with something unspoken, a tension that neither of you has dared to fully acknowledge.

You’re no stranger to silences, but this one feels different, as if the words trapped within it could change everything.

“Joshua,” you finally say, your voice barely audible against the stillness. 

His name lingers on your tongue, familiar and strange all at once. It feels too intimate, like a secret you’re not sure you should share, yet you’ve never been able to call him anything else.

He turns to you, his eyes meeting yours with that quiet intensity that has always disarmed you. His gaze is steady, but there’s a vulnerability in it tonight, a crack in the armor of his resolve.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” you ask, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. Your voice trembles slightly, betraying the depth of your hesitation. “That you could… choose a life that wasn’t already decided for you?”

Joshua doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looks away, his eyes following the faint outline of smoke curling from a nearby chimney. His fingers toy with the cross hanging around his neck, the movement absentminded yet telling.

“I think about it,” he says after a long pause, his voice thick with emotion. “Sometimes, when I’m alone, I wonder what it would be like to live without all the expectations. To… to make choices just for myself.”

His confession surprises you, and you feel a pang of something you can’t quite name—relief, perhaps, that even someone as steadfast as Joshua isn’t immune to doubt. “And what would you choose?” you ask, leaning closer without realizing it.

He hesitates, his gaze flickering back to you. For a moment, you see the walls he’s built around himself falter.

“I don’t know,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I think about you.”

The words hit you like a storm, sudden and all-consuming. Your breath catches, and for a moment, you forget how to speak. “Me?” you manage, your voice unsteady.

Joshua nods, his eyes searching yours for something—understanding, perhaps, or courage. 

“I think about the way you talk about freedom, about wanting to find yourself. I’ve spent my whole life trying to give myself to something greater, to serve a purpose beyond myself. But when I’m with you… I don’t feel lost. I feel like I’m finally being seen.”

The honesty in his words is almost too much to bear. You feel your throat tighten, your chest aching with the weight of emotions you’ve tried to suppress.

“You see me, too,” you say, your voice trembling. 

“Not the person I pretend to be at La Rosa, or the daughter my family wanted me to be. You see the parts of me I thought were long gone.”

The silence that follows is deafening, every breath, every heartbeat magnified. You want to reach for him, to close the small distance between you, but you’re paralyzed by the fear of what it might mean.

“Do you ever wonder if we were meant to meet?” you ask quietly, your words tentative, as if afraid to give them too much power.

Joshua’s lips curve into the faintest smile, a mixture of sorrow and something almost like hope. “All the time,” he says. “But I also wonder what it means. If this—if we—are a test or a gift.”

You don’t know how to respond. You don’t know how to tell him that the mere thought of him has become both your solace and your torment, that he’s made you question everything you thought you knew about yourself.

“I don’t have the answers,” you say softly, your gaze dropping to the ground. “But I know that being with you makes the world feel less heavy. And maybe that’s enough.”

Joshua reaches out then, his hand hovering between you as if he’s fighting an internal battle. Finally, he lets it rest gently on yours, the touch warm and grounding. You look up at him, startled, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Maybe it is,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

In that moment, the world around you seems to fade, the noise of Crimson Lane replaced by the quiet rhythm of your breathing. For the first time in what feels like forever, you allow yourself to believe in the possibility of something more.

The change in Joshua is subtle at first, almost imperceptible to those around him. He still attends his daily prayers and still preaches sermons that touch hearts and inspire hope, but there’s a new uncertainty in his eyes, a hesitance in his voice when he speaks of his calling. His mentor at the parish, Father Miguel, notices the shift and questions him one evening.

“You seem troubled, Joshua,” Father Miguel says gently, his gaze steady but not unkind. “Is there something you wish to confess?”

Joshua hesitates, the weight of his secret relationship with you pressing heavily on his chest. He shakes his head, offering a polite smile. “No, Father. I’m just… reflecting on my work here.”

Father Miguel doesn’t push, but his concern lingers. “Remember, doubt is part of faith. But so is discernment. Pray on it, Joshua, and trust that you’ll find your way.”

Joshua nods, but the advice feels hollow. He doesn’t need to pray to know what troubles him—it’s you.

For you, the change is more visceral. The armor you’ve worn for so long, the persona you’ve carefully crafted at La Rosa, begins to crack.

Joshua’s faith and kindness, so foreign in a world that has often shown you cruelty, force you to confront truths you’ve buried.

One night, after a particularly vulnerable conversation, you find yourself staring at your reflection in the mirror backstage at La Rosa. The vibrant makeup and glittering costumes no longer feel like a shield but a mask you’re desperate to shed. 

You think of Joshua’s words, his belief that goodness exists even in the darkest places, and wonder if you could ever truly believe that about yourself.

Later, as you and Joshua sit on the steps of a quiet chapel he’s introduced you to, you let the words spill out. “I’ve spent so much of my life pretending,” you admit, your voice trembling. 

“Pretending to be the perfect daughter, pretending to be strong, pretending that none of this bothers me. But with you…” You pause, struggling to find the words. “I feel like I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Joshua reaches for your hand, his touch gentle but firm. “You don’t,” he says quietly. “You never did. You’re enough just as you are, Y/N.”

His words undo you, tears slipping down your cheeks as the weight you’ve carried for so long begins to lift.

But the fragile connection you’ve built with Joshua doesn’t go unnoticed. In a world as tightly knit as Crimson Lane, whispers spread faster than wildfire.

At La Rosa, the staff begins to exchange knowing looks, their smiles laced with curiosity and judgment. Madame Maria, always watchful, pulls you aside one evening after a particularly dazzling performance.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” she says, her voice light but with an undertone of steel. Her sharp eyes bore into you, assessing every flicker of emotion that crosses your face. “Is there something—or someone—you’d like to tell me about?”

Your heart races, but you force yourself to remain composed. “I don’t know what you mean,” you reply, carefully neutral.

Maria’s smile doesn’t waver, but there’s a knowing glint in her eyes. “Be careful, darling,” she says, her tone softening slightly. “You may think you’re invincible, but the world outside these walls has a way of tearing people like you apart. And men like him…” She trails off, shaking her head. 

“Men like him don’t belong here.” The warning lingers in the air, unspoken yet clear: your relationship with Joshua is a risk, not just for you but for him as well.

Joshua also faces his share of scrutiny. His absences and distracted demeanor don’t go unnoticed by the parish elders, who begin to question his commitment. 

One evening, as he prepares to leave for another secret meeting with you, Father Miguel intercepts him at the church doors. 

“Joshua,” the older priest says, his tone firm but kind, “it’s clear that something is weighing on you. You’ve always been a man of conviction, but conviction without clarity can lead you astray. Is there something you need to confess?”

Joshua hesitates, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder. “I’m… just trying to help someone,” he says, the words feeling both true and insufficient.

Father Miguel’s expression hardens, though his voice remains gentle. “Sometimes, the greatest tests of faith come disguised as acts of kindness. Be sure you are not mistaking temptation for charity.”

Joshua looks away, guilt and longing warring within him. 

“She’s not a temptation,” he says quietly. “She’s someone who’s lost, someone who deserves to be seen, to be valued. I can’t turn my back on her.”

Father Miguel sighs deeply, his disappointment palpable. “Then you must ask yourself, Joshua, if this is the path you truly wish to walk. Because once you choose, there may be no turning back.”

The scrutiny grows, and the walls around your relationship begin to close in. You find yourself plagued by doubts late at night, wondering if holding on to Joshua is selfish, if you are pulling him away from a life he was meant to live.

One evening, as you and Joshua sit together in the dimly lit chapel, the weight of everything finally becomes too much to bear.

“They’re watching us,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “People are talking, and I… I can’t let them ruin you, Joshua. You’ve worked so hard for this life.”

Joshua reaches for your hand, his grip firm and reassuring. “You’re not ruining me,” he says, his voice steady but thick with emotion.

“You’ve made me question things I was too afraid to question before. You’ve shown me that there’s more to faith than rules and expectations. There’s… love. Compassion. Humanity.”

“But what if I’m a mistake?” you ask, your voice breaking as tears threaten to spill. “What if loving me ruins everything you’ve built?”

Joshua’s gaze softens, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles.

“You’re not a mistake,” he says, his voice quiet but full of conviction. “And if loving you is wrong, then maybe everything I’ve been taught about right and wrong isn’t as simple as I thought.”

His words hang in the air, a declaration that feels both like a promise and a challenge. 

As the night stretches on, the line between what is right and what is necessary blurs, leaving the two of you caught in the fragile, intoxicating space in between.

The fragile world you and Joshua have built begins to teeter as the shadows of your past and the expectations of his present loom closer.

It begins with the sudden arrival of your former fiancé, Seungcheol—a man you thought you’d left behind forever. He finds you at La Rosa one evening, standing in the crowd with a smug, self-satisfied smirk that sends a shiver down your spine. 

You’re performing when you see him, your practiced poise faltering ever so slightly as his face registers in the crowd. Panic coils in your chest, but you force yourself to finish the performance, smiling and bowing as though your world hasn’t just shifted on its axis.

Afterward, he waits for you in the dimly lit corridor outside your dressing room, leaning casually against the wall as though he belongs there.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice dripping with mockery. “Or should I say, Scarlet?”

You glare at him, your pulse racing as you step closer. 

“What do you want, Seungcheol?” You hiss, his name slipping off your tongue like venom. He chuckles, his smirk widening. 

“What I’ve always wanted. Control. You humiliated me, Y/N—running off like that, abandoning your family, your responsibilities, me. Do you have any idea what kind of scandal you caused?”

“I don’t care,” you snap, though your voice betrays the fear bubbling just beneath the surface. “You don’t own me, Seungcheol. You never did.”

His smile hardens, his tone growing cold. “Maybe not. But I do know things about you—things the world would love to hear. And I imagine your new… friend wouldn’t fare too well if they knew he was involved with someone like you.”

The threat hits its mark, your breath hitching as dread seeps into your bones. 

“Leave him out of this,” you say, your voice firm despite the tremor in your hands.

Seungcheol shrugs, his eyes glinting with malice. “That’s up to you, darling. You come with me, quietly, and I’ll forget about this sordid little chapter of your life. Stay here, and I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who you are—and what you’ve done.”

Meanwhile, Joshua faces his own challenges. His growing absences and distracted demeanor have not gone unnoticed by his superiors at the parish. Father Miguel, once quietly concerned, now takes a firmer approach.

“You’ve been neglecting your duties, Joshua,” he says one evening, his tone sharper than usual. “The parish is a sacred commitment, one that requires your full devotion. I’ve given you time to reflect, but it’s clear your heart is no longer here.”

Joshua stiffens, guilt flickering across his face. “That’s not true, Father. I’ve been serving the people, just… in a different way.”

Father Miguel narrows his eyes, his voice dropping into a warning tone. “Serving them? Or serving yourself? I’ve heard the rumors, Joshua. About her. Is it true?”

Joshua hesitates, the weight of his connection to you pressing heavily on his chest. 

“It’s complicated,” he finally says.

“Faith is not complicated,” Father Miguel retorts sharply. “It is a path of sacrifice and conviction. If you continue down this road, you will not only jeopardize your future in the church but also your soul.”

The tension between your two worlds becomes unbearable as Seungcheol’s threats grow bolder and Joshua’s superiors demand he sever ties with Crimson Lane entirely.

One evening, you and Joshua meet in the chapel, the only place you both feel safe enough to speak freely. The dim light of the candles flickers across Joshua’s face as he sits beside you, his expression a mixture of anguish and determination.

“He’s threatening you, isn’t he?” Joshua asks, his voice tight with barely restrained anger.

You nod, your hands trembling as you grip the edge of the pew. “He wants me to go back with him, to leave this place—and you—behind. If I don’t, he’ll ruin both of us.”

Joshua’s jaw clenches, his fists curling in his lap. “You don’t have to go with him. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“But what about you?” you ask, your voice breaking. “Your superiors are already suspicious. If Seungcheol exposes the truth, they’ll force you to leave the parish. Everything you’ve worked for will be gone.”

Joshua turns to you, his eyes filled with an intensity that takes your breath away. “I don’t care about that,” he says firmly. “I care about you. I care about what’s right. If staying in the church means abandoning you, then maybe I’m not meant to stay.”

His words stun you into silence, your heart pounding as the gravity of his declaration sinks in. “Joshua,” you whisper, tears pooling in your eyes. “You can’t just give up everything for me. It’s not fair.”

“Fair or not, it’s the truth,” he says, his voice unwavering. “You’ve made me see things differently, Y/N. Maybe this is the test I’m supposed to face—not of my faith, but of my humanity.”

The decision weighs heavily on both of you. Seungcheol’s presence looms like a storm cloud, and Joshua’s faith is tested as he grapples with the idea of leaving behind a life he once thought was his calling.

In the quiet moments you share, there’s a sense of both urgency and tenderness, as though every touch, every word, could be your last.

Together, you must decide: will you stand against the forces threatening to tear you apart, or will you sacrifice your love to protect each other from a world that refuses to understand?

The days that follow Seungcheol’s threat and Father Miguel’s ultimatum feel like an unending storm, pulling you and Joshua in opposite directions. The quiet haven you had built together becomes fraught with tension, every meeting tinged with the unspoken knowledge that your time is running out.

You find yourself haunted by Seungcheol’s words. Every glance from a stranger feels like suspicion, every shadow a threat. At La Rosa, the staff are growing more curious, their whispers louder.

Even Madame Maria, who has always been fiercely protective of her own, seems hesitant now, her sharp gaze following you with a caution that wasn’t there before.

“Whatever you’re planning, darling,” she says one night after a show, her tone uncharacteristically soft, “be sure it’s worth the cost. Men like your Joshua—they don’t survive in places like this. And if you’re not careful, neither will you.”

Her words cut deep, but it’s the truth you already know.

Joshua, too, is unraveling. His prayers feel hollow, his faith no longer the comforting constant it once was. The parish feels foreign, its walls oppressive. Father Miguel’s disappointment lingers like a shadow, his words echoing in Joshua’s mind.

“This is your moment of truth, Joshua,” he had said during their last conversation. “You must choose. Your faith or this… distraction. You cannot serve both God and your desires.”

But how could he explain that you weren’t a distraction? That what he felt for you was not temptation but something more profound—something that made him question the very foundations of his beliefs?

Still, doubt claws at him. He wonders if loving you is selfish, if he is abandoning his calling for something fleeting. Yet every time he sees you, every time your eyes meet his, he feels that his path might lie not in the church but in the simple, devastating truth of his feelings for you.

One evening, as the tension reaches its breaking point, you meet in the chapel again, both of you weighed down by the decisions looming ahead. The air between you crackles with unspoken words, the silence heavy and suffocating.

“Joshua,” you finally say, your voice trembling, “we can’t keep doing this.”

He turns to you sharply, his expression a mix of desperation and sorrow. “Don’t say that. Don’t give up on us.”

“It’s not about giving up,” you reply, your voice cracking. “It’s about doing what’s right. Seungcheol’s not going to stop. Your superiors are already suspicious. If we keep this up, it’ll destroy us both.”

“Let it,” he says fiercely, his hands curling into fists. “I don’t care about the church, about their rules. None of it matters if I can’t be with you.”

“But I care,” you whisper, tears streaming down your face. “I care about what this will do to you, Joshua. You have so much good in you—so much to give. You’re meant for something greater than this. Greater than me.”

“Stop it,” he pleads, his voice breaking. “Stop saying that. You’re the one who’s shown me what faith truly means. You’ve made me see the world differently, made me feel alive in a way I never thought possible. How can you say you’re not worth it?”

“Because I love you,” you cry, your voice raw and aching. “And because I love you, I can’t let you throw your life away for me.”

The words hang between you, a devastating truth neither of you can escape.

Joshua’s shoulders slump, his resolve crumbling as he looks at you, his eyes filled with a pain that mirrors your own. “So this is it?” he whispers. “After everything, we’re just… walking away?”

You nod, though it feels like your heart is being ripped from your chest. “We have to. For both our sakes.”

He takes a shuddering breath, stepping closer to you. For a moment, you think he might argue again, but instead, he reaches for your hand, holding it tightly as though trying to memorize the feel of your touch.

“I’ll never forget you,” he says quietly, his voice thick with emotion. “No matter where I go, no matter what I do… you’ll always be with me.”

You choke back a sob, squeezing his hand one last time before pulling away. “And I’ll always carry you in my heart, Joshua. But we can’t keep holding on to something that was never ours to begin with.”

The days that follow are excruciating. Joshua resigns from his post at the parish, choosing to leave Crimson Lane entirely. He doesn’t return to the church but instead travels to another city, seeking to rebuild his faith and his purpose in the quiet solitude of helping others.

You remain at La Rosa, but everything feels different now. The lights seem dimmer, the music hollow. The mask you wear grows heavier with each passing day.

Seungcheol eventually loses interest, his threats subsiding as he realizes you’ll never return to him. But his presence leaves a scar, a reminder of the life you escaped and the one you can never fully leave behind.

Years later, you hear the whispers of Joshua. He has become a quiet figure of inspiration, dedicating his life to working with the marginalized. His name is spoken with reverence in places far from Crimson Lane, but the man who loved you remains a ghost in your memory.

For him, you remain a lingering ache, a lesson in love and loss that shaped the man he has become. And though you’ll never see him again, you carry him with you—a reminder of the man who taught you to believe in something greater, even if that belief meant letting him go.

In the end, your paths diverge, but the love you shared leaves an indelible mark—a bittersweet testament to what could have been and what was sacrificed for the sake of survival.

Epilogue:

The grand ballroom is bathed in golden light, chandeliers casting their glow over a sea of elegantly dressed guests. The hum of polite conversation mingles with the soft strains of a string quartet, creating an atmosphere of sophistication and calm.

The gala, held to raise funds for a foundation supporting marginalized communities, is a testament to second chances—a theme that seems almost poetic as you step into the room.

You’ve come far since your days at La Rosa. The years have transformed you, though the fire in your spirit remains. Now a philanthropist in your own right, you’ve built a life dedicated to helping others reclaim their dignity, much like you once reclaimed your own.

Dressed in an understated yet elegant gown, you move through the crowd with quiet confidence, exchanging pleasantries and offering kind words.

But then, as you glance across the room, you see him.

Joshua.

He stands near the edge of the ballroom, deep in conversation with an elderly patron. Time has softened his youthful features, but his presence is as commanding as ever. His tailored suit fits him impeccably, and his familiar calmness radiates outward, drawing others in with his sincerity.

Your breath catches, memories rushing back in vivid detail—the warmth of his voice, the way his hand felt in yours, the bittersweet goodbye that had shattered you both. You had imagined this moment countless times but never truly believed it would come.

Joshua turns as though sensing your gaze, his eyes scanning the room until they land on you. For a moment, the noise and motion of the gala seem to fade, leaving only the two of you in a shared silence.

His eyes widen briefly, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips before his expression softens into something more unreadable—nostalgia, perhaps, or quiet wonder.

You hesitate, unsure whether to approach or retreat. But then, he takes a step forward, and the decision is made for you.

“Y/N,” he says when he reaches you, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.

“Joshua,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.

The world seems to slow as you take each other in, noting the changes time has wrought and marveling at the things that remain unchanged.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, his tone warm but tinged with surprise.

You smile softly, glancing around the room. “I could say the same about you. But then again, it doesn’t surprise me. This… this is exactly where you’re meant to be.”

He chuckles lightly, the sound stirring something deep within you. “And you? What brought you here?”

You shrug, your smile turning wistful. “Purpose. A second chance. I’ve learned a lot about how much people can overcome when someone believes in them.”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze filled with something like admiration. “You’ve always had that strength. Even when you didn’t see it in yourself.”

You feel your chest tighten at his words, the tenderness in his voice tugging at old wounds and forgotten hopes. “And you?” you ask quietly. “Are you happy?”

He nods, his smile reaching his eyes. “I am. Life isn’t what I thought it would be, but… it’s good. I’ve found peace in helping others. It’s fulfilling in ways I never imagined.”

You nod, feeling a bittersweet mix of pride and sadness. “I’m glad. You deserve that, Joshua.”

For a moment, silence stretches between you, filled with unspoken words. There is so much you could say, so much you could ask, but you both know the answers won’t change the past—or the choices you made.

“I’ve thought about you,” he admits suddenly, his voice quiet. “Over the years. Wondered how you were, what you were doing. If you were happy.”

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile.

“I’ve thought about you too. More than I should, probably.”

His expression softens, and he takes a half-step closer, his voice dropping. “Do you regret it? Walking away?”

You take a deep breath, your eyes meeting his with a mix of honesty and pain. “I don’t regret loving you, Joshua. Not for a second. But I think we both know it couldn’t have ended any other way.”

He nods slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. “You were right,” he says. “About everything. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

As the evening progresses, you find yourselves pulled back into the current of the gala. But even as you move among the other guests, you’re acutely aware of his presence, as though some invisible thread still connects you.

At the end of the night, you see him again, standing near the exit. He catches your eye, and this time, his smile is lighter, more peaceful. You return it, a silent acknowledgment of what you once shared—and what you’ve both become.

As you leave the gala, you carry the moment with you, a reminder that some connections endure even when paths diverge. Though you’ll never be together, the love you shared has shaped you both, leaving behind a legacy of strength, purpose, and bittersweet beauty.

© rubyuji 2025’ -. no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any manner without the permission from the publisher.

[whoreforsexymen]

Vander x Reader Fic Summary + Chapter List

Title: Strong Drinks & Broken Links

Pairings: Vander x Reader

Pronouns used: None as of now. Vander calls reader “kid” a lot.

TW: None, other than strong language. Eventual smut, but reader is implied to be 21+.

(Will keep updating this post in place of a master list.)

Chapter list (So far):

1) Gray Hair & The Absence of Care [Released on 11/22/24]

2) Untitled for now.

3) Untitled for now.

4) Untitled for now.

[Summary below the cut.]

Summary

You’re stubborn. Too stubborn. Stubborn enough to make even a mule seem obedient.

But it’s not your fault. It’s not like The Lanes are exactly a place known for instilling useful habits into people.

Besides, you only do what you have to do to get by. Utilizing the skills you’ve learned over time. You steal, trade, and pawn what you can to make enough of a living for yourself. It isn’t ideal, but life is only ever anything but.

When you encounter an unfamiliar, and extremely unlikable, according to your standards, bartender, your whole world is turned upside down.

Whether it be some insatiable need to “save” every “troubled soul” he meets, or plain curiosity, he takes an interest in you. You’re not so quick to grin and bear the sudden interest, finding his forceful mentorship unbearable.

But when the man realizes you’re too stubborn to teach, he uses certain connections to threaten your only way of making money in the undercity. You end up having no choice but to shape up, or starve to death.

He makes it obvious that he has no doubts he can tame a brat like you quickly. Will you prove him right, or die trying?

[fae-morrigan]

Someone put a post (where they admit they straight up dont know these characters lol, and also spell damian as 'damien' so like. yknow.) in the tags saying that if you're a fan of Jon & Jay, you shouldn't buy super son. Well, as the crowned CEO of Jay & Jon, I'm here to tell you guys that you absolutely should.

Super Son did the amazing thing of hitting several marks that I predicted while still managing to surprise me in how they hit them. Which is high praise for any story: A great narrative should be able to both meet reasonable audience expectations (i.e, staying in character, setup payoff) WHILE STILL throwing in curveballs that tell you something new.

There's a lot I want to analyze and get into, namely how I think the rooftop conversation between Jon & Nia is really brilliantly done in what it says about both characters, but mainly I've been thinking a lot about how great those last few pages were and how I think Sina absolutely nails how Jon & Jay's specific issues interact with each other.

Jay's always been a blunt person. From their first meeting back in SOKE 2, hes said what he thinks, and rarely does he try and soften himself. More than that, his bluntness is often a shield from vulnerability, which Jay struggles with the whole scene. It makes total sense, after what hes experienced (re-traumatization at the hands of a friend) that he's displaying that trait again.

Jon, however, is immediately vulnerable. This is the most poignant confession of the issue: Not even in the amazing sequence of Nia helping him make a place in the darkness (look, its back, thanks isabel!) do we get this admission of fear.

And Jay, like always, embraces him. Sidenote, LOVE how they got in the thing Jon does where he's constantly tucking his face in people's shoulders during hugs.

But the moment ends, and we get here. First of all, cold af. I could feel the aura before I turned the page.

Second of all: Jay is totally valid in feeling this way. And it makes perfect sense that he would.

Sara was his everything. Getting her back was one of his main motivations in SOKE. Because of Nia's actions, she died horribly (do you know what happens to a person when they fall from that sort of height? I do. Its AWFUL.) for an unjust cause. Of course he's glad she can't hurt anyone else!

And that's when we get to my FAVORITE PART! Oh how I love this bit. Because like. You understand why Jon's angry- Its a harsh thing for Jay to say! Nia was the one who kept him sane while he was trapped in his own mind! But Jay, like always, is RIGHT: Jon DOESN'T get it. How could he?

Jon Kent will NEVER, ever, be put in this position. Out of universe, his parents are Clark Kent and Lois Lane. They'll ALWAYS come back. Hell, the fact they'll always come back is something Ma LITERALLY says to Jon in SOKE. He will never, ever have to know this pain.

In universe, Jon's a white american. Despite being queer, despite being an alien, he'll never know what its like to be this kind of collateral, delegated as pawns in a greater war for 'freedom'. That is what killed Sara at the end of the day: imperialism.

This next bit hurts my heart. Great job, guys!

For one: Jon claims he's not excusing the mistakes Nia made, but by downplaying it like this... yes he is. But did you catch that part? Right at the start of that bubble?

"I'm going to fight every day to make up for my own part in this."

That's where it clicked for me. Something I had been hoping for since Nicole first called them twin flames.

He's projecting.

Of COURSE he's defending Nia. Of COURSE he wants Jay to forgive her. It isn't just about the fact that she gave him support, it isn't just the dreams, its the fact that... well. If Jay can't forgive her... how could he EVER forgive HIM?

THIS is where the fact that Jon and Nia are so similar as character SINGS. They become mirrors to each other, evaluating their own self worth through the other, at the unintentional expense of the people they've hurt.

Jay's right, though. Again. Its almost like he's the embodiment of the truth or something. He doesn't HAVE to do anything.

When he starts crying though, I immediately was RUINED. This is the first time we have EVER seen him cry before during his entire existence of a character. And its not really even because his mom is dead (though yes, that) and its not even because of the argument. Its because Jay fundamentally wants to be understood, and he's not getting that.

Which is important for the next bit:

I want to first backtrack a bit to Son of Kal El again, specifically, issue fourteen, right here.

Hello, two-panel sequence that succinctly describes these two as characters. How convenient you are for me, a guy analyzing a work that isn't written prose.

Jon isn't good at letting go, for better or for worse. The things he cares about stay with him, and when something or someone tries to exit his life, he clings to them with all his might.

Jay however, both selflessly and selfishly, is willing to let go first if he thinks its better for the other person. To me this line so effortlessly summarizes who Jay is- he's a person who's accustomed to not having things, and will leave before it hurts and he gets too attached.

And that thought is ALL over this scene. Jay, who begins to let go, Jon, who both literally and physically CLINGS to jay, practically begging him to stay.

(Sidenote. This is like, the third time Jay mentions breaking up when Jon starts acting up. Good for you king, keep that white boy on his toes, let him know he ain't all that.)

Every little detail of this four panel sequence is killing me. "My worst nightmare is not having a home with you in it." His greatest desire. The thing that kept tipping him off in every fake reality Nia constructed for him- Jay's absence. Him wiping the tear of Jay's cheek. Jay walking away from him.

But what really gets me is how on this page, Jon talks about them as 'we', while Jay is firmly stuck in 'I.'

This is what made me LOSE MY MARBLES at three in the morning. Just utterly fucking off my rocker in a straightjacket talking to myself.

Because this is what JON wants. But is it what JAY wants?

Jon never asks.

What about what Jay fears? What about the life that HE wants? What if he doesn't want San Francisco? What if the life he wants is the life he HAD before everything went wrong? Jon outright says he wants a fresh start. But Jay, Jay's someone with such deep connections to what he just lost, what he likely WANTS to get back. His country. His mother. His sense of self. But. He says yes.

(Sidenote. FIRST I LOVE YOU WOOOOOOOOOO) To quote my buddy Dami: Oh, the drama of needing a future with someone who can't get over the past.

It is left unclear, by the end, whether or not Jay is saying yes to this because he genuinely wants to, or if he's only saying yes because he doesn't want to lose Jon, too. Jon doesn't stop to question whether or not Jay's only reaching after him because Jon's walking away. We, the audience, are left to ponder that for ourselves.

How much of Jay saying yes is him just accepting that this is the best he's going to get? That he's never going to be understood because nobody wants to understand?

He's an afterthought to Nia, an obstacle at best, and to Jon he's a particularly handsome prop in this little fantasy he has of running away and starting new. He's either not thought of at all, or when he is thought about, it's in the context of how he can emotionally fulfill the other person And you get why Jon did this. He's desperate, he's hurting, he just got tangible evidence that the time he has with the people he loves isn't ever guaranteed. He's been needing space from Clark and Lois for MONTHS because god knows they haven't been fulfilling his emotional needs. In a very real sense, Jay is who he has.

But wanting someone to stay with you so much that you'll... Not even ignore, but just not ever consider what they may want. The intentional isolation, moving halfway across the country away from all support systems. The need to cling to someone.

It reminds me of... something. Someone.

Don't tell Jon I made this comparison. He'll kill himself. Jon and Ultraman ARE similar. They're both such deeply lonely people who cling very tightly and even though it manifests in different ways and even though they have different core thoughts about it. The effect at the end of the day is the same, isn't it?

Is loving Jay not a brutal act of destruction?

There's so many more details about this story I love. Jon & Nia's conversation being vague enough that you have no idea how Jon meant what he told her but you KNOW how NIA took it (girl you can do better hes literally ugly!). Jon breaking a pillar by bonking his head against it (LMFAO). The pretty lies vs ugly truth dichotomy of Jay vs Nia here.

But this one scene, man. This one fucking scene takes the cake. STELLAR work all around. Every panel counts.

This better lead into a full Superman & Gossamer run or SOMETHING or I'm going to have WORDS with DC's editorial staff.

[palesweetscherryblossom]

King Naga Shigaraki x Royalty Reader

-Naga & Humans have been beefing for years, thanks to competing for the same resources and of course, AFO stoking the flames of that -Eventually, the two simply decided to stay in their own lanes respectively. Only interacting when it came to trade or economic matters. -There was a golden rule, never EVER start anything on either side. To do so would result in a shitstorm. -Shigaraki was crowned prince after being adopted by AFO. He was feared, respected and beloved by his subjects. Tomura crowned himself king after murdering AFO in a battle for power. -Your family is a modestly sized royal family, powerful but not too big. You are the youngest of your brother and sister, aged 20. -Whilst your brothers harbored a resentment towards the naga, you stayed in your own lane. -Then, one of them did something stupid, dreadfully stupid. You eldest brother had made the horrible decision to attempt to raid one of Shigaraki’s villages, only to be met with Tomura’s furious royal court. -Your brother had attempted to steal valuable jewelry and even tried to abduct Lady Himiko as ransom. If it wasn’t for Jin then Toga would’ve probably made minced meat out of his face. -Tomura was outraged that puny arrogant Prince had the audacity to try and attack his people. So, he was going to be a little shit right back -Your parents were swiftly met with an invite to Tomura’s royal court as to discuss this matter. And they were instructed to bring their family. -“What have you done to my land and people is unforgivable. But I’m willing to forgive if you give me something of value in exchange for your pathetic son.” -Your parents were shaken, no doubt that Tomura wouldn’t hesitate to send his angry court after them. -Then, your eldest sister got an idea. The girl had never liked you, for your elegance, beauty and the fact that you were blossoming into a beautiful person made her rage with jealousy. -So, why not pawn you off to the Naga beast and not only get you out of the way but gain some other benefits. Like more land, materials, food and extra military service?

“I have an idea your majesty!” The court turned to your scheming sister, Tomura seemed rather unimpressed. “I humbly offer you my sibling in exchange for our brother.”

-Everyone was shocked, including you. How dare she try to pawn you off?! You opened your mouth to object but were swiftly glared at by your parents and siblings. -Tomura and his court contemplated it, a murmur of intrigued hissing swept across the room before Tomura answered. He would take you as his mate, perhaps they could repair tensions and Kurogiri was nagging him about finding a mate. -Thus, your new life began

[hungryistrying]

santa, santa why do you hate me

summary:

So there he stood, severely out of breath with oil stains clinging to his shirt, sweat uncomfortably cooling his skin, and his socks soaked with melted snow. All that for a train that wasn’t riding anyway, for a Christmas party he didn’t really want to attend, and for one girl he’d been dying to see for months who would (allegedly) be there. If god gives his silliest battles to his funniest of clowns, then Ekko now considered himself the fucking court jester.

In which Ekko is down bad and Jinx doesn't really like Christmas parties.

rating: teen

word count: 7460

status: completed

crossposted to ao3

Tagalog Christmas music spills out from beneath the front door and onto the frosty pavement, where Ekko stands, waiting for someone to open up already. The music is so loud he can clearly make out the words even while outside (not that he understands any of it, all he knows is a few cusses Zeri uses so often even he's managed to pick them up).

The cheer of the holiday season affects even the deepest, grungiest levels of the undercity. Decorations linger outside nearly every row house on Zeri’s street, and fairy lights are strung up all over the lanes, the colors setting the snow-white streets aglow.

Even the weather must be in on the festivities, it started snowing three weeks ago and simply never stopped. This would be Ekko's first white Christmas in years. He might’ve appreciated the aesthetic, had he not been out in the snow for well over an hour by now. 

Man, he hates the cold.

Heaving a tired sigh – his breath fogging in front of his face from the chill – he impatiently knocks on the door again, hoping somebody will open up already.

Feeling more and more restless, he taps his foot to the music while he waits, trying (and probably failing) to stop scowling. All things considered though, Ekko thinks he’s pretty justified in the fact that he’s pissed and exhausted now that he's finally made it to Zeri's party.

Luck was not on his side trying to get here. Then again, it never is so what's new? It hadn't started off too bad. After all, Benzo is a good guy and had been fine with letting Ekko leave the store early for the evening.

-

"It's colder than a polar bear's toenail outside," Benzo explained, inspecting a newly pawned antique for its value. "If you don't leave early, you might miss your bus."

But well, the holiday season was busy, even for a hole-in-the-wall shop such as Benzo's, and Ekko was pretty much his only employee (unofficially at that, but as long as he got paid he wasn't complaining). He couldn't just leave the old man to run the shop by himself on one of the busiest days of the year. 

Plus, the money was good on Christmas Eve. Dumb Pilties always paid too much, but they were especially easy to overcharge when in a rush to buy a last-minute Christmas gift.

He checked his pocket watch for the time. Alright, he might not make it to Zeri's house on time by bus anymore, but he should’ve been faster if he took the train and then cut through the backstreets (and also much more likely to get stabbed with a shiv but fuck it, not the worst risk he’s taken).

But apparently, Santa just hated his guts. That's the only explanation for the series of unfortunate events that unfolded next.

The first incident was a rookie mistake. Ekko had been struggling to fix a broken pipe while simultaneously juggling a sudden rush of customers, so he'd tried to get the job done as quickly as possible to focus on all the incoming buyers. 

But he'd done the job too quickly, sloppily even. He'd only just finished twisting the final cog into place when the pipe sprang, sending oil flying all over him in the process. 

"Shit!" he'd cursed, frantically covering the burst pipe to keep the leak contained. It was about as effective as putting a bandaid on a gunshot wound.

"Ekko, what in the bloody hell happened?" Benzo demanded, stepping away from the cash register to assess the damage he'd done.

"My bad, Benzo." Ekko grimaced, reaching for all the paper towels he had on hand to cover the leak. "I'll have this fixed in no time, don't worry."

The old man sighed but nodded, "Alright, you just head out now after fixing this mess," before heading back to the counter to help the line of waiting customers.

Ekko eventually fixed the pipe and cleaned up the remaining mess. Too bad it had taken thirty more minutes than he had intended it to.

When he'd finally made it to the second floor of the shop, he looked down at himself with a grimace. His work overalls had saved his jeans from the damage, but his shirt had not been so lucky. Of course this had to fucking happen when he didn't have any more spare clothes left in the shop.

He looked down at his pocket watch again to calculate how much time he had left. The next train was coming in ten minutes, if he got there quickly he should be able to catch it.

"Alright, I'm out, Benzo," Ekko said, his attention caught between wrestling to properly zip up his jacket and not tripping down the stairs. "Merry Christmas!" he called over his shoulder as he exited the shop. 

He wasn’t even sure if Benzo had replied with how fast he was out of the door. Ekko raced his way down the street, grimacing when snow slipped into the gaps of his beat-up sneakers, but he refused to slow down in the slightest.

All this for a Christmas party he actually intended to skip…

Christmas parties weren’t really Ekko’s thing– not when this was the one night of the year his parents were guaranteed to have time off. But Zeri had been harassing him to go for weeks now. He had dodged every invitation until she sent him one damning text message that changed his mind.

⚡️ Z BTW I invited your girlfriend You Who? Oh 😐 Jinx is not my girlfriend stop playing ⚡️ Z LOLOL but you still knew who I meant~ Ayy will you show up or not We’re gonna do karaoke you have to be there! You Alright sheesh Now get off my case already ⚡️ Z HAHAHAHA I KNEW YOUD SAY YES See you then 😁

Ekko couldn’t even find it in him to deny what Zeri was implying, embarrassing as it was. Because, yeah, that was all it took for him to skip out on spending Christmas Eve with his parents for the first time in his life. But he hadn’t seen Jinx in months so sue him, alright?

By the time Ekko made it to the station his lungs felt like they were on fire, sweat uncomfortably clinging to his skin beneath his padded parka. It was then that this evening went from mildly unlucky to absolute shit.

All the trains had been canceled due to bad weather conditions. 

So there he stood, severely out of breath with oil stains clinging to his shirt, sweat uncomfortably cooling his skin, and his socks soaked with melted snow. All that for a train that wasn’t riding anyway, for a Christmas party he didn’t really want to attend, and for one girl he’d been dying to see for months who would (allegedly) be there.

If god gives his silliest battles to his funniest of clowns, then Ekko now considered himself the fucking court jester.

So that was that then, no more trains were riding for the evening and the next bus wouldn’t arrive for another forty-five minutes.

Ekko heaved a tired sigh and looked at the snow-coated streets ahead of him. It would take an hour to walk to Zeri's house from here, but it'd still be faster than getting there by bus (assuming the bus wouldn't face delays too).

He was about to make the long trek when he realized the road below the station had been cleared for safety. Ekko reached for his skateboard, pressed between his back and backpack. If he stuck to the side of the road, he probably wouldn’t get hit by a car. After all, there’s no way his luck was that bad.

Good news: His luck was indeed not that bad, seeing as he didn’t get hit by any cars.

Bad news: It was still pretty damn bad because one of the wheels broke off his skateboard and he fell face-first onto the sidewalk. At least the snow broke his fall.

With a groan, he stood up, plucking his injured pride and broken skateboard off the ground. Fine, he could take a cosmic hint. He’d just fucking walk there.

And so, Ekko had no choice but to trek all the way to Zeri’s house on foot. At least going through the city’s back alleys had cut his time down from an hour and three minutes to just forty-nine minutes. 

Plus, he didn’t get stabbed with a shiv this time, so that had to count for something.

-

The door swings open and Zeri stands before him, dressed appropriately for the season in what might possibly be the ugliest Christmas sweater he’s ever seen. The pine green monstrosity reads “I’m sexy and I snow it”, depicting a reindeer holding a blunt of all things. She’s even wearing a pair of fluffy antlers on her head to complete the look.

“Didn’t know this was an ugly sweater party,” he deadpans. He would laugh to show that he's just messing around, but unfortunately, he doesn’t quite have enough holiday cheer left for all that.

Her grin transforms into a scowl. “Yeah, Merry Christmas to you too, dude.” She greets him by smacking him across the back, much harder than necessary but he supposes that’s his own fault. “Honestly, I called you like five times! Thought you weren’t gonna show. ”

“Almost didn’t." He sighs, removing his gloves and shrugging off his backpack and coat before finding an empty hanger to leave them on, his broken skateboard leaned sadly against the wall. “Had to miss out on my ma’s Christmas roast this year to be here.”

“Aww man,” Zeri whines. “You should’ve gone anyway and shown up later with some leftovers for me.”

He rolls his eyes, sarcastically quipping, "My bad, you can always try leeching me for food next year."

"I'll hold you to that," she laughs, before pausing when she sees the state Ekko is in. She makes a face at his disheveled appearance. "Oi, what the hell happened to you? Did someone jump you?"

"Ironically enough, that's the one thing that hasn't happened to me today." He takes off his shoes with a grimace, his socks still soaked. "It's a long story. You happen to have anything I can borrow?”

Zeri sighs, patting his shoulder and gesturing for him to follow her up the staircase. “Come on then, I’m sure tatay has some clothes lying around that’ll fit you.”

After handing Ekko a sweater and a pair of clean socks, she leaves him to get changed in the bathroom. “Just come downstairs when you’re ready.”

Ekko doesn't hesitate to change his socks first, breathing a sigh of relief now that his feet are finally free from their gross, soggy prison. He then takes advantage of the hairdryer hanging on the wall to dry the insides of his poor sneakers. 

When he finally gets a good look at the sweater Zeri's picked from, he can't help but cringe. The damn thing is bright red: a Rudolph sweater complete with a fluffy red nose sewn onto it. Tacky as hell, but at least now he knows it runs in the family.

Oh well, beggars can’t be choosers. He pulls his shirt over his head, tugging on the ugly (and itchy, great) sweater instead.

When he finally makes his way back downstairs, embarrassing Christmas sweater and all, he barely has time to set aside his shoes and stuff his things into his backpack, before he’s startled by an excited scream.

“Ekko!” He whips his head back to see Kay jogging over to him, excitedly waving her hands as if he would somehow miss her. It's harder not to notice Kay wherever she goes, she’s a walking ball of energy. “Finally made it, did ya? Shomi and I have been waiting for an hour already!”

“Good to see you, Kay.” He chuckles, allowing his friend to drag him further into the living room. Ekko blindly follows her, letting his eyes wander over the room.

The house is decked out with a dizzying array of ornaments. Reds, greens, and golds practically envelop the open kitchen and living room. And man, Zeri invited a lot of people. The living room and kitchen are packed with folks from all over their neighborhood, merrily chatting over the Christmas music playing in the background.

The one person Ekko is actually hoping to spot, however, doesn't seem to be among them. 

He tries to mask his disappointment, but he must not be very successful since Shomi just raises a curious brow upon his approach and says, “What? Not happy to see us?”

“Of course I am,” he assures, extending his hand to dap them up. “Merry Christmas, Shomi.”

“I'd say it back, but something tells me it hasn't been very merry for you.” They squint at Ekko, before continuing, “Let me guess, you broke your board again?”

“...Maybe.”

“I knew it.” Shomi sighs. “Dude, you have got to start treating your board with more love.”

“What? I treat my board with plenty of love!” Ekko insists, affronted. “It's not my fault shit just happens to me.”

“Alright, we get it,” Kay interjects. “Your life is like a Looney Tunes episode and there’s nothing you can do about it. Onto more important matters, let me tell you guys about this awesome project I started working on!”

Ekko fondly rolls his eyes as Kay goes on her tangent. The trip to this party might've been awful, but maybe it's not all bad if he gets to see all his friends in one place again. 

Between college classes and part-time work, it's becoming harder and harder for them all to spend time together like they used to. Their high school days are officially behind them, and with them, so are the days when they see each other constantly, just to hang out some more after school.

His heart twinges as he thinks about one particular person who that rings true for. 

Then, like Santa has decided to bless him with one Christmas miracle in exchange for his suffering, he sees something from the corner of his eye. Something blue.

Ekko doesn't think he's ever turned his head so fast, his breath catching in his throat when he realizes that it’s not just a trick of the light. He’s really seeing Jinx. 

She's buried herself as far back in the kitchen as she can, sitting slumped behind one of the counters with her eyes cast downward to the cup in her hands, playing with her straw. 

Whenever someone gets in her vicinity, her head sharply snaps up, staring the person down until they back away, before she returns her attention to that cup. Ekko can't help but chuckle under his breath at the sight.

He doesn't know how long he's been staring, but it must’ve been too long since he nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels an arm – Zeri's, who he hadn't even noticed approaching – slinging over his shoulder.

“Ekko, pare,” Zeri sighs, nodding her head towards Jinx, “you ever gonna make a move, or will you just keep being a chicken about it?”

“Oh, give him a break,” Kay speaks up before he can even retort. “You know those two having to be apart for months is basically ignoring a ‘Do Not Separate’ warning. Like you and Seraphine!”

Zeri laughs along to Kay's words before she bristles at the last sentence. “What?! I don't even like Seraphine!”

“Oh,” Shomi starts, raising a skeptical eyebrow, “is that why you kept whining in the group chat when she said she couldn't come to this party?”

“I…I invited her to be polite, okay! If anything, I'm glad she picked her stupid recital over my party.”

Ekko has to clench his jaw to stifle the laughter that threatens to burst from him at the incredulous looks Kay and Shomi exchange at Zeri's paper-thin defense.

It's not enough to spare him from Zeri's wrath, however, since she spins her head in Ekko's direction anyway and demands, “What? You got something to say too?”

He holds his hands up in defense. “Hey, I'm staying out of this.” Unfortunately, his voice shakes in amusement, which isn't helping him sell his case.

Realizing it's three-against-one, Zeri switches tactics and starts pushing Ekko toward the kitchen– Shit, towards Jinx, he realizes.

“Doesn’t matter, I'm sick of having to deal with you being all sad and mopey so just go talk to her!” He nearly trips over his feet as he gets pushed deeper into the kitchen.

He freezes. Fuck, what should he even say? They haven't seen each other since graduation– When Jinx told him she was moving away to be with Vi again. Months have passed since and Ekko still hasn't been able to stop thinking about the look on her face when she told him.

That carefully neutral expression, like she has to hide and pretend to be something else in front of him of all people; the far-away look in her eyes as she told him in an eerily calm voice, her face momentarily shuttering when he questioned “To Piltover ?” before she slid that mask back on.

He couldn't understand. Ekko and Jinx made fun of topside together; they didn't make plans to start living there.

But he did understand how much Vi meant to Jinx (hell, Vi meant a lot to him too) and he could see how she started picking at the skin of her nails; how she refused to even look him in the eye from where they sat beside each other– tucked close together behind the bleachers, hidden away from the rest of the world.

So he hid his own apprehension for her sake and forced a smile on his face as he covered her hand with his and said, “I'm happy for you.”

She gripped his hand back. Tight. Then relaxed her grip when she finally looked at him, her eyes wide and nervous. “We'll…still meet up, alright?” Her voice strained as she joked, “You're not getting rid of me that easy, mister.”

How Ekko wishes that had been true. He tried not to hold it against her, tried not to overthink and wonder whether or not she did it on purpose. But resentment still ended up growing somewhere low in the pit of his stomach.

They texted, they called, they made plans that they ended up canceling– sometimes Jinx, sometimes Ekko, but mostly Jinx.

And now he’s here, attending the same Christmas party as her– Because of her. And though he really shouldn't be, because they're still best friends at the end of it all, he's nervous as hell.

He forces his legs to move, getting closer and closer to her. She doesn’t seem to notice, her gaze having trailed off into the distance. He follows it and realizes she's looking at…a mistletoe?

Ekko frowns. He hadn't even noticed there was one until now. It inconspicuously hangs near a window far back in the living room, yet Jinx is glaring daggers at it, as if the plant had spit in her face and set her house on fire.

Well, that seems as good of a conversation starter as any. He takes a deep breath, trying his best to keep his voice light and amused as he asks, “Are you gonna beat the shit out of that mistletoe?”

She flinches, wide-eyed as she whips her head around to look up at him. “Ekko?”

She shoots to her feet, and before Ekko realizes what's happening, she's closed the space between them, her arms wrapped around his middle and her head resting on his shoulder.

Hugging her back isn't so much a decision as it is instinct, his arms wrapping around her before he can think twice about it. Her cheek feels startlingly cold pressed against the exposed skin of his neck. The shock of it must be why his heart skips a beat and he ends up shivering. 

He buries his head in the crook of her neck, breathing her in. She smells like lavender shampoo and grease oil, the combination strange, but so uniquely Jinx that it makes Ekko's heart squeeze in his chest.

Then, just as suddenly as she hugged him, she pulls away. Ekko blinks, struggling to reorient himself now that she’s no longer in his space. It’s stupid really, he's gone five months without her in his space, but just like that, he’d gone and forgotten already.

“Sheesh, you scared me,” she awkwardly laughs, picking her cup off the floor and putting it on the counter. She’s staring at that cup again, shutting him out the way she would anyone else. Ekko tries to ignore the twinge of hurt he feels at that.

“So,” she suddenly starts, hand jutting forward to flick at the Rudolph nose on his sweater, “what brings you here anyway?”

You did, he thinks. And she's finally looking at him again, smiling even, but something about it feels off– restrained compared to her usual unapologetic grins, or those softer smiles that slip out when she lets her guard down.

“Zeri invited me. Thought it'd be nice to see all my friends in one place again.” He shrugs, leaning against the counter with feigned indifference. “...What about you?”

She props her head up with her hands, eyes wandering over the living room before she responds, “This beats the stupid party Vi and her Piltie girl are throwing.”

Suddenly, she rolls her eyes and groans. Confused, Ekko looks over his shoulder to see the cause– And nearly groans himself when he catches Zeri whip her head around, pretending to be fascinated by the baubles in the Christmas tree.

“Well, it barely beats a stinkin’ Piltie party,” she continues.

He laughs. “That bad?”

“Please, Caitlyn is just…peak Piltie! The most condescending, stuck-up bitch I've ever met!” She spins to him, irritation pinching her face. “But then, every time I call her out on it, Vi goes all ‘You know she doesn't mean it like that, Pow’ or ‘Just try and get along for me, please’ and then I end up being the bad guy. Un-fucking-believable.”

She lets out a deep sigh, her anger seeming to drain from her with it, leaving only weariness in its wake. “I am trying...” She's picking at her cuticles. Ekko's not even sure she realizes. “It's the only reason I’m living topside and going to a stupid Piltie college.”

He covers her hand with his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I know you are.”

The touch is meant to be comforting, but somehow the contact is electric. Their eyes meet again, and Ekko pulls away as if burned. At the same time, Jinx opens her mouth as if to speak, and he immediately regrets pulling away when she never does.

The silence that follows feels damning, impossible to break. Ekko hates it. Silences between him and Jinx are supposed to feel comfortable, not…awkward. When did things get awkward between them?

Jinx's attention is starting to wander, eyes darting around the room as she starts fiddling with that damn straw again. But Ekko didn't get this far after not seeing her for nearly half a year, just to fumble here.

His mind scrambles, searching for anything to latch onto to revive the conversation when he remembers “So what's with you and that mistletoe?”

For a moment, Jinx looks confused, as if she doesn’t know what he means. Then recognition lights her face before she scoffs and says, “Nothing. Zeri was just being annoying.”

“About a mistletoe?” Ekko frowns, puzzled but curious to learn how Zeri managed to get on her nerves this time.

Jinx doesn’t answer for a moment. And she looks like she’s…blushing? Unless it’s just a trick of the light. The red-green lights strung up around the house are making it hard to tell. Either way, now he’s very curious to know what Zeri did.

“...It doesn't matter, okay?” she eventually grumbles. “This party sucks anyway.”

It’s clear she’s done talking about this, so rather than push his luck, Ekko shrugs and attempts to lighten the mood. “At least there's karaoke.”

It doesn’t seem to be very effective. Jinx still looks like a grumpy, wet cat. “Hm, you don't say.” Then her eyes light up, the way they tend to when she has a mad idea. She turns to him with a mischievous grin. “And you're singing too?”

Ekko has a bad feeling about this, but nonetheless, he cautiously confirms “Yes?”

“Wanna do me a favor, boy savior?” He curiously hums so she'll continue. “Buy me some time by picking the longest song you can find.”

He gives her an unimpressed look, even though she’s clearly piqued his interest and they both know it. “Do I want to know what you’re planning?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it, ‘kay?” She flicks the red nose on his sweater again, like she can’t help herself. “Just open the door for me when I drop you a text, I gotta run an errand real quick. Be back in fifteen minutes, give or take.”

Before he can so much as answer, she rushes off to the front door. She already has her coat on when she pauses, sprints back to him, and asks, “By the way – completely unrelated to this errand – the breaker box thingy is in the same spot as in your house, right?”

He squints, considering for a moment. “...For the sake of staying out of this, I’m not answering that question.”

She grins and snaps her fingers anyway. “I’ll take that as a yes, thank you very much! See you in a bit.” With that, she goes back to pulling on her boots and then she’s out the door.

Around thirty minutes later (not that Ekko’s surprised, Jinx has always had terrible time management skills) he gets a text from Jinx, asking him to open the door for her. He slips away as subtly as he can – which isn't much of a challenge since Kay and Shomi are too engrossed talking about potential board mods to notice his absence – to open the door for her.

She quickly scurries inside, her face is flushed from the cold but it doesn't seem to affect her mood at all. Jinx is grinning from ear to ear…and hiding her hands behind her back rather suspiciously.

As if on queue, Zeri’s voice rings from the living room, making them both whip their head in her direction. “Alright, who’s singing next?!” she shouts, while everyone encouragingly cheers on the person who just finished performing.

Jinx turns back to him with a conspiratorial grin. “So, wanna do me that favor?”

Ekko pretends to contemplate it for a moment, just to watch her squirm a little, before he sighs and answers, “I’m still staying out of this narrative, though.”

“Whatever you say, buster!” She ungracefully kicks off her boots, before shooting him a smile that makes his stomach do a funny flip. “But thanks, I owe ya one.”

Ekko shuffles over to the living room while Jinx runs off to do….whatever she’s planning to do. He taps Zeri on the shoulder, gesturing for the karaoke mic in her hand. “Mind if I give it a go?”

“Finally!” Zeri cheers, blissfully unaware that she’s talking to Jinx’s partner in (probable) crime. She leans away from the mic, and asks under her breath, “So you finally make a move or what?”

He just scowls at her. Ekko has a stinging suspicion he might know how Zeri annoyed Jinx after all. “Just give me the damn mic.”

She holds her hands up in defense but concedes and backs away after handing him the karaoke microphone. 

Ekko scrolls down Zeri’s catalog of karaoke songs, keeping Jinx's words in mind as he does. All the songs range from two to four minutes until he spots the one: Some ten-minute rendition of a Taylor Swift song.

…He can already feel the headache forming. Jinx better make this worth his time ‘cause he's about to belt it out to White Girl McGee music just for her. Ekko doesn't even understand why Zeri of all people would put that song in here, but if he had to guess, he'd assume this was Seraphine's doing somehow.

He’s about halfway through the song – struggling to match the rhythm of the lyrics since he’s only ever heard this song involuntarily through pop radio stations – when he sees Jinx appear in the living room out of the corner of his eye, her coat still on.

She’s biting her lip, clearly trying not to laugh at him. Zeri and Shomi have long given up, the latter having pulled out their cell phone to film Ekko, no doubt to make fun of him until he’s in his grave. Ekko ignores them all and just focuses on performing the song as best he can.

…Just because he doesn’t like the song doesn’t mean he’s about to fumble his performance, okay?

The music comes to an abrupt halt when the power goes out and darkness falls over the room. No one reacts for a moment, and then quiet, confused murmurs fill the room. 

Until a strange rippling sound suddenly cuts through it.

Someone turns on their phone flashlight, pointing it around the room to try and locate the strange sound. Ekko frowns – needing a moment to put down the microphone in the dark – before he turns his head to the source of the noise, now revealed by the flashlight.

There’s a living toad strung to the ceiling with a toy missile tied to its back.

Everyone just stares, flabbergasted.

Then the damn thing ribbits again and panic ensues, screams erupting all around the room.

Before Ekko can even react, he feels something– no, someone tug on his arm in the darkness. He turns his head to see Jinx shushing him and pulling away from all the noise – while Zeri frantically tries to prevent one of her aunties from trying to bat the poor toad with a broomstick.

“Where did you–” he starts as quietly as he can, before Jinx interrupts him by tossing his shoes at him.

“Not now, space boy,” she hisses, opening the front door once he’s finished lacing up his sneakers. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

Ekko races to zip up his parka and pull on his gloves against the stinging cold. He barely has time to grab his backpack before Jinx pulls him along by his hand and drags him out of the house.

He nearly trips over his own feet, before he catches himself and runs with her. Ekko’s not even sure why they’re running, but when she looks at him over her shoulder – face flushed and eyes shining brighter than any Christmas light in the world, with that stupid, shit-eating grin that makes him a little too weak-kneed for his own good – he finds he doesn’t really care anyway.

They finally slow to a stop when they’re six blocks away from Zeri’s street. Ekko’s lungs feel like they’re on fire and the laughter that bursts from him isn’t helping matters at all. It’s just that, when he stops to think about it, everything about this situation is so stupid and so…Jinx.

“A–” he gasps for air, finally coming down from his amusement long enough to string a sentence together. “A fucking frog?”

“A toad, actually. A missile toad, I’ll have you know,” she says matter-of-factly, still grinning much too proudly for such a cheesy prank.

Ekko has so many questions, but knowing Jinx, she won’t answer any of them. Still, he has to ask “How did you even have time to turn off the power while hanging that thing up?”

“A magician never reveals her secrets!” she predictably answers, before pausing and adding, “Also I slipped a kid ten dollars so they’d do it for me on queue.”

He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re so ridiculous.”

“Yeah, ridiculously funny,” she corrects, playfully glaring at him.

“Yeah right.” He scoffs but there’s no heat behind it, instead, he’s smiling so wide that his cheeks are beginning to hurt. It’s been so long since he’s seen her, that he almost forgot that being around her makes him feel like this.

He squeezes her hand in his. The action is instinctual, a habit more than anything– he’s always reaching for her in some way, and so is she.

Except for this time, apparently, because she pulls her hand away as if burned and doesn’t look in his direction as she mutters, “We, uh, should keep walking…There’s some stupid Christmas market by the bridge we can check out.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Ekko tries to swallow his disappointment, but it’s not working, so he just keeps his eyes trained on the ground, watching their footsteps in the snow as he walks alongside Jinx. 

The silence that falls over them feels as daunting as the physical space between them, but he doesn’t feel inclined to break it this time. How can they feel so far apart even when they’re walking right beside each other?

With his head downturned, it takes Ekko a moment to notice that Jinx has stopped walking, but eventually, he realizes her footsteps stop appearing beside his. 

He blinks and turns around to see her standing frozen on the spot, hands tugging at the hem of her leather bomber as she frowns at him. He raises a curious eyebrow at the sight and is about to question what she’s doing when she finally speaks up.

“Alright,” she starts, marching to stand before him and crossing her arms, “what’s with your hot and cold attitude the whole evening?”

I could ask you the same thing, he thinks, instead he just frowns. “My what?”

“You heard me!” She scowls. “One moment you're happy to see me and then you're all mister Grumpy Pants. What gives?”

“Jinx.” He lets out a frustrated sigh and turns to look at her. She squirms under his gaze, and that just makes Ekko feel worse, but he’s tired of bottling this up. “Are we seriously just gonna pretend we both don't know exactly why that is?”

“I..” she trails off, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, “I'm not really sure?”

“Really?” Ekko asks, exasperated. “Were you not sure every time you blew me off either?”

“Wha– You blew me off too!” she argues.

“That's different! I actually couldn't go when I canceled.”

She scoffs. “And you think I didn't?!”

She looks so affronted that it shuts Ekko up, leaving him scratching the back of his head in frustration. He’s such an idiot, always letting his temper get the best of him. Now he’s gone and ruined things and doesn’t know what to say to fix this. Nothing makes him more uneasy than a problem he can’t solve.

It seems Jinx doesn't know what to say either, she just stares down at the ground, toeing shapes in the snow with the tip of her boot.

“I just…” she trails off with a sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” he rasps, “me neither, I guess.”

“...Hey, do you–” She tentatively looks up at him. “Do you want to have a snowball fight?”

He blinks. Then he barks out a laugh, utterly taken aback by her suggestion. “A snowball fight?”

“Yeah…Yeah, why not?” Jinx looks a little more self-assured now, grabbing his arm and dragging him to a corner of the street where the snow is piled high, having remained untouched by passersby. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Something eases in his chest at her childlike giddiness, and he can’t help but huff an amused breath as he teases, “What? You gonna start crying again if I toss one at your head?”

She scowls at him again, but there’s no heat behind it this time. “Nope, definitely gonna laugh when you slip and fall on your ass again though.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening.” 

He rushes to kneel down and scoop up a wad of snow after he sees Jinx do the same. She’s disgustingly fast, Ekko’s barely formed a ball by the time she’s already tossing one at his head, forcing him to dodge.

“We’ll see about that, mister!”

“Oh, it’s on!”

For a moment, it’s like they’re little kids again, sneaking out when Vander isn’t paying attention to play in the snow together. All their hurt and complications melt away just like the flecks of fallen snow on his face. Ekko wishes he could stop time so he could just enjoy this moment forever. Or that he could bottle up this happiness and keep it in his pocket for the rest of his life. 

However, as it has all evening, the weather cares little for his plight. Cold and unforgiving, the snow keeps falling on them, until eventually, the chill is too biting for them to goof around any longer.

They’re giggling like children when they fall into step beside each other again, their arms brushing against each other with every step. Ekko feels so warm and giddy, he finds he doesn’t care all that much about the cold anymore.

From the corner of his eye, he catches Jinx cupping her hands close to her face, blowing air on them.

Ekko curiously frowns. “You don’t have gloves?”

“No,” she rubs the palms of her hands together in an attempt to warm them up, “I just did my nails. Wasn't about to ruin them with some stinky gloves.”

Ekko rolls his eyes, setting a hand on her shoulder to stop her in her tracks. “Here,” he removes one of his gloves, reaching for her hand so he can carefully slide it on, “you have tiny ass hands anyway, so these won’t ruin your precious manicure.”

She scoffs, “My hands are not tiny! Yours are just stupidly big.” He shakes his head with a chuckle at her ridiculous argument. “...But thanks," she finishes, bumping her shoulder against his own.

As they begin to walk again, he can’t help but glance down at their ungloved hands. And then he’s nervous all over again. Because Ekko honestly isn’t sure if his heart can take another hit, should she pull away from his touch again.

He hesitates for another moment, before deciding to bite the bullet anyway. Tentatively, Ekko reaches for her hand with his own now-ungloved hand, pulling both into his pocket.

When Jinx whips her head in his direction, his eyes flicker in her direction, but at her wide-eyed, confused expression, he quickly finds himself glancing away again.

He clears his throat and fights to remain straight-faced despite the building awkwardness, as he explains, “Just so our hands don’t get cold, you know?”

“Oh.” From the corner of his eye, he sees her sharply nod. “Right…That makes sense.”

Despite Ekko’s concerns – and both their refusal to look each other in the eye – neither of them let go. Her hand feels ice-cold in his but that only spurs him to hold her hand tighter, trying to give her as much of his warmth as he can. 

It’s all he focuses on, even when they finally approach the bridge separating Zaun from Piltover. Just as Jinx said, a Christmas market is in full swing on the bridge. Stalls selling trinkets and treats are set up across the entire length of it. 

But none of the ornaments and decorations are as pretty as Jinx’s smile as she curiously peers at them all; and no hot beverage could ever warm him the way her hand in his does, her fingers intertwined with his.

When Jinx finally tires of window-shopping (he honestly wasn’t paying attention, watching her was much more fascinating) he offers to buy them hot chocolate, while she goes to find them a seat ⁠— an empty bench beneath an overhang.

“Thanks,” she says, as he hands her the carton cup. 

She tries to play it off, but Ekko can see the way she lights up with delight upon spotting the large dollop of whipped cream he requested the vendor put in her drink. 

With an amused huff, he shrugs off his backpack and sets it down on the edge of the bench, before sitting down beside her. The bench is frigid beneath them, it urges him to slide closer to Jinx, just ever-so-slightly. 

But it’s enough to press their thighs together, and Ekko needs a moment so he can focus on the heat radiating from the cup in his hands rather than that point of contact.

The hustle and bustle of the marketplace has started to die down as time drags on. Ekko feels restless as he watches everyone go their separate ways⁠ —  families heading home with giggling children in tow, teenagers conspiring where they should go next, vendors working together to close up and disassemble their stands ⁠—  while the snow continues to fall from the sky like powdered sugar, further blanketing the white streets.

“Jinx, I, uh,” Ekko starts, setting his untouched hot chocolate aside, “I just wanna say I’m sorry. You know, for what I said earlier.”

“Oh.” At the sound of her voice, he glances at her. She’s smiling at him, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Were you still worrying about that?”

He attempts to laugh, but a humorless sigh is all he manages. “I’m trying to be serious here, you know.”

“I know.” The pad of her thumb idly traces the rim of her empty cup. “It’s just…You were kinda right–” She winces and stammers, “I mean– Shit– No, you weren’t right. I wasn’t ditching you on purpose, it was more like…”

“Like you just…gave up?” he fills in when she never continues.

She frowns, eyes flickering up to look at him. Ekko doesn’t think he could look away even if he tried. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Me too,” he confesses. “I think I let my frustration get to me, when really…I just missed you.”

She takes a sharp breath and Ekko’s eyes are drawn to the parting of her lips like a moth to a flame. He moves in closer, just ever-so-slightly, then Jinx suddenly looks away, startling him.

“Oh– Hold on, I just gotta…” She starts rummaging through her pockets, the sudden, frantic movement breaking whatever spell he’d been under. “There!” She triumphantly pulls out–

“A mistletoe?” he questions dumb-founded, eyeing the plant that Jinx apparently just had on her person the entire time.

“Well, yeah. Would be a waste to just throw it away.” She twirls the stem between her fingers, raising her arm so it hangs between them. Ekko thinks his heart might actually beat out of his chest. “I…don’t have to explain what this is, right?”

He can barely hear what she’s saying anymore, focusing on her mouth again; on the curve of her cupid’s bow, which he’s a little too familiar with; on her teeth, with that cute little gap, which traps the slight pout of her lower lip.

He swallows, his voice barely audible as he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Ekko?” His eyes flicker back up to hers, now crinkled in amusement, but there’s something softer there too ⁠—  something that puts him at ease. “Just kiss me already.”

And that’s really all he needed to hear. He slowly leans in, waiting to see if she’ll change her mind, instead, she closes her eyes and meets him halfway.

The first press of her mouth is chaste, soft. Then she pulls away, but only for a moment, before she angles her head to lean in for another kiss.

She tastes sweet ⁠— like chocolate and cream and that plum lip balm she always wears ⁠— and Ekko finds himself desperate for more, feelings he’s held back for so long spilling out from him and into the kiss. He raises his hand to cup her cheek, her skin soft and cold beneath his palm, and gently tilts her head so he can deepen the kiss.

Then she suddenly pulls back from him, their lips parting with a wet smack. “Oh! Don’t tell Zeri about this. She’d never let me hear the end of it.”

Ekko blinks for a moment, processing her words, then he just groans, “Jinx, I could not give two fucks about Zeri right now.”

His words startle a bewildered laugh from her, and Ekko smothers the sound with his mouth when he leans back in to kiss her again, and again, and again.

She’s still smiling into the kiss as she wraps her arms around his neck, and Ekko’s pretty sure she just dropped the mistletoe on his head. He finds himself smiling back, and then they’re simply reduced to giggling like school kids while stealing kisses from one another.

[heartlover141]

Future Clark & Present Clark competing to see who’s the biggest Lois Lane lover in Pandora. Starting with Future Clark, who denounces his human side because Lois Lane disappeared a year ago. Lois fricking Lane, the only person he gave up his humanity for, simply because he cannot live without her presence. Pete leaves, he’s hurt but he recovers. Kyla dies, he’s crushed but he recovers. Jonathan dies, he’s heartbroken but he recovers. Alicia dies, he’s devastated but he recovers. Lana dies (the second time), he’s anguished but he recovers. Lois Lane disappears and suddenly “Clark Kent is dead”. He died when she left. He cannot live without her, or at least he cannot live with his soul intact without her in it. Without Lois around to guide him, he makes all the wrong choices ultimately resulting in an apocalypse. He chose to fight Zod on his own. Why his own? Oh because he couldn’t bear to be around anyone who even slightly reminded him of her. Not Oliver Queen. Not even Chloe Sullivan, who’s been his best friend since childhood. Then the moment she appears again, his first instinct is to protect her, giving up his father’s watch. The same watch that his father used to teach him how to tell time with. The same watch that Clark almost killed that man for stealing. The same watch that Lana searched every pawn shop for. The only thing he has, he says, he gives it up for her. Then he begs and grovels for her life, “Take my life, let her live!” He says it with conviction, he means it. He doesn’t leave Lois’ side, not even for a moment. The moment she appears, suddenly he has hope, has plans to save the world now, finally speaking & working with Chloe & Oliver. It’s the first time they’ve ever kissed as themselves. No spells, no superhero disguises, and yet they opted to make love the first time they kissed. More wild than their spelled counterparts (RedK Clark & Loved-spelled Lois would be so proud). Then he puts the Legion ring on her finger & gives her a kiss goodbye, all the while having a Kryptonite knife lodged in his gut (he has his priorities straight). And then moving on to Present Clark (my dearest summer child), who stayed in the hospital with Lois all night (just sitting by her bedside for hours, he’s never seen her so quiet it makes his heart break). He accuses Chloe, his best friend whom he’s known since high school, of kidnapping Lois (he can’t think straight, Lois is not beside him). He flings Tess across the room, knocking her unconscious because he thinks she’s hurting Lois. Later Clark wakes up & crawls to be near her & the first words out of his mouth was “How’s Lois?”. He’s still weakened by the Kryptonite & hangs on the railing of her bed and has a hand on Lois still, never letting go. Then she’s back to work and he immediately wants to define their relationship as a couple. He’s not wasting any time coming back from a place where he “wished they had more time” together. Lois starts rambling about all the dates they will go on and what they will be doing on each ones of those dates, Clark is a happy camper. She holds his hand, he beams yellow sun rays. He’s stronger when she’s around, anyways. He unabashedly sends her 5 dozen roses. Subtlety is Clark’s strong suit (sarcasm). The world is gonna end in a year, but the yellow sun is shining & Lois is okay so Clark doesn’t care about anything else, apparently (that’s his only 2 criteria for happiness). What a episode. What a show. What a ship.